#{SELF COMM}「New Status Quo」

[kakodaimones]

Wait how the fuck did he end up being the one doing the high roading-

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 8: Blackened Water (Part 1)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: graphic descriptions of migraines, mention of sleeplessness/loss of appetite, self-sacrifice (if ya squint), angst, fluff, banter, descriptions of violence.

Summary: It had been two weeks since you arrived on Coruscant when The Chosen One invited you to join him in an impromptu Starfighter piloting session. After reminiscing about the weeks prior, you, Anakin, Ahsoka, and R2-D2 decide to transform the lesson into a game. However, you are quick to learn that pushing this ship to its limit was sure to have unintended complications.

Song Inspo: Migraine — Twenty One Pilots

Words: 6k

A/n: Looks like things are about to get complicated... please comment/pm if you'd like to be on the Taglist! And lmk your thoughts on this chapter :)

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Series Masterlist

So much like the moon, we show the world only one and veil our many faces, even from the sun — Jason Versey

“It’s not that I don’t want to learn how to pilot a Starfighter, I’m just not sure if I want to learn from you.”

You spoke forcefully into the comlink headset, its rounded, copper microphone hovering inches from quarrelsome lips. You were currently situated in a Republic Starfighter’s Co-Pilot Forward Gunner’s cockpit, and its rushing drone was creating a deafening habitat that drove you to raise your voice had you any hope of communicating with Anakin, Ahsoka, or Anakin’s droid companion R2-D2 at any point during this flight. Still, the boundless rush failed to block you from continuing your exploration of the fighter’s gunnery controls, spelled out by the glaring interactive screen nestled in the jutted crook to your right.

“I’ll have you know that I’m the best pilot the Jedi have, if not, the Galaxy,” Anakin defended, his mechanically muffled voice crackling into your earpiece while he directed the fighter’s acceleration around Coruscant’s curvature.

You flexed a doubtful brow at his cockiness, despite his inability to see you from the main pilot’s cockpit stationed a meter ahead, just before the bird’s nose.

“Weren’t you the one who crash-landed that shuttle on Hoth in the first place?” You challenged.

“They’ve got you there,” Ahsoka piped up, the young voice spluttering through your headset from her perch in the tail gunner’s pit directly behind.

“That wasn’t my fault,” he huffed.

You shook your head at the exchange, levity conquering facial muscles that usually endured some semblance of placidity as you carried on with your analysis of the ship’s offensive capabilities.

In the seconds that followed, a brief silence unfolded across the fighter’s private comms channel, though that didn’t deter you from continuing to tap away at the informative screen just below your fingertips. Needless to say, despite focusing your mind on canons and proton torpedo launcher specifications, the prolonged lull in conversation streamlined your thoughts into deeper ruminations as your evolving muscle memory assumed control.

It had been nearly two weeks since your arrival on Coruscant, and you were finding that you had a knack for acclimating quickly to the drastically contrasting environment. The warmer weather, busier urban environment, and abundance of Jedi-specific resources were quite the staggering changes from your meager, solitary existence among boundless blizzards and bloodthirsty beasts.

So, it didn’t take much convincing to welcome the transition with open arms.

You were still settling in, so, rationally, you recognized that you weren’t as versed in the Jedi Temple’s daily happenings as its more veteran residents. However, from the behavior you observed alone, you could still tell that time dragged far more gradually than the status quo, even when compared to the beginning few days of your arrival.

At first, you noticed that meetings among the Jedi Council had become less frequent. There was little to discuss while they awaited news from Temple technicians who, sector-by-sector, continued their analysis of each minutia of the Jedi’s expansive communications array. And when they did convene, it was usually due to handfuls of temporarily visiting clones, dispatched from their units to deliver on-the-ground intelligence directly to assigned generals who would then liaise any necessary information to the Council for further instructions.

Generals, you sighed inwardly. The taste of that word being used to describe Jedi was still akin to the tangy expiration of blue milk. A sign of the times, you supposed. So, again, you pushed that thought away.

You continued your recollection, even harking back to that strange, incongruous feeling that overcame your senses when you spotted your first set of clones. Rationally, you knew what to expect. Beings that looked exactly like each other in most, if not every conceivable way. Though, despite that assumption, you’d found that even in the briefest of interactions, these clones seemed to be some of the most diverse and spirited individuals you’d ever met.

Sure, you hadn’t chanced upon that many beings in your lifetime. But of the few troopers you did encounter, they certainly stood in stark contrast against that backdrop of Coruscanti civilians and Jedi from your recent past.

They were dedicated to their craft and their generals, drove into the depths of battle without the protection of the Force, and supported each other like true brothers in arms.

And with all your being, you commended that.

Maybe that’s why you were looking forward to meeting more of their comrades and discovering how their relationship with the Jedi Order came to be. You could only learn so much from those few, fleeting conversations in a passing walkway. Especially because their presence was always so short-lived.

Once a new directive was assigned by the Council, the visiting batches were soon whisked away, once again into the strange, galaxy-wide relay race in the name of secure communications while the Council melted back into their brief slumber. You supposed it was the natural consequence of the Republic Army’s temporary reliance on snail mail, but it was all still so strange nonetheless.

You had to admit, though, that things had begun to pick up in the last week. You remembered hearing passively from a congregation of Masters moving through a large hall one afternoon, that a smattering of Jedi had been sent out alongside the most recent collection of clone drop-ins. Some of those named individuals returned after a few days, having spotted them in the Archives, a refractory, or even conversing with Master Windu.

But the ones you didn’t see again?

You could only assume that they were continuing to traverse the Galaxy on some unknown mission in the name of peace.

But word of mouth was not your only source of information regarding the curbed release of Jedi back to the Front. You had, at times, happened to see it for yourself. Like just the other day, when passing by one of the Temple’s main hangars on the way to another sparring session with Anakin. Just by chance, out of the corner of your eye, you’d caught a pair of Jedi preparing to depart alone. There was no clone in sight by their powered-up Nu-class attack shuttle, red and white markings trailing its spine as it gaily awaited the two passengers conversing lowly at the bottom of the boarding ramp. You remembered it was a duo of black-robbed, green-tinted Mirialans— Master and Padawan, their relative ages suggested. Off to another untold destination, but, this time, without a crew of troopers.

You recalled thinking at that moment: maybe the Council has grown more agreeable with the concept of dispatching Jedi alone to temporary assignments?

Then again, their sudden departure might have had more to do with the need to immediately transmit vital information to a distant battalion than anything else.

Either way, it was all a guess. You had learned fairly quickly in your time at the Temple that The Council considered most wartime information as need-to-know. Even Master Windu, in the few times you’d met with him, was reticent to share any news with you that didn’t directly concern your being.

At any rate, those instances of strategic departures were rare, leaving many Jedi to find a way to occupy themselves during this involuntary downtime.

You, personally, were utilizing this time the best way you could— as an opportunity to address the persistent migraines that’d been plaguing you for the past week and a half.

Even in the cockpit of a Starfighter, thousands of kilometers away from Coruscant’s golden inscriptions, you could still recall it all so perfectly.

They would start off imperceptibly stunted, pecking away at your senses so gently that you’d barely notice their presence until the draining aches inflamed into pounding thumps deep at the core of your brainstem.

The worst part was that you never knew when they were going to strike next. It was just all so…sporadic.

They’d crawl into your sinuses during early afternoon drills, nibbling at your attention mere minutes into attempting a particularly complicated, defensive acrobatic which would accordingly backfire from the ordeal’s impetuosity. Other times, it was in the evening, usually erupting in your skull halfway through supper, and, often, smack dab in the middle of a sentence aimed at one of the three Jedi who’d whisked you away from Hoth weeks ago.

Naturally, regardless of your hope to learn more about The Chosen One, his former Master, and Padawan during these times, this strange affliction’s consequences would routinely cut such moments short. The second that distinctive, rising thunder would rumble, you were pressed to conjure up some excuse to retire early, leaving most of your plain meal uneaten from the unexpected loss of appetite in each premature retreat to your quarters.

In addition to coping with the persistently tugging weights chained to the back of your eyeballs, you were, to the best of your ability, trying to keep its effects as discreet as possible. You’d keep your signature muted and expression neutral as the warning signs of an impending strike encroached on your senses, removing yourself from whichever training, social, or study activity may have fanned its flames.

But despite it all, these considerations were not enough to deter the occasional wisp of care that would flutter from Ahsoka’s brows following your early conclusion of a joint study session. Or the flare of worry that would spurt behind Anakin’s fiery eyes after you ended a spar prematurely, hand cradling your forehead the moment you’d retreated from his line of vision.

Your efforts to obscure any reflection of pain especially did little to dissuade the concern that rippled across Obi-Wan’s features last night, when in the middle of a teasing escapade with Anakin, your brilliant grin faltered into a thin, immutable line as a sudden spear to the base of your skull compelled you to briskly break off from the group before the impartial expression you strained to support wavered.

Discerningly, you understood that despite your efforts, the three of them knew something was transpiring. Still, you were confident enough that your exercise in representing these headaches as sudden fatigue would present these moments as too bland to warrant serious discussion.

You wanted, no, needed to keep any sense of severity to a minimum. You’d spent the last decade alone on a lethal, ice planet, your entire life being the sum experience of staring down danger’s sharpest teeth and shaving them blunt by yourself. All in all, you’d certainly dealt with threats far greater than the danger of a persistent set of migraines, you joked inwardly. So you knew that, with time, you’d figure out how to trim away this roadblock too.

And without involving The Chosen One.

You thought back to your first working theory of the issue, that your body was still adapting to its changed environment. Even though you felt energized by this new planet’s radiant sunlight, the heat could have still affected you more than you first realized. But even with this, you understood that only time would tell.

In the interim, you found it unnecessary to worry your Jedi acquaintances. They had no need for knowledge of your sleepless nights, fueled by mushrooming, stings bursting behind your forehead. Shattering you awake in a puddle of strenuous sweat and breathless utterances that disheveled your sheets.

“Just go away already,” you huffed one early morning.

You were The Guardian after all. Tasked with protecting The Chosen One. Roping in others to aid you in your own, comparably minuscule toils would have stood in quiet opposition to your title’s purpose.

Yes. You were convinced. You’d find a solution some other way.

Anyways, addressing your mind’s inner facets was only a small strand in the meadow of free time that had laid at your fingertips. You also took an appreciable advantage of the interim to explore your new home— The Jedi Temple.

You recalled finding it somewhat overwhelming, the Temple’s colossal model, constructed piece-by-piece over thousands of years with the building blocks of Jedi evolution and spirituality. But, in spite of its sweeping presence, you felt uninhibited to tour each nook and cranny like the labyrinth it was.

You’d encountered many Jedi this way, all in various training dojos, halls, gardens, and other, more secluded, areas as they too took advantage of the passing days to train, meditate, or study. It was actually how you, twice, inadvertently ran into Anakin and Ahsoka, during these cursory, investigative stints. Once, while they were in the midst of a spar, and the other, amid one of Anakin’s on-the-fly lessons about the reality of the battlefield.

Sitting here in this rumbling, Starfighter’s primary gunner cockpit, you had to admit that you were really delighted when you saw them like this. Working as Master and Padawan in their own, unique way. It proved to you that Anakin was taking his Mastership more seriously.

You remembered how he’d expressed to you his hesitancy with being assigned a Padawan last week as the two of you strolled down one of the Temple’s many walkways in search of an empty training room. Though you were not surprised, as it was something that you already learned from Obi-Wan, who had complained about this very issue to you over one of your evening meals. A plate of hawk-bat eggs, if you recalled correctly. He cited to you the young Jedi’s reluctance to attend several of Ahsoka’s training remote sessions, which, according to Master Kenobi, was an important, reoccurring exercise prescribed to all Padawans.

Separately, you’d happened to already know how the Jedi Order historically drove responsibility into its members. It was not just via off-world missions or Knighthood trials, but through the combined experience of guiding the young with one’s own expertise. Qui-Gon often mentioned how his mentorship years morphed him into the wise and capable man you’d known him to be. And you didn’t believe either that Anakin was immune to such windows into maturity.

So, at that moment, with the protesting, chestnut-haired Jedi strolling inches from your side, you were sure to remind the irresolute man that they wouldn’t have given him that duty had they not believed him to be ready.

“Now you’re starting to sound like Obi-Wan.” He huffed, crossing his arms as you both continued your brisk saunter. “I’m just not meant to have a Padawan!”

You eyed the insistent Jedi soberly. “Anakin, I’ll tell you one thing. For someone who I know hopes to grow as a Jedi, you certainly seem to tie your own feet together when the perfect opportunities to do so present themselves.”

That conversation must’ve knocked a bolt loose in that rigid mind of his, you supposed, after seeing with your own eyes his efforts to do more as her Master in the days that followed.

And that included today. In this bulky, ARC-170 Starfighter. The inspiration for Anakin’s decision to kill two buzzbirds with one stone.

After admitting to your limited, hands-on piloting experience over that same dinner you’d ended early the night before, Anakin posed the brilliant idea of teaching you himself. A proposition you’d have had better luck turning down had he not already been planning to take Ahsoka out into the exosphere to deliver his own set of ad-hoc tutorials.

If you could even call it that.

According to him, all he had to do was reserve a different Starfighter class and the three of you would be good to go. So, you accepted, hoping all the way up until you entered the secondary cockpit that maybe Anakin had a preplanned lesson that wouldn’t end in infamy.

That was, of course, until the actual flying started.

Refocusing your attention to continue inspecting the gunner controls to your right, you soon found greater ease in probing the laser canons’ maneuverability with time. In fact, you were able to quite quickly understand this new model’s updated variations, and how those tied into its modernized combative functions. This was most transparent earlier at the flight’s start, when, after a short brief from Anakin, you were comfortable enough to trigger the fighter’s new S-foil wing system, a state-of-the-art feature which supposedly allowed for greater heat dispersion between the ship’s engines and canons in high-speed situations.

Yes, you lacked the heuristic flying and gunner skills, but your studies on Hoth were not for naught. You had long ago memorized the user-based functionalities of older starships. Its parts, controls, functions, and capabilities, employing your own shelter as a dissectible specimen to fuel your understanding. So, while you didn’t have Anakin’s piloting experience or dexterity, you were still rather capable of exercising that garnered knowledge to pick up parallel operations fairly quickly.

It was also why, in reaching hour two of Anakin’s lesson, his sporadic, step-by-step sputterings of how and when he engaged elementary control functions did little to quench your parched alacrity.

So, you broke the silence.

“So…when are the gunners gonna become pilots?” You asked, both on your and Ahsoka’s behalf.

“You think you’re ready to take the reins?” Anakin raised, a hint of playfulness echoing behind the occasional pop of the radioed voice in your ear.

You smirked. “Only one way to find out.”

Just as you finished, a small, yellow window blinked open at the top of your screen. You briskly scanned it, recognizing the primary controls transfer confirmation request before gingerly tapping accept.

In half a second, the flight computer once shrouded in darkness directly in front of you flickered to life. It began by displaying various levels of system readiness in navy blue text on the left. Shield artillery, forward and aft stability, among others. On the opposite side shone the fighter’s coordinate plane, a graphed image depicting the ship’s location based on immediate surroundings that were divided by orange, sectional rings.

They all buzzed to life in conjunction with a control panel of glowing, kaleidoscopic buttons, switches, and several familiar levers, their color-coded rings now steadily blinking a range of unnatural reds, blues, and yellows by your fingertips.

“Let’s see what you got,” Anakin crackled through.

You hummed in concentration while wrapping a set of fingers around the navigation lever, feeling its give as you put your other hand to work adjusting the bird’s speed parameters on the animated control panel. Once the specifications were fixed, you lifted your head back toward the speckled darkness of space, gently nudging the lever forward to dip the fighter.

And you sensed the change immediately.

The modest pressure of your back suddenly tugging to the rear support infused your fingertips with dawning excitement. You pulled the lever toward you with greater confidence now in the directional shift, sensing the variation in the fighter’s ascent while absorbing your first taste of the craft’s feel, as well as its movement’s interaction with the Force.

Before long, your certainty swelled further, stirring you to twist the rapidly scaling fighter into a backward loop while listening to the metal grunt merrily around you.

Despite swiftly finishing that circle, you were reticent to give the bird a moment to rest. Instead, you directed the Starfighter to climb once more, adjusting the panel controls for a hammerhead descent. Even now, in this rapid ascent, you body still prickled at the fighter’s consistency with the imputed speed adjustments as you neared the desired pivot point.

Then, you felt it.

That minute weightlessness that commanded you to yank the navigational lever to the right, bringing the ship into another sharp, controlled dive for a few seconds before leveling it off into a normal flight pattern.

“Not bad,” Anakin began. “But those little tricks aren’t gonna do much good on the battlefield.”

“It’s not like we have any battle droids for target practice,” Ahsoka commented. “Or anything to train in defending against.”

She had a point, you considered inwardly.

But if your time on a deserted planet taught you anything, it was that even the most resourceless locales could be molded into an advantage.

“And isn’t this a clone ship?” She continued.

You glanced around at your surroundings beyond the compact cockpit as their conversation reigned unabated, hoping to catch sight of anything that could be put to use as you stuck to the fighter’s default flight path programmed to circulate Coruscant’s outer edge.

“Yeah,” Anakin irritatedly drew. “But it was the only model that could fit three beings. It’s similar enough to the Delta-7s anyways.”

A sudden, protesting flurry of high-pitched, sundry beeps sloped in pitch from your headset, but still failed to draw your preoccupied glare away from its scan of the region.

Though it did precipitate a sigh in the blue-eyed Jedi

“Sorry, Artoo. Three beings, and a droid.”

Then, you spotted it.

A few hundred kilometers to your right floated a scattered array of tiny meteors, traveling in an undefined shape at an imperceptible speed. Far enough away from Coruscant to avoid accidental atmospheric entry, and small enough to avoid causing any real damage to a fighter with as heavy shielding as this one.

“I may have a solution to that,” you voiced while veering the Starfighter’s nose toward the crumbly assemblage of hickory brown space rocks.

“Let’s hear it!” Ahsoka eagerly exclaimed, having had little else to do but listen to Anakin’s instructions in the rear gunner pod for the last few hours.

“You see that up ahead?” You asked, nodding to the nonspecific structure before remembering that your companions couldn’t see you.

“The meteors?” Anakin questioned.

