#BODY AUTOMATION THROUGH DIRECT TO SOUL MIND CONTROL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kelpan · 1 year ago

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I'm not gonna lie, I'm actually pretty proud of this chapter. With it, we're about halfway through what I would consider Act 1. Just a bit more to get set in place before we can dive into the thick of things.

Enjoy!

Credit for the OC Chrysanthemum headshot goes to wwispie on Etsy! (Instagram of the same name)

Ao3: Petals on a Stream of Stars

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Act 1, Chapter 7: Dancing is Good for the Soul

Tuesday

10:30 PM

Chrysanthemum

With weight properly centered, Chrys bent her knees and lowered her body in a gradual descent towards the floor, keeping her feet flat and pointed out. Rising up, she trailed her fingertips up through the air in a lyrical arch, slow and steady and controlled. Once more, down low, back straight, fingers floating towards the ground before settling over her belly, held barely a breath apart.

Over and over again she repeated the warm-up, her aching muscles releasing stuck tension with every deliberate dip. She held firm to the bar beside her, something solid to keep her balanced and grounded as her mind slipped into comfortable muscle memory. While she was no stranger to exercise, it had been years since she tried to keep up with a dozen, over-energized kids for hours at a time, and they’d left her winded. She’d be stiff and sore come morning if she didn’t try to work out some of the kinks while she could.

Tipping forward, she trailed her fingers out in front of her, grazing along the floor, letting her non-dominant leg tilt in opposition towards the ceiling until it could go no higher, toes kept delicately pointed. Returning to center, she repeated the motion, this time facing the other direction, swiveling to switch onto the opposite arm and leg.

Ballet had always been a sturdy foundation for her. Something to keep her moving, when all she wanted to do was flop onto the couch and stay there for the rest of the evening. It may be a struggle for her to devote much effort to self-care nowadays, but ballet didn’t count. It was fun. Relaxing. A reliable escape.

She didn’t dare spare a glance to the music stand and electric piano tucked out of the way in the farthest corner. That form of escape had been… off limits for some time now.

In its absence, Dr. Libby had taught her breathing exercises, meditation techniques, the works. More “holistic” techniques than a New Age magazine could shove in its pages. They were all fine, she supposed, and sure to be helpful for some people. Just not her. If she spent too long with just her thoughts for company, they’d serve only to grow louder and threaten to break free. The last thing she needed were for those demons to be the ones running the show. Who knows what trouble she’d find herself in then.

No, what she needed was to get her lungs pumping, to work-up a thin sheen of sweat. Only by physically shaking off her thoughts did they actually start to feel more manageable, and less like a monster waiting in the dark.

Stepping out to the middle of the studio, her canvas ballet slippers skirted across the rubber padded floor soundlessly.

“Alexandra, play “No Thoughts, Head Empty” playlist”.

Chrys’s voice bounced around the empty, mirrored room, the acoustics amplified without any soft goods to absorb it. An automated voice confirmed her command, followed by sharp violin notes which shot through the surround sound speakers, cutting the air and settling in her chest. Once drums and a fast-paced brass orchestra joined in, jazzy and powerful, Chrys let go, and released herself to the music.

A side step. A kick. A twirl. Kneeling on the floor. Rolling over sideways. Standing upright. Arms thrown out in front of her, reaching. Back to her chest.

Her body knew what it needed. Which emotions lived where. All she had to do was let it work its own way out. She relished in the lack of control, in moving however felt right. Muscles flexing and relaxing in turn, it was in here that she felt strong. Safe. What she wouldn’t give to live every minute of the day in this quiet pocket of space and time, where real life didn’t exist. Just her, and the music.

But that would never be. Reality would inevitably rear its head, demanding she return to the world. Whether to eat, or sleep, or to attend to other needs, it didn’t matter. She’d have to leave her safe space one way or another. Pity that “socializing” was deemed as one of those basic human needs, according to her therapist. That woman would never stop urging her to get out more, no matter how little appeal the notion held.

Least she could now report that her “trouble” client finally got a job, and wasn’t a complete failure. Perhaps their next telehealth appointment might go better than the last. A small blessing, Chrys supposed.

But what would her well-intentioned doctor think of the new job, though? Would she approve? Funny how her little ploy to get her to “interact with more people” meant she’d be spending the majority of her time with an inorganic robot instead. Ironic, really.

Though, maybe it still counted. Be harder to convince her he wasn’t a person after spending the whole day with him. He walked, talked, acted like any other human being you’d encounter on the street. Well, maybe not any human. No one had as much exuberance and energy as he did, by far.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more right it felt. In less than 24 hours he’d seen more of her inner vulnerability than she’d let her own therapist see over a span of twelve months, a feat Chrys would have never have seen coming. Something about him just felt so welcoming and… and genuine. Like being with a real friend again.

“Geez. I’m not that starved for attention… am I? Ugh.” She grunted to no one.

The heavy, aggressive song ended, switching to one more somber and sad, full of string instruments and piano. Chrys gave into the pulls of her body again, letting it move along to the rhythm without direct input on her part. Her mind floated to the more uncomfortable recesses of her mind as she danced languidly about the room.

She’d cried today. More than cried, she’d had a panic attack. Over something as stupid as thinking she’d get fired. What did she really stand to lose? She didn’t need the money, and it wasn’t like she’d become invested in the place yet. She scrunched her face as flashes of the moment forced their way to the forefront of her mind’s eye. How pathetic she must have looked, freaking out like that. Anyone else would have probably reported her to their supervisor then and there, getting her fired regardless. No one would want to put up with a blubbering mess, and she wouldn’t have blamed them.

Not Sun though.

Sun was calm with her. Spoke softly, kindly, bringing her back to earth without judging her. He just… cared. He helped.

And because of that, here she was, actually looking forward to going back to that place come tomorrow morning. A novel concept, really, though not an unpleasant one.

Was this what it was to start to heal? To move on? To remember how it was to actually laugh again, and mean it?

Guess the only way to find out would be to see this through.

Thoroughly out of breath, Chrys panted her words, instructing the music to stop and walked over towards the door where she’d left a cup of water on the top of a storage cabinet. She drank deep, enjoying the sensation of the cool water spreading through her stomach. Taking in the room, her eyes settled on her reflection multiplied across the mirrors lining one wall.

It was her mother who stared back.

Same shade of deep, dark red hair. Same long, slender limbs, centered around wide hips. Same oval face, and light skin sprinkled with freckles across her nose and cheekbones. The only feature she inherited from her father were her eyes–a bright, striking green. The last shred of evidence proving he ever existed.

Setting down the now empty glass, Chrys clicked off the light and left the room, walking down the hallway towards the bathroom. She’d need a shower before she turned in for the night.

What would they think about their little girl now, she wondered? Hard to say for her Dad. As the years passed, remembering his mannerisms, his voice, his face, became almost neigh-on impossible. The curse of creating memories when one was so young. But her mom… her mom would have been happy, clapping her hands together and simply proud of her for hitting a goal. She’d never been picky about when to celebrate her daughter; Any little thing that could be a win, was a win.

