#“plasma here is supposed to mean like plasma in terms of what the sun is made of. not blood plasma which derives from the marrow of bone yk

[sentientsky]

you're in a car with a beautiful (not-) boy and you don't know how you've managed to stay intact this long, how you haven't fractured at the edges yet, lit up from the inside with all that aching, cataclysmic want you've fought so hard to keep quiet—to keep from thrashing in your chest like a sparrow against glass.

you're in a car with a beautiful not-boy, and you're not human but if you were, you're certain this longing would have killed you by now, would have left you in the cool green earth—rotted you down to the quick—a thousand times over (and if that didn't kill you, then the look in his eyes now certainly would). and you don't, can't, won't believe in god because how could She create such a being and then not let you press your palms to the side of his face, not let you hold him, not let you open your mouth like a confession box and tell him, there is a bird inside my chest and you are the center of every solar system and i'm willing to play the part of icarus if only you'd let me. and you don't/can't/won't believe in god, but his eyes open and its like the sun in a three-piece beige suit and you're pretty sure you stopped breathing the moment he got in the car (hell, you haven't tasted oxygen since the moment he stood on the cliffside, hands all empty of swords and fire).

you're in a car with a beautiful not-boy, and you're all spitfire and grief and six thousand years of whispered half-syllables into the dark of a lonely night, of savouring the way his name burns your tongue like sacrament (holy, holy, holy).

and he's handing you a thermos now, and his hand brushes yours and it's been nearly thirty years, and still you'd let him turn you to salt if it meant he might touch you again.

... but you go too fast for him. you always go too fast, with all your ugly, hollow-boned want and your burning yellow eyes and your hands, sullied with the weight of sin; fingertips that look more like claws than anything you'd ever want to touch with any scrap of volition.

and you're in your car with this beautiful boy who is not a boy and you're burning up, plummeting like a waxen-winged thing. and he's looking at you and you're falling, and the world is twisting around the edges, and he's stepping out of the car and your ribcage is becoming a slaughterhouse—an abattoir with all its knives turned up towards the sky. and then you're in a car, and you’re alone. and that is all.

[mst3kproject]

820: Space Mutiny

Well, I did one of MST3k’s John Phillip Law movies, so I might as well do the other.  Ladies, Gentlemen, etc, I give you: Mother.  Fucking. Space.  Mutiny.

The Southern Sun is a generation starship on its way to colonize a new planet.  Most of the people on board are okay with this, but there’s a faction, led by Commander Kalgan, who want to abandon the mission and land somewhere. Kalgan and his cronies are willing to do anything to get their way, including sabotage the ship and make a deal with some space pirates.  Lucky the Southern Sun has Dave Ryder, a big dumb beefalo of a man who will roll, shoot, and scream the rebels into submission!  Oh, yeah, and there’s some Yoga Witches in the cargo hold, I dunno what’s up with that, but the movie assures me they contributed.

MUZ has been called the Manos of the Sci-Fi Channel era, in that it’s incoherent and badly-photographed.  This is a compelling argument, but for my own part I consider Space Mutiny the Manos of the Sci-Fi Channel era, in that it’s absolutely iconic.  It’s the episode that comes to mind when people think of that period in the show.  It gave rise to memes. It’s also very much the Starcrash of the Sci-Fi Channel era, in that it is absolute comedy gold in ways the film-makers never intended.

You could write a book on the many sparkling facets of this movie's sucktitude.  As Mike and the bots repeatedly observed, Cisse Cameron is ten years older than the character she’s playing, and the ‘engine room’ shots are all in a factory somewhere with sunlight shining through the windows.  As they famously never observed even once, all the spacecraft shots are stolen from Battlestar Galactica.  The bridge is made of cardboard.  Nobody’s costume fits – Ryder’s in particular sags at the ass, which is a shame because I bet his ass is terrific.  The women wear outfits so tiny that one with extra-long hair looks like Lady Godiva from behind.  The end credits song takes the best bits of every 80’s power ballad ever written and assembles them into something far less than the sum of its parts. You can hear the singer’s mullet.

The writing is nothing short of stunning in its badness.  Battle sequences are a mess, with no idea what’s at stake in each area the mutineers are trying to capture.  There are whole scenes in which nothing much is actually said – the most glaring example is probably the bit where Commander Santa tells Captain Sting ‘it would have to be somebody on this ship with something to gain from this’.  The exchange tells us nothing we didn’t already know. MacPherson only shows up in the room where Miss Santa is being interrogated so that he can expose himself as a traitor.  Kalgan uses ‘space-bitch’ as an insult, unironically, twice, and calls Ryder a ‘meddling fool’.

There are at least three places where something is set up and then disposed of without ever being paid off.  Commander Santa’s daughter tells Ryder that they can call for help against the pirates and mutineers, but he says he figures Kalgan has already installed scramblers – so they don’t even try.  That seems to me like a situation where can’t hurt, might help would be a good philosophy.  There’s also the ‘countermeasures’ subplot, where we learn that MacPherson will have revealed all their defense plans to the mutineers… and then the whole subject is just dropped.  The biggest dangling plot thread, however, is the Bellerians.

These are the Yoga Witches I mentioned.  They show up wearing bathing suits and veils, rub themselves all over the walls and some of those plasma globes that were popular in the 80s and 90s, and I think they seduce some of the security personnel.  One of them visits Commander Santa and tells him it’s time for action, and they murmur things about time being up for one or other of the mutiny leaders, but they never actually do anything.  The first time I watched this, as the MST3K episode, years and years ago, I remember waiting and waiting for the Bellerians to do something cool and they never did. They are entirely decorative.

(They also made it impossible for me to take Avatar seriously. The exchange a superintelligent dandelion seed! – Man, they'll worship anything! will not leave my head the entire damn movie.)

I also have to ask: if Kalgan and his followers are not satisfied living on the Southern Sun, why don’t they just… leave?  The ship is clearly still in an inhabited part of the galaxy.  There are the pirates, there’s the idea of calling for help, and people do come and go.  Professor Spooner was on board the ship at some point to be Miss Santa’s mentor, then he left, and now he’s coming back.  The Bellerians arrive and are given a place to stay, and it’s implied that they will be on board for some time but not permanently.  Ryder is new to the Southern Sun, and I think the nonsensical does that mean you won’t marry me? at the end is supposed to tell us that he’s leaving again and hoping to take Miss Santa with him.  If Kalgan wants to go, he can… but the writers completely ignore this.

Yet for all that, Space Mutiny is actually quite engaging.  It’s structured like a proper movie, alternating between action, mystery, and romance.  Reb Brown as Ryder and Cisse Cameron as Miss Santa have decent chemistry – they actually met on this movie, fell in love, got married, and are still married to this day.  Sometimes you can’t follow what’s going on in an individual scene, but you always know where you are in the story as a whole.

Miss Santa appears to be an attempt at a Strong Female Character(tm). She’s supposed to be a PhD, and she gets involved with the shooting and punching right alongside Ryder.  I think the did you see my butt? scene is supposed to tell us that she’s in charge of her own sexuality (this might work better if the camera didn’t leer like a miserly tipper at a strip club), and when she’s taken hostage she’s able to almost rescue herself by the time Ryder comes for her.  She also has a few hints of actual personality, in that she’s shown using her work in the greenhouse as a way to blow off steam, and she sulks a bit when she doesn’t get her way (well, that’s gratitude for you!).

Ryder is a much larger presence in the movie, both physically and in terms of screen time, but he has far less to him as a person.  He’s brave and heroic and likes to yell and shoot at things, and that’s about it.  I suppose, like Duke Barnum in Last of the Wild Horses, he’s supposed to be a man-shaped hole that the audience members can place themselves in.  It works a bit better here, because Ryder is a handsome, muscular space pilot, which seems, at least to me, like a better fantasy life than ‘broke cowboy who interferes in other people’s problems’.  There’s also the fact that Ryder has a reason to be involved in these events, since he, too, is trapped on the Southern Sun with the mutineers.

I guess Space Mutiny is probably trying to be about long-term versus short-term goals. The Southern Sun was built with a long-term goal in mind – find and colonize a new planet.  The people on board mostly accept that they are just a stage in this process, and that the end result will benefit descendants they will never meet.  The mutineers are focused on a short-term goal, settling on a planet somewhere and becoming rich and powerful.  The movie doesn’t really delve into the consequences for everybody else on the ship if Kalgan wins, but we’re clearly meant to assume that the long-term goal entails more benefit to more people. That’s a good enough theme, I guess.

One thing the movie does go into, although probably by accident, is the nature of male versus female power.  The men in this movie – Captain Santa, Ryder, and Kalgan – are proactive, giving orders, firing guns, and throwing punches.  The women largely sit at desks and serve drinks, and those who attempt to take action are punished for it.  Lieutenant Lamont tries to investigate the theft of explosives, and gets shot (we’re supposed to ignore the fact that she’s back at her console ten minutes later).  Leah goes to help Ryder in the battle and is lectured for it.  These are unacceptable forms of power for women to wield.

Acceptable female power is embodied in the Bellerians, who manipulate events subtly from behind the scenes. Unfortunately, they do it so subtly that I have no idea what, if anything, they actually contribute – which just makes it look like women can tell themselves they’re in charge but they’re not. They’re just hanging out while the men do all the real work.

I guess I should mention that there’s only one guy in this movie who isn’t white, and he’s hanging up in a freezer in his underpants.  I could complain, but I’m tired.

What makes some bad movies entertaining and others insufferable? What is the difference between, say, Teenagers from Outer Space and Invasion of the Neptune Men, or The Giant Spider Invasion versus The Starfighters?  Looking back across the gulf of around two hundred bad movies I’ve written about in the past three and a half years, I’m going to say it involves weaving your failures into a structure that might otherwise work.  Fun bad movies have characters we can follow and a plot that makes some kind of sense – we know who Ryder and Miss Santa are, and we have some idea what they’re doing, so we’re not sitting and trying to puzzle that out instead of enjoying the floor polisher chase scenes.  Once the movie has us in a place where we want to pay attention, it doesn’t really matter if the technicalities are up to snuff.  This is where movies like Radar Secret Service fail, and where Space Mutiny almost succeeds.

[snow-slayer]

Samurai Jack Assassins AU

Author note: This is still a work in progress (a 22 page work in progress). I have the majority of the plot, but still have to clean up a few things, make some edits, and add details. Feel free to comment or message me any critiques or suggestions and I will consider them for the final draft (also ideas for a title would be nice)! Just thought I’d post a little something to read. There’s some gore, violence, and mentions of sex (although nothing graphic).

Summary: Samurai Jack decides to spare Scaramouche and is introduced to one of Aku’s most trusted advisers. The three decide it’s time to overthrow the Shogun of Shadows.

“The Samurai, the Assassin, and the Advisor”

 *The story picks up at the end of the Scaramouche fight. Jack’s second dagger has been detonated and Scaramouche is severely injured.*

             “Well, babe, time for me to shuffle offstage,” Scaramouche tried to keep up the façade, fading quickly now that his singing vocal chords had become damaged. As if the air around him had taken on a heavier grade, he stepped backward, feeling like he was moving through sludge oil as Jack approached dragging Scaramouche’s own trusty sword behind him. “Looks like you’re the headliner now.” Jack was only a few steps away now. Scaramouche wondered how mere minutes ago he had effortlessly jumped - nearly flying! – from building to building, yet now everything was going wrong.

           Stumbling, Scaramouche found himself on his back, his arms and legs hardly working as he kept trying to crawl away. Still, Jack approached menacingly. Perhaps, Scaramouche mused, he could try one last offer.

           “Please, babe. You beat me, fair and square. I’m done. Don’t you want what I can offer, babe?” Scaramouche pointed towards his ruined throat, hoping he would be able to pull it off. “I’m the best, babe. You won’t find anyone who can do it better.” Jack halted, tilting his head slightly, confused at what Scaramouche was saying. He had never seen an Assassin beg. Scaramouche slowly moved to his knees, crawling the last few feet between them.

           “I’ll be the best you’ve ever had, babe.” He knelt low in front of Jack, reaching out slowly towards the man’s hips. Jack face snapped back into a scowl. Jack’s foot collided with Scaramouche’s throat, knocking him back to the ground.

           “Babe! If you’re worried about the teeth, you can take if from the back. Please! Please don’t kill me!”

           “You killed everyone in this town! You expect me to let you walk away?”

           “I-I didn’t babe. I-It’s a lie. I lied to you.” Jack had the sword over his head. He was assured the robot had no reason to be spared; yet, he would give the cowering mass a chance to say his last words.

           “What do you mean?”

           “A-all the kids you saw, they’re fake, babe. Silicone, plastic, paint. I put them there. This town’s been desolate for years. I set off some mortars to fake the explosion. I just needed to get you here. There was supposed to be more of us. I only care about one of them, and I think the other two were traitors, babe. She was supposed to meet me here days ago, babe.” Scaramouche had buried his head back into his arms. He had waited for Jack, assuming his counterpart had just gotten lost on the way, but now that the thought about it, he was sure the rest of the group had killed her. Perhaps death would be better than what he would return to.

           Jack studied him closely. He had no reason to believe the robot, but something felt wrong about killing him now when he had so fully surrendered. “Show me that the children are fake. Perhaps … Perhaps, I’ll spare you.” Scaramouche looked up, his eyes glowing a brighter blue. Jack still recognized it as hope, but he would destroy it if Scaramouche had lied to him. The robot pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the building as he moved to the location of the nearest doll.

           “The city only has a few entrances, so I placed them there, babe, in hopes you would see them. We had to give you a reason to stop. She designed them and the plan.” He staggered along, Jack following close behind, picking up the turning fork sword as he passed it, should the need to use it arise. Scaramouche reached the mounds by the east entrance.

           “Look, babe. They’re not real.” He picked up the child, the features obviously not real on the underside. Jack approached cautiously, ready for an explosion or sleight of hand from the would be assassin. He reached out with his left hand, touching the deformed face, feeling the silicone and plastic as promised.

           “And this town?”

           “Been desolate for years, babe. We staked it out a few months ago. We had about six possibilities, but this one was the closest to your last known location. All six are stocked with the fake children and mortars so we could fly out without any weight.”

           “Who are the other three people you’re referring to? Where are they?”

           “Two other assassins and one of Aku’s advisors. I don’t know where they are, babe. The two assassins, the traitors, peeled off when we were heading here. She sent me out here on foot as she went to see what was going on. Last time I saw them, they were about a day’s walk that way, babe.” He pointed towards the setting sun. “It’s been three days though, and I haven’t heard from any of them.” He gestured to his ruined phone.