You cognitively hummed, the formation expanding as the fighter quickly neared its destination.

“Nope,” you popped. “That, is an enemy starship.” You asserted. “Anakin, how’s your object manipulation?”

He scoffed. “Do you even need to ask?”

“Even in space?” You lightly teased, bringing the bird in to perpetually circumnavigate the ruble consortium.

“Especially in space.”

Somehow, you could almost taste his grin through your rumbling headset.

“I’m holding you to that,” you quipped, a small smile slipping by your lips.

Without skipping a beat, you leaned your head back to address Ahsoka. “Master Skywalker here is gonna be our intrepid, enemy gunner.”

You gesticulated toward the backdrop. “These rocks are his ammo. I’ll be the primary pilot, and, Ahsoka, you’re my gunner. Oh! And Artoo?”

You glanced up at the droid’s blue and white head, peeking out from his secured cavity in the center of a divider wall that separated you and Ahsoka.

“Do try to keep Anakin from accidentally destroying our way home.”

The droid buzzed in a rising chime of inspirited affirmation as his head danced into a spin.

“Don’t worry, Artoo,” Ahsoka reassured while the air of your cabin flooded with the fizzing whir of her dorsal canon elevating. “Silvey and I will make sure you don’t have much work to do.”

“It seems I must teach you a lesson in speaking too soon, my young Padawan,” Anakin sassed.

“Alright,” you interjected, keeping an eye on the meteor cluster to your left. “The battle starts now.”

“Let’s have it.”

Just as those final words fluttered from your dried lips, a fluctuation in the hovering mass caught your eye. You centered your vision, catching a knot of nearly twenty rocks assembling into a spearhead formation near the crowd’s outer rim. That was, before, without notice, those jagged rocks sharply launched toward the fighter’s closest flank.

“Hold on!” You called out instinctively before bringing the bird down into a sudden plunge.

The whizzing meteor configuration rushed after the Starfighter’s tail, giving Ahsoka the prime latitude to start shooting down the shard-like projectiles with the zapping hiss of her maneuverable canon.

While Anakin’s Padawan sustained her calculated assault on the cluster’s center bludgeoners, you, however, were beginning to sense a hairsplitting breakaway in their diving formation. Intending to investigate this further, you glanced at the coordinate plane to the right of your screen. There, you soon spotted two chaotic bundles of flashing red dots, rapidly approaching either wing at a speed that doubled their blinking rate.

This discovery was, naturally, followed by the occasional, yet abruptly swelling, clangs of eluding debris that bounced off the bird’s aft. Thankfully, Artoo was at the ready, already working to readjust the deflector shields to the rear as he emitted an arrangement of disapproving, bellowed beeps.

“I’m doing my best, Artoo!” Ahsoka droned.

You, on the other hand, were keeping careful attention on those threatening, crimson flecks. So much so, that your grip on the throttle mindlessly tightened as they relentlessly inched and inched ever so closer.

But you waited, relaying their distance internally from the screen’s navigation display as you formulated a plan on the fly.

100 meters…50 meters…15 meters.

This should work.

You wrenched the lever to the right, hard, bringing the fighter into a sudden tilt. The wings parked at 12 and 6 o’clock as the rocks once speedily approaching each end blindly whizzed over your head and by the ship’s belly.

You paused here for only a moment, permitting the last pebble to zoom past before righting the fighter.

Now, having brought the environment back into a gradual equilibrium, you’d believed the fore was secure enough for you to address the swelling pummeling you were receiving from behind. So you stretched your neck back, expecting to momentarily check in with Ahsoka’s progress.

But in that ever so brief twist away from the viewport, you just as suddenly sensed some whirlwind convergence in the path of the bird’s nose.

Having spun around, eyes searching, you were soon able to abruptly spy those same, once-dodged clusters presently returning with newfound vengeance.

“Anakin…” you chided, taking the fighter into another evading dip. “Last time I checked, laser bolts can’t redirect themselves.”

“These are…special laser bolts,” The Chosen One brightly justified as his dual-speared formations endured an unforgiving swoop and approach.

You huffed, once more returning to the panel to readjust the speed parameters before taking the ship up again in hopes of shaking these ‘Silvey-seeking lasers.’

The next twenty or so minutes of this little, spontaneous exercise protracted more of the same. Ahsoka primarily handled all the aft attacks. And any time a knot of projectiles came whistling toward the fighter’s flanks or fore, you retained a calculated quickness in twisting, looping, or diving away to elude the enemy.

You did this especially well when, at some point, Anakin guided his mineral minions into another full-frontal attack. With minimal latency, you rolled the ship into a small curve, swiftly pointing its tail at the hastily advancing masses so that Ahsoka could take over, all in an effort to tighten these battle-necessary skills.

It was all fun and games, of course, until Artoo erupted into a fit of jangling chirps, which you altogether roughly interpreted as a plea to pause.

It was in those following moments that, you too, started to notice the crater-like burrows that speckled the ship’s hull and nose, its cherry red, warpaint bands unreasonably chipped, and its canon arms dented.

And you could only imagine what the aft looked like.

It was clear that the three of you had certainly given this Starfighter a thorough beating.

“Sorry buddy,” you replied while gradually levying the ship to a standstill.

You assumed Anakin had also received the memo as the previously merciless bombardment of space debris clusters stalled like sleeping statues around you, blanketing back into the natural confines of the surrounding white-speckled vacuum.

“Guess the drill got away from us,” you continued, bringing up the command controls transfer menu on your screen before programming it to relay all functions to the main cockpit.

You endured in the same breath, powering down the canon engines with a deflated huff. “If you need any help with the repairs, my hands are yours.”

No matter his noticeable frustrations, the astromech must have still appreciated the offer as your headset swiftly resounded with spirited whistles of gratitude.

“Okay,” Anakin uttered, the secondary pilot screen, panel, and levers before you dimming back into the blackness of your cabin with a depleted drone as he accepted the changeover. “One more thing I want to try before we rotate positions.”

Your attentiveness toward Skywalker’s words was short-lived, however, as an unexpected, shrill blare resounded throughout your suffocating compartment.

“Um,” Ahsoka emitted.

Instinctively, you glanced at the single active interface to your right, only to register a flashing red warning plastered above the primary gunner controls. Then, just seconds into your efforts to detect the source, a female voice spilled into the exposed space, parroting the same admonition flashing before your eyes from interior speakers.

“Uh, Anakin?” You articulated, staring at the now, decidedly visible safety warning. “Why are you suppressing the inertial dampeners?”

“I want to test the terminal rotational velocity of this new model before it’s dispatched to my battalion,” he nonchalantly explained.

You peeked down at his cockpit, registering the ever-shifting essence of the back of his head as he seemingly prepped the ship for whatever stunt was next on the agenda.

“Isn’t that what the piloting screen’s for?” Ahsoka challenged. “To give you those numbers?”

“Yes,” he muttered, annoyed. “But I can’t get a good feel for its real maneuverability with the dampeners at max.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna like this,” you breathed while the batting crimson glow of the ship’s safety system dragged on its incessant screech.

“Don’t worry,” Anakin cheered seconds before a thrumming, mechanical purr sounded from either side of the ship. “It’s perfectly safe.”

Your head swiveled toward the hums, enabling you to notice the wings’ X formation slowly collapse into a thicker, horizontal line with a metallic snap.

“I think the warning lady disagrees with you,” Ahsoka deadpanned while Artoo chirped in with jumbled blips of agreement.

You exhaled. “I’m gonna have to jump in on this bandwagon, too, Anakin.”

You reflexively gesticulated to your right.

“Closing the wings will burn us up.”

“Only if the canon engines are on, which you turned off,” he reminded. “Besides, having them open will drag our rotational speed.”

Realizing that his mind was made up, you relented, leaning back into your cushioned backrest as you folded your arms in a mix of apprehension and quiet protest.

Logically, you knew Anakin was a talented pilot. But in the short time you’d known him, he always seemed to be one switch away from a reckless decision that couldn’t be rescinded. You could only rely on the Force to warn you otherwise but, for now, you took comfort instead in mumbling one reoccurring thought aloud.

“I’m gonna regret this.”

“Okay, prepare yourselves,” the blue-eyed Jedi declared as you felt the uniform pull of a Starfighter in motion.

Anakin was not one to dally, you knew that too. But you were also not quite expecting the speed or suddenness with which he instantly accelerated the craft.

Mere meters into the flight, the chestnut-haired Jedi launched the fighter with the momentum of a passionate lightning bolt, driving your entire being to squash back as the sudden force partially flattened your skin and burrowed in between chapped lips and suddenly exposed gums. Your hands shot impulsively out to either side of the cramped cockpit, flattened palms shoving against both engine-warmed walls for some semblance of balance.

But it was no use. The thrill-seeking man continued to drive the bird to newly discovered, exponential speeds.

Mind briefly flickering, you recalled your other Jedi companion while trying to catch your breath. You could only imagine what poor Ahsoka was experiencing on the opposite side of the craft as she was thrust forward by the inverse velocity.

But evidently, none of these worries had crossed Anakin’s mind. Instead, you imagined his eyes’ were thinly focused on the speedometer as he sensed the pulverizing oppressions around him.

That was, you guessed, until he found a tempo that finally suited his rotational needs because just as promptly as he accelerated, the adrenaline-addicted man sharply jerked the Starfighter mid-race into a tight, unyielding roll.

The only word you could use to describe the sensation, was uncanny.

There was something about the way it dragged you from your awareness. The feeling of being simultaneously smashed together and ripped apart across every point of your body not only blurred your vision, but it seemed to draw you far enough away from your senses that you could barely feel the comforting touch of the Force. It was as if it flowed inches from your fingernails, but not close enough to wet them.

Still there, but just out of reach.

Instead, your entire experience centered on the raw rush of a repressive speed’s disconnected passions as the fighter’s rotations puckered.

Then, you felt a familiar twinge rap at your forehead’s center.

You tried to thrust it away, refocusing your attention on the feel of the increasingly searing metal under outstretched fingertips to ground yourself. But even as you did so, a new wave of clamoring throbs smacked you upside the head, blasting you into a new realm of haziness.

You knew the drill. An unpleasant, yet manageable headache like this one was sure to last a long while. The rest of the morning, perhaps, if recent history had any say. But they hadn’t prevented you from addressing more pressing matters. Like those involved with gunning a Starfighter.

Or surviving one of Anakin’s test flights.

At least, not up until this point.

By some means, the keen pulse that was now branching into your sinuses and across the bridge of your nose suddenly developed a more piercing vigor. Each jab increasingly resembled the perforations of a bayonet, as if some invisible force was repeatedly impaling your skull like a pirate digging for lost treasures. Time became relative while your entire dome felt like a massive, gaping wound, unlatched to a world of acidic fingernails that hungrily tunneled through the gash.

You retracted both arms from the cockpit’s flanks, allowing your body to writhe to the rhythms of spinning g-forces as you slammed each flattened palm against the sides of your head. While the agony deepened at a rate comparable to the twisting ship’s bolt, you pressed down on your sinuses, harshly, charged with the secret desire to squeeze out the pain with your brain marching inches behind if need be.

Just as rapidly, you could tell that you were reaching a breaking point in your silent fortitude. With the caliber at which this was worsening, you knew that, very soon, it was going to be too strenuous to keep your involuntary, disturbed vocalizations to a minimum. You couldn’t take it. It was too much.

You just needed it to stop.

You needed everything to stop.

“Stop…” you croaked weakly.

But it was too soft for the headset to register as the fighter continued its twirling trek with no acknowledgment from any passengers.

So you tried again, with just a tad more energy.

“Please, stop…”

Your depleted voice was washed away by the dogged bawl of the earsplitting siren which kept drenching your vision in cycles of cerise.

Another shattering knife ran through your skull with a burning fire that combatted that of the ship’s engines as it steadily milked your eyes for brimming tears.

You gasped.

“Anakin, stop!”

The Starfighter abruptly decelerated, steadily relaxing into a leveled state as the deadening drone of easing engines devolved into a bass grunt.

You welcomed the instantaneous airlessness that invaded your bones and softened your skin as the cabin depressurized. Somehow, in the seconds that followed, it had even given you a momentary burst of vitality, supplying a few seconds for you to reach out to Force’s boundless flow.

Yet, despite quickly intertwining yourself with its reassuring brush, the exquisite ache that racked your head was hardly tempered by the change of pace.

“My bad,” Anakin chuckled lightly. “Got carried away.”

There was nothing you could do to block the shaky breath that trembled past drained lips.

“Silvey?” Anakin questioned stiffly, having seemingly heard your pained exhale.

“What’s wrong?” Ahsoka intently inquired through a headset that truly felt light years away. “Did something happen?”

Out of barely-centered vision, you caught a bushy-haired shape in the main cockpit contort toward your form as a soft voice invaded your ears.

“Hey, are you…?”

“I think it’s time for Ahsoka to take my place,” you shoved out, gravelly voice nearly betraying you before you relented, resting your eyelids in a temporary rest.

Taglist

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[riacte]

Purple15 propaganda essay incoming!!

Purple15, in my opinion, is one of those teams that have excellent overall team chemistry. Not just between a duo, or two duos, or a trio, but as a whole TEAM. And for Purple15, that is quite the feat considering we already have two strongly established duos with good chemistry. Yet, no single dynamic dominated. They were a team, played as a team, communicated as a team, and I genuinely think they are one of the best examples of a hermit team having overall great synergy.

Let’s talk about spring-summer 2021. Third Life started in April, MCC14 came back in May, and by that time, people were obsessed with Ren and Martyn. Dogwarts. Red Winter. King and Hand. And they were both MCC participants! Yet they haven’t teamed together yet. Naturally, a whole bunch of people were wishing for a Renchanting team, given that their only public interactions are in the Life series and on MCC, and the status quo unsurprisingly remains the same up till now.

Blue9 and its successors (notably the many Fruit Lime teams) have given people the exciting idea that the hermits should team with more S tiers. And since the hermit fans loved Fruit, surely they would love his bestie Illumina, and people were waiting for the first Illumina-hermit team.

False and Ren, self explanatory. MCC besties. Bonus pic of them because I’m biased.

So in the midst of the Renchanting fans manifesting and begging for a team, Purple Pandas dropped. And tumblr, naturally, went insane. So many posts were made. Dogwarts lore or whatever. Everyone was crying about the reunion of the Hand and his King. (I was really embarrassing about this team back then, please forget everything I said before MCC15 T-T)

Predictably, Ren + Martyn was the most anticipated duo. But in the actual event, they did not dominate the team dynamic. Same with Ren + False (although they usually tend not to dominate in team dynamics anyway). And while False-Martyn-Ren could be regarded as being in the same circle while Illumina has his own circle, they meshed together really well.

Illumina muted himself in HITW, and one might be worried the other three would falter without a “leader” (since the best player was usually the designated leader, although HITW doesn’t require much leading). However, the trio communicated with each other smoothly and got through HITW with no issue.

Battle Box was fun. Imo none of them actually “led” in the traditional sense, but they all contributed nonetheless. They were so excited by False’s surprise clutch.

And of course, Sands of Time featuring a classic Ren sandkeeper. I think that was the first time SOT was played in the new season and it had some changes which confused the team a little bit. Did you know that Purple15 was the first team to open three vaults? Yeah. They did that. Ren in particular was an excellent sandkeeper, kept track of sand, time, keys, revived players (Illumina), and in general was quite smooth.

And the whole “Ren forgetting to mute during break”, with Illumina just quietly listening lmao. That was cute.

I think in general they had good comms, great vibes, morale was high, and they were just happy to be there :D

Bonus mention for False-Illumina as they would go on to team in various other e-sports tourneys, such as MCC20 Yellow which got first in coins, which eventually paved their way to win the irl (!!) Twitch Rivals Craftmaster in July 2022, with False leading her other team members Illumina, OwengeJuice and Tapl. Yes, they met up irl and WON.

This is the end of my TED talk. Purple Pandas 15– amazing beautiful spectacular smooth never done before. Also, it’s Ren being the sandkeeper, this team won in SoT and broke a record. False and Illumina’s first MCC team. Ren and Martyn’s first MCC team. Yet, none of these duos overpowered the other. It was balanced, as all things should be 💜💜💜

PS: Here is my more specific post I wrote after MCC15 (with more details)

[heartofsnark]

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter One): I'll let you in if you say it's okay

Notes: So, I’m taking inspiration from more than one lifepath start for my V and overall, I’m not sure how I feel about this first chapter. I’m not as confident in it as I have been in some of my other works and it’s undergone some heavy rewrites. But I’m officially sick of looking at it, so lets go. Still getting a feel for writing the cyberpunk characters too, tbh.

Word Count:  13083

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Internal Feels and struggles, (Aidan/V is very conflicted and struggling), Morning after sex

If you haven’t yet, please read the prologue: link here

Four years, a million miles, and a new alias later, not Aidan but V is standing in a motel bathroom, fresh from the shower. There’s a bruise forming on her chin from what she can’t remember. She touches up the two shaved slits in her left eyebrow, a pointless aesthetic choice given she wears a mask, she knows. But, she likes it and that’s what matters most. She pulls her bleached blonde hair back into a little ponytail, before brushing her teeth and changing. 

She fastens her mask, a repurposed scav mask that she uses, not only to hide from her former family but to help her function in this world. No longer the green with red and pink faces the scavs use, it’s now black with white x-d out eyes and a wicked toothy grin. Vaguely cartoony and ominous, not her choice, but she’s far too nostalgic to ever change it. 

Data and logistics flash across her vision, optic tech coming to life now that the mask is on. Finally, she puts in her hearing aids,  the noise of the world coming back to her, the hum of a broken AC, the beat of a song coming from the radio, and a woman’s snoring drifting through the paper-thin walls. V pulls up her hood before she leaves the bathroom, ready to begin, her throat tight as she thinks of what the day holds. 

I saw in you what life was missing

You lit a flame that consumed my hate

I'm not one for reminiscing but

I'd trade it all for your sweet embrace

The radio plays an old song from Ava’s favorite band, V knows the heavy drone of them anywhere, though she never can quite recall their name or song titles, only reminded of the days she pretended to give a shit about them in hopes it’d earn her at least a pity kiss. Why the hell the radio still plays music that old is beyond her.  She turns her hearing aids volume down a little lower. 