Too bad they’d never get to share in any of those wins together anymore.

Stepping into the bathroom, Chrys flicked on the overhead fan and light, illuminating the white tiled room. She stripped out of her well-worn dance attire, and went to the glass enclosed standing shower to get the water going. After a second or two to allow the temperature to rise, Chrys stepped into the shower, letting the hot water and steam wash away her earlier exertions.

In the hazy air, without the distraction of movement, Chrys’s mind drifted further. She wished she could tell her mother about her day, to talk about how crazy it was to be working with a robot, and how much she found she liked it. Coming home to this giant empty house, that had been far too big for just the two of them even when they’d first moved in, was the epitome of loneliness. The pervasive silence made it abundantly clear that this was not a home any longer, only a house. A single, oversized farmhouse with an equally large barn, on miles and miles of uninhabited, forested land. A single island of shelter in a sea of isolation.

If she’d had siblings, maybe things would be better. But Dad had passed before they’d had another, and Mom never remarried. For as long as she could remember, it was just her and Mama. And the children Mama nannied.

But for a while there, she thought she’d found a brother. Someone her age to grow up with, the son of a wealthy businessman. It didn’t matter to her that she got to stay in his family’s mansion while her mother looked after him. Spending time with him, exploring the gardens, staring up at the clouds and watching stars twinkle together without a care in the world, dreaming of what they were going to do once they grew up, were the highlights of her younger years.

And now even he had abandoned her too.

Chrys’s fingers worked through her tangled, wavy locks, lathering up the shampoo and washing it out under the waterfall shower-head. She closed her eyes and held her nose, lifting her face towards the falling droplets and letting them roll across her face.

Sun had mentioned having a brother, Chrys remembered, as she moved out from under the water and wiped clear her eyes. A twin, he’d said. She had a difficult time trying to imagine what a twin of Sun would look like. As a robot, wouldn’t a twin be an identical copy? Wasn’t that how mass producing things worked? But that didn’t fit the reputation of Fazbear Entertainment. Every commercial screamed how unique and advanced their animatronics were. Wouldn’t make much sense to invest all those resources into a basic carbon copy.

Not all twins are identical, though. What if this was more akin to a fraternal situation, where they were related, but still their own person? That seemed more likely. She grabbed the bottle of conditioner off the shelf and squeezed a dollop into her hand, rubbing it into the ends of her hair and working it up through the strands from the bottom. She’d let it sit and soak in while she washed the rest of her body.

What had Sun said his name was, again? Moondrop? How on the nose, to have a sun and a moon as a pair of siblings. Day and night, light and dark, yin and yang. Following that train of thought though, what might he be like? She tried to envision the polar opposite of Sun. If he was loud, playful, over-the-top; Would Moon be quiet and reserved then? Mysterious? Or mischievous? With the kids involved, she doubted Fazbear would make him too dark, despite his namesake. Kids loved tricks and treats, not monsters, especially when it came to trying to get them to go to sleep.

Turning off the faucet, the water falling from above slowed to barely a trickle, and Chrys exited the shower stall, careful to stand only on the mat so that she didn’t leave puddles everywhere as she dried off. She slipped into her cotton pajamas, grateful to her earlier self for having the good sense to put them there beforehand, and made her way to the kitchen for the last step in her nightly routine.

She found her electric kettle right where it always sat, in its place of honor at the kitchen counter. With a quick browse of her stock, she settled on a simple classic; Chamomile tea for easy sleep with honey. Soon, steam rose from the ceramic mug, too hot to attempt a sip, but not enough to keep from enjoying the warmth that seeped into her hands, comforting amidst the growing chill in the house. The cuckoo clock clicked away the seconds as the wind picked up, rattling the window panes outside. A storm was likely working its way in.

Chrys stared into the cooling liquid, as if the answers to her thoughts were hiding there, the answers she’d avoided seeking until the last minute. Who was that she’d met when the lights went out in the storeroom? He’d startled her, sure, but could she blame him? She’d been foolish to bolt in the dark like that. If it hadn’t been for him leaping to her rescue, no doubt she’d be in the hospital right now, if she even lived to make it that far. She shuddered to think of how badly that would have hurt, to be so unlucky as to have been caught under that avalanche of heavy paint cans.

Yet, at the crux of it, she knew who that was. Or, at least, her gut told her she did. Moon. It had to have been him. Why else would he seem so eerily similar, so like Sun? She’d managed to mistake the two of them for goodness sake. And as dim as it was, she knew what she saw, even if only for a moment—that crescent-moon face was undeniable.

But there were still too many unknowns for her to be confident in her conclusion. Why had he been there at all? Was it just because the power went out? Did that send some sort of signal throughout the building? It would make sense then that security would be sent to check it out. Though, if that was the case, why didn’t he say anything earlier? It was as if he was trying to remain unseen.

…Maybe he was.

Chrys chewed at her lip, sensing where her mind was going before she could, the answer waiting just on the tip of her tongue. Then, it all clicked, the epiphany ringing through her mind like a bell, causing her to sputter into her drink.

Their locations. They didn’t add up.

The last she’d seen, Sun had left to search the left side of the room.

He came back on the right.

The same direction Moon had left the room from seconds earlier, and hadn’t returned.

Chrys coughed up the liquid that had managed to fall down the wrong tube in her throat, setting the mug down onto the counter while she leaned against it for support. What did this mean? She saw the correlation clear as day, just not the causation. Sure, there was a chance there were connecting tunnels between the two, but that didn’t fit well into the time-frame, not to mention the fact that they should have run into the other along the way. So, unless there were some super secret robot abilities she was not privy to, moving to two different locations without intersecting in the middle shouldn’t be physically possible.

At least, not for two individual people.

No. No, this was crazy, even for a larger-than-life family entertainment center. Her imagination must be getting away from her. And yet… what if. What if this wasn’t a case of fraternal twins, like she’d first assumed. Or even identical. What if… they were conjoined?

She had no idea how that would be possible. Or ethical, given that they were technically made, rather than born. But, still… something told her she was onto something here.

There’d be no easy way to find out, of course, unless she decided to ask Sun about it point blank. With the nervous way in which he tip-toed around talking about the very subject of his brother, however, Chrys had a sneaking suspicion that doing so would be the wrong way to go about it. Still… she wasn’t without options. There were other ways to test her theory, though none as upfront or honest. She should just let it go, leave the thought be. It wasn’t that big of a deal if she knew their situation or not, nor was it really any of her business.

A terse voice flitted into the back of her mind, urging her to reconsider. The same voice that came to her whenever the nightmares visited, the one that always spoke to her in hushed, seething tones whenever she felt her lowest. Now, it whispered that she’d be a fool to accept such an uncertainty. That being so forgiving and trusting with someone she’d just met was far too dangerous to let slide. Didn’t she remember what happened last time? Didn’t she know all too well what dangers thrived through ignorance, no matter how innocent?