           Jack hated to trust Scaramouche, but he hoped the robot could help him track the other three assassins. His whole story had to have been a trick, Jack was positive. He wrapped a long length of chain around Scaramouche’s chest and hands, securing it with a lock on the front before chaining him to the back seat of his motorcycle. He kept the tuning sword on his belt, securing the larger sword in a side panel of the bike. Scaramouche had not revealed any more information on the other three assassins in his rambling, now drowned out by the roar of the motorcycle, but he did not want to forfeit the chance of ridding the world of three more henchmen.

           They entered the forest Scaramouche had indicated as night crested. Jack let Scaramouche stand and stretch for a few minutes before pointing to the nearest tree. With a sigh, Scaramouche sat down next to it, letting Jack wrap the chain around him again.

           “I’m going to look for food. Don’t move and don’t say a word.”

           “Sure thing, babe. Au revoir.” Jack glared at him to make sure his message had gotten across before donning his hunting gear. He crept through the forest, eyes peeled for his next meal or next threat to overcome. His conscious did not haunt him for sparing the robot, even though he was convinced he would put an end to the musical assassin’s existence soon. As he traversed, the forest took on a burnt smell, as if a battle had recently taken place.  Under his feet, bits of metal crunched. He knelt down to examine the pieces, finding scraps of burnt metal, pieces of nuts and bolts, and a piece that looked vaguely like a head of a robot. He had walked almost an hour, the battle remnants more obvious, when he heard someone call out.

           “Samurai Jack. Honestly thought we’d get to meet on better terms.” Jack spun backwards, electric staff at the ready as he slowly rotated, looking for the source of the noise.

           “Don’t be so uptight. I’m over here, in the ditch.” Jack took a few steps towards his left, peering down the darken trench next to the battle worn path he was on. In the faint moonlight, he could make out the sure glint of metal.

           “Who are you?” he called down, powering up the electric side of the staff to use as a makeshift light.

           “Real name or full title? Vacors, the Vengeful One, the … something, something, something … Your Worst Nightmare. Just Vacors is fine though. I have a proposition for you. You can kill me now or you can take your chances and rescue me. There’s no reason for you to trust me. Look about fifty yards further down the path. My bike’s there. I’ve got a flashlight, a plasma gun to shatter the rock on my right hand, and a wicked ax to dice up this tree.”

           “If I free you, why should I trust you?”

           “I said you shouldn’t. I’m one of Aku’s advisors. I supervise the ranks of assassins, promoting the ones that are decent, pissing off the ones that suck, and training the ones I can actually tolerate. The very few that I can stand and actually have any skill.”

           “Do you know Scaramouche?”

           “Yes I …” she trailed off suddenly. “No. Oh, no. Did you … have you met him?” her previously confident voice dropped in pitch.

           “Yes.” Jack waited while she collected her thoughts. He heard her straining in vain against whatever was pinning her down

           “That wasn’t part of the plan. He was supposed to wait for me…” He heard the sadness in her voice before she spoke again with a greater resolve. “There’s a bow and arrow in my bike if you’d prefer to kill me from up there. A fitting end, I think.”

           “I didn’t kill him.”

           “You … you didn’t?” Jack was quiet for a while as he let the question sink in. Had Aku poisoned her mind and made him appear to be the villain, Jack wondered.

           “No. We fought but I spared him. He thought the traitors in your group had killed you.” His heart gave a jump as she let out a laugh full of relief and … something more, that Jack could not place.

           “You, sir, have the most patience I have ever seen. If I were in your sandals, I don’t think I could have spared him. He’s … he takes a while to warm up to.” She continued to chuckle softly, as Jack followed the path to another clearing. Tipped over but in relatively good looking condition, Jack found her bike. In the compartment, as promised, laid the weapons and flashlight. Jack took the gun, ax and light, finding his way back to the trench Vacors lay in.

           “You can loot the rest of the stuff after you deal with me,” she greeted when he approached. Jack shown the light into the hole, watching as she squinted. The wreckage she was entangled in looked like the result of the blast that might have taken part on the path. A large boulder crushed her right arm below the elbow, a fallen limb pinning her down at the waist.

           “Do you wish to die?” Jack finally asked as he began climbing down into the embankment.

           “Preferably, no. Just wanted you to know that was an option. I used to have a bit of honor, a long time ago, and wanted you to overcome yours if that was the issue. I mean, can you afford to have an advisor remain alive at a time like this?”

           “I will free you, in return for information and a promise not to attack me.”

           “You’re making a deal with the wrong person, but … deal. I’ve got a lot of blood and oil on my hands, you know.” Jack approached, lining up the plasma gun with the boulder. He fired, covering his face as the rock shattered. From the rubble, Vacors moved her fingers, sparks flying along the length of her arm.

           “Mm, a little sluggish, but might be able to salvage that hand. I’d hate to have it replaced again.”

           “What are you?”

           “Mostly human. Got a couple robot upgrades though. You don’t live as long as I have in my line of work without losing a few limbs and eyeballs.” Jack hacked through the section and pulled the limbs off of her.

           “Feels nice to breathe again. One more favor. See that sword in my left leg?” Jack shown the flashlight down, finally realizing that a bloody sword protruded in the middle of her lower leg. “Can you just jerk that out real quick?” Jack grasped the handle, glancing at her blood covered face again. He thought she looked no older than sixteen, not nearly old enough to serve in Aku’s army.

           “Just rip it – ahh!” she cried out as he removed it swiftly, having been waiting for her to talk again as a distraction for the pain. “Yes,” she hissed after another moment. “Thanks. Still hurts a good deal even though I’ve lost a good amount of nerves.” She pulled herself up slowly. Jack offered a hand, but she waved him off.

           “Might electrocute you with the one. Just need a second to stretch.”

           “Have you been here for three days?”

           “Yeah, slowly bleeding to death and eating the bugs and small rodents that passed by. Can’t wait to eat whatever the wolves haven’t gotten to in my bike.”

           “Where are you going to go?”

           “Back to your camp, I suppose. I gotta uphold my end of the deal.” She placed weight on her injured leg, groaning as it buckled slightly, but held. After a few moments, she wandered over twenty feet from where she had laid and picked up her phone. She glanced at it and sighed good naturedly before pocketing it. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to grab my bike first.” He followed behind her, habit finding him holding a weapon in case she made a sudden move.

           “Excuse me just a second.” She picked up something from the bushes, another round metal piece that resembled a head. Turning into the thicker threes, she hurled it against the sturdy trunk, grinning as it shattered. “That’s one of the two assassins you don’t have to worry about anymore.” Jack replaced the weapons to the compartment, and she mounted, offering him the backseat. Starting the motor and spinning in the clearing to face the path, she headed back in the direction they came, letting Jack direct them back to his shelter.

           “You found a new bike, babe?” Scaramouche called weakly, fearing the worst.

           “No, it’s the same old trash heap I refuse to get rid of,” Vacors answered, pulling the first aid kit from the compartment.

           “You’re alive, babe!”

           “You thought otherwise?” She carefully walked into view, trying to disguise the limp as best she could.

           “You never answered my calls, babe. I was worried.” Jack knelt a few feet away, preparing a campfire for the evening. He was fairly certain they would not have trouble from the other two assassins Scaramouche had mentioned earlier.

           “Sorry about that. I couldn’t reach my phone. I got like all two hundred of your texts and forty phone calls.” The fire roared to life, bathing them in an orange glow.

           “Babe! You look terrible!”

           “Well, you sound terrible, but I wasn’t going to say anything. Besides, half this blood isn’t even mine. Cooked meat is a lot less messy.” She braced herself against the tree, slowly sliding to the ground next to him.

           “Did you kill the traitors, babe?”

           “Technically, no. I killed the A-class hunters, yes.” Both Jack and Scaramouche faced Vacors with a tilted head while she began cleaning the stab wound on her leg.

           “I don’t understand, babe,” Scaramouche admitted after a moment.

           “Hate to break it to you, but we’re the traitors. Well, more specifically, I’m the traitor and I’m hoping you join me. Or, you can be a hero and do the right thing.” She turned on her phone and offered it to him.

“Babe, you’ve been his advisor for centuries! It’s been a disguise all along?” He starred at her face for a while before turning his attention to the phone placed in his hand. Jack’s hand inched towards his gun, should he need to end the phone call. A long few moments passed before he powered it down and handed it back.

           “I think I’ve abused my calling privileges for the day, babe.” He leaned his head back against the tree, staring at the sky with a long sigh. “I’ll never be Aku’s most favorite assassin.”

           “You’re my most favorite assassin.” Vacors began stitching up the leg wound. “Jack, there’s some canned food in the compartment under the seat if you want any. And oil. I’m not getting up to get it though.”

           “What are you going to do now, babe?” Jack had gotten up to retrieve the food, placing oil can next to Vacors and taking the rest with him.

           “I am going to sleep on my side tonight and not eat raw meat.” Scaramouche rolled his eyes before rambling off about how he never expected to find himself in this position. Jack pried open the can and began cooking the beans and vegetables in the makeshift pan he constructed out of his armor. After Scaramouche had gone on for ten minutes, Vacors elbowed him in the side.

           “Be quiet for a second.”

           “Why? What’s wrong, babe?” She shushed him.

           “Babe?” she shushed him again, closing her eyes and concentrating. Scaramouche snapped his mouth shut and looked around slowly, careful not to rattle the chains that bound him to the tree. Jack too scanned the tree line, listening, but only hearing the crackling of the fire. He finally glanced at Vacors and understood.

           She was smiling broadly, chest heaving as she tried not to laugh out loud. Scaramouche finally realized what Jack was looking at.

           “What the hell is going on, babe?”

           “I bet Jack I could keep you quiet for five minutes. He didn’t believe me.” Scaramouche managed to bend his leg enough to kick Vacors’ injured leg. She powered up her left robotic gauntlet and jabbed him in the side, eliciting a cry of pain.

           “You’re terrible, babe,” he growled.

           “Yes, but I’m also your arms for tonight, so watch it.”

           “You could just pick the lock, babe,” he spat nastily.

           “I could, but I’m not.” He lashed out again, but Vacors moved in time. “Net yet, at least. Can’t seem too dangerous. He might not have his sword, but he’s got yours and a boat load of other weapons.” Jack’s eye brows shot up briefly before he focused his attention on cooking.

           “Don’t act surprised, Jack. It was the first thing I noticed when I got a good look at you. We wouldn’t be top of the line if we didn’t notice things.”

           “I’ll get you the key and you can release him,” Jack offered quietly. “We can all eat.”

           “Nah, I’ll just pick the lock.” Vacors began standing again, wincing as she got her injured leg underneath her. “Look, I’ll even get up for you.” Walking behind the tree, she picked the locks in a minute, letting the chains fall away. Scaramouche pushed the remainder away, finally standing up and towering three feet over Vacors. He found the strength to pick her up off the ground and wrap her in a hug.

           “Careful, my rib cage was being crushed by limb for three days,” she grinned, but wrapped her arms around him as well.

           “Even though you’re the worst, babe, I’m glad you’re alright.” He sat her back down on the ground gently, pushing the chains out of the way so he could sit with his back against the tree. Vacors slowly lowered herself back to the ground, accepting the portion Jack gave her. Scaramouche drank greedily, draining the can in minutes. His voice filled the relative quiet of the forest, finally explaining who the two assassins that Vacors disposed of were and other potential threats they would face if they went to take on Aku.

           Vacors leaned back in contentment when she finished. “Finally, something that doesn’t taste like it’s still alive.” She turned her attention to Scaramouche.

           “You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to get my hands on your throat,” she said darkly. Scaramouche drummed his fingers a bit.

           “You’ll be gentle, babe?”

           “As much as I can.” Turning to Jack, “We’re going to step into the woods a bit. Excuse us for a few.” They each stood up slowly, Vacors grabbing a jacket from her bike before they both disappeared into the darkness. Jack could easily hear them trampling through the growth, stopping after a few minutes. There was some more rustling before they grew silent for a few moments. Scaramouche broke the silence.

           His cry of pain still made the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand up. It went on a few seconds before it became slightly muffled. The first cry silenced. Jack could hear soft cooing, which he assumed to be Vacors. There was a sharp metallic crunch before Scaramouche screamed again. Jack winced, as the muffled cries fluctuated between bouts of less pain and pure agony. Eventually, something about the noise changed.

           The cries were almost pants now, less pain filled. Perhaps rhythmic.  Jack shook the mental image from his mind as it went on for five more minutes. There was a final shuddering cry of pleasure before the silence returned.

           Vacors returned to the campsite first, taking her original seat. She pulled off the chest armor she was wearing to reveal the shirt below. “He needs a few minutes to himself. Imagine you broke your arm in several places and the surgeon putting it back together has a vague idea of what it’s supposed to look like and just tries sliding the bones back in place without administering any anesthetics. That’s what I just did to his throat. And well … a little pleasure for distraction.” She looked away in embarrassment, rolling up the shirt to begin treating the bloody cuts across her stomach.

           “Are you two together?” Jack asked quietly. Vacors laughed, refusing to make eye contact.

           “No, we’re just friends. He’s my best friend, although I may not currently be his friend anymore … He’s looking for a boyfriend. I’d like him to find one that’s not abusive though, one that likes him for who he is rather than just sex.”

           “Can robots feel pain and pleasure?”

           “Yeah, they can now. Maybe not fifty years ago or so, but they’re eerily much more human. They’ve got the artificial intelligence, but you can’t truly learn without pain to teach you a lesson. It different though. They feel pain with electricity in high voltage and in certain centers. You could take Scaramouche’s arm off, and it wouldn’t be too bad, but grab his throat too hard, and he’ll be incapacitated.” At the first noise, Vacors threw her shirt down, hiding the nasty wounds. They heard a rustle in the trees again, seeing the blue eyes approach them before the rest of Scaramouche’s body appeared. The blue eyes were duller than they had been, hollow looking in Jack’s opinion, but his throat was straight, appearing like it had before the fight. Scaramouche walked in a more fluid manner, smooth and suave as he sat down next to Vacors.

           “Are you alright?” Vacors asked quietly.