Music brought down to a hum, V’s attention turns to the bed, a woman who’s name she can’t remember is tangled in the sheets. Sun streaming through the window to shine on a bare freckled shoulder, the woman is around V’s age, maybe a year or two older with a pixie cut of dyed lilac hair. She fits in well with V’s track record of bedmates; unable or unwilling to give even half of what she got, leaving the nomad to take care of herself. But, as much as she’d appreciate an orgasm from something other than her own hand, she gets what she wants from them in the end; a glorified body pillow that helps her sleep. 

“Mmm,  you up?” The woman asks, stirring from under the blankets, she pushes a hand into her hair. She blinks her eyes a few times, before taking in V’s outfit, “you’re leaving already?”

V’s mask optics quickly reads lips, giving the world subtitles, essential when she wants to forgo hearing aids. The tech is far more advanced than the human eye when it comes to lip reading. The only downside is the mask requires someone to be facing her as they speak. So, the hearing aids are still necessary unless people are kind enough to accommodate her; which they never are. 

“Gotta get back on the road,” V signs, a modulator translator in her mask speaks it in a monotone AI voice. 

“You don’t wanna get breakfast or…?” 

“No time,” V crouches down beside the bed, so she can properly meet the woman’s eyes and, “you remember what I told you, don’t you?” 

“About not telling anyone what you look like or whatever…?” 

“No whatever’s to it, if anyone comes around asking about me, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?” 

“Yeah yeah, crystal clear, asshole.” The woman groans, not liking the aggressive tone V’s picked up, but it’s a serious matter. Most people get it, everyone nowadays seems to have enemies, but apparently not everyone understands. More flies with honey as they say. 

“I’m sorry,” she signs, “it’s just important to me, life or death. I’ll order some room service for you before I go, sound good?” 

“Hmm…I like pancakes.” 

“Alright, I’ll put the order in then head out.” 

“Okay…I won’t tell anyone, about you, promise.” 

“I appreciate that,” V signs, putting in the room service order on the tablet provided. 

Thankfully, pancakes are enough to earn the woman’s silence on the matter. The less people who have a bone to pick with her, the better. Though, she still hopes The Herd can’t follow her where she’s going anyway. Dufflebag thrown over her shoulder, V leaves the motel, stepping out into the dry heat of California. Even in the early months of 2077, the desert is burning hot, though it will be freezing by nightfall. The joys of the Badlands. 

Yucca is a little nothing town south of Night City, surrounded by long agonizing stretches of desert. Not a place she’d give another thought to if not for her vehicle breaking down. The cargo in the trunk, locked up so the mechanic can’t get nosy, is meant for a client in Night City. The job came with forms and docs that’ll get her past the border. 

She rolls up the metal garage door to the shop, seeing the older man in a trucker hat and flannel working over her car. The old Thorton Galena “Rattler”, bought off a Bakker nomad, who thankfully had no idea who her birth family is. It’s put together with rust, duct tape, and luck, bought for fifty eddies because it’s a walking tetanus trap; but it’s hers.  

“Hey…drifter…” He greets her with a weary expression. 

There’s two kinds of folks in these small towns that are scattered across  the country like stars. Those who are weary of outsiders, know the dangers that lurk across the Badlands and have their guard up the moment someone they don’t know shows up. And for them, her refusal to show her face or speak with her own voice only adds to the suspicion. 

And then there’s the other ones, the ones like that lilac haired girl still curled up in dusty sheets, eating shitty motel pancakes. The ones who see her, the people like her, the nomads, the drifters who travel the country and they see someone who can bring a moment of excitement to their dull little lives. The ones bored to tears with watching tumbleweeds all day and will climb in bed with V and their own preconceived notions of who she is just to have a night of excitement. 

Each sees danger when they look at her, chaos in human form, someone who may just disrupt the status quo of their piss-pot of a town. An idea that terrifies or excites them. Then the realization hits that she’s just breezing through, a ghost without a trace. And for a moment they’ll be relieved or disappointed, then they’ll forget she was ever there. 

“You got my car fixed?” she signs before she rolls the garage door down a foot or two shy of the ground. 

“Not quite, electric coupling module is shot to shit.” 

“You said it was an easy fix.” 

“Guess I was wrong,” he turns to face her, arm crossed over his chest, “you could always find a new shop, find someone else who won’t question some scav lookin’ nomad why she’s hugging the border.” 

“I’m not a fuckin’ scav, move,” she signs before shoving him away from her car engine, if he can’t get this thing up and running, she’ll do it her god damn self. She needs to get to Night City, yesterday, she’s already frustrated and him acting like he’s doing her a favor by staring at her engine for an hour isn’t helping. 

“Got any idea what you’re doing?” Condescension drips from the mechanic’s words. 

“Gonna, rig a hotwire, bypass the coupling.” She switches out some plugs, trying to find something, anything that will save her heap. 

“Compressor will run on and on, could seize up.” 

“Better than standing around scratching my head.” 

She walks around her Rattler, pulling open the driver side door and climbing in. Please, any god listening right now, don’t fuck this up for her. V presses down the ignition and tries to rev the engine; sputters but doesn’t start. 

“It’s like I was telling you,” the mechanic grumbles, so she tries again and another sputter. 

“Fuck off,” she signs, wishing the tone of the AI voice would better convey her frustration as she begs her car, her baby, to start. 

Come on baby, she thinks and her hands twitch to sign, her voice catching. Her desperation nearly making her verbal. Her rattler, her baby, her beautiful heap of rust and luck has carried her through three years in the Badlands. Just a little further, into the city, and V will find her a decent mechanic to give her vehicular child the treatment she deserves. She presses the ignition and revs the gas. 

And that engine roars to life and it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard, her baby lives, she fucking lives! V can’t contain her smile, thankfully hidden behind the cover of her mask, she could scream. She’s starting the next chapter of her life with her baby by her side. 

“Not too shabby, question is how long will it last you,” the mechanic rains on her parade as he shuts the hood. 

“Better than whatever you were trying.” 

V rolls her eyes and gets her walkie talkie radio out, hooking it to a jack in her car to try to boost a signal; she needs to let her client know she’s coming into the city, so they can prepare to pick up the cargo. 

“Antennae on this heap don’t look like it packs much of a punch, doubt you’ll hear much.” 

There was a broadcasting comms tower outside of the town, she saw it as she made her way in, she’ll get in and boost her signal with it. Should be fairly easy. She just wants to make it into the city, her chance at a new life. Seventeen years with The Herd, under her father’s thumb. Three years running, never able to settle down, never knowing when her family would find her when she’d be put down. Years wasted, she’s ready to live, to really live on her own fucking terms. 

A flash of khaki fabric, visible through the opened gap in the garage door catches her eye and a chill runs down her spine. Trouble. Black cybernetic hands catch the bottom of the metal door and roll it up; an older man in a sheriff’s uniform with a cowboy hat comes strolling in. 

“Hey, Mike, didn’t know you had a customer…” He draws out, looking over V as if she was carrying the plague. 

“Just rolled in a few hours ago, I, uh, thought she would have told you.”

“Now, don’t you worry, we’re gonna hash this out,” the sheriff says, strolling over to her, he puts an arm up on her car roof, leaning against her open car door  and looming over her, “Don'tcha know you owe the sheriff a word when you pay his town a visit? To tell him what brought you here, maybe even over a cup of coffee.”

“You that hard up for dates?” She signs in return, catching a muscle twitch of annoyance, and she smirks behind her mask. Five seconds in and she’s getting under his skin. 

“Names Andrew Jones, you probably heard of me.” 

“Can’t say that I have.” 

“Served in special ops in the last war, silver shoguns, ring any bells?” 

“Can’t say that it does.” 

“Hmm,” he grumbles, “don’t like to get along, do you?” 

“Can’t say that I do.” 

He scowls at her as he shifts his weight off her door and moves to walk in front of her vehicle, looking it over. His foot raises up, dirty boot now on the grill of her car and she wishes nothing more than to just drive forward and run his dumbass over. She doesn’t have fucking time for this; her client is waiting. She doesn’t even want to be in his dumbass little town; she already fucked the only good thing here and found nothing but disappointment. 

“That a nomad vehicle? I might have figured. Scav mask, nomad car; what that make you?” 

“You got a problem?”

“I’ll tell you what my problem is, nothing boils my blood like a fuckin’ stray. Where your clan pitch camp?” 

“No camp, no clan, just little ole me, aren’t you lucky?” 

 “Don’t buy it, nomads always stick with their pack.” 

“Got no pack, they don’t suit me much.”

“Makes you an outcast among outcasts.” He sneers at her, looking down his nose at her, like he’s something special and she’s gum stuck on his shoe. 

“Let me guess, you’re the type of guy who believes every line of shit the corps feed you, that nomads are the world’s greatest evil.” 

“No, I’m a man who respects order, corps brought us that order-”

“The corps pay you and have you on a leash like a dog, you know that?” 

“And you don’t wanna see me bare my fangs.” 

“Try and I’ll put you down,” V’s fingers move before she can give another though, no interest in making peace with this asshole. 

“You threatening me, girl?” 

“No more than you are me, stay out of my way and I’ll get out of yours.” 

“Big talk coming from a misfit.”

She lets out a short laugh, the sound layered with her modulator, making it louder and doubled.  

“Look, I’m not scared of some shithole town’s sheriff who thinks a badge is a crown,” she signs, hands moving so quick and hurried that the sound of skin hitting skin rings out, “I want to leave your town, you want me gone, move your ass and I’ll make us both happy.” 

“Get going,” he moves out from in front of her car, “I got no mind to see you drifting around these parts.” 

“What part of this conversation made you think I want to?” She finishes signing before slamming her car door shut. 

“What was that drifter?” His voice fades away as she guns it out of the repair shop, rolling her eyes behind her mask. 

Though, maybe breaking into the communications tower is technically drifting, but she needs to radio her client. Sinclaire will need to know she’s coming into the city, so they can meet up, exchange eddies for cargo, and she can figure life out from there. She takes a road that goes north and cuts through the desert, her Rattler practically born for off roading as she takes the heavy bumps of the sand dunes and drives through cacti, pulling up to graffiti covered bumpers just outside the fenced in tower. 

It's an amalgamation of latticed rusted metal with satellites on top, graffiti decorating the buildings and chunks of the tower itself. It clearly hasn’t been used or maintained in years, but it should still boost her signal. V climbs out of her vehicle, trying to open the door to the fencing. It doesn’t budge at all and she pouts, then kicks it as hard as she can. Her steel toed boot works as well as a key, making it swing open. 

It’s a quick little journey, two little flights of stairs she jogs up with ease. Then it’s a ladder, the peeling yellow paint sticking to her palms. And then she’s as high as she can reach, transmitter box in view. But with the view around her, wind whipping through, she takes a moment to peel off her mask and breathe. Sun beating down and warming her face, the breeze cools her skin under it’s rays, wicking away sweat that sticks to her brow. 

A deep inhale of air before she forces herself to move again, the rusted front of the transmitter box breaks at the hinges when she opens it, she pays no mind and throws it aside then jacks in her walkie-talkie radio. V leans against the tower railing, radio in hand, but not ready to let go of the quiet. 

The smell of rust and paint surrounds her as she takes everything in. She’ll miss this, she realizes, the open road and the Badlands have always been her home. But it’s not safe, not really. The Herd has shown no signs of letting this go. For four years, she’s dodged her sister and Ava; the two tasked with being her trackers, repeated close calls over all this time. They’ve interrogated and demanded answers from the folks in these sleepy little towns she breezes through. The mask has helped, but every day the feeling of them nipping at her heels gets worse. Her stomach churns at the lengths they’ve gone to. V’s father wasted no time in turning her sister against her, turning Eira into a weapon to do his bidding, to put down the defected child who never should have made it past nine. 

He’ll kill her for not falling in that same line, for refusing to be his soldier. Forced to choose between death or conformity, practically one in the same, she tries to seek a third option.

Night City has its own rules, laws, restrictions; a city completely controlled by corps. It’s disgusting in its own right. But The Herd isn’t allowed in the city, border control of Night City has strict orders to keep all known or identifiable members of the Raffen Shiv clan out. Corps hate Nomads, as a general rule, but they really hate The Herd. A Nomad family with no respect for anyone else’s laws, a strong anti-consumerism, anti-cyberware, and anti-corp attitude; The Herd might as well send a personal fuck you to Night City.  Its not perfect, not even good,  a crime infested corp run cesspool, but it’s the safest option. More security, more boundaries, more faces so V can blend in.  Even if Eira and Ava make it into Night City, which she’s not naïve enough to believe impossible, they’ll have six million folks to work their way through. Nomads stay in pack because groups provide safety; a sea of city faces is just an extension of that. 

But that safety comes at a cost. It means no more open spaces, no more serenity, no more campfires with burnt marshmallows, or driving down dirt roads as fast as she can with her windows down, and screaming out in excitement as she takes on every bump and turn with reckless abandon. 

There’s no perfect choice, every decision carries a sacrifice, but if the cost of staying in the Badlands could mean her life, her freedom, her identity… the city is the better option… she thinks…

A pessimistic or perhaps realistic part of her can’t help but feel like he’ll get his way, her father will have her head on a pike, will slaughter his own daughter like cattle. And his power over The Herd will only grow. After all, if he’d go this far to put down his own child for an act of betrayal, how could anyone else ever think to be spared his wrath. The already loyal army of followers will be further forced into submission by fear. 

Maybe this is all a waste of time, she wonders, often does. Maybe it’s just dragging out the inevitable. Hell, a part of her wonders if she’d be better off begging for mercy, if he’d offer it just to maintain control. Would she be safer if she just gave in? Is she really the kind of person who needs to be half of a whole to function, to feel safe?

But, is it wrong to want something more? To be able to look back at her life, no matter how long or short it may be, and know she lived, that she gave it all she had. That she stayed true to herself, whoever that is. To prove that she doesn’t need them, that she isn’t a burden depending on others to carry her weight. She can make something of herself in Night City, can live on her own terms, even if only until the inevitable comes knocking at her door. It will be a bit of breathing room, a chance to just be, instead of constantly looking over her shoulder.

Family was meant to be her security, her safety, but were they ever really? V shakes her head, if she goes down every thought pattern, every reason, every doubt, every feeling; she’ll be here forever. 

She pulls her mask back down and radios her client after another moment of soaking in the breeze, it's odd they didn’t go through a fixer, but frankly she doesn’t care. A middleman who takes part of the cut isn’t ideal for her either. She’s looking for the past possible new start and the more eddies in her pocket, the better that’ll be. 

“V?” Sinclaire speaks her alias once she gets through. 

“Speaking,” she signs, as always thankful her mask spares her voice in moments like this. 

“Where the hell are you?” 

“Hit a snag, but I’m on my way into the city now.”

“That’s what I like to hear, once you’re through the border radio me and we’ll talk meet up.” 

“The docs you sent,” she signs, thinking to the falsified passport docs he had sent out her way, “they should get me through border check.” 

“Absolutely, border control barely checks ID on customs, but that little pamphlet will breeze you through.” 

“Okay, just checking.” 

“Don’t worry V, this is a piece of cake. You’re gonna love Night City, I’m telling you.” 

“Yeah? That so?” 

“Mmhmm, once we finish the trade off, I’ll show you around. There’s a place in Wellsprings with synth steak to die for, I’ll treat you.” 

“Sounds like a plan, I’m heading out now.” She agrees easily, it’ll be better to have more connections in the city, people she gets along with well enough and know the place better than her. 

“See ya soon.” 

Her client doesn’t know her exact clan, just knows she needs papers to get into the city. There’s more than one group of Raffen Shiv that aren’t allowed in city limits; hell she’s pretty sure Wraith’s aren’t.  Though, corps make special deals to let them in when they need work done. As shitty as they are, The Herd has yet to whore themselves out to that degree, one thing she can still respect about her father. She fiddles with the leather cuff bracelet around her wrist, that hides the small crown shaped brand that he placed on her skin as a child, his way of marking his blood family. She’s considered taking a knife to it, but some part of her isn’t ready to.  

V’s steps are hurried as she leaves the comms tower, heavy boots stomping over metal as she makes the quick journey back to her Rattler, the red beast of a car waiting where she left it. She climbs into the vehicle and twists the vehicle around. She follows the dirt road back out to the highway, headed out to the city. 

She races back through the little town, picking up as much speed as she can, wind whipping through the open windows. Yucca is a blink and its gone, V having cruises right through the nothing town and continuing down the highway. Empty stretches of desert decorated with cacti as she races down the expanse of roadway. 

Then the signs warn her of border crossing, nearing the city, her heart rate picking up as she grows closer to changing her life. A border checkpoint, enclosures and offices with an overpass above the divided lanes of the highway. Each lane leads to a border control officer with holograms labeling what each lane is for based on why someone is coming into the city; whether or not they have cargo to check. She slows down, so she can pull off her mask, the less suspicious she looks the better. Border guards aren’t going to stand for being questioned by The Herd, so its minimal risk. 

She switches over to the lane for customs check, pulling up to the raised blockade, beyond it another car coming through is scanned. An armed border guard not far away and she waits as the vehicle is giving the go ahead to leave; blockade coming down and guard ushering her to drive forward. V drives that little bit forward; cement yellow blockades raise before and behind her vehicle. Locking her into place makes her uncomfortable, like she can’t escape. 

“Stay in the security check area,” a guard tells her over the intercom, like she would have tried to drive through the blockade without his warning. A beat i silence, a minute or two passes as the scanners run along her car. 

“Would the owner of the vehicle please report for further questioning.”

V grabs the falsified passport, manifest marked LOA, and the bribe chip for good measure. She keeps her head down as she gets out of the vehicle, makes her body language small as she walks into the office building. Maintaining a non-threatening demeanor in order to ease any friction that may come her way. The door automatically opens, a waiting room of people and a desk behind bulletproof glass where a worker stands. A map of the New United States across one of the walls. 

“If  you’re armed, leave your weapon here.” The worker behind the desk calls out and V unholsters her revolver, allowing him to check it and put it in a drawer, “report to room two.”

She nods, feeling naked without a weapon on her hip, but she knows this is the way of things. V turns the corner, finding the door with a two marked next to it. She opens the door and a lump forms in her throat. It's a small cramped little excuse of a room, a guard already at the rinky dink desk and a chair in front of it. She takes small timid steps to the chair, discolored with either dried blood or rust, she can’t be certain. The man is dressed in a neon vest; some sort of either goggles or optic implants over his eyes that scan her over as she sits down. He wastes not a second in lighting a cigarette and her nose wrinkles as smoke billows to fill the small room. She can already feel the stench of it clinging to her clothes and wishes she could snatch it from his hand. 