No, it… it was right. She had to know, if she were to continue in this job, that if she spoke to one, did she also speak to the other? Her heart ached at the idea of knowingly holding a secret motive towards an idea born originally out of thanks, especially towards someone who’d shown her such kindness, but the tension in her gut wouldn’t release until she gave in. For her own protection, she reassured herself, though the justification rang hollow even as she thought it. With a sigh, she consigned herself to another late night, leaving her mug of forgotten tea to grow tepid on the counter as she made her way down the hallway to her mother’s old craft room. One way or another, she’d have the answers she sought.

There’s no way they could be one and the same….right?

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askcharaandfriends · 2 years ago

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So Undyne, I'm the same Anon who wanted the lecture, and I wanted to know more about the technology designed with magic in mind.

How is that done? For example: Napstaton! he's a ghost who got themselves a robotic body! What does magic-conductive wiring look like? What's the wiring made of? How does magic flow through a monster's, ghost monster's, or human's body? How did being a ghost change how Napstaton used his body before and/or after fusing with it?

(Which reminds me of monster biology- that might be interesting to know more about too.)

[I am not a magical engineer I'm not sure if I can answer this in a satisfactory way]

Undyne: sheesh dude, if you keep asking me for university lectures I'm going to start asking you to pay me university fees. JK Lol... unless....?

Anyway I can't tell you all my magical engineering secrets [mainly because I'm still working on the patents] but because i like you, I guess there are some things I can tell ya.

Magic in technology is basically used to keep things running smoothly all the time. Imagine a complicated Rube Goldberg machine. You know? The thing with like dominoes and marbles and balloons? And they just do something simple like turn on a light. But they're soooo mesmerizing to watch... unless something goes wrong and it doesn't work. Magic is the thing that makes sure all the dominoes fall in the correct order. It bridges the gap between physics and imagination.

Of course, there are still limits. It needs a power source- usually a charged chrystal or something [I don't remember what it's called... lachrima maybe???] The chrystal can be recharged by electricity. So as long as the chrystal is in your phone, you can keep it charged by plugging in your phone.

And automated magic needs programming, so runes are carved into the machine. The runes are instructions for the magic to follow when No one is there to direct it. Just like computer programming, the instructions have to be precise and account for undesirable outcomes. Otherwise you can get chaos.

Now for Napstaton. See... the thing is... they're less of a sentient robot and more of a ghost who possessed a bunch of metal. I mean... they really are a robot. All the robot parts work like a robot should. The transforming stuff is real robotics and magic technology. But I didn't program their body. [Like the Queen thought when she promoted me]. Napsta runs the programs, Napsta is the programs? They control the whole thing, basically. It was ghost piloting of really cool armor. And they liked it so they bonded to it and "it" became "them".

The wiring and stuff is all just normal copper. All the stuff humans have in their machines to conduct electricity. Magic either follows the path of the runes or in Napstaton's case, flows like magic does through any monsters body.

You see, magic flows through a monster (or wizard) pretty much the same way blood flows. There are paths that start from the SOUL and branch out and get smaller and smaller towards the extremities. If someone has a bloodstream, magic will use that. If not, like for a ghost, it behaves like a bloodstream but like just for magic and invisible. Even non wizard humans have a magic flow in their blood. [That's why vampires like it]

As a ghost, napsta could go through stuff fly and disappear, and could not be harmed by physical attacks. But also they had minimal ability to interact with the physical world. As a robot, they can interact so much more! They can't disappear or go through stuff, but thanks to jet pack technology they can fly! And they aren't completely immune to attacks like before, but being made of metal makes them more resilient than the average monster. They can eat solid monster food! They can drink oil! Having a body has made them pretty happy. They came out of their shell a bit since... going in to their metal shell.

But it's not for everyone. Their cousin, Hapsta, really knows how to rock his incorporeal bod. He makes it look easy. He says he likes the freedom of movement and flow that comes with not having a body. He likes not being tied down so much. Though he is willing to consider a body, if one ever appeared that could satisfy all his needs. I offered to make him a robot body like Napsta's. He considered it for a long time. Toyed with it. Seemed to like it. But finally said, "Thanks darling, but no. That's Napsta's thing. If I find a body i like, I want it to be just for me, you know?"

#Napstaton #hapstablook #ghosts #robot #metal and magic #undyne lecture #technology #magic #how magic works

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out-of-jams · 5 years ago

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Airplane Mode | Track 11: Blue Side | jhs

Summary: Set in the same universe as Love at First Touch by bagelswrites.

In a world where a bruise marks the first touch of your soulmate, time is the only thing that matters. The marks take hours to appear, sometimes even days if you're really unlucky. Once First Touch is initiated, both parties only have a few weeks to find the other. From then on, the body begins to reject any form of sustenance other than the touch of the other. If one fails to find their soulmate, they starve to death.

So what happens when your soulmate is an internationally famous idol?

And you're just one fan in a sea of many who can't even speak the same language.

Pairing: Hoseok x Fem Character

Word Count: 2.3k

Genre: Fluff. Angst. Idol!au. Smut. Soulmate!au.

Warnings: Explicit language (you already know).

Words written like this are spoken in Korean.

It was warm. Humid.

The moisture hanging in the air turned Eunjae’s lungs into a cage of steam, but she didn’t pay it any mind. Not with the way hot water poured over her skin, thundering against the shower walls and drenching her hair until it stuck like glue. To her, to the shower curtain that coudn’t seem to stay still, to her waterlogged lashes.

And it burned. Not necissarily in a bad way. But in a way that distracted her from the thoughts that plagued her mind on an endless loop.

Eunjae had been fine all day. But that was probably because she’d been so busy that she hadn’t managed to get a second to herself. Not even when she’d met with Hoseok for a quick “lunch.” (They really needed to come up with a better name for skin touch.) Hell, she’d even been fine with listening to Tiffany boss her around for the rest of the afternoon.

It wasn’t until Eunjae got home, until nothing but empty silence greeted her at the door, that she finally crashed back down to reality. She was good at that--ignoring things, problems, anything that brought her stress. And she had a really bad habit of pushing things to the side until they built up so high that they flooded over her walls like a tsunami.

And it always hit so unexpectantly. One minute she was fine, but then the next, something small or inconsequiential would trigger her into a mental breakdown. How it hadn’t happened already was a mystery to her. With all of the stress of moving to a new country where she didn’t even speak the language, and leaving behind everything she knew and loved. Add in the fact that her soulmate was an international superstar who had to hide her like a dirty little secret.

Not that she blamed Hoseok. None of it was his fault. But Eunjae wasn’t used to being hidden.

To being so completely and utterly alone.