           “Yeah, babe. I’m alright.” His voice sounded normal, but quieter. Jack watched as Scaramouche tied his scarf back around his throat, his hands trembling. A black liquid rolled over his lips, dripping down his long chin before Vacors took the balled up jacket out of his lap and dabbed at it.  He sat silently for a few minutes before sliding away from the tree and laying his head on Vacors’s lap with a groan. Vacors took his hat off and sat it beside her as she powered up her left gauntlet and began caressing his left temple. A sign escaped him as his eyes closed. The three sat in silence for a while before Scaramouche admitted a weird noise, sounding like a cross between a soft scat and a flute note.

           “Good, he’s asleep. He swears he doesn’t snore, but he does. Not quite sure how that works since he doesn’t really breathe, though. He sleeps hard if there’s anything else you want to talk about.” She resumed tending to the other cuts, which Jack realized was the reason she was moving so slowly. A soft curse would escape her when her right gauntlet malfunctioned and shocked her.

           “Scaramouche said you were Aku’s advisor for centuries. How is that possible for a human?”

           “Cryogenic accident about five hundred years ago. I used to be a vigilante in a city. Only so much you can do at sixteen and I invariably made too many mistakes. Got knocked into some chemicals. Spent ten years in a coma as my friends worked on a way to stabilize me. After that, I just stopped aging. Aku had already been in power for a while, his empire growing. My friends eventually passed away, and I moved on. Actually became an assassin for a few years. Well, for 200 years. I was the assassin that killed without killing. I would break spirits, giving them a chance to change, trying to protect those that they preyed on.  Eventually, I caught Aku’s eye. Worked for him for a while, moving my way up the ranks of assassins he was building for your eventual arrival. After a couple more too close brushes with death, I retired. Something about nearly dying in a vat of caramelized sugar does that to you. I don’t know why, but Aku still liked me. Let me be an advisor after he had killed off a few. Got a lot of sway in who we took, how we ranked them, where we stationed them. It was the perfect opportunity for when you eventually arrived. I know all the class supervisors, the army leaders, the higher ranking assassins – and unfortunately a handful of underqualified ones,” she added as an aside. “They wanted me to start training the best ones. I would test them to see if they were any good at one-on-one combat. Some I trained, some I demoted, some I ended up killing after they tried to kill me. Can’t say I was too popular with anyone except Aku.”  She laughed bitterly, massaging the spot on Scaramouche’s head with the electric gauntlet after she finished tending to her wounds.

           “I only took one serous trainee.” She nodded towards Scaramouche. “I had a list of three criteria. Had to be good at one-on-one combat, had to be willing to learn, and had to not try and kill me at every opportunity presented. Unfortunately, I accepted a lot that didn’t pass the second two measures, but had to earn a salary somehow. A woman’s got to eat, you know.”

           “How long have you been training him?”

           “About two years now. Not as much as I liked, because I had to drag him up through the ranks. No one would promote him, and no one would let me take less than a class-A. I would go around and pick someone to fight every week or so to test their skills. Worked my way through class-A and eventually moved to class-B.  When that failed, I started seeking out class-C. He had a lot of potential. Annihilated my rib cage and we basically fought to a draw the first time. Had to fight the class-C supervisor, who was one of the top ranking class-A members to move him up a rank. They wanted to get him into prostitution instead of being an assassin, which, he probably could have done both, but I started training him as a class-B. Drove everyone crazy, except the class-A head, who miraculously didn’t mind too much. Took a few class-A on the side. Two of them you killed, three retired, I think I killed one or two. All but killed the head of class-B to get Scaramouche ranked higher.”

           “He fought well, but turned his back in the end.”

           “Yeah, too cocky, I know. Been working on skills to match the attitude as it’s a pain to change a robots attitude. He was the only one that met the three criteria. I wished you could have seen him at full health. He hadn’t eaten in three days when you met him, but he can be deadly. Hard to keep him on the right path sometimes though. That’s why we used fake kids, because I don’t actually want to decimate a town.”

           “Is he going to be alright?”

           “Yeah, the circuits will repair eventually. He’ll sound better tomorrow, probably be functioning at near capacity the day after.  A lot of core functioning for him takes place in his throat and higher chest, for movement, singing, fighting, and so on. I’m working on a stress center now, which will let him filter energy to recovery rather than pain.”

           “We should get some sleep. We can decide where to go in the morning.”

           “Can’t believe you’re going to sleep with two assassins within ten feet. I’m going to clean up a bit though. I did spend three days under a tree. I’m pretty gross. See you in the morning!”

           Jack woke with a start. The sun was streaming through the text flap, which he threw open. Beside the tree laid the two ex-assassins. Scaramouche had not moved since he fell asleep on Vacors’s lap. She had balled up the jacket under his head when she went to bathe in the nearby stream. She had slept beside him when she returned, draping his arm over her. The robot was still snoring softly. Jack intended to walk past them quietly, but Vacors’s eyes snapped open as he took the first step.

           “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized. She merely waved it off, and yawned.

           “It feels nice to wake up and be able to move. Apology accepted. I had some thoughts on what to do about your sword. Let’s get some breakfast and we’ll plan.” She elbowed Scaramouche in the gut. His snoring wavered, but resumed. She jarred him again, and his eyes snapped open as he groaned. Spitting out a chunk of congealed oil, he brushed the dried flakes away from his mouth.

           “Sleep well?”

           “The sleep was nice, babe. Everything before it though, not so much.” Vacors nodded in sympathy.

           “How’s your throat? Feel aligned?”

           “Still sore, but I feel a lot better than yesterday, babe.”

           “Want me to get the flashlight and see if it looks right on the inside?”

           “Sorry, babe. You’re not touching my throat again. I’d rather die.” He stood up, doing a spin when he reached full height to make sure everything still moved smoothly. He helped himself to another can of oil as Jack built up another fire.

           “You mentioned an idea about my sword?” Jack prompted hopefully.

           “I’ve got a weapons dealer in Powencry. Probably eight hours away from here. He knows I’d be interested in your sword and probably knows who has it. For certain, Aku doesn’t know, and neither do the other assassins, so I’m guessing a collector has it. Besides, it’d be nice to pay him a visit. I haven’t seen him in a couple years. He’s usually got something of interest, anyway.”

           “I vote that it’s a good place to start, babe,” Scaramouche weighed in. “That’s where you got the turning sword, right?”

           “Yep. That’s the place. Shopkeepers a sleezeball, but it’s our best bet for now.” They ate quickly and packed up the campsite. Scaramouche argued to get his swords back, but Vacors shot it down before it escalated. He begrudgingly rode behind Vacors, grumbling as they sped through the forest. Jack rode a few yards behind Vacors, watching as the two assassins tried to hold a conversation over the roar of the motor. He wondered if he should have kept them separated as he adjusted the gun on his hip. They reached the outskirts of the town by late afternoon where Vacors slowed to a stop.

           “Hate to ask you all to do this, but we’ll look more convincing if Scaramouche rides with you. We’ll play the angle that you two are my trainees. He knows Scaramouche. Pretend to be a class-B, Jack. Don’t challenge me too much. You can even go without saying a word. I’ll make up a name for you. Hopefully we can go in, find out what we need, and leave in ten minutes.” Scaramouche dismounted from Vacors’s and approached Jack’s bike.

           “You’ll look more convincing with this,” Jack offered Scaramouche’s sword back.

           “You know, Sammy baby, you’re not half as bad as Aku makes you out to be.” Vacors led the way through the town, keeping her head high as she parked in front of a small shop. She flashed them a smile as she headed inside.

           A small bell over the door rang as they walked in. Behind the counter stood a man donned in a dark green coat with his back toward them.

           “We’re closed,” he barked without turning towards them.

           “I just came to say hello,” Vacors grinned, approaching the counter. He turned suddenly, his pale blue face scrunched in question. He beamed when he recognized Vacors.

           “Ah, I can make an exception for you, my favorite customer. I haven’t seen you for a while. More trainees, I see?”

           “Yeah, picked up another class-B.” She gestured to Jack off handedly. “Zephyr. Going to force him up the ranks next week sometime so I can start the official training. Not the most talkative, but man can he handle a staff. And you remember Scaramouche?”

           “Yes, your musical prodigy. How’s the tuning sword?”

           “It’s perfect.” Scaramouche gave his widest grin. “Always has a beautiful pitch, baby.”

           “Good, good. What brings you back to my humble shop? Actually, before you answer that, I have something you might be interested in.” A sly smile crept on to his face. “Let me get it for you. I’ve been holding it for almost a year in hopes you’d come by.” He made his way to the back of the shop, going through the door that separated the main part of the shop to his storage area below ground.

           “You all see anything you can’t live without?” Vacors asked as Scaramouche began to look around the inventory.

           “No new flutes,” Scaramouche sighed, scanning the walls before analyzing the swords. Jack had been looking through the shelves, but nothing remotely resembled his sword. The shopkeeper returned a few minutes later, delicately holding a long box.

           “Aku’s favorite advisor would certainly like their hands on this.” He smiled again, slowly pulling off the lid. It took all of their will power not to gasp at the sight.

           “May I?” Vacors inquired, keeping her face even.

           “Of course! I’ve been saving it for you.” She pulled it out of the box, examining the case and handle.

           “Quite a remarkable replica. I haven’t seen one quite this good in a while. What’s this, the company logo?” She indicated a small symbol on the end of the handle. The symbol was a square with a line that bisected each side of the square.

           “Probably, babe. Not one I recognize. It’s handle looks similar to the training videos,” Scaramouche added, feigning disinterest as he went to look at other longer swords displayed on the wall.

           “I assure you, this is the real deal. My excavation team found it over a year ago in the Grotto’s Well.”

           “You expect me to believe that the Samurai would have lost his sword. I will say, the craftsmanship is nice. Might be a fun gag while I’m training. Somebody,” she cast a glare over at Scaramouche, “destroyed all my other swords.” She unsheathed the weapon, replacing the case into the box. She held it in front of her, testing the heft and stability. Looking down the handle, she checked to see if it was straight.

           “It’s a nice sword, for a replica. I don’t really have anything similar in my collection. How much?” Vacors felt considerable discomfort as the shopkeepers smile broadened further.

           “Ten billion.”

           “For a replica?” Vacors answered in disbelief. “That Samurai has been dicing up my class-As faster than a sniper’s bullet. You think he’s been doing that with some other piece of iorn he found on the ground?”

           “Oh no, this is the real thing. Don’t you feel it when you hold it? The power coursing through it?”

           “Yeah, no. Nice try though. I needed a laugh.” She flashed another grin as she sheathed the weapon, placing it back into the box.

           “For any other client, I’d sell at that price, and they’d kill for that. For you though, I’ll cut you a deal. One billion.”

           “In my possession, I have the last remaining dagger of the Seven Sins collection. I would be willing to part with that in return for the replica.”

           “Interesting proposition. I’m willing to accept the dagger for the sword in addition to five hours with him.” He pointed at the oblivious Scaramouche.

           “No.” Vacors answered without hesitation. “How much do you want in cash?”

           “It’d be much cheaper this way.” Jack watched the bartering, trying to keep a straight face. His sword was within reach.

           “No. I will not allow it.”

           “Ah, but I’ve heard such great things. The dagger and 500 million, then.”

           “Babe,” Scaramouche had returned to Vacors’ side. “It – ”

           “No. We’ll get the cash. Give us a few hours to rob a bank or something to put it together.”

           “Nothing stolen. You know I like it clean.”

           “Relax. I’m just kidding. You’ll be here a few more hours?”

           “The door’s always open for my favorite customer.” The three walked out, the bell a haunting chime as the door closed behind them.

           “Is that it?” Vacors asked hesitantly.

           “Yes,” Jack resolved quietly.

           “You know five hours at that rate is a pretty good deal for me, babe,” Scaramouche added.

           “No. I’m not making that offer.” Scaramouche and Vacors bickered over it for a few more minutes.

           “What if we stole it, babe?” Scaramouche suggested, throwing his hands up to the sky in frustration. “Three on one is a pretty good odd.”

           “Not from him. That shop is rigged. We can’t steal from a bank because that money is too trackable. Can’t take a loan from Aku, because he’ll just send someone down to steal it and gig will be up. I have about 200 million saved. That’s forty percent right there. How much do you have?”

           “Not enough to cover the rest, babe. That’s three year’s salary before contributions to Aku or any other expenses. You’re not wiping out your savings account for that, are you?”

           “It’s my only choice. I’m used to sleeping in a dumpster and eating scraps. I’ll make it work.”

           “Then let him have me for three hours, babe.”

           “No. I will not allow you to put yourself in that position.”

           “Babe, how bad can it be? I can handle that. Have been for years.”

           “He’s sadistic.” Scaramouche scatted in disbelief, shaking his head at the weak argument.

           “How much is the dagger actually worth?” Jack added. “What if we sold that?”

           “It’s been appraised over a billion, but he’s the only place I can sell it here. Let’s get the cash from my account, and I’ll fight him on the appraisal value.”

           “What if we offered the dagger, your money, and one hour with me, babe? How much can he really do in an hour?”

           “I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

           “Babe, it’s not your decision. I owe you my life. One hour. I can take that easily.” Vacors had begun walking to the bank to take out a deposit from her account.

           “I don’t like it.”

           “I don’t care, babe. Maybe he’ll be the one.” Scaramouche taunted hand resting on Vacors’s shoulder. She shook it off in disgust.

           “Don’t make me sick. One hour, and you better as hell let me know if he hurts you.”

           “You’re making a mountain out of a mole-bot hill, babe.” The three walked into the bank. While the staff on duty was not happy to fill the request, they were less happy with the threats Vacors dropped about having Aku stop by if they could not fulfill it. Before they returned to the shop, Scaramouche swung into a bar to buy a bottle of his favorite liquor. As they walked briskly back to the shop, he downed half of it, offering Vacors and Jack a sip, both of whom declined.

           Vacors pushed in first, laying the dagger on the counter and the wad of money.

           “You know that this dagger is worth far more than 500 million. The dagger and 200 million straight from my account for the sword,” Vacors stated bluntly.

           “Seems a little unfair on my end …” Vacors sighed, closing her eyes before delivering the line.

           “… And one hour with Scaramouche. One.”

           “Two hours and you’ve got a deal.” Before Vacors could answer, Scaramouche struck her in the side of her face, leaving her on the floor ten feet away from where she had been standing.

           “Deal, babe,” Scaramouche declared, offering his right hand to the shop keeper. They shook as Vacors picked herself off the floor, glaring at them.

           “If you’re worried about your friend, you’re welcome to come and watch.”