“Papers?” he asks. 

She hands over the manifest, her falsified passport, and the credit chip without a word. Metallic implant augmented fingers put the cred chip aside to look over the little blue document, then he places the paper over the cred chip, hiding it from prying eyes that may peek into the office. Meanwhile, V tries to maintain her most innocent of expression, puppy dog eyes primed if any issue arrives. Small and adorable has few benefits in this world; but she plans to take advantage where she can. Being underestimated, assumed to be weak or docile, as much as it hurts does have perks. 

“What are you transporting?” 

“It’s all in there,” she signs in response, because frankly she has no idea what she’s transporting. Some corp crap. 

“Hmmm, tell me, who do you ride with?” 

“Bakkers,” she lies through her teeth, her car was bought off one, so it seems like an easy enough excuse. 

“They stop installing personal links?” He asks, puffing out a plume of smoke, his gaze on her linkless palm. 

“Religious reasons, most of the clan has them, but my mom raised us to stay ‘ganic, god given, ya know?”  She signs, a practiced excuse for when she’s asked about her lack of implants. Same as the excuse laid out in the passport. 

“Is that so…” he takes a deep drag off his cigarette and V bites her lip not to say anything she’s hit with another face full of smoke, “you know, times like this I’m so glad not to be on the other side of that table.” 

“Feelings mutual,” she signs before she can even consider stopping, aggravated by this man’s entire existence at this point. She gave him all the documents, this should be done with by now. 

“Go on now.” 

She jumps at the chance to be excused, taking in a deep fresher breath of air when she’s released from the smoke box of an interrogation room. V runs a hand through her hair as she turns the corner. There’s another armored guard standing beside the desk now, his eyes doing a lazy look down of V’s frame.

“Don’t forget to collect your personal items.” The worker behind the desk tells her and she stops there, giving him a raised eyebrow before he goes to collect her gun, “be careful with that toy and welcome to Night City.”

As much as she’d like to gripe about the toy comment; as if she’s a child, she can’t help but find herself smiling at the greeting. She’s finally here, finally getting into the city. A life on her terms; a little breathing room between her and the clan. V holsters her gun, grin playing on her lips.

“Those little shits all imagine Night City to be some sort of paradise,” the armored guard comments about her, but not to her, looking over her to the worker behind the desk.

“What are you gonna do they’re all young, naïve, which is just another word for ignorant.” The worker replies and V’s grin has died, maybe that’s the case for others, but Night City is exactly what she needs. Her situation isn’t the same. She doubts those young ignorant kids they’re talking about were running from their own death.

She shakes her head, not worth the effort it’d take to respond, V leaves the building. Her Rattler a short distance away, she’s nearly bouncing as she rushes towards it, climbing into the driver’s seat. Even the overpass above her has words welcoming her to the city, she’s sure she won’t find paradise, but there...she’ll make this life her own.

There’s barely a blip of distance between her and the border check when she sees them. Black corporate vans coming towards her, her heart jolts into her throat and sweat edges along her skin. 

“Fuck!” V curses out loud, border fucker tipped off the corp.

“Stop the vehicle! You are transporting corporate property!” A voice rings out from the vans and V takes a sharp turn off the road, her baby is meant for off roading after all. 

“I repeat, stop the vehicle!” The corporate voice yells out again. 

“Stop the vehicle,” she murmurs in a whiny voice to herself, mocking the corpo, “give us back our stuff, stop committing crimes, wah, wah, wah.” 

 She rolls her eyes, amused by her own bullshit as she punches in the keypad of her Rattler, starting up the automated turret attached to the roof. It’s not the most high tech system, but it has a lock on function and should get the job done.  The sounds of bullets pinging off metal creates a cacophony around her as she careens through an abandoned rural area, taking sharp turns to try to shake them. V takes out her hearing aids to stop her forming headache and focus on what she’s doing. The rumble of her turret shakes the car as it fires, letting her know its still working fine. Glass break out of the back of her car, a bullet piercing through, her back sprayed with the shards. She’ll be digging a bullet out of her dashboard later, she’s sure. 

A bright flash of orange, flames enveloping a van as her turret hits a gas tank the right way. One down, two to go. She keeps the pedal to the floor, speed topping out as she races away from the approaching vans. Another sharp turn and she watches as a van crashes into a wall, one last stubborn fucker. 

There’s a slight tense to the vibration of her turret overhead, bullets hitting the top of it, aiming to disarm it, as she goes through another turn. A shot bursts through her side mirror, assholes, do they have any idea how much it’s going to cost her to repair this heap. More than it’s probably worth.  

The vibration that shakes her car settles down over her head, turret no longer firing, but the van is still chasing her. It fucking jammed, her turret fucking jammed again, of course it did. V hauls off and punches the roof of her Rattler, right beneath where the turret is, used to this issue at this point. As always, the hard punch manages to spur it back on and it fires up again, blasting at the last van at full speed. 

A bullet hits the corpo van’s front tire, knocking it off path; final one down. 

“Suck my dick, Arasaka!” She screams out for no one else to hear.

She’s grinning as she finds a collection of abandoned trailers and garages, pulling into one, she’ll need to call her client, figure out a meeting place. They may want her to lay low for a bit until Arasaka calms their tits about this. But she’s in Night City, finally, what could go wrong from here. Cut out a nice living for herself, solo work or maybe something else, who knows. Get herself a place and do whatever the fuck she wants from there. She slides on her mask, puts her hearing aids back in, and rings her client. 

“Sinclaire?” 

“V, you make it over the border yet?” 

“Yep, out just south of Pacifica according to the GPS, little run in with the corps but I shook them. When and where you wanna meet?” 

“Little China, you know where the old Club Atlantis is?” 

“Not remotely, but ping me the coordinates and I’ll find it.” 

“Sending it to you now, think you can get there by three am?” 

“Yeah, no problem, prefer to do this under cover of darkness?” 

“Much prefer, see you soon, V.” 

V hangs up the call and punches in the coordinates he sent, GPS map firing up to tell her where to go. She pulls out of the abandoned garage and gets herself back out on the road, driving further into the city. 

She doesn’t like driving in the city. V determines about a minute into being into the actual bulk of the city. There’s neon signs and adverts everywhere she looks; most displaying someones ass or tits.  She wouldn’t consider herself a prude, far from it given just how many people she’s spread her own legs for, but she does appreciate some decorum… These are sleazy, dirty… 

And there’s traffic. Even at the late hour, people are on the roads, and they’re slow. So, fucking slow. Move, your asses. A motorcycle might be a good investment, she’d be able to just ride between traffic or weave through the other cars.

She manages to reach the spot before three am, though she wants to scream by the time she arrives. The building blends in easily, just another large shuttered up structure with graffiti covering its outside; symbols for the Tyger Claws, because correct spelling is a bad look for a gang, apparently. 

V lets out a huff of air as she gets out of her car to wait;  examining the little bloody scratches on her shoulders and arms where the glass hit her. Nothing serious, a splash of rubbing alcohol to disinfect and she’ll be fine. But there is a slight sting to the injuries that make moving her arms and shoulders uncomfortable. Corpo fucks. V leans against her car, taking in her new city. 

And she shouldn’t be amazed, she knows that. The traffic drove her nuts and she’s been in landfills that smelled nicer. But despite it all, she finds herself impressed at the buildings that stretch on into the heavens. The bright lights and neon against a dark sky is gorgeous; a high vantage point and she’s sure it’d look like something out of a movie. She finds herself in awe as hope nestles its way into her chest. 

Not perfect, nothing ever is, but she can work with it. She can build something here. 

A sharp honk gets her attention, disrupting her moment of reverie. The street and road have been abandoned mostly; only her and the limousine coming to a stop next to her. She gives a slight wave to the driver, then forms a V with her fingers, as if they needed any more indication of who she is. 

The driver is not her client, instead a big bulk of a man with gorilla arms implants, black metal for fingers, he gets out of the driver’s seat and a similarly sized man steps out of the back seat. Her client’s got muscle around him it seems, maybe he just wants to make sure she doesn’t get squirrely and try to pull something. 

Both guards out, they open the backseat door close to the street and her client finally emerges. He’s not a particularly tall man, though as with most adults, he is taller than her. Sandy slicked back hair and unnaturally bright green eyes; likely optics. 

“V, darling, nice to see you in the flesh, you got the goods?” 

“Right here,” she signs before moving behind her car, opening the trunk so he can see the Arasaka cargo crate.

“Fantastic, load it up, boys.” 

“Woah, woah,” V signs and sits on the crate before the two bodyguards can grab it, “eddies first, then you take the cargo.” 

“Oh, V, honey…” His voice drips with condescension and a chill reverberates down her spine, “you did good work, only a shame you’re so naive.” 

“The fuck do-” 

Pain cracks through her skull, knocking V off the cargo crate and onto the ground. Another sharp thwack of pain across her head and back; something blunt striking her before she can get up. She groans out as she rolls over onto her back, looking up at the bodyguard who’s holding a baseball bat, what looks like blood staining it. Her head and back hurt; her head spinning and she’s unable to get her bearings.

“Load the cargo into the car.” 

“What do you want us to do with her?” One of the guards asks Sinclaire and he looks down at her, like a cockroach. 

“Eh, no one will come looking for her. Might as well throw her away with the trash,” he kicks her side, sneering when she grunts in pain, “give her another hit for good measure.” 

“Got it,” the guard nods and starts to raise the baseball again, high above his head for a hard swing and she instinctively twists to give him the back of her head again. 

“We’ll scrap the car, ge-” 

And then the bat comes down on her, a rush of pain before consciousness slips from her grasp. 

Time loses all meaning when the world is blacked out, but eventually the light filters back in and her senses return. She can feel her hearing aids still in and its reaffirmed by the sounds she hears, the faint murmur of people. The smell around her is awful, disgusting, and she can feel stuff around her. Plastic bags scratching at her skin, something wet touching her arm. Her mask shifted and she forces herself to move, she pulls it back in place, blinking. 

Garbage bags, some intact and others shredded. He actually had her thrown into the trash, that son of a bitch. V pushes the trash bags off of her, city lights starting to glimmer through, neon against a black sky. She finds a metal edge of the dumpster and pulls herself up, body still aching in protest as she emerges from her would be grave. Cold air hits her bare arms, the city far colder in the early months than the Badlands. She’s in an alleyway dumpster and she hears gasps of shocks, turning to see civilians shocked to see someone climbing out of the trash. She’s be ashamed if she weren’t so furious.

V punches the side of the dumper, feeling it reverberate with the force, this was supposed to be her shot at a new life and now she’s in a god damn dumpster. 

She’s going to kill Sinclaire, she’s going to fucking kill him, son of a bitchfucked her over and he’s going to pay with blood. But how the hell does she even reach him? He never gave her details of where he spends his time or let alone where he lives. Hell, she doesn’t even know where she is. She needs her car back and her luggage from it, she doesn’t even have a change of fucking clothes as it stands right now. 

“What time is it? Where am I?” she signs at the civilians, still straddling the edge of the dumpster, maybe they can be some help. 

“Uhhh, like 10pm? And Heywood…?”

So, he dragged her away quite a bit, so...maybe he frequents the area. Still doesn’t tell her much, she needs to find him. And she needs to find her car, but how the fuck does she accomplish that?

“Don’t suppose you have any idea where I could find Luke Sinclaire, do you?” 

“Uh, no,” the stranger kind of raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the whole situation, “but uh, you could always talk to Padre. He’s the local fixer.” 

Of course, she’d have to get a fixer involved, not using one is probably what got her in this mess in the first place. Sinclaire knew she had no ties to her Nomad family, new to the city, and no fixer involved. He basically had license to do whatever he wanted without fearing someone would come for him or come looking for her. V touches the back of her head, fingers coming back red, dried blood matting her hair. He meant for her to die, she’s sure, but the blunt trauma wasn’t enough to do her in. 

“Where’s Padre?” she signs, she doesn’t have money to pay a fixer but maybe they can work something out. She doesn’t want to lone wolf it and end up in a dumpster again. 

“He has his own parish, but he’s usually at the El Coyote Cojo right about now, might be able to catch him if you hurry.” 

“El Coyote Cojo, which would be…where?” 

“Bar a little north of here, you really aren’t from around here, are you?” 

“Thanks for your help and stunning observational skills; I’m off.” 

She pulls her hood back up over her head, hiding her bloody matted hair as she leaves the alley way and goes vaguely north. New chapter of her life, she’s injured, alone, broke, and smells like garbage. 

Honestly, sounds about right for her luck. But, she’s far from given up. She navigates the Night City streets, stopping to ask a stranger where the bar is again before she finally finds it. She keeps expecting to get weird looks, like the ones that were usually sent her way in the small towns she’d visit on the road. But even with her mask, no one pays her much mind. And why would they?

V passes at least four more outrageous looking strangers along her way to the bar. People’s who’s entire body is made of gold cyberware, a woman with skin that looks like plastic, a cowboy with cybernetic arms and legs, and a girl with what looks like cat ear implants on top of her head. Things that make her stop and give a second glance, but no one here even minds. Night City has its own weirdness limit and her mask doesn’t even come close to hitting it. There's an anonymity she’s never known before and its kind of nice. Even bloody, mask on, trash covered; she’s just one face in a sea of millions. 

El Coyote Cujo is a lowlit bar with traditional Mexican decorations across it and as expected in the evening, it has a fair number of patrons bustling around. People shooting pool, downing tequila, and chatting amongst themselves. And for the first time, she finds eyes landing on her. Not necessarily weirded out by her masked appearance, but more so wary of a stranger. She pays them no mind, employees here should know where Padre frequents or if he’s still here. There’s two she’s able to find right away; the bartender and a busboy. She starts with the bartender, walking herself over to a stool, he’s an older man with dark hair and a golden arm. He walks over to her once she’s sat, a smile bringing out the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. 

“A new face, what can I get for you?” 

“I’m actually trying to find someone,” she signs, “someone told me the local fixer, Padre, is a regular here.”

“Ah, he’s probably at his usual table upstairs, not sure he’s interested in taking on any new clients though.” 

“I’ll see if we can figure something out.” She steps away from the bar and heads upstairs, its mostly vacant, making her task just a little bit easier. 

Her gaze is drawn to an older man with sparsely any hair and age spots along his skin, a gold cross around his neck. A few men in tacky gold jewelry around him.

“Padre?” The AI modulator voice calls out and she sees the older man’s eyes land on her. His guards around him seem to tense, prepared for if she sends up being a threat. 

“I’m not sure, I know you,” Padre comments, looking over her disheveled appearance. Being beaten and thrown in a dumpster doesn’t do much for your looks. 

“You don’t, but I’m looking for a fixer, need help if you’re interested in hearing me out.”

“Come, sit.” 

“Thank you, sir,” she signs before sliding into the booth seat across the table from him. 

“How can I assist you, child?” 

“So, a guy named Luke Sinclaire contracted me to smuggle corp cargo into the city, I go to meet up with him and he tricks me. Stole the cargo, sent my car to be scrapped, and had his gangoons drop me.  I need help finding him so I can get the cargo, my car, and my dignity back. Maybe kill him too, depending on how I feel, but we’ll see.” 

“You didn’t use a fixer, I take it?” He raises an eyebrow with the energy of a dad chiding a child for making a stupid mistake. 

“No, I was desperate and it bit me in the ass, so I’m doing what I should have done in the first place.” 

“And I’m to assume, you have no money with which to do this either?” He says, having read her like a book. 

“I’m sorry to be asking favors the first time we meet and I don’t expect you to do this for nothing, of course, but I was wondering if we could work out an arrangement instead.”

“And what sort of arrangement would that be?” 

“I’ll do a merc job for you, your choosing, I’ll take no cut of the profit; a completely free job in exchange for you helping me with this.”

“And how can I trust you to do this job well, I do not know you or your work.” 

“Well, I’d do the job for you first, so if its crap you could not help me. I fully expect to get back what I put in, if I do quality work, you do it in return, I’m desperate here.”

“Come with me, Marcus, get the car,” he tells one of the bulky men who walks off. 

Padre stands and follows behind Marcus, V follows suit as they leave down the stairs and out of the bar towards a dark little alleyway. Marcus pulls up a car and parks it for them. Once parked Marcus gets out and comes back to one of the backseat doors, Padre gets into the back on his own, Marcus opens the door for her. He silently beckons her in and she does what she’s asked, sliding onto the leather seat. Marcus shuts her door before going back around to the driver’s seat, 

“Embers, pull up to the back where the ramp is,” Padre instructs Marcus of where to go. 

And then the car pulls out onto the road. V fiddles with a curl of hair, fidgety and unsure of what to do, why they’re driving out away from the bar. Padre has a far away look in his eye. 

“You’re new to Night City, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah…” 

“And what is your name, I’m afraid I didn’t catch it earlier.” 

“V.” 

“V, I’ve lived in Heywood all my life, it’s roots are strong and watered by blood. Family is what pulls us through, no one is purely independent. The city is ecosystem, each individual playing a vital role that impacts those around them. The relationship between fixers and our mercenaries is an important one, not only is it mutual beneficial, but we keep each other safe. A lesson you’ve had to learn the hard way.” 

“Can’t really argue with that…” 

“People who-“ 

Padre pauses in his words looking out of the window and through it, V can see a car coming up alongside them. The car begins honking furiously at them. Nerves alight and chills slinking up her spine; she has a bad feeling about this. It has to be someone with a bone to pick with Padre. 

“Shit!” Marcus curses, the first word she’s heard him say. 

“Stop the car,” Padre says, with a calming hand on Marcus’s shoulder. 

“What’s this?” V signs, worrying speeding up her hands. 

“Business, you carrying?” 

“Yeah….” V checks her waistband and her revolver is gone because why did she think Sinclaire wouldn’t take her gun, “No.” 

Padre blinks, surprised she’s sure, because who the fuck would be unarmed in Night City. Marcus pulls to a stop, the car once beside them pulls around to park in front of them and a man comes out. He’s dressed in what appear to be green fatigues with a bullet proof vest. As he comes close to V’s window, she sees his gold implants catching the neon lights. 

“Sebastian Ibarra,” the man says in a low voice, as V’s window is rolled down by Marcus, “looks like it’s my lucky day.”