The cool, slippery shower wall greeted her forehead as she leaned against it, eyes closed against the torrential downpour of water. It did well to mix with the salty trail of tears ghosting her cheeks and washing down the drain like a phantom. And the quiet sobs that racked her frame blended with the sound of the shower curtain catching the water in a song of silent chaos.

Everything was hitting her at once and it was so god damned overwhelming.

Eunjae felt stuck, trapped in a steel cage that she couldn’t escape from. She didn’t dislike the boys, not at all. But there were so many factors that were out of her control. Snatched away before she had time to process what the hell was going on. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, wouldn’t be so completely and utterly unberable if she wasn’t so alone .

Sure, Hoseok was her soulmate. But he didn’t know her, not really. They barely knew each other at all. And that was the problem. There was only one person who knew Eunjae for who she really was: her faults, her secrets, her dreams. But Miles wasn’t there. He was thousands of miles away where her problems couldn’t reach.

Somehow he always knew the perfect solution to whatever troubled her mind, but he wasn’t there . And she couldn’t call him, couldn’t wake him up to bug him with her issues when she knew that he had a lot going on already.

So she dealt with it in the only way she could.

By hanging onto the shower wall like it was an old friend.

She was used to keeping her pain to herself, to crying alone in a steam filled bathroom where no one could hear her. Because she didn’t like to shed the smile that she wore like a mask to show the vulnerable girl underneath. Eunjae couldn’t stand the feeling of baring her soul for people to look at.

So she stood there and let the water hit her skin until it turned cold and the salty tears behind her eyes turned into a burning ache. She hated crying too, but the calm it brought afterwards gave her a certain solace that she wouldn’t have been able to find otherwise. And as she twisted the knob to turn the water off and stepped out of the shower, the blurred lines of her reflection stared back at her in the mirror.

It was foggy, the steam making it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of her. But that was okay, because she didn’t need to look anyway. Eunjae knew she always looked like a hot mess after crying, with red rimmed eyes and rosy cheeks. So she just towled off, got dressed, and ran a brush through her waist length, tangled hair.

At least the overbearing pressure was gone from her chest and she didn’t quite feel like she was drowning anymore. Everything was fine again. Until she walked out in the hallway and bumped face first into someone’s chest.

The electrifying current that shot through her body confirmed what she didn’t have to lift her head to see. But Eunjae did anyway, whether out of habit or because of the gentle pair of hands that held onto her shoulders to prevent her from falling, she didn’t know.

Her gaze met brown eyes so soft that it threatened to flood her own with tears again.

Wordlessly, Hoseok turned her by his tender grip on her shoulders and led her back down the hallway towards the living room. The warmth bleeding from his body and into hers did little to barricade the embarassment that flooded Eunjae’s veins. She hadn’t intended for him to see her like that.

Why he was even there was a mystery to her. It was late at night, she knew that much. Though time seemed to meld together into a mindless blur. There was something about crying late at night that made a person feel disconnected from the world, like time was at a standstill.

The soft cushions of the couch met the bare skin exposed by Eunjae’s shorts and she took a moment to send a silent thank you to herself for remembering to wear some. Hoseok’s body heat refused to leave her chilled skin as he sat down beside her, the cushion dipping with his added weight.

“Jae.”

Eunjae’s head shot up to meet Hoseok’s tender stare. That was the first time he’d ever shortened her name and it caught her by surprise. His gaze held hers steadily, tongue wetting his lips in preparation for his next words. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her response left her lips with an automated quickness and had Hoseok raising his eyebrows.

“I heard.”

Now it was her turn to raise her brows with fake noncholance. “Heard what?”

“Jae.” His hand shot out to catch her chin when she tried to turn away. And the serious look that overtook his face drew the fight out of her like a punctured tire.

How the hell he always managed to see straight through her was something that Eunjae would like the answer to. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t something that she was used to. And so, with his fingers still heating her skin, all she could do was break his hard stare to look somewhere over his shoulder.

A moment of silence passed. And then another in which he sat there patiently and waited her out. Until she finally opened her mouth and told him what was wrong in the simplest way she could. One that required the least amount of soul baring for her to still get her point across.

“I miss home.”

“New York?” Eunjae wasn’t sure if his question was rhetorical, or if he was jsut clarifying what she meant, but she nodded anyway. And he trapped one of her hands in both of his, though that still did nothing to goad her into looking in his direction. “What do you miss?”

Eunjae didn’t need Hoseok to elaborate to understand what he meant. “Everything? I don’t know. My friends, my family. Everything.”

“You feel...alone?” Hoseok was perceptive. So-much-so that it was a little scary.

“A little.”

Hoseok looked conflicted. Though not in a frustrated sort of way, no, it probably had more to do with the fact that they couldn’t communicate clearly with each other. And he didn’t know how to translate what it was that he wanted to say for her to understand him and vice versa. But he tried anyway.

“I..,” he layed a palm against his chest, resporting to getting his point across with gestures instead of words. “Am here.”

And finally, finally, Eunjae lifted her gaze to meet his earnest one and his mouth pulled up in a smile so gentle. “For you.”

Eunjae would be lying if she said that his words didn’t spark something within her chest. If it didn’t bring her some sort of consolation. She knew that Hoseok meant what he said, even though there was still a barrier between them. Because at the end of the day, they were still strangers.

“I know that now.”

But maybe they didn’t have to be.

And his hand squeezing her own spoke of his voiceless agreement. “Good.”

A moment of silence passed through the air, but it wasn’t awkward or tense or anything. No, it was filled with a certain something that felt like comfort. Like the invisible barrier between them was beginning to dwindle. And Eunjae was reluctant to break the moment, but she had to know.

“What were you doing here anyway?” At his inquisitive look, she elaborated. “Before I got out of the shower.”

Hoseok made a sound of realization, like he’d just remembered something important. “Movie night?”

“Movie night?” Eunjae’s mouth twitched, threatening to break into her first smile of the night.

“Yes! Movie night!” And Hoseok mirrored her tiny smile with one of his own. “Bangtan is having.”

Eunjae still wasn’t sure what that had to do with him paying her a visit. Had he wanted to sate his hunger beforehand? “Oh?”

Hoseok stood from the couch then, but he didn’t move away, didn’t leave her behind. Instead, he turned to look down at her with a playful wiggle of his eyebrows and tiny dimples. “You come with?”

It was an invitation, though not just to watch movies. And Eunjae knew that, could see it in the way he outstreched his hand towards her like he already knew the answer, but waited anyway. She could feel it in the way that his fingers closed around hers when she placed her hand in his. Because he wasn’t just inviting her to watch movies.

No, it was so much more than that. And it was something that didn’t need to be said aloud.

Hoseok’s presence walking beside her own brought Eunjae a certain comfort that she couldn’t describe. Maybe it was the fact that she’d let him see a vulnerable piece of her, or perhaps it was the bond that settled between them like electric static. Whatever it was, she was grateful to have him there.