           “I don’t like an audience, babe. Only when I’m playing the flute,” Scaramouche grinned as he met Vacors’ eyes, taking one last sip from his bottle and thrusting it into Jack’s hands.

           “You better not hurt him,” Vacors threatened.

           “Of course not. I won’t leave a scratch. We’ll be up in two hours. I’ll bring the sword with me. Pleasure doing business with you, as always.” Scaramouche jumped the counter, flashing Vacors a grin before he disappeared behind the door. Jack strained to hear any footsteps, but it appeared the room behind it had been soundproofed.

           “Are you alright?” Jack asked softly. Vacors only snorted, working to adjust her jaw back into position as she kept her eyes trained on the door. It popped a few times as she worked it. After a few moments of standing in silence, Vacors began pacing in front of the counter, checking the phone for the time every few minutes.

           “He’s late,” Vacors stopped pacing, arms crossed. Both focused on the door. It finally burst open five minutes later. Scaramouche marched out, his hat, shoes, and scarf tumbling from his hands and he worked to refasten his coat. He left them on the ground, never wavering as he left the building.

           “Get the sword. Make sure he didn’t bait and switch us. I’ll meet you outside.” Vacors sprinted out behind Scaramouche. Jack watched as Scaramouche’s towering figure collapsed near the edge of the street, Vacors beside him the next instance.

           “The rumors were true,” the shop keeper smiled pleasantly, his face shining, perhaps even a few shades richer in blue. As promised, he sat the box on the counter. Jack checked to make sure it was his sword, but as he touched, he felt the flow of energy. He knew it was his.

           “Better give this back, too. I wouldn’t want to get a bad reputation.” The shopkeeper laid Scaramouche’s tuning sword on the counter next to the box, which Jack assumed he had forgotten in his attempt to leave. Jack gathered his and Scaramouche’s sword in addition to the rest of Scaramouche’s outfit, leaving without a word.

           Scaramouche was leaned over the curb, black oil dripping from his mouth. Vacors was holding onto his shoulders, speaking to him softly, the anger from inside the shop completely replaced with concern. One of Scaramouche’s hands was inside his jacket. After a moment, he dropped something onto the sidewalk, shuttering violently with a strained moan as he fell against Vacors. Vacors ground it to bits under her foot before Jack could see what it was. Keeping the sword hidden from view, Jack knelt down, seeing many different colored stains on the front of Scaramouche’s jacket, but offering his words of comfort. Jack offered the nearly empty bottle to Scaramouche, who took it, and poured it in his mouth amidst the black vile. Immediately, his eyes went wide, and he leaned forward again, a fresh mouthful of dark oil pouring down his face.

           “Come on,” Vacors pulled him up part of the way. “We’re drawing a crowd.” Jack helped get the robot to his feet, not wanting to think about the weird colored liquids on the sidewalk that had dripped off Scaramouche’s legs, and together they dragged him to Vacors’s bike. Stowing the clothing and his sword the side compartment of Vacors’s bike, he helped wrap a rope around Vacors and Scaramouche to keep the robot on the bike. She took off quickly, Jack speeding behind seconds later as he tried to keep up. Vacors kicked up a large dust cloud as she exited the city, making her way for the nearest grove of trees on the horizon. After an hour, they found themselves rapidly dodging the trees at a speed far too fast for comfort. Vacors nearly skidded out when she came to a stop in a clearing. She left the headlight on as she pulled Scaramouche off and pulled him into the light. He was moaning, eyes open only a slit.

           Jack started a fire immediately to provide more light. Vacors had taken Scaramouche’s head into her lap, alternating caressing each side of his head with her working gauntlet. She was trying to get answers out of him on how she could help, but as far as Jack could tell, nothing leaving Scaramouche’s mouth was understandable. Using her right sleeve, Vacors wiped away the fresh bile from his mouth, slightly relieved to see it was not immediately replaced.

           With the roaring fire to his back, Jack knelt at Scaramouche’s side, taking the robots hand in his. Scaramouche let out a cry of remorse like nothing Jack had ever heard a robot produce. He felt Scaramouche’s hand curl around his, and he held tighter.

           “Babe … babe, I s-s-should … listened,” he choked out, another moan shuttering his frame.

           “No, I shouldn’t have let you go. We should have found another way. Tell me what’s wrong. What did he do to you?” Scaramouche shook his head.

           “Are you hungry? Do you want to try and eat something?” He nodded slightly. Jack jumped up and retrieved a can, helping Vacors raise the robot’s shoulders up. Vacors held it to his lips, gently tilting it back so he could drink. She lowered it when she could tell he wanted no more, handing it back to Jack.

           “Will you get the thermal blanket out? It’s behind the food. I want to get him out of the coat and look him over. Maybe wash the coat, too.” Jack complied, pulling out the blanket and unfolding it. Scaramouche was moving a bit more, still whimpering, but he worked with Vacors to get his coat off. He wrapped himself tightly in the blanket.

           “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I think there’s a stream nearby.” Jack took the jacket and went off in search of running water to give them privacy. He found a stream only a few minutes’ walk away. Dunking the jacket in, he watched in the pale moonlight a plethora of colors trail away in the water. After scrubbing out the stains he could, the black ones near the top proving the most difficult, he wrung out the water and made his way back to the camp. He heard the sound of Scaramouche snoring as he approached, although they sounded more timid.

           “He’s passed out,” Vacors had her eyes trained on the fire. Jack sat down next to her.

           “What can I do to help?”

           “I don’t know. I don’t even know what’s wrong. There are no external injuries, but he won’t tell me what happened.”

           “Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault,” Jack added softly. Vacors snorted, eyes burning with tears.

           “Too late for that. I can’t believe I let him talk me into it. I should have taken his place. I just … I let him get hurt again.”

           “You didn’t hurt him.”

           “No, but it’s my fault it happened. I shouldn’t have brought him in. It’s my fault again, just like last time. Again, there’s nothing I can do.”

           “Get some rest. I’ll watch over him tonight. When he’s ready to talk in the morning, you’ll be more refreshed and able to help him.”

           “Using logic against me. Clever. You’re right. Wake me, if something happens.” She let Jack take Scaramouche’s head and shoulders in his lap as she slid down next to Scaramouche, wrapping her arms around the narrow part of his upper body. Jack sat patiently, listening to the two sleeping assassins as he meditated. He watched through the night and into the morning when the first threads of light wove through the trees of the new day. Jack tapped Vacors on the shoulder, causing her to jump.

           “It’s morning. He slept through the night.”

           “He did? Good … didn’t think he would,” she scrubbed her eyes. She sat up and studied him. He looked as he had before she fell asleep, so she assumed it was a good sign. When it neared the evening, both were less sure that him sleeping was a good thing.

           “I want to wake him up for a  bit and talk to him. See how he is.” Vacors shook Scaramouche’s shoulders gently until he stopped snoring.

           “Where are we?” he groaned. “Babe, where are my clothes?”

           “We’re in the forest about an hour away from Powencry. Jack had to wash your coat. Do you want me to help you put it back on?”

           “But we’re eight hours away from ...” he trailed off suddenly. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, babe. Did we see the shopkeeper? That was real? Babe?” He began trembling pulling himself to a seated position as he tugged the blankets tightly around him.

           “Yeah, it was real. We saw the shopkeeper yesterday afternoon. What did he do to you?”

           “I don’t know. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen, babe.” A shuttered racked him as he thought back to the experience before he shook his head hard. “I don’t want to think about it. He wasn’t human … wasn’t machine …like no creature I’ve seen, babe.” Jack retrieved Scaramouche’s coat and draped it on his shoulders. Both humans looked away as Scaramouche stood up to redress himself.

           “Did you get your sword, Sammy baby?”

           “Yes.”

           “Then let’s go fight, Aku, babe!”

           Jack and Vacors forced Scaramouche to rest for the remainder of the day as they hunted and retreated injuries. As predicted, his movements and functioning had returned to almost normal levels. Jack noticed that Scaramouche’s eyes would take on a weird shape for a few moments as he stared at nothing in particular, trembling, before he would snap back into focus. The occurrences were infrequent and only a few minutes in length, but Jack could tell Vacors was agitated by it as well.

           As it grew dark, Scaramouche had sat behind Vacors, head resting on her shoulder, arms and legs wrapped around her. Neither stopped him from rambling.

           “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired, babe.”

           “Even though you slept all day?” she chided carefully. Jack watched her wince, guessing Scaramouche had jabbed one of her wounds in retaliation.

           “All that sleeping made me tired, babe. It’s kind of nice sleeping under the stars though.” He nuzzled into her shoulder a bit more, his eyes closing partially.  Releasing his death grip, he gave Vacors enough leeway to lay down, which he followed in suit. With his arms secured around her, he nestled his chin on the top of her head. “Good night, babe.” Vacors returned the sentiment, but neither said a word until he was asleep.

           “He’s not okay,” Vacors pointed out, loosening his arms just enough to breathe easily. “I don’t know if it’s yesterday, just not having been around the usual group, or what.”

           “We don’t have to go after Aku in the next two days,” Jack stated simply. “We can wait.”

           “Now is the best opportunity. I can call in tomorrow, give them a fake report and spread the forces thin. If I just return, I don’t have any excuses as to why we did not hunt you.” Vacors became fixated on the dying embers. “We’ll take him and leave him somewhere safe. He’ll just have to lie low. Then we can face destiny.”

           “I don’t think he’ll let you do this on your own. Not willingly.”

           “I’ve let too many of my friends die in vain. He’s a damn good fighter, and he might be okay, but I am not ready to take the risk. The class-B head almost killed him once. Tortured him first. It was luck that I saved him then, but how lucky can we be? If you let me act as a diversion, I can pull the defense guards away and you can get into Aku’s lair. We can make it with just the two of us.”

           “How long have you really known Scaramouche?” Vacors let out a bitter laugh again, closing her eyes.

           “I’m too protective, aren’t I? About a decade. We frequented the same bar. I went with the other advisors and supervisors, he was … entertainment. Started flirting with me for a while because I looked a little too masculine. We became friends after a while and he grew interested in my line of work. Said his work was too exhausting on him, physically and mentally, but I don’t think it ever got better when he joined the ranks. Because everyone knew who he was, they were always seeking favors, offering him empty promises in return. They hated that he was such a good fighter. Very few of the assassins had personalities other than God Complexes. That’s why there are so few of Aku’s assassins that fight in pairs or groups unless they’re siblings. I guess I’m too concerned about him because he’s too optimistic. Thinks that he won’t always be left with the short end of the stick at the end of the night or maybe someone will follow through on their promise. I suppose they’ll hunt him down anyway. Might as well let him go out big. I mean, that’s my plan anyway.”

           “All three of us will get through it.”

           “Do you even believe that?” Vacors shot back. “It’d be nice if all of us made it, but I’m prepared to die. I’ll run in first, draw off the rest of the forces and fight them as long as I can.  You should take Scaramouche with you. He can take on the last line of defenses. That would give you a fair and fighting chance. If I don’t make it, but both of you do, will you make sure he’s okay? Let him mourn, but don’t let him do anything too rash. I’ve had a long life, but he’s young for a robot.”

           Jack vowed he would. He slept peacefully, the sword once again at his side.

           The next morning, Vacors set the plan in motion. She called Aku, selling him the sob story that Jack had destroyed the three assassins that had gone with her and severely injuring her underneath a falling building. She told him the direction she saw him leave, feigning death so that he did not finish the job. She also added the fun lie that he did not have his sword with him, speculating that a collector may have it. For a while, she did not say a word, tapping her foot impatiently as Jack guessed Aku was speaking. She thanked him generously, hanging up before rolling her eyes.

           “Babe, that was the most pathetic I’ve ever heard you. What did he say?” She cracked a grin.

           “Rest in pieces.”

           The dread as they approached Aku’s lair weighed heavily on them all. Although Scaramouche and Vacors had trained here, their new identities as traitors left them weary. Jack and Vacors drove side by side ready to enact the plan Vacors had made, but neglected to tell Scaramouche. At the first sign of defenses, Vacors would force Scaramouche to travel with Jack as she led the attackers away.

           "Here they come," she had come to a stop. Throwing the brakes on, she spun the back wheel, kicking up a large dust cloud to conceal them. "Let's initiate phase one. You're with him," she jabbed Scaramouche in the stomach and nodded to Jack.

           "I'm not leaving you, babe," Scaramouche held on to her stubbornly. "You left last time, and never came back."

           "Yeah, but there's no trees around this time. I'll just draw them away for a few minutes and then I'll meet back up with you all." Jack watched as Scaramouche closed his eyes, holding Vacors tight.

           "Love you, babe. You ... you better come back alive." He finally dismounted.

           "Just going to slow them down. Don't bother saving a piece of Aku for me!" She flashed them a wicked grin, revving up the bike before she shot to the right. The cloud concealing them began to diminish, but Jack and Scaramouche watched as the initial dust clouds of the first wave of defense began to follow Vacors. Scaramouche stood rooted in spot until the first line of defense was on Vacors. He sat behind Jack, his hands loosely around Jack's waist. Jack progressed to the left slowly so as not to appear too obvious.

           "She's on a suicide mission, isn't she, babe?"

           "Do you think she's a good fighter?" Jack asked.

           "Yeah, why babe?"

           "I think she'll be fine. She's fought them all before to see if they were worth to be trained by her, and they were not." Scaramouche hugged Jack, leaning into his shoulder as they approached. The second wave came a few minutes later, with noticbly less members and on foot.

           "Looks like this is where I get off, babe. Probably won't be much use against Aku." With grace, he jumped off the bike. He drew himself up to full height drawing his longer sword and hurling it towards the onslaught, scatting as he ran. Jack hesitated for only a second before he wheeled around and headed for the peak of the hill where he had once stood thousands of years in the past.

           There was no time for celebration. Jack ran back down the hill, the landscape now scattered with carnage.  He saw movement near where the second wave had overtaken Scaramouche and a dust cloud coming their way. Jack assumed the movement was Scaramouche putting up a last fight and began running toward him. As he eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that it was one figure of a much wider build than Scaramouche standing. Before this assassin laid Scaramouche. The nearer Jack got, the better he could read it.

           From five hundred yards away, he could see that the standing figure had Scaramouche’s scarf, still wrapped tightly around the respective robot’s neck. The assassin had his foot on the throat as well. Judging from the way Scaramouche was thrashing, Jack could tell it would not be much longer before it was crushed. He would not make it in time, he realized, leaning forward and trying to decrease the distance. The dirt cloud moved closer. Jack could only hope Vacors had made it out alive and was on the way to help.