The stranger leans into the window, his left hand is carrying a gun and he casually puts it into the window. Both arms are metal in nature, but they look far from top shelf, at least from her glance. 

“What do you want?” Padre asks him. 

“To settle our biz, once and for all. Got an offer for you, Paddy, so listen up. Get the fuck out of Vista, pull your boys off the street! I’ll give you the Glenn, done deal. No more restless nights, see how generous I can be?” 

A beat of silence and V gives a glance at Padre, he seems far from amused with the man’s bullshit. 

“Well, Paddy?!” 

V lurches at his impatient yell, she doesn’t need this wannabe soldier turned gangbanger fucking up her deal. Her right hand grabs the back of his neck, below the base of his skull and her left grabs the gun. She slams his head against the car roof, his forehead gushing blood at the impact, the shock and pain makes his grip loosen and allows her to steal his pistol before letting him go. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses as he stumbles back, seeing stars and touching at his forehead. She aimed for the soft flesh just before his golden mohawked implant began, blood now steadily streaming from the wound, “you’ll fucking pay for that.” 

She points his own pistol at him, cocking the gun, asking the silent question of if he intends to be shot today. 

“It seems our conversation has come to a close,” Padre speaks calmly, but when she turns she can see the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Careful Padre, never know who’s got a barrel at your six,” he threatens with blood coating his face like paint, “you neither shitbucket!” 

“Now, I’m armed,” V signs to Padre, as she watches the man climb back into his car, defeated for the moemnt. 

“Marcus, please.” 

The driver pulls out and away, getting them back on the road, as if the exchange had never happened. There’s a moment or two of silence, as V tucks her new gun into her waistband. If Padre takes her up on her offer, she may need it, plus you can generally never have enough firepower. 

“Many people come through the city,” Padre speaks after a beat of silence, “little shits who’s spines go soft the moment they’re looking down the barrel of a gun. And sometimes you get the odd soul, one who can truly hold their own.” 

“Who was that?” She asks, unable to help but smirk behind her mask at the compliment. That she’s one of the odd souls, different from those little shits, that she can hold her own.  V is far from incompetent, even if some shitbird got the jump on her. 

“No one important, he’ll be gone in a week’s time. Another will take his place.”

“The ecosystem will take him out?” 

“People who don’t know their place, soon find themselves without one. He’ll pay for what he’s done. You… paid for your misdeeds, for your misstep, but you’re finding your place now and within it you may thrive.” 

“You got my place in the ecosystem all figured out?” 

“Here,” he hands her a screamsheet, a magazine with an animated ad for a car, high-end The Legend of Aerondight, “only four in Night City.” 

“That so?” It looks slick, she guesses, though certainly not her aesthetic. Its that weird rich person sort of design where it’s oddly shaped and proportioned, perhaps to be aerodynamic. All sleek silver and black, no character to it. She’d take her Rattler over it any day. 

“First belongs to the Rayfield regional direction, second belongs to mayor Rhyne, third to a rental service. And my client aims to be the fourth.” 

“Klep the car and you’ll help me?” 

“Yes, I have a contact who works inside the parking structure near Embers, a club the current owner likes to frequent. He’s there tonight as well. My contact will cut the security camera feed and open the security gate for you.” 

“Current owner, anyone I need to worry about?” 

“An Arasaka corpo,” Padre informs her, because apparently, she hasn’t fucked with Arasaka enough in the past day or so. 

“So, just hotwire it or?” It wouldn’t be the first time she’s hotwired a car, but fancy ones like this usually have a more complicated security system. Usually takes more than a knife and luck, which is her usual method. 

“Not quite,” Padre pulls a little gadget, a silver and black device that he hands to her, “this should work like a key for the car, matches the ones used by Rayfield tech. Should open the lock and bypass identity authorization.” 

“That sounds convenient…”  Too fucking convenient, she resists adding. 

“Kabuki has some excellent tech workers, but I won’t lie, it is a risk. I assume one you’re willing to take?” 

“Got it, I’ll get the car.” 

“Marcus, pull up here,” Padre tells the driver and they come to a stop, “you can jump down below, and before you go, take this V.” 

He hands her a card, marked with his name and phone number, golden in color with a sword surrounded by roses.  She rubs her thumb over the embossment, glad for her first contact within the city. Connections help. 

“Your number?” She points out the obvious, not sure what else to say. 

“Bring the car back to El Coyote Cujo and call me when you arrive, if all goes well, I’ll have your intel by then. And, I may just call on you for work down the line.” 

“Understood, I’m off then.” 

“Go with God, V.”  

The guardrail drags along the side of the highway but there’s a breakage where it allows her enough space to easily jump over. Peering over it leads to an alley way, a closed dumpster just below. She hops over, dropping down onto the dumpster, she intends on last night being her last trash nap, so she’s more than a little thankful for it being closed. She hears a civilian let out a little exclamation but pays no mind as she jumps down onto the pavement. A quick walk down a graffitied alleway leads her to yellow road signs cutting across an open structure. Glowing vending machines beckon her to spend ennies she doesn’t have on energy drinks and burritos, a turn past them brings her to an elevator. 

Slick glinting silver encompasses her as she steps into the alleyway; impressively clean compared to the absolute grime of the city.  Likely to impress any corpos who come this way to get their cars. A quick tap of a button and the doors shut, elevator rattling as it descends down to the garage. 

A beat of silence and the elevator opens up to a hallway; black, gunmetal gray, and teal accents. The wall declares which sector she’s in and an arrow on the far wall tells her where to turn, as if there were anywhere else to go. The turn around the corner puts her directly in front of two large black double doors; PARKING over them in clear bold lettering. 

They slide open when she gets close and open up to the large parking garage, lights coming on as she sees all the slick fancy corpo cars. Sleek blacks and eye popping reds, none with any taste for design if you ask her. But nomads and corpos have...different aesthetics. 

“Eh, something I can help you with?” A male voice rings out, bringing her attention to the little station next to the blocked off exit for cars. The contact, she presumes. She comes over to his open window, the man dressed in uniform. 

“Padre sent me…” she signs, keeping things vague just in case this person has no idea why she’s here. 

“Gotcha,” he hits a button, “cameras are blind, you got twenty minutes.” 

She nods and goes looking through the cars, it’s the glow of neon that brings her to it. A parking spot marked off in the vivid blue glowing lights, they frame the Rayfield, and spell VIP on the wall behind it. 

Time to test the tech, she holds the device next to the door and presses its button, a blue light flashing. And then the Rayfield’s door opens, sliding back and up in one fluid motion, exposing the deep burgundy leather seats. Shit may actually be going right for once. 

She climbs into the driver’s seat, feeling wholly out of place in the plush designed car. The seat automatically adjusts to accommodate her, no doubt shorter than the owner, and the blacked-out windshield and window turn to crystalline clear glass. All that’s left is bringing the baby back to the bar and then she can get her intel on Sinclaire. 

A red caution symbol flashes in the windshield and her body tenses; a bad feeling creeping in. No, her luck can’t be running out already. 

Then the door opens and there’s a gun in her face. 

“Get the fuck out!” A Mexican accented voice yells out. 

If there is a god, he personally hates her, there is no other explanation, and she will fist fight him for his shenanigans. She looks up at the man standing before her, barrel at her forehead. He’s leaning down against the car, not unlike how the sheriff did to intimidate her back in Yucca. However, unlike the sheriff, this guy has the build to pull it off. He’s easily over a foot taller than her and wider than most doorway, all pure muscle with dark hair in a top knot, gold cybernetics adoring his face. She puts her hands up in mock surrender for a moment. 

“Nothing personal, jaina, just biz.” 

V goes to gun it, to stomp her foot down on the gas, but before she can the man has the back of her hoodie and is unceremoniously ripping her out of the vehicle. 

“You fuckin’ deaf, chica, fuck out of the car, now!” He’s able to manhandle and pack her around like it’s nothing, like carrying a housecat. 

She grabs the hand on her hood and digs her fingernails in, swinging her foot out to kick him while her other hand goes for her gun. 

Then there’s a steady rev of engines, tires squealing and growing ever closer. Confusion coloring her assailant’s face and he drops her, looking around. 

“The fuck…” 

He starts to say and then there’s two police cars rushing into the parking lot, skidding to stops in front of them. And its fucking overkill, if she rang 911 because she was shot, they’d maybe send an officer out in three weeks. One fucking corpo has someone break into his car and it’s the end of the universe, need a full brigade. 

The headlights of the cruises are blindingly bright and she struggles to adjust; putting her hands up as police officers come out with guns at the ready. It’s a car for fucks sake. 

“Don’t move!” 

Her attacker carefully slides his gun across the cement, to show he’s not a threat and maybe she’d consider doing the same if she cared; but she doesn’t. 

“You’re under arrest!” 

“Stay where you are!” 

The police continue barking orders, as if the two hadn’t piece together what was happening or what was being asked of them. They’re not stupid. 

“Hands where I can see them, nice and slow!” 

He can already see them, why must they go through the rigamarole. She doesn’t have time for this shit. 

“On the ground motherfuckers, right now!” 

V is able to watch for a second, as a female cop cuffs and pushes the big guy onto the ground. Then in the next second she’s down there too, but they don’t cuff her like they do him. The officer only holds her hands down to the pavement, maybe they think because she’s smaller they don’t need the cuffs, at least not yet. 

“Jackie Welles, my old pal from the hood,” a voice rings out, “See you haven’t grown an ounce wiser.” 

“Hey,” big guy, apparently Jackie, responds and she shifts her head against the pavement to see him being held down in addition to the cuffs, “argh, Detective Stints, been a while, huh?”

“Inspector Stints,” the man responds now stepping out where he can be seen in front of the bright lights, he picks up the gun Jackie put down. 

“Same shit,” Jackie says with a laugh. 

“But you, you’re new,” Stints comments as he walks over and crouches down in front of her, looking over her face.

He waits, anticipating her to say something, but she talks with her hands and they’re currently pinned behind her back. And sure she possesses the technical ability to speak, her vocal chords do function. But she doesn’t, unless she’s alone or highly emotional. She used to talk to her mom, sister, and Ava…but those days are gone. 

“Spit it out? Cat got your tongue?” Stints taunts and she still remains silent. 

“Think her voicebox might be broken, Stints,” Jackie comments, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Pfft, probably just another piece of Heywood trash, another termite who’ll live and die here. Just like you Welles.” 

“Fuck off, just tell us what you got planned,” Jackie grumbles. 

“Gonna be booked, gonna do a stint, heh, get it?” He says with a grin. 

“C’mon Stints, cut us a break, huh? You lock us up, we’ll just jerk off till trial and then what?”

She has no intention on jerking off anywhere, but alright.

 “Worst case,” Jackie continues, “we get a few months, standing room only nowadays. In el bote. Hell, we’ll probably be out early.” 

“These the thieves? Ordinary street trash,” a heavily accented voice comments, a Japanese man in a shimmery golden colored vest comes walking over. 

“Shit, he’s here,” Inspector Stints groans before standing, “got them in custody Mr. Fujioka. We’ll be taking them, now.” 

“It’s a waste of effort, I have no time to testify or play at an investigation.” 

“Suggesting we let ‘em go, sir?” 

“I’m suggesting you throw them in the sea; cuffed, legs broken, so this trash doesn’t float.” 

And with that the man starts to walk away, making his way back to the club, she’s sure, continuing his night of debauchery as if he hadn’t ordered the murder of two strangers just because he could, because he didn’t have time for a trial. And god, she knows she probably has no room to judge anyone else’s morals, but just fuck corpos. 

“You heard him,” the inspector says, because corpo cash pays his salary, she’s sure. 

“Fuuuuck….” Jackie curses as they start to drag him up on his feet by the cuffed hands and she her own arms are wrenched back and cuffed. 

V gets her feet back under her, moving with the pull as they manhandle her off the ground, she kicks back at the officer behind her. Her foot connects with their calf, causing them grunt out in pain as they’re knocked off balance loosing their grip on her wrists. She jumps as high as she can and brings her cuffed hands under her feet to her front. 

Jackie follows suit, kicking the officer off of him, but with his size it knocks them flat on their ass. He shoulder checks another pig as V makes a dive for the Rayfield, it’s door still open amongst this chaos. She lands herself in the drivers seat and hits the ignition. 

“Stop resisting!” Officers yell, fingers on the trigger, and no, that’s not happening. 

“Wait up, chica!” Jackie yells out and she hits the button to open the passenger side door; he’s an asshole, but she’s not leaving him to be thrown in the fucking ocean. 

He throws himself down in the passenger side and she guns it, doors shutting on each side as she takes the turn out the parking exit. She watches from the corner of her eye as Jackie, who’s barely able to fit in the bougie car, brings his cuffed hands down as low as he can. He grunts and curses, not quite as flexible as she is. With effort and twisting, he’s able to get the chain of the cuffs under his foot and then he stomps down while yanking his hands up. The little chain doesn’t stand a chance, breaking into pieces and pinging about the interior as it does so. 

“Much better,” Jackie comments, looking at his wrists which now just have the manacles of the cuffs. 

She rolls her eyes, bringing her attention back on the road and she expects to see sirens chasing after them, but it never happens. Are the cops not chasing them? They should be chasing them? Is she not getting in her second high speed chase since coming here?

“Honestly,” Jackie starts to talk again, he talks a lot, “I was just gonna let Stints free us, but I like the way you think, this way we get the Rayfield too.” 

“What?” She takes a hand off the wheel to sign. 

“Oh shit, you’re actually….my bad…” He awkwardly apologizes for asking if she was deaf earlier because, yes, yes she is. 

“What do you mean, free us?” 

“Stints is a softie as far as pigs go, got Heywood in his blood, would never throw us in the fuckin’ ocean cause some corpo said. And, you can slow down, he won’t chase us, chica.”

“Oh…okay,” she signs, pulling up to a curb, something else to take care of. 

“We stopping here?” 

“You are,” she signs before pulling her gun out and pointing it at him, signing with her other hand, “get out of the car.” 

“Really, chica?” He rolls his eyes, like he didn’t pull this shit on her five minutes ago. 

“Wouldn’t have let you in if I knew Stints was a softie, I got a job to finish, get out.” 

“A fixer line this up for you?” 

“Yeah…” 

“Padre?” 

“Yeah…are you gonna get out of the car or…?” 

“Listen, I was gonna klep the car and then find a fixer to sell it for me, but if you already got Padre involved, we’ll go halfsies.” 

“You pointed a gun at me!” 

“You’re pointing a gun at me, right now!” 

“You did it first!” 

And he laughs and she does too, because they sound like children bickering over who pushed who on the playground. Its dumb and ridiculous and why does she like him? His smile is warm and kind, something about him, welcoming. She drops the gun, tucking it back in her waistband. She press her hand under her mask, trying to suppress her giggles. The tension that’s been clinging to her has snapped. Her body feels lighter, like she can breathe a bit better. She closes the passenger side door, he may be chill, or she’s just easily charmed. But, she’s still going to fuck with him, just a little. 

“Okay, fine, we’ll go halfsies.” 

“See, now you’re making sense,” he grins as they pull out back onto the road, “Jackie Welles.”  

“V…it’s…nice to meet you? I think?” 

“Heh, not from around here, right?” 

“Nah, but, from the sounds of it you’re a local.” 

“Heywood in my veins, chica,  where we meeting Padre?” 

“El Coyote Cujo.” 

“Of course.” 

“You  know the place?” 

“I’ve heard of it,” he says, grinning wide, a joke she’s clearly not in on, “Ah, I got a good feeling about this.” 

“About what?” 

“Us, you and me got chemistry.” 

“Do we now?” 

“Oh, don’t give me that, you feel it too, heard that laugh.” 

“Sure, whatever you say,” she teases as she pulls into the El Coyote Cujo parking lot, pulling the slick corpo car into a spot, “got a phone on you?” 

“You don’t?” 

“I literally have lost everything I own,  alright? Call Padre and put it on speaker.” 

“Fine, fine,” Jackie gets out his phone and calls Padre, phone in one hand and the other stretched across the back of the seats. 

“Jackie? To what do I owe the pleasure.” 

“Here with your newest find, V, we got the Rayfield.” 

“You helped her out?” 

“Well…” 

“He pointed a gun at me and nearly had me thrown in the ocean.” 

“Seems like I have a car and a story waiting on me, I’ll be there shortly.” 

A pain aches in V’s head, migraine spreading across her temple as Jackie hangs up. She rolls the car window down, allowing the chill of the winter night seep in, hoping the fresh air will ease her pain.  V wants a shower, there’s still blood in her hair and she’s sure she still smells like trash. Though, no one’s been cruel enough to point it out. But, she has no idea where she could grab a shower. Why the fuck does her head hurt so much? The pain a steady throb across her entire head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, it didn’t even ache this much when she first came too in the dumpster. 

“You alright V?” 

“Head hurts,” she signs, before turning off her hearing aids, hoping that shutting out the city sounds will help. 

“When’s the last time you ate, chica?” Jackie says, making sure to stay in her eye line as he leans over the middle console, though his biceps nearly touch her even when he isn’t.  Her mask reading his lips to give him subtitles. . 

When was the last time she ate? She didn’t eat all day because she was in a dumpster passed out. The day before was the smuggle run and she didn’t eat before she left Yucca.

“Two days ago.” 

“Fuckin’ for real, no wonder your head’s wonky, once we finish the deal we’ll get some grub.” 

“What made you think that was why?” 

“Ah, my mama gets those migraines when she stops eating from stress, Vik and me keep telling her to take care of herself, but she’s too busy taking care of everyone else.” 

“You and your mom close?” V can’t help but ask, thinking about her own mother for a moment. 

“Oh yeah, family’s important, gotta have people you can turn to out here.” 

“Yeah…” 

“What-”

Headlights shine in through the back glass of the Rayfield, bring their attention to Padre pulling into the parking lot.  His arrival ending whatever question Jackie was about to ask, which may be for the best. She’s not ready to answer questions about family. Not when her head is throbbing, she’s filthy, and her stomach is empty. Padre’s driver comes to a stop and they see Padre gets out of the back. V turns her hearing aids back on, knowing it will make the conversation flow easier as her and Jackie get out of the Rayfield. Her arms collecting goosebumps from the air. 

“Jackie, it’s nice to see you again, how have you been?” He greets Jackie warmly

“Ehhh, can’t complain, same old same old, making new friends,” he says with a grin, nodding his head towards V.