Grateful for the door the Bangtan’s dorm that he held open for her in a silent invitation. And it wasn’t just an invitation inside the apartment, no, it was so much more.

Shouts greeted them as they passed through the threshold leading into the living room and Eunjae had absolutely zero time to prepare herself for Taehyung to throw himself at her. His arms encircled her waist before she could react and lifted her straight off her feet.

“Jae-yah!” Taehyung’s baritone voice pierced her eardrums and he didn’t even bother with setting her down. He just carried her over to the crowded looking couch like she was a little kid who couldn’t walk on her own.

Eunjae stated such, but Taehyung merely pretended like he couldn’t understand her. So all she could do was dangle in his arms like a limp piece of soggy bread. And with the loud voices of the rest of Bangtan all fighting to speak over one another, Jimin scooted over on the shorter end of the L-shaped couch. With his body pressed against the armrest, he greeted her with an enthusiastic, “Jae-yah!” as Taehyung dropped her in the now empty space.

“What are we watching?” Eunjae’s question caught Namjoon’s attention from the opposite end of the couch.

He wiggled the remote in his hands. “Avengers. The first one.”

Before Namjoon could even think of continuing, Jungkook poked his head up from his seat on the floor where he’d been digging around in a bag of what looked like snacks to look up at her. “You are...fan?”

He spoke slowly, taking the time to enunciate each word and it brought a smile to Eunjae’s face before she could think to stop it. “A fan of Marvel? Who isn’t?”

The response tore a bunny-like smile from the younger boy as he threw his arms up. “Yes!”��

And as someone turned off the lights and Namjoon fast-forwarded straight to the dvd menu, Eunjae caught Hoseok’s eyes from across the room. He sat sandwiched between Yoongi and Seokjin, and he sent her an inconspicuous wiggle of his eyebrows. And as she did absolutely nothing to hide her playful eyeroll, it hit her.

Maybe, just maybe, here could feel like home too.

#bts #bts fic #hoseok #bangtanarmynet #btsbookclub #hoseok fic

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tanoraqui · 5 years ago

Note

I just wanted you to know that I just read all your hellmurder castle 'verse posts and I LOVE THAT AU SO MUCH

what you have to understand about my Hellmurder Castle AU (Homestuck set in the world of Girl Genius, if you haven’t read it) is that it was born specifically from my spite exasperation with all the long, epic AUs about either only the trolls or the trolls + beta kids, with alpha kids appearing as background characters at best and often not at all. Many of these fics are great, and many of them were written or at least planned before the alpha kids even appeared in canon, in which case it’s not the authors’ faults at all. But I LOVE my alpha kids, and Roxy may be my favorite and Dirk is a delight, but I was ALSO tired to tears of how even in fics featuring the alpha kids, it was almost always Derse-heavy.

So I basically said “fuck it”, yeeted them all into the world of Girl Genius (which was inevitable), figured out the torrid backstory of the beta kids and ancestors and how the dancestors and trolls fit in, and set about focussing the plot and character development exclusively on the alpha kids, particularly Jake and Jane. Particularly particularly Jake, because a) I thought him more underappreciated than Jane, and b) the idea of a Heroic Adventurer who constantly has to resist his own reflex to be a minion is fucking funny.

Let’s elaborate, shall we? Because I’m okay again, after the epilogue. I have forgiven. So, the hypothetical pfennig novels/fics in a series:

Jake English: Escape from Castle Lalonde

In which Jake leaves home, and meets a number of interesting people.

covers from basically that scene of Roxy capturing him through Jake escaping with Jane, and them agreeing to be adventuring partners. A lot of the middle consists of Jake helping Roxy and Dirk win back Roxy’s ancestral home of Castle Lalonde, defeating whatever villainous spark - probably an OC - had taken up residence.

Jake means to leave, but Roxy and Dirk need help cleaning up, and getting their labs running, and with interesting projects…and possibly they put a shock collar on him so he can’t leave the grounds…or at least tell him that’s what the collar does, and prove it, like, twice, and then turn it off because they don’t actually want him crippled in an emergency; mostly he’s just a great minion and Roxy is pretty sure he’s destined to be part of their team for defeating the Batterwitch, as laid out in the obscure and highly metaphorical prophecy her mother left her in a wizard book.

this is not at all good ground for either friendship or a healthy minion/master relationship, which is why Jake is pretty damn game to help Jane escape and then run away with her.

Jake English and the Red Miles

in which…I actually have barely any memory of wtf is supposed to happen in this one. Presumably, they have to survive the Red Miles at some point, with some ridiculous series of revivificationsthe trolls show up at Jake and Jane’s camp (okay fine, I love them, too), and after some alarmed mutual weapon-pointing, explain that Jake’s grandmother, Lady English, made them after Jake left, except now she’s died so they’ve come to find Jake and either bring him home or, at least, join his adventuring team and keep him safe

(yeah, Jade instilled some loyalty, which is Sketch. In fairness, when she lost control of the original generation of trolls, all her best friends were killed and/or disappeared, presumed dead. she has reasons)

I wonder if there was supposed to be a timeskip between this and the previous book, or if Escape from Castle Lalonde happened later into Jake going out adventuring than I think, or if Jade just got bored and made 12 new people like…3 hours after Jake left home

for pacing, the trolls should probably show up pretty early in this story, so they have a long time to be around before shit hits the fan

a lot of this book, aside from whatever shenanigans they’re dealing with re: Red Miles, would be Jake dealing with the fact that he is suddenly responsible for 12 people who keep looking to him for orders, and somewhere in the distance is an entire town (Hellmurder Village) that’s likewise.

they do not go back to the Castle at the end of this book, even though they arguably should bc Jake has responsibilities. But he also has adventuring to do, by golly, and…hm, it’s one of the Rings that causes the Red Miles, isn’t it? So maybe they get it at the end of this book, and now they have to track down the other one. Which brings us to…

Jake English and the Rings of Skaia

In which Jake and Jane (and Roxy and Dirk, and 12 young trolls) explore a castle, learn a little history, and generally level up their friendshipsI split up the aspects of Castle Heterodyne in this au: Jake has the recently inherited Castle with the terrifying, nigh-magical power source buried in its depths, and Jane has the abandoned derelict that is fully sentient, most automated, and even more malicious than it is trapped. This is the story of that castle, and the Ring of Life hidden somewhere in it

Jack Noir. The castle’s sentience is Jack Noir. Or perhaps more accurately Spades Slick? Who cares.

I had a very elaborate mythology/history thought up at some point about the twin spark queens of Derse and Prospit and their great enmity, and the saga of betrayal and heroism that marked their reigns and left behind this castle and two super magical scientific rings of power, and I do not remember ANY of it now.

This is the bit where that scene of Dirk ripping out Vriska’s soul comes from. He and Roxy are here for the fabled treasure as well - possibly the castle only appears/is accessible at certain specific times? And they don’t know the trolls are with Jake, so…clusterfuck, there.