           An arrow crossed the path between Jack and the assassin, missing the assassin by twenty yards. A second arrow flew, now on the other side of the assassin, still missing by five yards. It caught the assassins attention, and Jack watched in horror as he raised his foot and smashed it down. The assassin went to repeat the motion when the third arrow hit home.

           As if in slow motion, Jack saw the arrow pass through the assassin’s head, watching as it erupted through the other side in a spray of oil and gears, electricity sizzling near the entrance and exit. Slowly, the assassin crumpled to the ground and there was no more movement in the area.

           Jack reached the area first, throwing the assailant’s body off of Scaramouche. There was a growing pool of dark brown oil in the dirt near where Scaramouche’s right arm used to be. Scaramouche appeared to stare past him, finally moving his eyes as if focusing.

           “Sammy … baby. You … did you …”

           “Yes. Aku’s been defeated.” He took Scaramouche’s hand, not knowing what to do.

           “T-tell Vacors … not to … touch the throat, babe,” he managed to get out, his eyes dimming slightly. “She … she made it.  No one … No one shoots arrows like that, babe.” The bike finally reached them, the dirt cloud fading. Vacors sat behind the handles, leaning her head on the dash. She had her arms wrapped around her stomach.

           “Sorry for the missed shots,” she gasped. “Had a little depth perception issues.” She went to dismount, instead tumbling to the ground. She crawled closer to Scaramouche leaving a bloody trail in her wake. Several swords, knives, and other sharp objects protruded from her arms and mid section. As she looked up, Jack could see that one of her eyes was missing. Jack sat on the ground, releasing Scaramouche’s hand so that he could wrap it around Vacors as she collapsed on top of him.

           “I’m going to get blood on your coat. Sorry.” She reached up with her left hand, gently tracing his temple with the low powered electricity. A coughing fit overtook her as more blood splattered onto Scaramouche’s coat.

           “Sss … Okay, babe. Let’s … let’s celebrate … new outfits.”

           “Wished I … could have seen you in action. So powerful. Jack, there’s … there’s soldering tools in my bike. Seal off the place where his arm was so he doesn’t bleed out. Doesn’t matter how bad it is. Get to the nearest town,” she managed to raise her arm and point towards the South East. “Get him to a hospital.”

           “…You, babe?”

           “Couple of scratches. No … no worries.” Jack could hear the lie, finally pulling himself to his feet. He found the soldering tool, wiping away the oil that was steadily draining from the missing limp and sealed the metal as best he could. Vacors rolled off of Scaramouche, crying out at the movement. Jack groaned, finally getting Scaramouche up and loaded in the backseat of the bike. He knelt beside Vacors, touching her face tenderly.

           “I’ll just be dead weight,” she protested as he lifted her up with a hand under each arm. He wedged her on the bike in front of him, wrapping the rope around him and Scaramouche. Revving Vacors’ bike to life, he took off in the direction she had pointed.

           Scaramouche promptly threw up when he came to, blackened oil flowing onto the hospital bed. A doctor towered over him, checking stats and assuring the robot that the pain would subside in the next few hours.

           “Where’s Vacors, babe?” he choked out, the doctor’s form hazy in his eyes. The doctor denied any knowledge of such a person, threatening to have Scaramouche strapped to the bed if he did not let go of the doctor’s coat. Once the doctor left, Jack approached the side of the bed.

           “Sammy baby, where’s Vacors?”

           “She’s in surgery on the human side of the hospital. They said you would be awake first, so I came to wait with you.”

           “Surgery? But, babe, she … oh, she was lying,” he realized quickly. He sat up suddenly, feeling another wave of vile threaten to spill from his mouth. “Let’s go see her.”

           “The doctors said you should rest for a few days. And don’t scat!”

           “I’ll be fine, babe. I feel good as new. Just … a little bit lighter, babe.” He stripped off his hospital gown as Jack shielded his eyes, still seeing more than he wanted in terms of robot anatomy.

           “Relax, Sammy baby,” Scaramouche let out a small chuckled, adjusting his belt, “It’s a lovely sight.” Jack waited until Scaramouche confirmed that he was in fact fully dressed before opening his eyes. Scaramouche made for the door, staggering wildly and nearly stumbling.

           “The pain killers have kicked in, babe,” he announced, steading himself on the door frame. “They’re the good ones.” Jack forced himself under Scaramouche’s remaining arm in order to keep him upright. They managed to get to the front desk, and after much protesting, Scaramouche was able to get himself discharged.

           “You’re doing quite well for someone who just lost an arm a day ago,” Jack commented as he was dragged along to the opposite side of the building.

           “I can barely feel that, babe. Soon as these painkillers wear off though, I’m going to be incredibly unhappy with my throat.” They were denied access to visit Vacors, so Jack took a seat in the waiting room, leaving Scaramouche to pace restlessly. As visiting hours came to a close, a nurse finally approached Jack.

           “I’ll be tending to Vacors after the surgery,” the woman explained. “There were some complications, so she will likely not be allowed visitors until later tomorrow. Don’t worry,” she turned to Scaramouche, who’s eyes had taken a fearful turn, “I’m very much acquainted with Vacors. She saved my family. She’s a fighter. I’ll take very good care of her. Why don’t you two find a place to stay for the night? Both of you look like you could use the sleep. Here’s Vacors’s phone. I wrote down her number, and I’ll call to check in tomorrow afternoon.” Jack thanked her, forcing Scaramouche out, who would have rather watched the surgery and spent the night on the hospital floor.

           “I don’t know about you, babe, but I need a drink. Maybe three.” He glanced around the city, finally realizing where they were. “And I know just the place, babe.” He began heading down the sidewalk, still unsteady on his feet, but moving quickly. They reached a bar, and Scaramouche made his way inside, taking a seat towards the end of the bar. Jack glanced around, not quite liking the dark atmosphere and loud music, but he perched on the seat next to Scaramouche.

           “Scaramouche! Long time, no see, man. You look like shit. Last one a little rough in bed?”

           “You wouldn’t believe, babe. I’ll take my usual. Strong.”

           “This your friend? Client?”            “This is Zephyrs, my new training partner, babe!” Scaramouche patted Jack on the back a little too forcefully. “Maybe a new client,” Scaramouche grinned slyly, leaning his elbow on the counter and resting his chin in his hand. “Drinks are on me tonight!” Jack only ordered water, much to Scaramouche’s dismay. Scaramouche ordered food as well, which surprised Jack, as he had only seen him consume liquids. The bartender rang up the order, beginning to mix up Scaramouche’s drink. He handed it off to them before checking on his guests at the other end. Scaramouche eyes fluttered a bit as he took a drink, shuttering a bit as he sat the mug back down.

           “Want a sip, babe? It’s consumable for humans.”

           “I’ll pass, thanks.” Jack watched as he drained nearly half the deep amber liquid in the next sip. He took a sip of his water, glancing around again to see if anyone recognized him. A few people were pointing at Scaramouche, but Jack was mostly ignored.

           “Want to dance, babe?”

           “Just looking around.” Scaramouche’s glass was drained by the time the food arrived. The bartender sat it down in front of Jack, who was confused. He slid it between him and Scaramouche, but Scaramouche just pushed it back.

           “You haven’t lived until you’ve had their burger, babe. If I could digest solids, I’d eat it.” He turned his attention to the bartender, resting his chin on his hand again. “Could I get another, babe?”

           “I hope you have tomorrow off, man. Or has it just been that kind of week?”

           “I’ve got a few days off. Going to crash in town for the night, babe, head out late tomorrow afternoon.” The bartender turned to Jack.

           “You making sure he get’s to a hotel or something tonight?”

           “Yes, I’ll make sure we get to the hotel,” Jack confirmed.

           “Alright, I’ll get you another one, Scaramouche. Gotta make the rounds first though.” The robot nodded. Jack turned his attention to the food. He had to admit it smelled wonderful, but was not sure he would call it a burger. The meat was a deep red, although it looked fully cooked, covered in an assortment of toppings Jack did not recognize. He felt Scaramouche studying him closely, so he finally picked it up and took a bite. His eyes went wide.

           “This … This is amazing,” he had hardly swallowed the first mouthful before exclaiming.

           “Thought you’d like it, babe.” Jack tore into it, realizing how famished he had become from waiting in the hospital all day. He had sewn himself up enough to not need to check himself in, merely meditating in Scaramouche’s room until the robot had woken up. He put it down after eating half, worried that the rich taste might not agree with him. The bartender returned ten minutes later, although Jack noticed he had not seemed to be as busy as he let on. He fixed a second drink, encouraging Scaramouche to let it last a bit longer.

           “The hotel I want to stay at for the night is all the way down this street. Take a left and then the second right. It’s kinda dark and not the prettiest, but it’s cheap and there are beds. Not too many other amenities, babe.” Scaramouche took another long drink. “Anyone who sees me with you can give you directions.”

           “Do you want to leave now?” Jack asked, having slowly resumed eating.

           “Not yet, babe.” Scaramouche had slowed down his consumption, this drink taking three times as long as the first, but Jack watched as he slowly sank towards the counter. His chin rested on his fist when his glass ran dry again. He held up one finger when the bartender returned.

           “Sit up a second,” the bartender demanded. Scaramouche rose back to his full height with a groan. “Watch my finger.” Jack watched as Scaramouche conceded.

           “What’s your address? Date?  My name?” Scaramouche rattled off all three answers, his speech slow but accurate.

           “You sure you want to do that? You’re pretty smashed. Worse than I’ve seen you.”

           “Please, babe.” Jack had to affirm again that he was indeed going to make sure Scaramouche got to a hotel for the night.

           “Fifteen minutes, and I’ll make you another. That’s it though. I don’t care if you stay, but that’s the last one for you.” Scaramouche nodded resting his hand back on his fist.

           “I don’t know if this is what you should do right after surgery,” Jack said softly, bringing his face even with Scaramouche’s.

           “It’s not, babe, but it’s helping. Last one, and then we’ll go. Promise, babe.” Jack couldn’t help but notice Scaramouche was of more an interest to the crowd as he slumped on the counter. He was catching snippets of conversation as people walked by, none of it pleasant.

           “Ignore them, babe. I’m not looking for work tonight.” The fifteen minutes passed, and Scaramouche sat back up so he could pay, leaving a generous tip as he began nursing the third drink. The bartender reached for something under the counter, sliding a small can of oil to Jack when he appeared again.

           “He’ll need something more substantive in the morning. It’s on the house.” He gave Scaramouche a hard time, telling him not to complain when he woke up feeling like death. Scaramouche ignored him, nursing the drink for the next half hour. A few people came up to him, seeing if he was free. As promised, Scaramouche turned them away.

           “Let’s go, babe. Got a good four hours before this wears off.” He slid his legs to the ground, still leaning heavily on the counter to keep himself upright. Jack was impressed when he pulled himself to full height and managed to stagger to the exit. Eventually, Jack found himself stationed under Scaramouche’s remaining arm as they followed the directions Scaramouche had given him earlier.

           The hotel had a bad feel to Jack, which was not alleviated when Scaramouche booked a room for a number of hours rather than for just the night. Jack took the key, noticing the possibly jealous looks of the check-in representatives as they headed to the elevator. Scaramouche was unusually quiet as the went into the room.

           Lacking amenities was not quite what Jack would have said. The room was incredibly small, containing only a queen size bed and tall bed frame. In the back corner was a small bathroom and shower. Jack did notice the room was impeciably clean for what he expected.

           “Let’s go to bed, Sammy baby,” Scaramouche cooed, pulling away and flopping down on the bed. “I’ve still got a good three and a half hours before I want to be asleep, babe.”

           “Get some rest. You must be tired.”

           “Not too tired, babe.” He sat back up, sitting on the edge of the bed. Jack stated that he was going to take a quick shower, turning his back on the robot. He heard the mattress begin squeaking rhythmically, turning back just enough to see Scaramouche bouncing on the edge with a wide grin. Jack’s face went a little red as he stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

           He let the hot water wash over him for a long time, hoping Scaramouche would just fall asleep. After an hour, he finally dried and redressed. Peeking out, he saw that Scaramouche was facing the bathroom door, head resting on his hand, legs out seductively, his coat barely low enough. He was still grinning, his eyes following Jack.

           “Two hours, babe. You know I owe you for the other day. When you spared me.” Jack’s face was still red, partley from the hot water, but Scaramouche was not making it any better. Finally, Scaramouche sighed in defeat.

           “Would you be happier if I just slept on the floor, babe?” Before waiting for an answer, he rolled off, not even bothering to break the fall. His body hit with a clang against the hardwood floor, causing Jack to wince verbally.

           “Don’t worry, babe. All the rooms are soundproof.”

           “You can sleep on the bed with me. I just … I don’t want … We should just sleep.” Jack spluttered out.

           “Are you sure? I can make it worth your while, Sammy baby.”

           “No – I mean, yes! Yes, I’m sure! No, I don’t want to do anything.” Scaramouche chuckled, moving to push himself off the floor. He forgot that he no longer had a right arm, falling face first into the floor again. Jack reached him in a few steps, helping pull him back to his feet.

           “I don’t know what Vacors told you, babe, but it doesn’t bother me if I offer to provide. Humans are easier on my body, anyway.”

           “No offense, but I’m not interested tonight.”

           “Maybe tomorrow then, baby,” he grinned, getting back into bed. He lay on his back, his hand resting on his chest. Jack took a position near the edge of the bed. He closed his eyes, hearing the soft rustle as Scaramouche tapped his fingers impatiently.

           “She’s not alright, babe,” he spoke after almost an hour. Jack jumped slightly, having been on the verge of sleep. “There shouldn’t be complications in hospitals. They’ve gotten a lot better in the last hundred years.” Jack had not considered that. He was surprised that Scaramouche was released so quickly when he had nearly died in front of him eight hours earlier, but he had not considered the hospitals overall had improved.

           “We should get some sleep so we can visit her tomorrow.”

           “What will I do without her, babe?”

           “There’s no need to speculate.” Jack rolled to face Scaramouche, resting his arm across the robot’s chest. Scaramouche took his hand, holding it uncomfortably tight. “She’s a fighter. We both know that.” Jack held his tongue as Scaramouche rolled to his right, hugging Jack tight.