“Never can have too many of those. It’s always nice to chat once business is done.” 

One of Padre’s bodyguards has already climbed into the driver’s seat of the Rayfield. Enging revving up and then fading off into the night as he leaves. Officially finishing up their business. 

“Uh,” Jackie raises an eyebrow, “you getting senile on me, Padre, this is usually the part where eddies change hands.” 

V’s smirking and trying not to laugh behind her mask. Padre gives a look at V’s direction and she looks down at the ground, pursing her lips so she doesn’t laugh. 

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what you mean.” 

“Ah,” Jackie nods, like he gets it, “no worries, V agreed to go halfsie with me on the Rayfield gig.” 

“Halfsies?” Padre raises an eyebrow, smiling at V, he seems to find her joke at least a little funny. V can’t help the giggle that spills out.

“Am I missing the joke here?” 

“Well, I’m afraid, this was an unpaid job for V here.” 

“What?” Jackie shoots her a sharp look, disbelief coloring his expression. 

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” she taunts. 

“Fuck you!” 

She bursts out laughing, holding her stomach as she cackles behind her mask, the sound echoing strangely through it. But, she can’t stop. 

“You stole a million eddie car for free!? The fuck is wrong with you!?” 

“No, no,” she furiously signs, “I needed info.” 

“Speaking of which, I have your intel here,” Padre says, handing her a shard.

“Give me a moment, my lungs hurt.” 

“I’m glad you're entertained, that info better make you a billionaire.” 

“Nah, personal shit,” she collects herself, “thanks, Padre, it means a lot.” 

“You’re a good kid, make him pay, V.”

“Oh, I will,” V confirms, slotting the shard into a little opening on her mask, info displaying across it. 

The name of a chopshop that rumors say had a nomad vehicle come in, her Rattler no doubt. Sinclaire’s address and regular hang outs, exactly what she needs. Hopefully, he hasn’t had time to sell the cargo yet. If so, she’ll axe him and klep all his shit. 

“What happened?” Jackie asks. 

“Well,” she signs, before taking the shard out, “Sinclaire contracted me to transport some cargo, no fixer, so he fucked me over the second he got a chance. Bashed me over the head, threw me in a dumpster, scrapped all my shit, and took off with the cargo.” 

“So, that’s what that smell is?” 

“I will throw you,” she threatens, but she’s rolling her eyes and smiling. 

“I’d love to see you try, chica.” 

“The chop shop won’t be open until morning and it’s late. It’s up to you, but I’d recommend resting for the night.” 

“Yeah…” She signs, but she can’t help the slight pout. She has no money, no clothes, no food, no shelter. She’ll be sleeping on a bench or something tonight, not much rest. 

“You did good work V,” Padre pats her shoulder as he leaves,” I’m sure I’ll have more jobs for you in the future, paying ones, of course.” 

“Thanks again, Padre.”  

She rubs a hand down her face, migraine still thumping around in her head. Between not eating and having her hearing aids in all day, her head feels on the verge of exploding. 

“So, what’s the plan, jaina?” 

“My plan, why do you wanna know my plan?” 

“Because, you and I both know you’re up shit creek without a paddle here, V. No home, no family, no one to turn to. Night City ain’t a place that will let you get by on your own. Need people you can turn to, if you wanna survive.” 

“And what, you wanna be my friend?” She raises an eyebrow, taken aback by just how kind and friendly he’s really been. 

“Told you already, we got chemistry,” he grins again and it makes her smile, “be a crying shame to waste it.” 

“Okay, friend, what do we do now?” 

“You like chili?

“As a concept, sure.”  

“Settled then, get you a hot meal, change of clothes, a shower ‘cause you fuckin’ need it, and crash with me tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” 

“And tomorrow, we teach that pendejo a lesson, sound good?”  

“Sounds good to me.”

They’re all grins and smiles as they leave the parking lot, knocking shoulders together as they go, walking side by side down the neon lit streets. And she can feel it returning, that little buzz of hope she had in her chest when she first came here, the one she thought was beaten out of her by Sinclaire’s goons, it’s back and brighter than ever. Though not half as bright as Jackie’s smile as they turn a corner towards his mother’s house. 

[chineselanguageblog]

Traditional Chinese Foods

There is a saying, the reason that great differences exist between eating habits of various regions of the world is the result of a multitude of factors, including limitations in the ecological environment, the population volume, level of productivity and others. Most meat dishes are from areas where population density is relatively low, and the soil is either not needed or unable to sustain agriculture. Reliance on meat has possibly stimulated economic activities of sharing and trade. In comparison, a dietary habit of primary grain, and plants’ roots, stems, leaves and less meat is usually associated with an environment where supply cannot meet demand. The food supply in these places is more dependent on self-growing. However, dietary habits are not status quo, and with no classification as good or bad. But with the migration of people on a global scale, nutritional traditions that are once fixed to a region might be accepted and adopted by more and more people; and the first regional nutritional habit evolves to contain more new elements. People could see from the long-standing Chinese food culture the footprints of the typical development of humankind.

 China is one originating source of the world’s agriculture. The Chinese have invented ways of irrigation at a very early time; building canals and using the sloped land to develop farm by flooding, as well as other means of farming. As early as 5,400 B.C., the Yellow River region already saw growth of foxtail millet (Setaria italica, also called foxtail bristlegrass, meaning the seed of broomcorn millet), and has already adopted the method of crop storage in underground caves. By 4,800 B.C., areas along the Yangtze River have been planted with rice (with the distinction of sticky or non-sticky rice, the earliest “rice” refers to the glutinous types of rice only). Since entering the agricultural age, the Chinese have formed a dietary composition with grains as the principal food and meats as a supplement, and such tradition has continued to this day.

 There exists an old piece of writing in China by the title of Huangdi Neijing. It describes the food composition of the Chinese as “The Five Grains as life support, the Five Fruits as a complimentary aide, the Five Types of meat as added benefits, and the Five Vegetables as substantial fill.” The grains, fruits, and vegetables are all plant foods. Grain crops in ancient times were referred to as “The Five Grains” or “The Six Grains,” and usually consist of shu (broomcorn millet, sometimes referred to as “yellow rice,” a small glutinous yellow grain), ji (what we call millet today, has the title of “Head of the Five Grains,” shu and ji were the principal cereals of Northern China at the time), mai (including barley and wheat), dou (the general term for all pod-bearing crops, grows in wet lowland areas, and is the main source of protein for the Chinese), ma (refers to the edible type of hemp, was the principal food for farmers in ancient times), and dao (rice). Shu and Ji are both indigenous to China and were introduced to Europe in prehistoric times. On the other hand, both the main and do are not indigenous to China. It is usually believed that dao (rice) came from India and Southeast Asia. From archeological sites uncovered from early Neolithic Age, earliest rice cultivation in history was found. Mai (wheat) originated from Central and West Asia and were introduced to China in the Neolithic Age. Also, the sorghum is an indigenous Chinese crop as well and was introduced to India and Persia (present-day Iran) during the first century A.D. During every Chinese New Year celebration, the Chinese use the idiom “Good Harvest of the Five Grains,” which really means to bless the New Year with a good harvest of all crops, so as to bring prosperity.

This is enough to show that in a vast country where “The masses regard food as their heaven,” the production of crops has held enormous importance since olden days. Experiences from cultivating land gave way for the Chinese to learn about many edible plants that are unknown to the West. And they have discovered that many of the human body’s essential nutrients can be obtained from plants. The beans, rice, broomcorn millet, millet and other foods that the Chinese often eat are all rich in proteins, fatty acids, and carbohydrates. Foods made from grain come in many varieties and take on many forms. The northern Chinese’s important food was wheat. Therefore, most dishes on the dinner table are various types of pastry or pasta. Wheat flour is made into buns, pancakes, noodles, stuffed buns, dumplings, wonton and so on. On the other hand, in the southern part of China, the principal food is rice-based. Besides plain rice, there would be thin rice noodle, thick rice noodles, rice cakes, stuffed glutinous rice balls in soup and other types of rice-based foods to be found everywhere. Rice spread from south to north, and with barley and wheat passing from west to east contributes significantly to the shaping of Chinese dietary habits. Bing, or Chinese pancakes, was one of the earliest forms of pastry. The earliest method of making bing is to ground the grain to a powder, build into the dough by adding water, then boil in water until cooked. In time, there has come to be steamed, baked, toasted, fried and other kinds of pancakes. Bing also has the most varieties of all dough-made foods. It comes in all sizes and thickness, some with stuffing. Even the stuffing comes in no less than several dozen varieties. The non-stuffed pancakes are single or multi-layered. Those with good skills can make around a dozen layers in a pancake, each layer being as thin as paper. The sesame seed cake is the most popular baked pastry and can be found in both the north and the south.

Noodles are also a type of traditional food made from flour. The earliest way of making noodles was nothing but to cook in boiling water or soup. It was only after the Song Dynasty (960-1279 A.D.), did there come to be meat or vegetarian pasta sauce. Noodles have a close correlation with Chinese festivities. In the north, there is the belief that “on the second day of the second month (lunar calendar), the dragon raises its head.” So people have the custom of eating Dragon Whisker Noodles, to pray for good weather and harvest during the year. In the southern regions, on the first day of the lunar year, “New Year’s Noodles” are to be had. Also, Longevity Noodles are for celebrating birthdays. When a child reaches one month in age, together the family shall have “Soup Noodle Banquet.” Though the art of noodle-making may look simple, it is a complex task that requires many different skills, such as rolling, rubbing, stretching, kneading, curling, pressing, and slicing.

The Chinese at around the 3rd century A.D., have mastered flour fermentation techniques by using the easily fermented rice soup as a catalyst. Later, bases were experienced to neutralize the fermentation process when making the dough. The advent of the steam basket, the Chinese griddle and other cooking utensils, together with fermentation techniques, have helped to provide the endless possibilities of pasta dishes and pastry. The most common food made from flour, since the development of fermentation techniques, would be the mantou, or plain steamed bun. Plain steamed rice is the most commonly encountered type of rice-food and is the principal food of the southern Chinese. But more characteristic of traditional Chinese rice-foods is still zhou, or Chinese porridge (congee). Porridge has had thousands of years of history in China, and the way people eat porridge varies from region to region. There are also countless varieties of Chinese porridge, where just the basic ingredients are divided into six main groups, namely the grains, vegetables, fruits, flowers, herbs, and meats. And the way of eating rice dressed with porridge has existed for quite some time. Thirty years ago, rice and white flour were considered “fine foods,” which most common folks are not able to have at every meal. Its counterpart, the “rough foods,” were the real main dietary components of the Chinese, including corn, millet, sorghum, buckwheat, oats, yams, beans and so on. Among all the “rough foods,” soybeans gave the greatest contribution. The earliest record of soybean planting was in the West Zhou Dynasty. Soybeans at the time were the food of farmers. It was not until the West Han Dynasty (26 B.C. – 25 A.D.) after the emergence of tofu, or 13 bean curd, did soybean become acceptable to the bureaucrats and the literati class in Chinese society. To the present day, there are well over a hundred kinds of tofu and foods made from soybean milk. Chinese-grown soybeans and soybean products provide for an important source of vegetable proteins and can be made into many premium sauces. Bean curd is placed somewhere between the category of principal and supplementary foods. It has since its creation evolved into many kinds of dishes, and has become typical Chinese home cooking. Different when compared to westerners’ common use of butter and other animal oils, the Chinese mostly use vegetable oils such as soybean oil, vegetable seed oil, peanut oil, corn oil and so on.

In pre-Qin Dynasty (221 B.C.) writings, fruits to make the most frequent appearances are peaches, plums, and jujubes; and after those come pears, sour plums, apricots, hazelnuts, persimmons, melons, hawthorns, and mulberries; making rare appearances are Chinese wolfberries, Chinese crabapples, and cherries. Most of these fruit trees are indigenous to temperate zones of northern China, or have been introduced to China in prehistoric times. Of which, peaches, plums, jujubes and chestnuts were often used as ceremonial offerings. Peaches were exported from northwestern China by way of Central Asia to Persia; and from there, the peach found its way into Greece and other European countries. So it is unlike the common belief of the Europeans that peaches originated in Persia. Many other fruits that were indigenous to southern China, including tangerines, shaddock (pomelo), mandarin oranges, oranges, lichee, longan, Chinese crabapples, loquat, red bayberries and more, are gradually being consumed in broader areas.

During the transformation from a fishing-and-hunting society into agricultural society, meats were also once an important component of the supplementary diet of the Chinese, due to underdeveloped technology in the growing of vegetables. In the agricultural age, the Chinese considered cattle, sheep, and pig to be the three superior domesticated animals, called the “three sheng,” or sacrificial animals. When performing sacrificial rituals, the three animals were considered the best grade of all offerings. Horse, cattle, sheep, chicken, dog and pig together, were called the “six chu,” or domesticated animals.

Under the influence of relatively high population density and limitations in the natural environment, as well as other factors, horses and cattle were most often regarded as principal assistants in agriculture, and not fed and raised as livestock for food. Therefore, all the way until the Song Dynasty, the Chinese considered beef a rare delicacy, whereas mutton was seen as a very common dish. Lamb (meat from a young sheep) was considered the superior grade of meat from a sheep. The character mei in the Chinese script, meaning beauty, is associated with eating mutton in its meaning and form. Pigs and Chickens were also some of the earliest animals to be domesticated and used as food. Due to the early development of poultry breeding, eggs are the most frequently consumed animal-related food for the Chinese. A common feature of the Chinese countryside is that families raised pigs (excluding believers of Islam), as pork is the most common meat in Chinese food. With the same attitude towards lamb, the ancient Chinese believed that meat from a piglet tastes better than that of a fully-grown pig. In China’s past, dogs were animals that could be slaughtered at any time to be cooked as food. Though it is not as common as having pork and chicken, there were specialized professions in the area of dog butchers. The Chinese also invented the primitive egg incubator, breeding cell and, many other poultry feeding devices. Food for the Chinese since pre-Qin Dynasty period have been mainly grains, so meats were rare and cereals were abundant. With the advancement of vegetable growing techniques, vegetables were no longer the privileged enjoyment of the wealthy few. The list of vegetables that the Chinese eat is perhaps the biggest variety offering in the world.

Common veggies include the Chinese cabbage, turnip and radish, eggplant, cucumber, peas, Chinese chive (leek), wax gourd, edible fungi, plant shoots, and various beans, as well as edible wild herbs grown in small quantities. Wild herbs are supplementary foods with the main purpose of helping people to swallow food. This forces culinary technique to constantly improve upon itself. The various vegetable roots, stems, and leaves could be eaten fresh or cooked and could be dried for storage, or cured for making different kinds of appetizers. The goal is to offer as much variety in texture and taste as possible.

When compared to a dietary composition of excessive animal-based foods, many nutritional scientists believe that the Chinese inclination towards grains as principal food, with fish, meats, eggs, milk, and vegetables being supplementary diet components, helps to provide for a balanced nutritional intake and more benefits to health, and is also in accordance with the global call for energy conservation and environmental protection.

[recentanimenews]

Star Trek: Lower Decks – 10 (S1 Fin) – Nor Yet Favor to Women of Skill…

If you watched TOS you know about Beta III and how its pre-warp civilization was ruled by computer Landru until Captain Kirk shut it down. Apparently problem solved, but flash forward to the time of Lower Decks and the people of Beta III are once again under Landru’s heel.

While distributing art supplies, Brad tells Beckett he now knows she is the captain’s daughter, and since their comms are on an open channel, it isn’t long until the whole crew finds out. Beckett must contend with an uptick in nepotistic ass-kissing by her crewmates.

Elsewhere on the Cerritos, Rutherford tests out a new personality modifier that can make him optimistic, sexy, angry, and everything in between. This is as Tendi serves as liason for a new Exocomp crew member, Ensign…Peanut Hamper. Since the little guys were deemed sentient back in TNG’s “The Quality of Life”, it was only a matter of time!

Finally, Captain Bowman and the crew of the destroyed Rubidoux are breaking in their new ship, the Solvang, when they are captured (and blown up attempting to escape) by a powerful and gigantic ship made of a motley of cannibalized ship components…but the sharper-eyed nerds notice the ship at its core: Pakleds, last featured in TNG’s “Samaritan Snare.”

Needless to say, this episode is packed with stories big and small. And since this is the season finale, there are a number of big character changes to the status quo enjoyed in the previous nine episodes that will reverberate into the already-approved second season.

First is the cementing of Beckett and Boimler’s friendship in spite of their very different personalities. As predicted, Beckett is finally rolling down her sleeves, putting her hair up, and taking being a Starfleet officer seriously. Of course, this is for a very Beckett reason: she wants to run away from the hassle of being the Captain’s kid, and for that she’ll need to get promoted and transferred.

Tendi and Peanut Hamper turn get along like two space peas in a space pod, though the latter’s lack of hands makes it hard to manipulate objects meant for humans. Still, just when Tendi is about to warn the doctor that Peanut may not have the steadiest hands, Peanut executes perfect microsutures and even develops a new skin-grafting technique. The CMO is impressed, but is Tendi jealous? Of course not! She’s proud of Peanut Hamper!

Things take a sudden turn for the action-packed when the Cerritos receives a distress signal from the Solvang. When they arrive, the Pakled ship is already scavenging parts from the wreck of the Solvang. The ship gets its hooks in the Cerritos, but Freeman wisely notes that going to warp is probably what Bowman did, which doomed her ship, so instead she cuts power.

When they get their captors on screen and learn they’re Pakleds, everyone on the crew carries the same assumptions as the crew of the Enterprise: the Pakleds are slow and dumb, not a threat! And yet, here they are, carving the Cerritos up like a space turkey.

In such a strange and hazardous situation, Freeman leans on her daughter’s unorthodox methods for arriving at a plan to defeat the enemy. Beckett notes that the Pakleds are taking their time, meaning there’s time for Rutherford to create a virus that will hack into the Pakled’s “inviting” networks (due to the need to integrate so many different kinds of tech).

Ruthy turns to Badgey for help with the virus, but has to make a Faustian bargain: Badgey won’t cough up the virus without the safeties being taken off-line. Meanwhile, Beckett opens all the compartments where she’s hidden contraband (including her bat’leth) in order to arm the crew to repel Pakled boarders.