Jake English and the Troll Queen

in which the big bad is reveeled

there’s trouble brewing in the countryside, idk, monsters or pirates or something that can be traced, after some investigative heroing, to the self-styled Her Imperial Condescension, still unfortunately at large

mostly this fic is Jake growing into leadering a little more but also addressing the question of that inbuilt loyalty Jade gave this generation of trolls, because really, that was Sketch - and in general, who are we as people defined by who we follow, what groups we ally ourselves with; is it birth or genetics or who raised us or the family we choose or…

i kinda think Dirk and Roxy are conducting concurrent but generally not overlapping investigations to Jake&Jane’s(+the trolls) (dirk and roxy having pretty neatly answered all the above questions years ago by choosing each other, but still being kind of insular about it, and need to relax just enough to trust other people)

in the end there’s some confrontation with the Condesce and she convinces ½-2/3 the trolls to join her bc, honestly, why shouldn’t they

Jake English and the Castle in the Lake

in which…okay, in this one bit of fic I implied her base was in the ocean but I totally had this title written somewhere, so what is the truth??

in the above linked scene, the trolls who stayed with Jake and Jane were Karkat, Terezi, Kanaya, Gamzee, and Feferi, but idk about that. If Feferi’s there, why isn’t Sollux? And, like, Aradia would probably have just fucked off in her own direction completely, given the chance…

our heroes are trying to sneak into HIC’s base and disable it, okay. that is the plot of this one. probably they have to find it first, which is tricky, and basically a D&D dungeon crawl, and that’s before Jane gets tiara’d. Which definitely happens climactically. and then everyone else gets captured, with the possible exception of Dirk, who probably gets beheaded instead. things do not look good for our heroes…

Jake English and the Lost Hero

in which we find out exactly what happened in the previous generation

maybe even alternating chapters, past/present?

what happened basically is that the first generation of trolls, the Ancestors, went absolutely batshit roughly as per homestuck canon. The Condesce, being OP, started just conquering land. She was stopped, eventually, mostly by the epic sacrifice of Rose and Dave. And John…except Rose and Dave’s bodies were found, and in a clusterfuck of inventions warping time and space and reality itself, John’s never was

Jade survived, of course. obviously.

John did, too, it is revealed. He was just disconnected from the time-space continuum, stuck popping up in random times and places, sometimes close to those he loved and sometimes not, mostly uncontrollable…

he’s appeared here and there throughout the stories, probably, a mysterious figure in blue who nearly has time to say something before dissolving into fizzing wind. Now he appears more frequently, and for longer periods as the story goes on, including just enough to help break Roxy and Jake out of prison. And whichever trolls were stubbornly sticking with them - if the Condesce wasn’t just mind-controlling all the reluctant ones…let’s be real, she was…lotta “I know you’re in there somewhere” fights here, probably

also, Vriska reveals herself to still be trying to help our heroes, because it is SO Vriska to try to double-cross Her fucking Imperious Condescension

this double-cross is revealed partly from her using Jake’s minioning safeword that he developed with Grandma Jade, way back when; meaning roughly “I don’t want to do this but I’m not sure I can stop”. It’s pumpkin, of course.

they revivify Dirk on the way out, and either stop in the Condesce’s lab to get sparkily distracted trying to pin John into reality or they make it back to Hellmurder Castle before doing that?

What am I saying. The Condesce is probably working on some spacetime-warping tech of her own, and Roxy, Dirk, and Jake use it to fully anchor John for the first time in…who knows, subjectively? It’s possible he stays behind to buy them time to run

Jake English and the Battle for the Green Sun

in which things come to a head

aka the Battle for Hellmurder Castle, and it’s mysterious and terrible power source

Jane and half or so of the trolls start out on the Condesce’s side, but if you thought there were good “I know you’re in there” fights before, just WAIT until Jake saves Jane with the power of friendship

ultimately, it’s alpha kids + Alternian trolls + dancestor-clanks VS Her Imperial Condescension

it’s close

it’s very close

I would have krilled for an H–EIR—ESS CHALLENGE X3 COMBO, ie, Jane, Feferi, and Meenah vs. the Condesce, so that happens

John maybe appears one last time-displaced time, for him before the events of Lost Hero, to deliver a well-timed hammer swing

I love Jake, but I’ll give Homestuck this one: Roxy getting the final blow with an ancestral Strider sword? Perfect.

in the denoument Jake awkwardly invites everyone to live in Hellmurder Castle, because he feels vaguely like he should stay and look after it, and of course he wants his chums around. Jane, Roxy, and Dirk are all like, “well, a real lab or seven would be amazing…but also…adventuring. Why don’t YOU come with US?” Jake is like, “oh JEEPERS yes!” The trolls and dancestors meanwhile talk out among themselves who genuinely wants to stay and who wants to go out adventuring, either with these idiots or just to make their own way

#homestuck #girl genius #jake english #jane crocker #roxy lalonde #dirk strider #hellmurder castle au #my fic #ficlet #ministro spei #virgine vitae #hs trolls #dancestors #latrone nihil #duce animi #random anon asks

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syxjaewon · 5 years ago

Text

part 3 ; a gun barrel

“ATTENTION! ATTENTION! WILL A ‘YANG JAEWON’ OF THE SHIP ‘SERENITY’ COME TO THE STACKHAVEN PROPRIETOR’S OFFICE? REPEAT: WILL A ‘YANG JAEWON’ OF THE SHIP ‘SERENITY’ PLEASE COME TO THE STACKHAVEN PROPRIETOR’S OFFICE. THERE IS A WOMAN NAMED ‘VERA BLACKHOUND’ WAITING FOR YOU. THANK YOU.”

everything in jaewon’s body freezes to an absolute halt as soon as the announcement is spoken over the artemisia skyplex speakers, the automated voice shouting his name and details out through the device that reaches high and low, all across the ten-mile-wide platform, in homes, in boroughs, in shops and keeps, in bars and streets, his identity spread through too many ears and minds between one second and the next. his blood zips through him as cold as space, void of his usual fire, his usual bravado, the lava in his veins stumbling into stone as heavily as his boots skidding to a stop, listening to his individuality become common knowledge, his positioning made, his anonymity shattered.

and then it hits him. her name. waiting for him. vera.