           “I can’t sleep. I thought the alcohol would help, babe. I just want to relax, but I keep seeing his face and watching her die. I knew I’d face him again, but … babe, I was scared. I’m still scared.” Jack held him tight, realizing he was talking about the assassin that was fighting him. He wondered if that was the same one Vacors had referred to, assuming it was based on Scaramouche’s reaction.

           “He can’t hurt you anymore,” Jack assured him. “Vacors saw to that. Her surgery might just take longer due to her age and condition.” Scaramouche agreed, but Jack could see his eyes still burned brightly in the darkness as he starred off into the distance.

           Jack woke in the night, hearing the rhythmic snoring in his ear. Even as he slept, Scaramouche’s hold had not slacked. If anything, it had become tighter, as Jack found he could hardly move the top half of his body. He held the robot close, willing him a long night’s sleep as the snoring droned into background noise.

           The ringing phone woke him later, although he was unsure of the time with the windowless room.  Scaramouche’s death grip did not loosen, so he pried himself away to answer.

           “Guess who’s still alive?”

           “Vacors! How are you?”

           “Not feeling like myself. Can’t believe you all wanted to save me that bad. Did Scaramouche take you out partying last night? It’s nearly noon and it sounds like you just woke up.”

           “We went out for a bit yesterday evening. It’s hard to tell what time it is in the room we stayed in.” Vacors chuckled, knowing exactly where they were.

           “I’m still recovering, but I think I’m going to bail. The news broke and it’s a mess. I’ll meet you outside in two hours? I’d say try to keep a low profile, but that’s going to be impossible.”

           “We’ll be there. Do you want to talk to Scaramouche?”

           “I’m guessing he’s still asleep, so no. If you all went out drinking last night, and he had more than one, he’s going to be sick as soon as you wake him. Thought you should have a fair warning.”

           “Thank you. I’ll take care of him. We will see you soon.” Jack smiled, relieved. She sounded groggy still and a bit solemn, but she had pulled through. He turned back to the robot wondering how close to the bathroom he could get him before he woke up.

           “I don’t see her, babe. Did she say where outside?”

           “No,” Jack conceded, trying to act casual as he looked around. There was already a bounty on Vacors’s head, one of the assassins having gotten away from her and spread the word of her attack. So far as he knew, Scaramouche was not a wanted robot, his death only thought to be a lie told by Vacors. Some people praised him, having thought he fought to defend Aku and lost an arm in the process. They passed a bus stop, seeing a few people waiting, but Vacors was not in sight. They walked the length of the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

           “Babe, what if they got her?”

           “She’s probably just hiding.” They made another round, passing by the bus stop again. Everyone else had boarded and one person sat at the end of the bench. Jack and Scaramouche passed it and stopped, trying to figure out another plan.

           “Glad to see this works pretty well,” the man on the bench spoke. Scaramouche turned to look at him, tilting his head. Jack followed in suit, finally noticing something familiar. The man held up a dagger, one that had previously been embedded in Vacors last time they had both seen her.

           “Thought I’d do a bit of a makeover while I was under the knife. Well, had been thinking about it for a couple decades, but just didn’t have the opportunity. Also, you’re probably getting a large bill this month from the hospital,” Vacors added sheepishly to Scaramouche. “The nurse helped me dye my hair. I kinda like electric yellow. It’s still going to be messy, just a little bit shorter.”

           With a swift motion, Scaramouche picked him up, pulling Vacors tight.

           “I do still have a ribcage and I’d like to keep it in one piece,” he wheezed.

           “Babe, you look great! You should have told me before! I would have helped pay for the surgery.”

           “Wasn’t sure … if it’s what … I really wanted …” He began pushing away, needing some air. “But then, I thought about you the whole time I was bleeding out on the way here and finally came to terms. I didn’t know that I loved you so much, wishing I could have told you before, in case I didn’t make it.” Scaramouche hugged him tighter again, trying to speak but unable to form words.

           “And I wanted to be with you. I’m not sure if I’m what you want, but you’re my best friend, and I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.” Scaramouche was spinning them now, dancing down the sidewalk. Jack couldn’t help but smile as he followed.

           “We gotta get out of here though. I promise, I’ll do this better later, but we need to leave.”

           “Babe!” Scaramouche nuzzled into his neck, leaving a quick peck on his cheek. “Yes, babe, yes!” He finally sat him down, and the three hurried to the bike. Vacors jumped on first, Scaramouche behind him, and finally Jack. They tore off down the street, finally free.

[spicynbachili1]

How ‘miniature suns’ could provide cheap, clean energy

Picture copyright Getty Pictures

Picture caption Our solar is a big nuclear fusion reactor. Can we mimic its energy-making course of on earth?

We’re simply 5 years away from harnessing virtually limitless energy from “miniature suns”, some start-ups say: nuclear fusion reactors that would present plentiful, low-cost and clear power.

In a world of worldwide warming brought on by our habit to fossil fuels, there may be an pressing want to seek out sustainable different sources of power.

If we do not, the longer term seems decidedly bleak for hundreds of thousands of individuals on this planet: water and meals shortages resulting in famine and battle.

Nuclear fusion has lengthy been heralded as a possible reply to our prayers. But it surely’s at all times been “thirty years away”, in accordance with the business joke.

Now a number of start-ups are saying they’ll make fusion a industrial actuality a lot sooner.

What’s nuclear fusion precisely?

Nuclear fusion is the merging of atomic nuclei to launch plenty of power and it has the potential to deal with our power disaster.

It is the identical course of that powers the solar, and it is clear and – comparatively – secure. There are not any emissions.

However forcing these nuclei – deuterium and tritium, each types of hydrogen – to fuse collectively underneath immense strain takes large quantities of power – greater than we have managed to get out to date.

Picture copyright Getty Pictures

Picture caption Nuclear fusion produces large quantities of power, nevertheless it’s tough to realize and management

Reaching “power achieve”, the purpose at which we get out extra power than we put in, has been tantalisingly elusive.

Fusion power pushed again past 2050

Not any extra, fusion start-ups say.

“That is the ‘SpaceX second’ for fusion,” says Christofer Mowry, chief govt of Common Fusion, a Canadian firm aiming to display fusion on a industrial scale inside the subsequent 5 years.

“It is the second when the maturation of fusion science is mixed with the emergence of 21st Century enabling applied sciences like additive manufacturing and high-temperature superconductors.

“Fusion is now not ’30 years away’,” he maintains.

Picture copyright TOKAMAK ENERGY

Picture caption Plasma glow inside Tokamak Power’s newest nuclear fusion reactor

The science behind the thought has been confirmed, says Wade Allison, emeritus professor of physics at Keble School, Oxford. The problem is extra sensible.

“The timescale we won’t be certain about, however the primary science is solved and the issues are technical ones to do with supplies,” says Prof Allison.

Why is it so tough?

A significant problem is how you can construct a construction sturdy sufficient to comprise the plasma – the very high-temperature nuclear soup during which the fusion reactions happen – underneath the large pressures required.

Exhaust techniques will “have to face up to ranges of warmth and energy akin to these skilled by a spaceship re-entering orbit,” says Prof Ian Chapman, chief govt of the UK Atomic Power Authority (UKAEA),

Robotic upkeep techniques may even be wanted, in addition to techniques for breeding, recovering and storing the gas.

Ministers make investments £86m in nuclear fusion

“UKAEA is wanting into all these points, and is constructing new analysis services at Culham Science Centre close to Oxford to work with business to develop options,” says Prof Chapman.

So what’s modified?

Some personal power corporations reckon they’re surmounting these sensible challenges quicker by using new supplies and applied sciences.

Oxfordshire-based Tokamak Power is engaged on spherical tokamaks or reactors that use excessive temperature superconductors (HTS) to comprise the plasma in a really sturdy magnetic subject.

Picture copyright TOKAMAK ENERGY

Picture caption Tokamak Power is making an attempt to construct cheaper, extra compact fusion reactors

“Excessive temperature” within the context of this department of physics means a distinctly chilly -70C or under.

“They have been by far probably the most profitable thus far,” says Jonathan Carling, the agency’s chief govt.

“A spherical tokamak is a way more environment friendly topography, and we are able to drastically enhance the compactness and the effectivity. And since it is smaller, it may be extra versatile, and the fee to construct can also be decrease,” he says.

The corporate has constructed three tokamaks to date, with the third, ST40, constructed from 30mm (1.2in) stainless-steel and utilizing HTS magnets. This June it achieved plasma temperatures of greater than 15 million C – hotter than the core of the solar.

Extra Expertise of Enterprise

The agency hopes to be hitting 100 million C by subsequent summer time – a feat Chinese language scientists declare to have achieved this month.

“We anticipate to have power achieve functionality by 2022 and be supplying power to the grid by 2030,” says Mr Carling.

In the meantime within the US, MIT [Massachusetts Institute of Technology] is working with the newly-formed Commonwealth Fusion Programs (CFS) to develop Sparc, a doughnut-shaped tokamak with magnetic fields holding the new plasma in place.

Funded partially by Breakthrough Power Ventures, a fund led by Invoice Gates, Jeff Bezos, Michael Bloomberg and different billionaires, the workforce hopes to develop fusion reactors sufficiently small to be inbuilt factories and shipped for meeting on website.

These personal ventures are difficult Iter [International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor], the flagship worldwide fusion challenge involving 35 nations.

Picture copyright Getty Pictures

Picture caption The Iter nuclear fusion reactor won’t be accomplished till 2025

Iter, which additionally means “the way in which” in Latin, is constructing the most important experimental fusion facility on the planet, nevertheless it would not anticipate to fireside up till 2025, and any industrial software will come a good distance after that.

“Completely different Iter members have completely different ranges of urgency for utilizing fusion as a part of a clear power future,” a spokesman tells the BBC.

“Some clearly anticipate to have fusion electrical energy to the grid earlier than 2050; for others the roadmap is within the second half of this century.”

The brand new youngsters on the block suppose they’ll do higher.

“With the brand new HTS magnet know-how, a net-energy fusion system may be a lot, a lot smaller – Sparc can be about one sixty-fourth the quantity and mass of Iter,” says Martin Greenwald, deputy director of MIT’s plasma science and fusion centre.

Smaller dimension means decrease prices, leaving the fusion subject open to “smaller, extra agile organisations”, says Mr Greenwald.

Picture copyright Getty Pictures

Picture caption Nuclear energy is confirmed know-how however its waste merchandise are poisonous for lots of of years

However all events appear to agree that the work of Iter, Culham and the personal sector is complementary.

“Ultimately, all of us share the identical dream of fusion-powered electrical energy as a core a part of a clear power future,” says the Iter spokesman.

Comply with Expertise of Enterprise editor Matthew Wall on Twitter and Fb

Click on right here for extra Expertise of Enterprise options

from SpicyNBAChili.com http://spicymoviechili.spicynbachili.com/how-miniature-suns-could-provide-cheap-clean-energy/

[jesseneufeld]

The Definitive Guide to Inflammation

Inflammation gets a bad rap in the alternative health world: “Inflammation causes heart disease, cancer, and autoimmune disease! It’s at the root of depression.” These are all true—to some extent.

Name a disease, and inflammation is involved.

Crohn’s disease is inflammatory.

Major depression is inflammatory.

Heart disease is inflammatory.

Autoimmune diseases, which involve an inflammatory response directed at your own tissues, are inflammatory.

Arthritis is inflammatory.

Even obesity is inflammatory, with fat cells literally secreting inflammatory cytokines.

Yes, but the story is more complicated than that. Inflammation, after all, is a natural process developed through millions of years of evolution. It can’t be wholly negative. Just like our bodies didn’t evolve to manufacture cholesterol to give us heart disease, inflammation isn’t there to give us degenerative diseases.

So, Why Does Inflammation Happen?

When pain, injury, or illness hit, the first responder is the acute inflammatory response. In other words, it is brief, lasting several days or less. All sorts of things can cause an acute inflammatory response. Here are a few:

Trauma (punch, kick, golf ball to the head)

Infection by pathogens (bacterial, viral)

Burn (sun, fire, seat belt buckle on a summer day)

Chemical irritants

Frostbite

Stabbing/Cut/Laceration

Allergic reaction

Things happen pretty fast in an acute inflammatory response and involve several different players, including the vascular system (veins, arteries, capillaries and such), the immune system, and the cells local to the injury.

First, something painful and unpleasant happens; choose one of the above injury options.

Then, pattern recognition receptors (PRR) located at the injury site initiate the release of various inflammatory mediators, which in turn initiate vasodilation (or widening of the blood vessels). This allows increased blood flow to the injury site, which warms the site, turns it the familiar red, and carries plasma and leukocytes to the site of the injured tissue.

The blood vessels become more permeable, thus allowing the plasma and leukocytes to flow through the vessel walls and into the injured tissue to do their work. Emigration of plasma into tissue also means fluid buildup, which means swelling.

At the same time, the body releases an inflammatory mediator called bradykinin, which increases pain sensitivity at the site and discourages usage of the injured area. These sensations—heat, redness, swelling, pain, and a loss of function—are annoying and familiar, but they’re absolutely necessary for proper healing.

Why Is (Acute) Inflammation Essential?

Allow me to explain why the four primary symptoms of acute inflammation are necessary, despite being unpleasant:

Increased blood flow warms the injury and turns it red, which can be irritating and unsightly, but it also carries the guys—leukocytes—that will be cleaning up the injury site, mopping up pathogens, and overseeing the inflammatory process.

Swollen body parts don’t fit into gloves, are really sensitive, and don’t work as well as their slim counterparts, but a swollen finger is a finger that’s full of a plasma and leukocyte slurry and therefore on the road to recovery.

Pain hurts, but if an injury doesn’t hurt and it’s serious, you’ll keep damaging it because you won’t know not to use it.

Loss of function prevents you from using what could be one of your favorite body parts, but you don’t want to make it worse be re-injuring it. Besides, it’s only temporary.

What About Chronic Inflammation?

These symptoms both indicate and enable inflammation (and, thus, healing), but what’s the deal with inflammation being linked with all those chronic illnesses—like obesity, heart disease, and depression? How does something normal and helpful go haywire and become implicated in some of the most crushing, tragic diseases of our time?

When inflammation becomes chronic and systemic, when it ceases to be an acute response, when it becomes a constant low-level feature of your physiology that’s always on and always engaged, the big problems arise.