Just when it seems Peanut Hamper is the perfect crew member to deliver the virus to the Pakled ship…she declines, and beams herself into space to escape danger. Turns out she only joined Starfleet to piss off her mom. Hey, at least she didn’t go insane and try to kill everyone with her multi-tool nose!

Rutherford, who finally restores his “normal” personality, volunteers to deliver the virus. Tendi thinks he’s stuck on “heroic” mode, but he’s just being himself. Shaxs helps get him to a shuttlecraft and flies him to the Pakled ship, ramming through its hull in a nifty bit of tactical officering.

When Badgey, who Rutherford placed in his implants for the trip, refuses to finish downloading the virus unless his “dad” is killed by the Pakled. When Shaxs takes care of all the guards, Badgey sets the self-destruct, so Shaxs rips Rutherford’s implants out, tosses him on the shuttle, and shoves it back into space, before dying heroically in the explosion.

Rutherford and Shaxs have saved the day, but then three more Pakled ships just as huge and janky as the first converge on the Cerritos. Things are dire…until yet another ship dazzles the space-stage: The USS Titan, commanded by Captain William T. Riker (with his wife Commander Troi by his side).

It’s the second time he’s showed up in the nick of time (as he will decades later in Star Trek: Picard, though I’d prefer it if Picard took place in the future of an alternate universe. Do I buy that Riker knows Beckett? Sure, why not. They’re both the gregarious sort. The Titan scares off the Pakleds with its superior firepower and maneuverability, and the crew of the Cerritos can breathe easy.

In the final act, Freeman and Beckett agree to help each other out more rather than stay unproductively at each others’ throats. Rutherford loses his long-term memories, including his friendship with Tendi! She’s committed to becoming friends with him all over again, but it’s still a major bummer…the show just pressed a reset button on his character, and he wasn’t that developed to begin with!

Finally, Beckett and Boimler come to an understanding. He’s come to think of her as a valued mentor, but she insists it doesn’t have to be that way, they can just hang out as buds like they have been. However, when Riker offers Boimler a promotion to helmsman of the Titan, he takes that pip and runs, leaving Beckett in the dust. A captain mom, an admiral dad and years of experience, and a guy still gets promoted before her. Not that she wanted to leave, mind you, but she thought Boimler was happy where he was.

Will we follow his adventures on the Titan next season, or will he screw up and end up kicked back to the Cerritos? Only time will tell! Until then, this was a surprisingly strong first season of Lower Decks. I enjoyed it on a Star Trek level, a comedy level, and even an animation level; it looked consistently awesome and the classic orchestral soundtrack really sold the grandeur of space exploration and battle.

Trek-wise, it was able to pay homage and/or satirize without ever coming across as either too sappy or too mean; a delicate, difficult balance to be sure. The tone was always just-right, and even its bombastic finale managed to find time for the slice-of-life-on-a-starship moments that really immerse you in its world. I never thought I’d say this, but the extant live-action Trek series could learn a lot from Lower Decks. They probably won’t, but that’s okay…there’s more Lower Decks to come.

By: sesameacrylic

[itsyourturnblog]

“Leading Change” by John P. Kotter & “Crossing the Chasm” by Geoffrey A. Moore

I am working in the innovation world since several years now and the main difficulty I encounter is showing how things might be different and selling change. It’s the classical challenge for most innovators.

There are 2 books that probably have a special place on every innovator’s bookshelves:

Crossing the Chasm by Geoffrey A. Moore

Leading Change by John P. Kotter

A few words about The Chasm

“Crossing the Chasm is closely related to the technology adoption lifecycle where five main segments are recognized: innovators, early adopters, early majority, late majority and laggards. According to Moore, the marketer should focus on one group of customers at a time, using each group as a base for marketing to the next group. The most difficult step is making the transition between visionaries (early adopters) and pragmatists (early majority). This is the chasm that he refers to. If a successful firm can create a bandwagon effect in which enough momentum builds, then the product becomes a de facto standard. However, Moore’s theories are only applicable for disruptive or discontinuous innovations. Adoption of continuous innovations (that do not force a significant change of behavior by the customer) are still best described by the original technology adoption lifecycle.” — Wikipedia

Here below is a visual representation of the adoption cycle showing the five main segments.

source: http://www.theagileelephant.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/Moores-Chasm.jpg

A few words about the Sense of Urgency

To establish a sense of urgency is the first of the eight-steps process defined by John P. Kotter to manage change. The full process is described in his book “Leading Change”.

As Kotter illustrates, increasing urgency is the toughest of the eight steps, and the one without which even the most brilliant, high-powered initiatives will sputter and die. The reason why he published “a sense of urgency”, specifically focalizing on this first highly critical step.

There is nothing as powerful as an idea for which time as come — Margaret Mead.

We, as human beings, are “loss averse”

Human beings are more encline to take action when facing a possible loss (a risk) than when facing a possible gain (an opportunity). In fact, we are okay to take action when the status quo is no longer possible or acceptable.

This means that most of us are inclined to take a risk to protect the status quo against something worse, but not to improve it. Human being is “loss averse” as he values twice as much what he owns than what he doesnt. Some experiments have shown that a loss of 5 dollars is compensated by a gain of 10 dollars. You can learn more on this topic by reading “Predictably Irrational” written by Dan Ariely.

In order to make change happen, it seems more efficient to show what would happen if we don’t act (the negative change) than what could happen if we act (the positive change).

Remote work: a winner of the crisis

This could explain the progression of remote work during the Covid-19 crisis. Before the crisis, remote work was perceived as an opportunity including some risks. Or even a risk including some opportunities for the most skepticals.

But when the crisis hit, remote work was the “only” available opportunity to pursue business. The considered risks were not the same because we were facing a threat (closing down the physical organizations). Suddenly, the intrinsic risks of remote work became acceptable considering the extrinsic risks of the crisis.

This is the reason many organizations embraced remote work.

We can consider that Covid-19 advanced the cause of remote work and we have probably saved years on this subject.

The crisis was a unique opportunity to implement it. By implementing it, we discovered the benefits of this way of working and there is a huge chance organizations will be able to capitalize and learn from this once the crisis will be over.

We can consider that due to the “Sense of Urgency” related to Covid-19, remote work “Crossed the Chasm”.

So, what will happen next ?

Our next step: the global warming challenge ?

Do not forget that we react to threat and we are loss averse.

So we should embrace the global warming challenge, right ?

Here, I think we have to add additional variables. The time and distance that separate us from the effect of the threat.

And with global warming we have a problem. It’s far and in a long time. Covid-19 is here and now.

With regard to global warming, we do not exactly know what we will lose, and where and when this will happen. It’s a major difference.

It is not excluded that there may be changes brought by the Covid-19 crisis which will go in the direction of action to counter global warming, nevertheless, in my opinion, it would be wrong to think that we will automatically take hold of this challenge at the end of the current crisis.

Our society has been shaked by the crisis and we can observe that the priority for this same society is to come back to the state before the crisis (with some required adaptations to counter the mid-long term effects of the virus). Most states, organizations and individuals want to “recover” as fast as possible. To come back to the pre-Covid-19 period in which they were feeling safe.

We try to reduce the entropy,that is the nature of human being.

Some say that there will be huge opportunities to build a “different world”after the crisis (without necessarily defining what “different” means for them). This is probably right, but let’s not forget that we react about twice as less to opportunities than we react to threats. This probably means there will be plenty of ideas and few actions.

My point here is not to say that we cannot embrace ambitious challenges and opportunities. I just want to highlight the fact that having “solved” the Covid-19 crisis will not automatically give more legitimacy and urgency to the global warming challenges. I consider the correlation to be low. Unfortunately.

Sense of Urgency: a catalyst for crossing The Chasm ?

What will happen to The Chasm after the crisis ?

We observed so many ideas, solutions, innovations, collaborations during the last weeks and months that we can imagine this will leave traces on how we see change.

As an example, Nuova Neon Group, an italian company, proposes plexiglass walls in order to protect people from contamination when going to the restaurant. It looks like this.

Considering the intrinsic difficulty to cross the chasm, does such a solution have any chance of success ?

In the pre-crisis world, I would bet that everybody would laugh at it and there would not even be any early adopters and even less an early majority. There would be no chasm to cross.

But in the post-crisis world, who knows ?

The balance has changed. The dilemma could be the following one: What are the necessary conditions to go to the restaurant while minimizing the risk of contamination ?

This a new question.

It requires a new answer.

I really hope the solution on the image above will not be the one we will retain in the long term because I think we can do better. But in the short term, it could be something that a majority (in the sense of Geoffrey A. Moore’s adoption curve) could accept.

What we see emerging here are new problems. And new solutions to discover.

New Blue Oceans are emerging.

“Social distancing” applied to transportation, public places and many other ones is potentially one of them.

And a sense of urgency seems to help for crossing the chasm. After all, that is what John P. Kotter tells us in his book.

The important thing to consider is that “sense of urgency” is an enabler or a catalyst; but it does not prevent us of providing a good solution if we want to have success in the long term.

As a conclusion

Remote work had already gained early adopters before the Covid-19 Crisis. There is a high chance that the crisis allowed it to cross the chasm and reach the early majority.

It happened because of the sense of urgency brought by the crisis AND because it is a good solution to real problems.

Adding plexiglass walls in restaurants to prevent contamination will possibly benefit from the sense of urgency induced by the fact we want to comme back to our “normal life” and that “social distancing” is still a Blue Ocean.

Anyway, if the solution is not intrinsically a good one that responds to the real problems, it will perhaps cross the chasm for a short term duration (or not cross it at all).

Sense of urgency is an enabler for good ideas and solutions, not a palliative.

A Sense of Urgency to Cross the Chasm was originally published in It's Your Turn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

by Jean-Marie Buchilly via It's Your Turn - Medium #itsyourturn #altMBA #SethGodin #quotes #inspiration #stories #change #transformation #writers #writing #self #shipping #personaldevelopment #growth #education #marketing #entrepreneurship #leadership #personaldev #wellness #medium #blogging #quoteoftheday #inspirationoftheday

[rasbari]

WALIDAH IMARISHA.— What are y’alls definition of abolition? What is transformative justice? Are they the same thing?

adrienne maree brown.— I tend to think of abolition as one result of transformative justice: abolition is the end of prisons; transformative justice is the methods people use to uproot injustice patterns in communities. I tend to think of abolition as a totality, and I think that can be tricky. People set out to abolish slavery and we ended up with the prison industrial complex because while there were surface and policy level shifts, the culture did not shift. That deep underlying racism and classism remains and is now roaring to the surface as we write this. So, while I identify as an abolitionist, I find speaking about the iterative tangible work of TJ makes more sense to me now–I don’t simply want the prisons gone, I want a radically different way of interacting with each other to grow.

ALEXIS PAULINE GUMBS.— I learned both of those terms in the context of the organization Critical Resistance, and I learned abolition as a critical and generative term, and a movement with three main components: dismantle, change, build. That definition of abolition included the daily work of generating relationships, systems, and processes that produce peaceful, sustainable results that fully address the unaddressed fears, intergenerational trauma, and systemic violence that prisons, policing, and surveillance (the systemic external version, and the internalized versions) pretend to mitigate.

I think what Adrienne is saying about the abolition of slavery is important, and it’s actually what attracts me to abolition as a poetic term. It automatically invokes slavery–and the philosophy and practice of abolition targets enslaving practices in general, and points out that prison and policing are enslaving practices that are directly related to the history of U.S. chattel slavery.

LEAH LAKSHMI PIEPZNA-SAMARASINHA.— My standard definition of transformative justice is “any way of creating safety, justice, and healing for survivors of violence that does not rely on the state (by which I mean the prison industrial complex, the criminal legal system, foster care, children’s aid, the psychiatric and disability prison industrial complex–e.g. psych hospitals, nursing homes, and extended care- Immigration, the TSA, and more) A movement created by Black, Indigenous, and People of Color feminist revolutionaries to free our people.”

It’s really important for me to state that transformative justice is a Black and Brown feminist movement because there’s been a ton of recent efforts on the part of white radicals to whitewash away and erase the Black and Brown feminized labor, scholarship, and struggle that creates these movements. I’m not just talking about the transformative justice movement of the last 20 years in North America; I’m talking about Mohawk Clan Mother law on Six Nations, the trans women of color sex workers like Miss Major, Sylvia P. Rivera, Mirha-Soleil Ross, who fought police at Stonewall and also fought back physically against transphobic violence on the street. This work we are doing is not new, and no, white punks did not invent everything.

I believe that you can’t have transformative justice without prison abolition. If you think prisons, cops, and carceral-ableist institutions are fixable by giving them a sensitivity workshop, we don’t have the same political vision of what we want and how to get there. Believing this means you’re not looking at how what we experience, with policing and prisons in North America, comes directly from the Fugitive Slave Act, the Indian Act, the Mann Act, and various anti- Asian and anti-migrant/refugee laws–from S-COMM to White Canada and the Chinese Exclusion Act–as well as ableist laws like the Ugly Laws, and laws that criminalize sex workers’ employment. All of those laws were created directly out of racist, colonial, ableist patriarchy and they all directly increase gender violence and policing.

For a lot of people, transformative justice means nonviolence. I disagree with this, because I believe that self-defense and armed movements for liberation can be part of achieving transformative justice.

MIA MINGUS.— To me, the two are intimately connected, but are not the same thing. Abolition is the ending of prisons, the prison industrial complex, and a culture of prisons (e.g. criminalization, punishment, disposability, revenge). Transformative justice is a way to respond to violence within our communities in ways that 1) don’t create more harm and violence and 2) actively work to cultivate the very things that we know will prevent violence, such as accountability, healing, trust, connection, safety.

I understand abolition to be a necessary part of transformative justice because prisons, and the PIC, are major sites of individual and collective violence, abuse, and trauma. However, transformative justice is and must also be a critical part of abolition work because we will need to build alternatives to how we respond to harm, violence, and abuse. Just because we shut down prisons, does not mean that these will stop. Transformative justice has roots in abolition work and is an abolitionist framework, but goes beyond abolishing prisons (and slavery) and asks us to end–and transform the conditions that perpetuate–generational cycles of violence such as rape, sexual assault, child abuse, child sexual abuse, domestic violence, intimate partner abuse, war, genocide, poverty, human trafficking, police brutality, murder, stalking, sexual harassment, all systems of oppression, dangerous societal norms, and trauma.

WALIDAH IMARISHA.— I’ve written that when I talk about prison abolition, people look at me like I just said aliens from outer space landed. What connections do you see between science fiction and abolition/transformative justice? What is illuminated when we use fantastical writing to talk about alternative systems of justice?

adrienne maree brown.— our work is to make the unimaginable feel tangible, become a longing. I have worked with organizers for years and we’ve found the edges of what we are building. In science fiction and visionary fiction it feels like we give ourselves permission to move beyond that edge. We can go to a moon where disability is embraced, or futures where we are somatically networked–or postcapitalism, as my fellow panelists did in Octavia’s Brood. Beyond that edge we find solutions and more problems, which is also important to me in transformative justice–that it isn’t utopian.

ALEXIS PAULINE GUMBS.— Yes. First of all, I would say that prison is an accurate name for our contemporary culture, and prison as culture presumes a certain set of problems and reinforces a dominant reaction in our imaginations. Sylvia Wynter talks about reservation–which is also an accurate name for our contemporary culture–meaning that at the same moment indigenous people are confined to reservations by the state, our imaginations are also confined. All of us. And, I would also say that the moments in which prisons became a dominant feature of the U.S., our imaginations (for all, not just those of us disproportionately imprisoned) also became imprisoned. The way we imagine work, our relationships, the future, family everything, is locked down.

I see science fiction as liberation work that allows our imaginations to live beyond prison. I think that’s why so many folks in prison have loved Octavia’s Brood and created their own sci-fi collections. They have been seeking to write their way beyond prison for a long time.

adrienne maree brown.— We perpetuate the prison state for so many reasons; we internalize the narrative that we can’t do any better than this and we become comfortable inside the limits, demanding someone else make the changes. Transformative justice is hard because it requires self-examination, being uncomfortable as things change.

LEAH LAKSHMI PIEPZNA-SAMARASINHA.— When I was a teenaged survivor of childhood sexual abuse and partner abuse within my family, some of the first places that gave me hope and visions for how violence and abuse could change were science fiction. I read Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time, Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed and Starhawk’s The Fifth Sacred Thing before I turned 20, and they all had these incredible ideas for how rape culture could change. In their worlds, everyone was trained in self-defense and de-escalation, and there were systems of atonement, reparations and healing when violence did occur. In contrast, mainstream survivor literature didn’t have any visions for how sexual abuse and partner violence could end. Science fiction was this place of rich prefigurative survivor politics that backed up my dreams of creating and participating in anti-violence politics where my and other survivors visions were at the center of the work, not a side note.

MIA MINGUS.— The visions of transformative justice often feel sci-fi-fi to many–a world without child sexual abuse, a world free of sexual violence. We are building a reality that we have never seen before. We are asking people to flex their visioning and dreaming skills, something that is not readily supported in our society. This is especially true for my work with the Bay Area Transformative Justice Collective (BATJC) because we focus on child sexual abuse. So many people do not believe that child sexual abuse can be ended.

Transformative justice is about creativity and imagination. It is about not going with the status quo systems response and, instead, inventing new ways of being. It is about creating what you need with what you have. There are no blueprints or manuals for transformative justice because each incident, individual, and community will have different needs–necessarily so. I always say that this is one of TJ’s greatest strengths and greatest weaknesses because we live in a society where people like to be told what to do; they like to “look up” to someone; they feel more comfortable with the well trodden path and a “boss” or an “expert” with all the answers. Much of my transformative justice work has been about resisting this kind of culture and instead encouraging people to trust themselves and their instincts.

WALIDAH IMARISHA.— In her piece for the Critical Resistance Abolition Now anthology (which is now available as a free download from the organization) Alexis wrote:

What if abolition isn’t a shattering thing, not a crashing thing, not a wrecking ball event? What if abolition is something that sprouts out of the wet places in our eyes, the broken places in our skin, the waiting places in our palms, the tremble holding in my mouth when I turn to you? What if abolition is something that grows?

All three of you have first-hand experience trying to create alternate systems of justice. If we are not just tearing down prisons and police as institutions, but growing something, what are we growing specifically? Mia, especially with your work around transformative justice with survivors of childhood sexual abuse, what seeds are sprouting to address so much trauma?