“what the fuck,” he breathes like a curse, like a question, like a betrayal, his logical mind trailing back to what he knows to be faithful reality-- a wake held in all white, that night spent in the desert, a year without her commcalls-- with what his heart hammers against his chest, trying to convince him of. is she waiting? how could she be waiting? how could she be here, of all places, some nowhere skyplex hovering over higgin’s moon, somewhere in a crowd of slaves and travellers, traders and pirates? had they burned the wrong body? had he buried the wrong ashes?

yang jaewon has done many difficult things in his life, from surviving a wasteland planet, fighting and clawing and killing his way out of a life of street thieving and alleyway hunger, to wading through bodies in a valley, in a war he believed in more than he believed in any god of any heaven, and then losing that war, losing everything, gripping tightly to a machine he could call home, a ship with a spinning engine soul. there are decisions he made in that war that will haunt him until the end of his days, ghosts that will cling to his ankles and his wrists until the last breath he exhales, but one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do is say goodbye to the woman who raised him, the woman who saved him, the woman who trusted him with the ship they both fell in love with. even now, he can still close his eyes and remember the way the stars burned down on him that night with her ashes between his knuckles, the sands of valluria yawning out around him, the sky wide and screaming overhead.

the stackhaven proprietor’s office. that’s where his answers lie.

and when jaewon propels himself into action again, he does so as a pillar of flame, a holocaust, a firestorm, his hands in fists, his stride long and cutting through the crowds like a knife, his eyes scorching all who look at him too directly as though he is the sun incarnate, shining and terrible in this miserable grey, metallic place, his coat trailing behind him like a cape on a king. he glances momentarily at the directory to find the stackhaven and then he’s off again, cleaving straight through the masses at rush-hour, uncaring of the press people make to get the hell out of his way, lest they be burned, singed just like the atmosphere that radiates off him in toxic waves.

it’s a restaurant, the stackhaven, and jaewon bursts in through the doors like a hurricane, the thuds of his boots pounding against rickety wood flooring, the weight of his fury embedding itself into everything his light touches, the man shifting into a monster, into a weapon, into a maelstrom. he knows this is a trap, this is some sort of sick joke, this is some sort of maw opening larger and larger beneath him with every enclosing step, and he knows he should be more careful, he should bring neo with him for support, for extra guns, for extra protection-- that’s why neo is part of his crew after all-- but this cannot wait, this cannot be put off, this cannot be witnessed by anyone not privy to his unfaltering devotion to vera, even if it is a mirage. it doesn’t matter. he has to see, he has to go.

the first person in his line of vision is a short, balding man, gulping at the intrusion jaewon has just made, but obviously a manager of some kind. “where is she?” jaewon asks without preamble, his tone rigid and furious.

the older man mumbles something, but points in a direction off to his left, and jaewon follows it, passing the tables and the chairs and the bar area, the rest of the staff, the kitchens, the bathrooms, until he finds a doorway at the end of a dark hall, closed off only by a curtain, a light brimming from inside. he rests a hand over his pistol hanging on his hip, peeking in first to count however many alliance paladins might be lurking inside, what sort of trap this may look like, the danger, the hazard, the risk.

but all he sees is a girl, her back to him, long dark hair reaching all the way to her waist, her face obscured, turned away from him, and even knowing that she couldn’t have possibly been vera, something inside him sinks and cracks open, melting and dropping away. he clenches his teeth and steps inside. “are you--”

the girl spins around towards him, graceful and quick like a toy top, one arm outstretched, her fingers locked on the handle and trigger of a wide-barreled blaster, the point of which is trained squarely on his chest, even from three meters away, and for a second he flashbacks to another girl with long dark hair and gun in her hand, seolhyun, about to destroy his life and his future just for loving her, just for chasing her. and he thinks, ‘yeah this seems about right.’

but then the gold plating in his irises click and spiral, the molten lava core of him focusing in on this girl, this absolute stranger in his midst, and he remembers that seolhyun never knew about vera and wouldn’t care enough to search for him now, wouldn’t have reached out to him this way. he racks his brain for a moment, trying to recognize her, trying to place her features, her eyes, her stature.

“gotcha,” she whispers into the space between them, like a victory.

“who are you?” he frowns, his brows gathering angrily. “why did you call me here?”

“it’s not obvious? from the gun?” she asks this as though it’s a real question, like she’s honestly wondering if he’d missed that portion of their sudden meeting, as though this is the first time she’s ever pulled a weapon on someone and is genuinely unsure of how large the barrel of it can seem when it’s pointed at you.

“okay, so you want to shoot me.” it’s a statement, but also a question. “why? i don’t know you.”

she nods, and there’s something off about it, something fronting about it, as though she’d gotten off track for a moment, but now things are in her control again, now things are heading in the direction she’d wanted all along. “you don’t know me. but i know you.”

“no shit.”

“i know you’re captain of a star ship and you’re a pirate,” she continues. “i know you’re between twenty-five and thirty years old, i know you fought in the unification war, and i know you visited sihnon nearly one year ago.” she pauses for effect, which he admits is a pretty good one, but there’s still an oddness about this encounter he can’t quite put his thumb on, a bizarre factor to this speech that doesn’t match the rest of their environment, a heat to her words that doesn’t reflect in her eyes. “i know your name is jaewon yang and your ship is serenity and you knew two women named lianna and vera blackhound.”

and now the crux of it, now the pinspot, the singularity in this black hole, this gravitational well, the reason he’s here in the first place, the reason he’d bothered to show up. if that announcement had only named him and his ship, nothing else, he would have split and coursed his way out of here, hopped back on serenity and floated out into the black, no backwards glances, no regrets, no folly.

but she’d used vera’s name, to guide him here, to goad him here.

he reignites, his gold eyes sharpening on this girl. “you claimed to be vera, but you’re not. what is this?”

“this,” she laces her voice with a hardness he hadn’t heard before in her tone, finally some meat, finally some steel, her arm still securely aimed at him, “is vengeance.”

a beat passes between them. he blinks at her, squinting. “for vera?”

“for lianna.”

“i don’t have anything to do with lianna.”

“stop being a dumbass!” she snaps, and it sounds petulant, schoolgirlish, cross and impatient, and jaewon figures out why this scenario isn’t fitting right, isn’t sitting correctly; because it’s false, it’s a farce. because she’s little more than a child. because she’s never held a gun before, at least not one that large, not one she’s intending to kill someone with. because she doesn’t really know what she’s doing, and he’s familiar in dealings with vagabonds and criminals enough that he knows what a life is worth and what it takes from you when you take it from someone else. and this girl, she has no idea.

“who are you?” he tries again, his words heavier this time.

“i’m lianna blackhound’s niece,” she announces, like a command, like a decree, like a net she’s casting across the whole room, as though there’s an audience here, as though it’s not just him, staring at her like she’s an idiot. “and i’m here to avenge her death.”

another silence blooms between them, only this time jaewon uses it to piece together the puzzle that’s been laid before him, the jigsaw of this strange girl and her sudden mission, which had meant nothing to him exactly five minutes ago and now has his full, undivided attention. her message now delivered, sinks in through his bones and marrow, threads through his understanding of how the universe had been set up since the beginning.

there are two eggs to crack here, two massive, iron-plated ovals to shovel into and he’s not ready for either one.

to be lianna’s niece would mean being vera’s daughter. jaewon knows this because he’d looked into vera’s family history upon her death, traced the lineage of her ariel roots through the verse, to contact lianna about her passing after the wake, after the ceremony. there had only been two daughters of the blackhound line. vera had never said a word to him about having a child, about giving up a daughter, about a family. she never spoke much at all about her life before becoming a pirate, before becoming a captain, and he had never pried into it, always assuming her a goddess, a creature born of stardust and steel, otherworldly and ethereal.

the second egg is, as always, about death.