The inflammatory response is supposed to be short and to the point. And because a big part of inflammation is breaking the tissue down, targeting damaged tissue and invading pathogens, before building it back up, the inflammatory response has the potential to damage the body. That’s why it’s normally a tightly regulated system: because we don’t want it getting out of hand and targeting healthy tissue. But if it’s on all the time—if chronic inflammation sets in—regulation becomes a lot harder.

Acute vs. Chronic Inflammation

A perfect example of the acute inflammation versus chronic inflammation dichotomy is exercise.

A single hard workout raises inflammation. It’s a stressor, a damaging event imposed upon your body. See for yourself.

A hard run spikes C-reactive protein for up to two days.

During exercise, skeletal muscle releases the inflammatory cytokine IL-6, a marker of damage.

Volleyball practice elicits spikes in IL-6 in both male and female elite volleyball players.

Acute exercise spiked CRP in cardiovascular disease patients (but a four-month exercise program lowered it).

This table of inflammatory responses to strenuous endurance events shows some massive spikes in CRP, some up to 20-fold the baseline value.

Yet, study after study (epidemiological and clinical alike) shows that extended exercise programs generally reduce markers of inflammation (like C-reactive protein) over the long-term:

In elderly Japanese women, a 12-week resistance training program reduced circulating levels of inflammatory markers compared to baseline; reductions in CRP were associated with increases in muscle thickness.

American adults who engaged in frequent physical activity tended to have lower CRPs than adults who were more sedentary.

In type 2 diabetics, (key term coming up) long-term high intensity resistance and aerobic training reduced inflammatory markers over the course of a year (independent of changes in body weight, meaning activity was the key factor).

Endurance combined with resistance training reduced CRP in young, healthy women better than endurance training alone.

In obese, post-menopausal women, a basic moderate cardio program lowered CRP without really affecting body weight either way over the course of a year.

There are many more out there, but the general gist is that regular exercise tends to lower markers of systemic inflammation while acute exercise increases markers of acute inflammation. And sometimes what’s acute can become chronic. How do we make sense of this? How do we avoid making those acute spikes a chronic, constant thing?

Identifying Chronic Inflammation: Objective Markers

First, we need to be able to identify chronic inflammation. What symptoms and biomarkers can we use to track our inflammation levels?

CRP, or C-Reactive Protein

CRP is a protein that binds with dead and dying cells and bacteria in order to clear them from the body. It can always be found (and measured) in the bloodstream, but levels spike when inflammation is at hand. During acute inflammation caused by infection, for example, CRP can spike by up to 50,000-fold. CRP spikes due to acute inflammation peak at around 48 hours and declines pretty quickly thereafter (post acute-phase inflammation CRP has a half life of 18 hours). Thus, if the incident causing the inflammation is resolved, CRP goes back to normal within a few days. If it persists, the infection/trauma/etc. probably persists as well.

Highly sensitive to many different kinds of stressors, CRP rises in response to essentially anything that causes inflammation. This makes it valuable for determining that inflammation is occurring, but it makes it difficult to determine why that inflammation is occurring—because it could be almost anything. But if you’re looking for confirmation that you are chronically, systemically inflamed, an elevated CRP (in absence of any acute infections, injuries, burns, or stressors) is a useful barometer.

“Normal” CRP levels are supposedly 10 mg/L. Absent infection or acute stressors, however, ideal CRP levels are well under 1 mg/L. You want to stay well below 1; you don’t want “normal.” Between 10-40 mg/L (and perhaps even 1-9 mg/L, too) indicates systemic inflammation (or pregnancy), while anything above that is associated with real acute stuff. Note that exercise can elevate CRP, so don’t get tested if you’ve worked out in the last couple days.

IL-6, or Interleukin-6

T cells (type of white blood cell that plays a huge role in the immune response) and macrophages (cells that engulf and digest—also known as phagocytosing—stray tissue and pathogens) both secrete IL-6 as part of the inflammatory response, so elevated IL-6 can indicate systemic inflammation.

Tissue Omega-3 Content

This is a direct measurement of the omega-3 content of your bodily tissue. It’s not widely available, but it is very useful. Remember that anti-inflammatory eicosanoids draw upon the omega-3 fats in your tissues and that inflammatory eicosanoids draw upon the omega-6 fats. People having a higher proportion of omega-6 fats will thus produce more inflammatory eicosanoids. Now, we absolutely need both inflammatory and anti-inflammatory eicosanoids for proper inflammatory responses, but people with high omega-6 tissue levels make way too many inflammatory eicosanoids. Studies indicate that people with the highest omega-3 tissue levels suffer fewer inflammatory diseases (like coronary heart disease).

Research (highlighted and explicated here by Chris Kresser) suggests that omega-3 tissue concentrations of around 60% are ideal, which is a level commonly seen in Japan—the seemingly paradoxical land of high blood pressure, heavy smoking, and low coronary heart disease rates.

Omega-3 Index

This measures the EPA and DHA, the two important omega-3 fatty acids, as a percentage of total fatty acids present in your red blood cells. It doesn’t correlate exactly to tissue amounts, but it’s pretty good and a powerful predictor of cardiovascular disease risk. The omega-3 index doesn’t measure omega-6 content, but those with a low omega-3 index are probably sporting excessive omega-6 in their red blood cells.

Anything above 8% corresponds to a “low risk,” but levels of 12-15% are ideal and roughly correspond to the 60% tissue content mentioned by Chris’ article. Four percent and below is higher risk and can be viewed as a proxy for increased inflammation (or at least the risk of harmful systemic inflammation developing from normal inflammation).

Heart Rate Variability

I’ve written extensively on HRV in the past. Long story short, high HRV predicts lower levels of inflammation.

Systemic Inflammatory Response Syndrome Score

There’s the systemic inflammatory response syndrome, which is incredibly serious and has four criteria. If you have two or more of them at once, congratulations: you qualify—and should probably see a health professional immediately. This isn’t relevant for low-grade systemic inflammation, like the kind associated with obesity or autoimmune disease.

Body temperature less than 96.8 F (36 C) or greater than 100.4 F (38 C).

Heart rate above 90 beats per minute.

High respiratory rate, 20 breaths per minute or higher.

White blood cell count fewer than 4000 cells/mm³ or greater than 12,000 cells/mm³.

Of these objective markers to test, I’d lean toward CRP, HRV, and one of the omega-3 tests. CRP is pretty comprehensive, HRV is a two-fer (inflammation and general stress/recovery), and, while omega-3 tissue or blood cell content doesn’t necessarily indicate the existence of systemic inflammation in your body, it does indicate the severity of the inflammatory response you can expect your body to have. Taken together, these tests will give you an idea of where you stand.

Identifying Inflammation: Subjective Markers

There are also subjective markers. They may be harmless artifacts, but they may indicate that something systemic is going on.

Flare-up of Autoimmune Conditions You Haven’t Heard From In Ages

Sore joints, dry, patchy, and/or red skin, and anything else that indicates a flare-up. For me, this is usually mild arthritis.

Water Retention

Acute inflammation is often characterized by swelling at the site of injury. The same effect seems to occur in states of systemic inflammation, although they aren’t localized, but rather generalized.

Stress Load

If you feel stressed, you’re probably inflamed. I’m talking about the kind that has you rubbing your temples, face palming, sighing every couple minutes, and pinching the space between your eyes very, very hard.

Persistent But Unexplained Nasal Congestion

Could be allergies, sure, but I’ve always noticed that when I’m under a lot of stress and generally in an inflamed state, my nose gets clogged. Certain foods will trigger this, too, and I think it can all be linked to a persistent but subtle state of inflammation.

Overtraining

If you fit the bill for the eight signs of overtraining listed in this post, you’re probably inflamed.

Ultimately, though? It comes down to the simple question you must ask yourself: How do you feel?

I mean, this seems like an obvious marker, but a lot of people ignore it in pursuit of numbers. If you feel run down, lethargic, unhappy, your workouts are suffering, you struggle to get out of bed, you’re putting on a little extra weight around the waist, sex isn’t as interesting, etc., etc., etc., you may be suffering from some manner of systemic, low-grade inflammation. Conversely, if you’re full of energy, generally pleased and/or content with life, killing it in the gym, bounding out of bed, lean as ever or on your way there, and your sex drive is powerful and age appropriate (or inappropriate), you’re probably not suffering from chronic inflammation.

Causes of Chronic Inflammation

We need to determine why inflammation is “on” all the time—and then take the steps to counter it. I’m going to fire off a few things that both induce inflammation and tend toward prevalence in developed countries. You let me know if anything sounds familiar to you.

Toxic diets: High-sugar, high-processed carb, high-industrial fat, high-gluten, high-CAFO meat, low-nutrient food is a pretty accurate descriptor of the modern Western diet.

Insufficient omega-3 intake: Omega-3 fats form the precursors for anti-inflammatory eicosanoids, which are an integral part of the inflammatory response. Poor omega-3 status means insufficient production of anti-inflammatory eicosanoids and a lopsided inflammatory response to normal stimuli.

Excessive omega-6 intake: Omega-6 fats form the precursors for inflammatory eicosanoids, which are an integral part of the inflammatory response. High omega-6 status (especially when combined with poor omega-3 status) means excessive production of inflammatory eicosanoids and a lopsided inflammatory response to normal stimuli. The more omega-6 you eat, the more omega-3 you crowd out for anti-inflammatory eicasonoid formation.

Lack of sleep: Poor sleep is linked to elevated inflammatory markers. Poor sleep is a chronic problem in developed nations. Either we go to bed too late, wake up too early, or we use too many electronics late at night and disrupt the quality of what little sleep we get. Or all three at once.

Lack of movement: People lead sedentary lives, by and large, and a lack of activity is strongly linked to systemic, low-grade inflammation. People don’t have to walk to get places, they take escalators and elevators, they sit for hours on end, and they don’t have time for regular exercise.

Poor recovery: Other people move too much, with too little rest and recovery. When I ran 100+ miles a week, I certainly wasn’t sedentary, but I was chronically inflamed. Overtraining is a form of chronic inflammation.

Chronic stress: Modern life is stressful. Bills, work, commuting, politics, exercise that you hate – it all adds up and it doesn’t seem to let up or go away. And if it becomes too much for you to handle (I know it’s too much for me at times), your body will have a physiological, inflammatory response to emotional stress.

Lack of down time: When you’re always on the computer, always checking your email/Facebook/smartphone, you are always “on.” You may think you’re relaxing because your body is stationary, but you’re not relaxing.

Lack of nature time: We spend too much time contained in cubicles, cars, trains, and cities, away from trees, leaves, and soft earth. In a way, nature is home for us. Going home certainly has its measured benefits.

Poor gut health: The gut houses the bulk of the human immune system. When it’s unhealthy, so is your inflammatory regulation. A healthy gut is also selectively permeable, allowing beneficial compounds passage into the body and keeping toxins out. An unhealthy gut often becomes leaky, allowing toxins into the body to stimulate an immune, inflammatory response.

Poor acute stressor/chronic stress ratio: We respond far better to acute stressors than repeated, sustained stress – even if the latter is of a lower intensity.

See what I mean? Since we’re set up for acute stressors requiring an acute inflammatory response, all this other low-level, evolutionarily-discordant, superficially mild stuff set against a backdrop of misaligned fatty acid ratios and impaired gut health throws us off and sets us up for a lifetime of chronic inflammation.

Inflammation is a complex physiological process that can go wrong in a lot of ways. But luckily, sticking to the tried and true dietary and lifestyle measures will get you most of the way toward preventing inflammation from becoming chronic and untamed.

If you have any further questions about inflammation, fire away down below! Thanks for reading.

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References:

Eliakim A, Portal S, Zadik Z, et al. The effect of a volleyball practice on anabolic hormones and inflammatory markers in elite male and female adolescent players. J Strength Cond Res. 2009;23(5):1553-9.

Lara fernandes J, Serrano CV, Toledo F, et al. Acute and chronic effects of exercise on inflammatory markers and B-type natriuretic peptide in patients with coronary artery disease. Clin Res Cardiol. 2011;100(1):77-84.

Ford ES. Does exercise reduce inflammation? Physical activity and C-reactive protein among U.S. adults. Epidemiology. 2002;13(5):561-8.

Balducci S, Zanuso S, Nicolucci A, et al. Anti-inflammatory effect of exercise training in subjects with type 2 diabetes and the metabolic syndrome is dependent on exercise modalities and independent of weight loss. Nutr Metab Cardiovasc Dis. 2010;20(8):608-17.

Daray LA, Henagan TM, Zanovec M, et al. Endurance and resistance training lowers C-reactive protein in young, healthy females. Appl Physiol Nutr Metab. 2011;36(5):660-70.

The post The Definitive Guide to Inflammation appeared first on Mark's Daily Apple.

The Definitive Guide to Inflammation published first on https://drugaddictionsrehab.tumblr.com/

[lauramalchowblog]

The Definitive Guide to Inflammation

Inflammation gets a bad rap in the alternative health world: “Inflammation causes heart disease, cancer, and autoimmune disease! It’s at the root of depression.” These are all true—to some extent.

Name a disease, and inflammation is involved.

Crohn’s disease is inflammatory.

Major depression is inflammatory.

Heart disease is inflammatory.

Autoimmune diseases, which involve an inflammatory response directed at your own tissues, are inflammatory.

Arthritis is inflammatory.

Even obesity is inflammatory, with fat cells literally secreting inflammatory cytokines.

Yes, but the story is more complicated than that. Inflammation, after all, is a natural process developed through millions of years of evolution. It can’t be wholly negative. Just like our bodies didn’t evolve to manufacture cholesterol to give us heart disease, inflammation isn’t there to give us degenerative diseases.

So, Why Does Inflammation Happen?

When pain, injury, or illness hit, the first responder is the acute inflammatory response. In other words, it is brief, lasting several days or less. All sorts of things can cause an acute inflammatory response. Here are a few:

Trauma (punch, kick, golf ball to the head)

Infection by pathogens (bacterial, viral)

Burn (sun, fire, seat belt buckle on a summer day)

Chemical irritants

Frostbite

Stabbing/Cut/Laceration

Allergic reaction

Things happen pretty fast in an acute inflammatory response and involve several different players, including the vascular system (veins, arteries, capillaries and such), the immune system, and the cells local to the injury.

First, something painful and unpleasant happens; choose one of the above injury options.

Then, pattern recognition receptors (PRR) located at the injury site initiate the release of various inflammatory mediators, which in turn initiate vasodilation (or widening of the blood vessels). This allows increased blood flow to the injury site, which warms the site, turns it the familiar red, and carries plasma and leukocytes to the site of the injured tissue.