LEAH LAKSHMI PIEPZNA-SAMARASINHA.— Transformative justice can be a multi-year, survivor-lead circle of people asking someone who has perpetrated abuse and harm to make specific changes and give them reparations. It can also be as small, and big, as interrupting some asshole harassing someone at the same bus stop as me. I think it’s important to say that because it is easy to get overwhelmed. It turns out that ending the prison industrial complex and creating something different with no money and a lot of unpaid femme of color labor is hard. I really appreciate the Everyday Abolition blog because it is a project dedicated to publishing everyday stories of many ways abolition could look like in daily life–those little, big moments of change.

In many transformative justice processes from hell I’ve witnessed, one of the problems is that everybody hits the ground running, totally on adrenaline mode, totally triggered: “We have to do something! Now!” and then they burn out. Bringing healing justice and disability justice principles into transformative justice–which could be anything from asking the ancestors for help in creating justice and transforming harm, to rituals for cleansing and protection when things are hard, to making sure people have their herbs and other supports for stress and anxiety–make all our justice richer, more cripped out, and more possible.

MIA MINGUS.— One of the things we are trying to grow in our work are the kinds of relationships, values, and practices that can concretely support transformative justice. We want the kind of community where any survivor could come forward about their experiences without having to fear being shamed and blamed, ostracized, not believed, harassed, or re-traumatized. The kind of community where people who have harmed and are trying to take accountability could be “out” about the harm they’ve done, without fear of violence or retaliation. Living in a rape culture, we are a long way from this. We also know that “communities” are made up of individual people and the relationships they have with each other; so we are asking people to grow their own skills and practices to be able to build the kinds of relationships with each other where, for example, we can talk about harm we’ve done, no matter how big or how small (e.g. “I used to bully other kids in school when I was younger,” or “I think I might have sexually assaulted someone”).

One of the ways we are doing this is by using our model of “pods.” Your pod is made up of the people that you would call on if you experienced violence, whether you were targeted for violence or you were violent yourself or you witnessed violence. Most people have multiple pods because the people they would call on if they survived violence are often different than the people they would call on to support them in taking accountability for violence they’ve done or harm they’ve caused. We encourage people to think about who their pod people are (how much more sci-fi can we get?) and to grow and deepen their pod.

Our pod people are not necessarily our closest people because this is often where the violence is coming from. We challenge ourselves to actively build our own pods, rather than simply hoping other people will.

adrienne maree brown.— So many beautiful experiments! I included transformative justice as a core principle of emergent strategy, both because it aligns with what I notice in nature–that nothing is disposable–and because the only ways it works, that I’ve seen, are iterative, emergent. I have facilitated many meditations, grievances, conflicts, breakups… and so much of the work is about unlearning dishonesty, whether it’s in the form of complete lies, half-truths, omissions, politeness. I have learned this in myself–the most egregious things I have done always rooted into some unspoken, unacknowledged pain. So I have started with myself, increasing radical honesty in my own life; this has been a focus of my somatics work–learning to stay present in my body while I tell and or hear truth. It has shifted my political work; instead of helping people develop five-year plans, I often find myself supporting people to just be more honest in real time, to speak the truth of the connection (in the organization, network, relationship, family) to get better at tolerating the truth from others. The results are astounding: humans are capable of anything when we are honest–we have boundaries, work sustainably, do the work most needed by our communities (rather than the easiest funded or most media inducing), get out of unhealthy dynamics, feel seen and appropriately valued, participate in authentic intimacy. This is earth, water, fire, and air level stuff. Without these core connections, injustice flourishes.

WALIDAH IMARISHA.— Will Trump’s election have impact on these visions of transformative justice, and the on-the-ground work being done to bring them about?

LEAH LAKSHMI PIEPZNA-SAMARASINHA.— It means we need it more than ever because we really, really can’t trust the system.

adrienne maree brown.— It’s all so scary that a lot of us will drop our eyes from the horizon to the ground right in front of us, or actually tuck our heads in and just kind of roll forward hoping to survive. It’s a daunting time. But: I think our survival depends on being able to hold both views, surviving the present, and supporting the most vulnerable with our eyes on the horizon, looking as far as we can, shaping our reality towards that. The threats now are universal–nuclear war, climate catastrophe–and none of us are served by short sight or normalizing this political moment. I also think that in our fear we get small, we get competitive, we get righteous. Division abounds. Leaning into transformative justice, complexity, unity, being ungovernable together–all of that will be important.

WALIDAH IMARISHA.— What does a futuristic society rooted in the principles of abolition and transformative justice look like to you?

MIA MINGUS.— One of the things about visioning for transformative justice is that, after enough practice, you begin to learn that the most important thing is not to come up with a crystal clear vision with all the answers, but rather to embrace that as we envision new worlds, that envisioning will inevitably change us, which will change our work and so on. You learn that envisioning is an emergent and evolving process that is constantly changing, like a river. One of the visions I have of a society rooted in abolition and transformative justice is that we would all be able to respond–even if it is not perfect–to violence, harm, and abuse in our communities. I envision a society that actively works to prevent violence, harm, and abuse and that understands mistakes as opportunities for growth, realignment, and clarity. I envision that we would truly live from the belief that “no one is disposable.” I envision a society where we could get help from the people in our everyday lives and where we wouldn’t have to leave our communities for healing, safety, or education; a society where we know our neighbors and ourselves, and where individual and collective healing are everyday parts of our lives.

WALIDAH IMARISHA Walidah Imarisha is an educator, writer, public scholar and poet. She is the editor of two anthologies including Octavia’s Brood: Science Fiction Stories From Social Justice Movements. Imarisha is also the author of the nonfiction book Angels with Dirty Faces: Three Stories of Crime, Prison and Redemption and the poetry collection Scars/Stars. She spent 6 years with Oregon Humanities’ Conversation Project as a public scholar facilitating programs across Oregon about Oregon Black history, alternatives to incarceration, and the history of hip hop. Imarisha is currently a Lecturer in Stanford University’s Program of Writing and Rhetoric, and has taught in Portland State University’s Black Studies Department, Oregon State University’s Women Gender Sexuality Studies Department, and Southern New Hampshire University’s English Department.

ALEXIS PAULINE GUMBS Alexis Pauline Gumbs is a Black feminist love evangelist and a community accountable writer and scholar. Alexis is a founding member of UBUNTU, a women of color survivor-led coalition to end gendered violence. She is the author of Spill: Scenes of Black Feminist Fugitivity, a co-editor of Revolutionary Mothering: Love on the Front Lines, and a contributor to Octavia’s Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements and Abolition Now: Ten Years of Strategy and Struggle Against the Prison Industrial Complex.

LEAH LAKSHMI PIEPZNA-SAMARASINHA Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha is a queer femme sick and disabled Sri Lankan/ Irish/Roma writer, educator and disability and transformative justice organizer. The Lambda and ALA Stonewall Award winning author of Dirty River, Bodymap, Love Cake, Consensual Genocide and co-editor of The Revolution Starts At Home, she co-founded and co-directed QTPOC performance collective Mangos With Chili from 2005-2015. A lead artist with disability justice performance troupe Sins Invalid, she is currently finishing her new book of essays, Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice Culture and book of poetry, Tonguebreaker. Website: brownstargirl.org

adrienne maree brown adrienne maree brown is a writer, facilitator, healer and pleasure activist living in Detroit. she is co-editor of Octavia’s Brood and author of the forthcoming Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds (AK Press 2017).

MIA MINGUS Mia Mingus is a writer, public speaker, community educator and organizer working for disability justice and transformative justice responses to child sexual abuse. She is a queer physically disabled korean woman transracial and transnational adoptee, born in Korea, raised in the Caribbean, nurtured in the U.S. South, and now living in Northern California.  She works for community, interdependency and home for all of us, not just some of us, and longs for a world where disabled children can live free of violence, with dignity and love.  As her work for liberation evolves and deepens, her roots remain firmly planted in ending sexual violence. Mia is a core-member of the Bay Area Transformative Justice Collective (BATJC), a local collective working to build and support transformative justice responses to child sexual abuse that do not rely on the state (i.e. police, prisons, the criminal legal system).  She believes in prison abolition and urges all activists and organizers to critically and creatively think beyond the non-profit industrial complex.

[ftnwl]

Frank Ocean Talks Less, Sings More

On July 30th, 2017, the elusive Frank Ocean captivated WayHome Music Festival with a grandiose, yet intimate performance. He took the stage in front of thousands of concertgoers and headlined the festival with confidence and talent alongside a quietness that engrossed the crowd unlike the acts before him. Those in attendance were privy to a generational talent — whether they knew it or not ­— and he was completely taciturn, yet communicative, through his presence and his music.

The modus operandi of Frank Ocean seems to be: “to lead a blonded life.” It’s arguably a “blondes have more fun” type of mentality, as Frank does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. His Kool-Aid blue hair and meticulously set up merch booth (with an equally, or grossly disproportionate, long line — you decide) are indicative of this fact. While his hair literally represented this "blonded" notion, the tent itself read "blonded" on both sides wherein hundreds of fans chose between a variety of custom made-to-order apparel.

In hindsight, Ocean’s series of cancellations prior to WayHome seem more understandable after watching his show at the end of last month. Spike Jonze has been reported to be involved in the cinematic visuals of his performance, Tom Sachs helped intricately design his stage set, and Ocean moved and sang with a discreet deliberateness all his own. It was a seriously calculated production. The setlist stuck primarily to songs from his most recent release, Blonde, while he did fit in new and old music alike: “Chanel,” “Lens,” “Biking,” “Comme des Garçon,” “Forrest Gump,” “Thinking About You” and “Pyramids” punctuated a perfect night. The show capitalized upon his reserved popularity; because someone as magnificent as Frank Ocean does not simply step out of the spotlight and return unnoticed — especially in this day and age of interconnectivity.

Previously, Ocean's social silence was louder than a fully funded ad campaign. He seemingly announced a magazine/album and painstakingly built up anticipation by saying nothing else; later, upon the release of his visual album, Endless, he simultaneously built a relationship with Apple Music while maneuvering his way out of a record contract with complete ownership of his master recordings; he then independently released Blonde on Apple and continued releasing new music at his leisure on blonded RADIO. So now, almost one full year since his reemergence and newly acquired self-determination, Ocean is still moving as silently or as loudly as he wants — it's his way or nothing.

Nevertheless, the festival circuit has its own pros and cons. It feels like Ocean’s return to the main stage is ironically about practice and relates to his perfectionism. As unlikely as it may seem, the probability of a solo tour might be on the horizon. And while this can be considered an exponential unknown in regards to the artist, fans are hopeful. Conversely, a festival show provides an intersection for a musician. Alone, the merit of performing offers and introduces an artist to new listeners. It’s an artistic outreach of sorts; however, the crowd was a mixture of those who listen to Frank Ocean, those who have heard of Frank Ocean and those who were simply attending WayHome. The sentiment obtained through the camaraderie of standom becomes lackluster amidst dozens, or hundreds, or thousands of neighbours who do not know his music like his cult-like fan base.

Unlike his contemporaries, Ocean has been resolute throughout the years. His artistic integrity and style have persevered since his first mixtape, nostalgia, ULTRA, which in itself is a testament to the musical climate we live in. His music is artful, mainstream, and yet underground in essence. With so many juxtapositions involved, it’s hard for a diehard fan to be truly mad at the lack of oneness experienced at WayHome, or any other festival for that matter.

Frank Ocean is seemingly an uncontainable genius and it's plausible to think he knows it. His performance was poetry in motion. His singing was brilliant, his music was piercing, and his perfectionism was prioritized. Playing "Close to You" he unexpectedly reset mid-song stating, "No … stop for a second. Okay, let me get this shit right," before restarting from the top. Again, this is Frank doing things for Frank. This is what makes him so captivating. The notion of celebrity has always been dependent on the relationship between themselves and their audience. In the peculiar case of Frank Ocean, however, he has broken the mold and is reinventing the status quo still with the listener in mind, albeit not so hyperfocused on their expectations, but rather more focused on his own instead. It's still a symbiotic relationship between artist and audience but Ocean has found solace in living up to his own standards rather than anyone else's.

In the end, Ocean is a contrarian through and through. To him, conventional notions of fame may be something worth renouncing but a talent such as his is impossible to hide. After all, "Frank Ocean appears courtesy of Frank Ocean." Fortunately for those in attendance, he showed up.

[tylerp2209]

Rhetoric as critique of the power structure

In COMM-320 Rhetorical Traditions, I learned about many rhetorical theories. This essay highlights how my definition of rhtetoric shifted from the beginning to the end of the course. In the beginning of the term, I stated that rhetoric was how language shapes our realities and creates ideologies in our society. As the term progresses, my definition of rhetoric has remained more or less the same in that I still believe that rhetoric creates the ideologies we live by, but these ideologies have to serve the public, especially the marginalized and oppressed, by allowing people to keep their individualities, elevating their visibility in the public sphere, and promoting diversity. My entry will explain how different rhetorical theories can illuminate these three ideas I have of ethical ideologies. 

The idea that rhetoric is capable of maintaining one’s individuality comes from Hauser (1984)’s theory about rhetoric and the self. His book chapter “Making commitment through rhetoric” highlights several ways that rhetoric is used to “make commitments: to the self, to others, to the truth value of ideas, and to a view of what is required for humane social relations” (45). Among these ideas, Hauser illustrates four ways that rhetoric makes commitment to the self: reflect a self, evoke a self, maintain a self, and destroy a self. Among these propositions, maintaining a self and evoking a self are important ascpects of rhetoric in promoting a strong sense of self among citizens. People cannot maintain their individualities without being able to realize who they are first, and rhetoric allows them to reflect on themselves, which leads to their discovery of self. According to Hauser, “by defining themselves as different from and put upon by ‘the system’, their rhetoric urged a reconsideration of self” (52), which is especially important for people who find themselves different from the norms because they may be victims of discrimination and oppression. Moreover, “not only can rhetoric bring us to a new self-awareness, but it can also support and sustain an existing self” (52). This means rhetoric has the power to fight against injustice in society by helping defend one’s sense of self. One example can be found in the case of the LGBTQ community, where members of the community had to overcome the prejudice of a heteronormative society. In the process, they discovered their identity, claimed it and brought it to the public sphere with the intention of changing the norms about sexuality and fostering an inclusive environment for the community. I believe this is an ethical application of the theory because it gives the marginalized communities the ability to reflect on their identities and advocate for positive social progresses. 

In my second unit of rhetoric as leveling the playing field between publics, I drew from Fraser’s “Rethinking the public sphere”. In this chapter, she revises Habermas’ public sphere theory by arguing that the idealized democratic public sphere does not actually work in reality because we have a variety of publics, whose ideas conflict with one another. Habermas’ original public sphere theory fails to acknowledge that “society was polarized by class struggle, and the public fragmented into a mass of competing interest groups” (113). Moreover, because of the conflict between publics, his idea of an open access public sphere was not practical as “in many cases men and women of racialized ethnicities of all classes were excluded on racial grounds” (118). Therefore, reshaping the public sphere by working to ensure equality for counterpublics consisted of marginalized groups is essential for our democratic discourse because it encourages counterpublics to promote their enclaved ideas to the public sphere. It also pushes the dominant public to reflect on their power that they exercise in society and criticize the status quo in order to create meaningful oscillation between publics based on acceptance and inclusion. This is an ethical use of rhetoric in my opinion because balancing rhetorical ideologies between publics allows for recognition of minorities as legitimate groups of people who deserve equality and visibility in the public sphere, which eventually leads to a more functional and equitable society.

In my third unit, namely promoting diversity, I derive from Golzwig’s theory of multiculturalism in rhetorical studies. Using rhetoric to promote multiculturalism is important because it ensures equality to underrepresented cultural groups who otherwise would be ignored in our discursive practices. Goldzwig (1998) discusses multiculturalism as a future-oriented theory in his article “Multiculturalism and rhetorical studies”, where he says “multicultural initiatives represent a responsible reading of and response to present and future social reality” (275). He critiques the power structure in our society, one that “well-to-do white males” hold the power and create hegemony upon other minority groups (women are not exactly a minority group, but they also fall victim to this power structure. In doing so, he proposes that we tackle hegemony in order to “recognize the existence of cultural diversity in the United States and to incorporate strategies for addressing this issue in speech communication” (275). I do agree with him that rhetoric should be used in an emancipatory fashion to critique the power structure and elevate the marginalized communities because it creates an inclusive discursive practice that sets the agenda on the minorities, critically evaluate how we exercise power, and actively look for solutions through deliberation. Moreover, his call for action for “well-to-do white males” to join the movement on multiculturalism is important to note because it suggests a realization on privileges and urges advantaged groups to use their privileges for good, which I believe is imperative for creating social progresses. 

In conclusion, throughout the course, my definition of rhetoric has grown to become more specific in that I began the course with the mindset that rhetoric encompasses everything we value, including our values in society, and as I progressed through the course, my definition of rhetoric has become more justice-driven and critical. I believe rhetoric should be used to critically evaluate how we exercise power and privilege in our society and challenge discrimination and oppression against vulnerable groups.  With that thought, I fervently believe in Goldzwig’s idea of rhetoric as a future-oriented study because we, as committed citizens, should create positive rhetorical practices with the hope for an inclusive society. 

References Fraser, N. (1990). Rethinking public sphere: A contribution to the critique of actually existing democracy. Social Text, 25/26, 56-80. Goldzwig, S. R. (1998). Multiculturalism, rhetoric and the twenty‐first century. Southern Communication Journal, 63(4), 273-290. Hauser, G. A. (1986). Making commitments through rhetoric. In Introduction to Rhetorical Theory (pp. 44-55). New York: Harper & Row.

[kakodaimones]

"...I am going to make the stupidest possible decision, aren't I?"

[kakodaimones]

I don't know how he's having any degree of success considering it's 1) him and 2) he's on his depression arc and at rock bottom, but he still manages to bring a girl home from the bar-

[kakodaimones]

Noble setting the bar so high that I had to go and use a rhyming dictionary and keep track of meter for that one.

[kakodaimones]

So, it's the same kind of stand as Alastor's....

[kakodaimones]

To be fair this is literally the "Piss Off Alastor" project for him but he's quickly realizing that there's a lot of complicating factors now that he's gotten past the initial "This Will Piss Him Off" stage.

[kakodaimones]

If he could just keep you like this forever-