The blood vessels become more permeable, thus allowing the plasma and leukocytes to flow through the vessel walls and into the injured tissue to do their work. Emigration of plasma into tissue also means fluid buildup, which means swelling.

At the same time, the body releases an inflammatory mediator called bradykinin, which increases pain sensitivity at the site and discourages usage of the injured area. These sensations—heat, redness, swelling, pain, and a loss of function—are annoying and familiar, but they’re absolutely necessary for proper healing.

Why Is (Acute) Inflammation Essential?

Allow me to explain why the four primary symptoms of acute inflammation are necessary, despite being unpleasant:

Increased blood flow warms the injury and turns it red, which can be irritating and unsightly, but it also carries the guys—leukocytes—that will be cleaning up the injury site, mopping up pathogens, and overseeing the inflammatory process.

Swollen body parts don’t fit into gloves, are really sensitive, and don’t work as well as their slim counterparts, but a swollen finger is a finger that’s full of a plasma and leukocyte slurry and therefore on the road to recovery.

Pain hurts, but if an injury doesn’t hurt and it’s serious, you’ll keep damaging it because you won’t know not to use it.

Loss of function prevents you from using what could be one of your favorite body parts, but you don’t want to make it worse be re-injuring it. Besides, it’s only temporary.

What About Chronic Inflammation?

These symptoms both indicate and enable inflammation (and, thus, healing), but what’s the deal with inflammation being linked with all those chronic illnesses—like obesity, heart disease, and depression? How does something normal and helpful go haywire and become implicated in some of the most crushing, tragic diseases of our time?

When inflammation becomes chronic and systemic, when it ceases to be an acute response, when it becomes a constant low-level feature of your physiology that’s always on and always engaged, the big problems arise.

The inflammatory response is supposed to be short and to the point. And because a big part of inflammation is breaking the tissue down, targeting damaged tissue and invading pathogens, before building it back up, the inflammatory response has the potential to damage the body. That’s why it’s normally a tightly regulated system: because we don’t want it getting out of hand and targeting healthy tissue. But if it’s on all the time—if chronic inflammation sets in—regulation becomes a lot harder.

Acute vs. Chronic Inflammation

A perfect example of the acute inflammation versus chronic inflammation dichotomy is exercise.

A single hard workout raises inflammation. It’s a stressor, a damaging event imposed upon your body. See for yourself.

A hard run spikes C-reactive protein for up to two days.

During exercise, skeletal muscle releases the inflammatory cytokine IL-6, a marker of damage.

Volleyball practice elicits spikes in IL-6 in both male and female elite volleyball players.

Acute exercise spiked CRP in cardiovascular disease patients (but a four-month exercise program lowered it).

This table of inflammatory responses to strenuous endurance events shows some massive spikes in CRP, some up to 20-fold the baseline value.

Yet, study after study (epidemiological and clinical alike) shows that extended exercise programs generally reduce markers of inflammation (like C-reactive protein) over the long-term:

In elderly Japanese women, a 12-week resistance training program reduced circulating levels of inflammatory markers compared to baseline; reductions in CRP were associated with increases in muscle thickness.

American adults who engaged in frequent physical activity tended to have lower CRPs than adults who were more sedentary.

In type 2 diabetics, (key term coming up) long-term high intensity resistance and aerobic training reduced inflammatory markers over the course of a year (independent of changes in body weight, meaning activity was the key factor).

Endurance combined with resistance training reduced CRP in young, healthy women better than endurance training alone.

In obese, post-menopausal women, a basic moderate cardio program lowered CRP without really affecting body weight either way over the course of a year.

There are many more out there, but the general gist is that regular exercise tends to lower markers of systemic inflammation while acute exercise increases markers of acute inflammation. And sometimes what’s acute can become chronic. How do we make sense of this? How do we avoid making those acute spikes a chronic, constant thing?

Identifying Chronic Inflammation: Objective Markers

First, we need to be able to identify chronic inflammation. What symptoms and biomarkers can we use to track our inflammation levels?

CRP, or C-Reactive Protein

CRP is a protein that binds with dead and dying cells and bacteria in order to clear them from the body. It can always be found (and measured) in the bloodstream, but levels spike when inflammation is at hand. During acute inflammation caused by infection, for example, CRP can spike by up to 50,000-fold. CRP spikes due to acute inflammation peak at around 48 hours and declines pretty quickly thereafter (post acute-phase inflammation CRP has a half life of 18 hours). Thus, if the incident causing the inflammation is resolved, CRP goes back to normal within a few days. If it persists, the infection/trauma/etc. probably persists as well.

Highly sensitive to many different kinds of stressors, CRP rises in response to essentially anything that causes inflammation. This makes it valuable for determining that inflammation is occurring, but it makes it difficult to determine why that inflammation is occurring—because it could be almost anything. But if you’re looking for confirmation that you are chronically, systemically inflamed, an elevated CRP (in absence of any acute infections, injuries, burns, or stressors) is a useful barometer.

“Normal” CRP levels are supposedly 10 mg/L. Absent infection or acute stressors, however, ideal CRP levels are well under 1 mg/L. You want to stay well below 1; you don’t want “normal.” Between 10-40 mg/L (and perhaps even 1-9 mg/L, too) indicates systemic inflammation (or pregnancy), while anything above that is associated with real acute stuff. Note that exercise can elevate CRP, so don’t get tested if you’ve worked out in the last couple days.

IL-6, or Interleukin-6

T cells (type of white blood cell that plays a huge role in the immune response) and macrophages (cells that engulf and digest—also known as phagocytosing—stray tissue and pathogens) both secrete IL-6 as part of the inflammatory response, so elevated IL-6 can indicate systemic inflammation.

Tissue Omega-3 Content

This is a direct measurement of the omega-3 content of your bodily tissue. It’s not widely available, but it is very useful. Remember that anti-inflammatory eicosanoids draw upon the omega-3 fats in your tissues and that inflammatory eicosanoids draw upon the omega-6 fats. People having a higher proportion of omega-6 fats will thus produce more inflammatory eicosanoids. Now, we absolutely need both inflammatory and anti-inflammatory eicosanoids for proper inflammatory responses, but people with high omega-6 tissue levels make way too many inflammatory eicosanoids. Studies indicate that people with the highest omega-3 tissue levels suffer fewer inflammatory diseases (like coronary heart disease).

Research (highlighted and explicated here by Chris Kresser) suggests that omega-3 tissue concentrations of around 60% are ideal, which is a level commonly seen in Japan—the seemingly paradoxical land of high blood pressure, heavy smoking, and low coronary heart disease rates.

Omega-3 Index

This measures the EPA and DHA, the two important omega-3 fatty acids, as a percentage of total fatty acids present in your red blood cells. It doesn’t correlate exactly to tissue amounts, but it’s pretty good and a powerful predictor of cardiovascular disease risk. The omega-3 index doesn’t measure omega-6 content, but those with a low omega-3 index are probably sporting excessive omega-6 in their red blood cells.

Anything above 8% corresponds to a “low risk,” but levels of 12-15% are ideal and roughly correspond to the 60% tissue content mentioned by Chris’ article. Four percent and below is higher risk and can be viewed as a proxy for increased inflammation (or at least the risk of harmful systemic inflammation developing from normal inflammation).

Heart Rate Variability

I’ve written extensively on HRV in the past. Long story short, high HRV predicts lower levels of inflammation.

Systemic Inflammatory Response Syndrome Score

There’s the systemic inflammatory response syndrome, which is incredibly serious and has four criteria. If you have two or more of them at once, congratulations: you qualify—and should probably see a health professional immediately. This isn’t relevant for low-grade systemic inflammation, like the kind associated with obesity or autoimmune disease.

Body temperature less than 96.8 F (36 C) or greater than 100.4 F (38 C).

Heart rate above 90 beats per minute.

High respiratory rate, 20 breaths per minute or higher.

White blood cell count fewer than 4000 cells/mm³ or greater than 12,000 cells/mm³.

Of these objective markers to test, I’d lean toward CRP, HRV, and one of the omega-3 tests. CRP is pretty comprehensive, HRV is a two-fer (inflammation and general stress/recovery), and, while omega-3 tissue or blood cell content doesn’t necessarily indicate the existence of systemic inflammation in your body, it does indicate the severity of the inflammatory response you can expect your body to have. Taken together, these tests will give you an idea of where you stand.

Identifying Inflammation: Subjective Markers

There are also subjective markers. They may be harmless artifacts, but they may indicate that something systemic is going on.

Flare-up of Autoimmune Conditions You Haven’t Heard From In Ages

Sore joints, dry, patchy, and/or red skin, and anything else that indicates a flare-up. For me, this is usually mild arthritis.

Water Retention

Acute inflammation is often characterized by swelling at the site of injury. The same effect seems to occur in states of systemic inflammation, although they aren’t localized, but rather generalized.

Stress Load

If you feel stressed, you’re probably inflamed. I’m talking about the kind that has you rubbing your temples, face palming, sighing every couple minutes, and pinching the space between your eyes very, very hard.

Persistent But Unexplained Nasal Congestion

Could be allergies, sure, but I’ve always noticed that when I’m under a lot of stress and generally in an inflamed state, my nose gets clogged. Certain foods will trigger this, too, and I think it can all be linked to a persistent but subtle state of inflammation.

Overtraining

If you fit the bill for the eight signs of overtraining listed in this post, you’re probably inflamed.

Ultimately, though? It comes down to the simple question you must ask yourself: How do you feel?

I mean, this seems like an obvious marker, but a lot of people ignore it in pursuit of numbers. If you feel run down, lethargic, unhappy, your workouts are suffering, you struggle to get out of bed, you’re putting on a little extra weight around the waist, sex isn’t as interesting, etc., etc., etc., you may be suffering from some manner of systemic, low-grade inflammation. Conversely, if you’re full of energy, generally pleased and/or content with life, killing it in the gym, bounding out of bed, lean as ever or on your way there, and your sex drive is powerful and age appropriate (or inappropriate), you’re probably not suffering from chronic inflammation.

Causes of Chronic Inflammation

We need to determine why inflammation is “on” all the time—and then take the steps to counter it. I’m going to fire off a few things that both induce inflammation and tend toward prevalence in developed countries. You let me know if anything sounds familiar to you.

Toxic diets: High-sugar, high-processed carb, high-industrial fat, high-gluten, high-CAFO meat, low-nutrient food is a pretty accurate descriptor of the modern Western diet.

Insufficient omega-3 intake: Omega-3 fats form the precursors for anti-inflammatory eicosanoids, which are an integral part of the inflammatory response. Poor omega-3 status means insufficient production of anti-inflammatory eicosanoids and a lopsided inflammatory response to normal stimuli.

Excessive omega-6 intake: Omega-6 fats form the precursors for inflammatory eicosanoids, which are an integral part of the inflammatory response. High omega-6 status (especially when combined with poor omega-3 status) means excessive production of inflammatory eicosanoids and a lopsided inflammatory response to normal stimuli. The more omega-6 you eat, the more omega-3 you crowd out for anti-inflammatory eicasonoid formation.

Lack of sleep: Poor sleep is linked to elevated inflammatory markers. Poor sleep is a chronic problem in developed nations. Either we go to bed too late, wake up too early, or we use too many electronics late at night and disrupt the quality of what little sleep we get. Or all three at once.

Lack of movement: People lead sedentary lives, by and large, and a lack of activity is strongly linked to systemic, low-grade inflammation. People don’t have to walk to get places, they take escalators and elevators, they sit for hours on end, and they don’t have time for regular exercise.

Poor recovery: Other people move too much, with too little rest and recovery. When I ran 100+ miles a week, I certainly wasn’t sedentary, but I was chronically inflamed. Overtraining is a form of chronic inflammation.

Chronic stress: Modern life is stressful. Bills, work, commuting, politics, exercise that you hate – it all adds up and it doesn’t seem to let up or go away. And if it becomes too much for you to handle (I know it’s too much for me at times), your body will have a physiological, inflammatory response to emotional stress.

Lack of down time: When you’re always on the computer, always checking your email/Facebook/smartphone, you are always “on.” You may think you’re relaxing because your body is stationary, but you’re not relaxing.

Lack of nature time: We spend too much time contained in cubicles, cars, trains, and cities, away from trees, leaves, and soft earth. In a way, nature is home for us. Going home certainly has its measured benefits.

Poor gut health: The gut houses the bulk of the human immune system. When it’s unhealthy, so is your inflammatory regulation. A healthy gut is also selectively permeable, allowing beneficial compounds passage into the body and keeping toxins out. An unhealthy gut often becomes leaky, allowing toxins into the body to stimulate an immune, inflammatory response.

Poor acute stressor/chronic stress ratio: We respond far better to acute stressors than repeated, sustained stress – even if the latter is of a lower intensity.

See what I mean? Since we’re set up for acute stressors requiring an acute inflammatory response, all this other low-level, evolutionarily-discordant, superficially mild stuff set against a backdrop of misaligned fatty acid ratios and impaired gut health throws us off and sets us up for a lifetime of chronic inflammation.

Inflammation is a complex physiological process that can go wrong in a lot of ways. But luckily, sticking to the tried and true dietary and lifestyle measures will get you most of the way toward preventing inflammation from becoming chronic and untamed.

If you have any further questions about inflammation, fire away down below! Thanks for reading.

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References:

Eliakim A, Portal S, Zadik Z, et al. The effect of a volleyball practice on anabolic hormones and inflammatory markers in elite male and female adolescent players. J Strength Cond Res. 2009;23(5):1553-9.

Lara fernandes J, Serrano CV, Toledo F, et al. Acute and chronic effects of exercise on inflammatory markers and B-type natriuretic peptide in patients with coronary artery disease. Clin Res Cardiol. 2011;100(1):77-84.

Ford ES. Does exercise reduce inflammation? Physical activity and C-reactive protein among U.S. adults. Epidemiology. 2002;13(5):561-8.

Balducci S, Zanuso S, Nicolucci A, et al. Anti-inflammatory effect of exercise training in subjects with type 2 diabetes and the metabolic syndrome is dependent on exercise modalities and independent of weight loss. Nutr Metab Cardiovasc Dis. 2010;20(8):608-17.

Daray LA, Henagan TM, Zanovec M, et al. Endurance and resistance training lowers C-reactive protein in young, healthy females. Appl Physiol Nutr Metab. 2011;36(5):660-70.

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