“lianna is dead?” he should be surprised, but he isn’t.

she sneers at him then, and he catches the slight tremble in her grip, the fury making her nervous. “don’t try to play with me, i’m a registered companion, i know how lies look on a man. you were the last person to see her alive.”

he takes a step forward but he lifts his hands up for her to see. “i haven’t seen her in a year, and she was alive. i didn’t kill her.”

“the records in her office show your name as her last visitor. yang jaewon. no one else. there’s multiple warrants out for your arrest for her murder.”

his head tilts, his eyes catching and alighting in a reflection of the lamp. “multiple warrants and you’re the only one who’s managed to catch me?”

she blinks a few times at that, her mind sputtering, backpedaling, her lips pressing and quivering for a moment. “i’ve been motivated.”

“you’ve been the only one looking.” he takes another step forward, betting all his cards on this hunch, on this sinking, disgusting, repulsive hunch. the way lianna had looked that last time, those last moments between them, her face ashen-white, scared, certain that he had come to kill her, certain that death was on its way, certain that her secret had gotten her sister killed and would be the end of her as well. “still though, that’s impressive.”

“don’t compliment me!” she shouts again, probably frustrated that he’s not more frightened of her. “not when i’m holding a gun on you.”

he notices she’s not telling him to slow down as he takes another step. amatuer. “i didn’t kill lianna. but i do know why she’s dead.”

that stops her breathing, skips at her heart rate, jams the gears twisting in her mind. “what?”

he keeps his eyes locked on her, the way he would with a wild animal, a sort of careful control seeping out of him, his body measured and steady, a sort of influence, a sort of indoctrination, a leaning of his drive against hers, their wills at war, their missions in a battle, and jaewon doesn’t know this girl, but he knows himself, he knows that he wins battles and he fights dirty, and he’s not afraid. “that last meeting between us, she told me something important, something that could change everything, a story that could alter everything, that could fix everything. a secret she knew would upend the entire galaxy.”

“what?” the girl’s voice is a whisper, caught in an enchantment. “what did she tell you?”

quick as a snake, jaewon snatches the gun right out of her hands, turning away from her as she cries out, startled, his fingers making quick work to unhinge the pieces from each other, disemboweling the weapon, dismantling all it’s components in a matters of seconds.

“hey!” she screams, coming towards him, which is a mistake because he immediately rounds on her, much taller, much broader, much stronger, much angrier than she’s ever felt in so tiny a frame, his golden, sun-pierced eyes simmering down into her huge, dark irises. without her blaster, she’s reduced down into a feeble wren, her shoulders bunching up in shock and fear, making her look even younger, even thinner than she had a second ago, her body shivering and shaking under his bladed scrutiny.

in his roughest, most commanding captain’s voice, honed from years of leading a crew of villains and delinquents through space, honed from years of controlling soldiers in a war that spanned across worlds and moons and asteroid belts, he tells her, “i’m going to ask you this question exactly one last time, and you’re going to answer it. who. are. you?”

and to her credit, she raises herself, straightens herself, still shivering, straining, stressed, but strong, rooted to her stance like a tree in a storm, and lives up to the legacy her last name leaves her with. “i named myself lianna blackhound, after the aunt who raised me.”

jaewon absorbs that, checks it into his mental data collection, hating it but accepting it because looking down into her soul at this moment, barely a foot away from her, their atmospheres crushing and suffocating, he can tell she’s not lying, not about this, not about any of it. she’s here alone, she came alone, out into the black, a long way from any companion houses, to find him, to catch him, to bring him to some sort of justice, even if it was skewed and mishandled, fumbled through like a child, like someone sheltered and shaded, someone spoiled and pampered. she doesn’t have what it takes to survive out here in the grit, but she did manage to find him, even when alliance hunters have struggled to.

it means he has to be more careful, but it also means she has some kind of a knack. she must get it from her mother.

“i didn’t kill lianna,” he confesses to her seriously, now with no gun on either of them, no reason to lie or cheat. “i spoke with her and then i left.”

she’s not ready to believe him though, already shaking her head, hatred brimming in her gaze. “records have you--”

“your alliance overlords can change and fix anything to do with the records, they have unlimited control and access.”

“why would the government hurt her?”

he takes a step back from here then, allowing the intensity to lessen between them. regardless of how this conversation began, if she is who she says she is, she’s vera’s daughter. and jaewon cannot bring himself to scorch vera’s daughter. “i told you. she had a secret.” and then he turns away, making for the door, making for his exit, because this is over now, this cannot continue.

she catches him again however, her hands around his elbows, her feet slipping in front of him, fast like a fox, blocking his way. “you can’t just leave like that!”

“i can actually.”

“no! you have to tell me what it is.” he gives her a pursed, tight look, and she tries again, softer this time. “please. she was my family. if you know something, please share it.” when he still takes too long deciding or reacting at all, she switches tactics, leaning in on his frame, her hands sliding along both his biceps, as if she might hug him, as if she might press herself against him, soft and beguiling, her eyes deepening, her lips filling out, everything about the arch of her body suggestive and coy, yet still maintaining that desperate, doll-in-distress look, begging for a hero. “please?”

jaewon leans back away from her like she’s grown two heads, gold eyes wide and horrified. “yikes.”

“look,” she drops the act, “it’s hard to do prose under pressure like this.”

“don’t ever do that again.”

“i’ve come all this way to kill you and now all my plans are ruined,” her voice flattens out to a truer cadence, annoyed and exhausted and entirely out of her depth. “you’re the end of my trail. tell me something!”

he sighs, the end of all pretenses, him just a man and her just a girl, the two of them tethered to this mystery like kites in the wind, and he thinks about vera, thinks about the way she had stood atop that roof on valluria the first time he’d seen her, tall as a goddess while her ship hovered just behind her, the light streaming over her, casting her a silhouette, her eyes like stones. his mother. someone else’s mother.

he doesn’t believe in fate, but if such a thing ever did exist, isn’t this what it would look like?

“dock level 45, subsection k, row 4,” he tells her, and she blinks at him as though she hadn’t really expected him to say anything, surprised, delighted, surging with new gumption, new strength, new motivation. “that’s where you’ll find an answer.”

and then he leaves her.

******

the girl named lianna devereaux blackhound follows the ramping around the bend of the skyplex, her backpack over her shoulder, her eyes bright and hunting, her steps light-footed and swift, the blood in her veins pumping eagerly. she’s not entirely sure what she’s looking for here in the shipping department of the plex, not entirely sure if she should have trusted such an unsavory, untrustworthy creature such as a pirate captain, but here she is anyway, rushing along the gradient, searching for her next clue, moving on past her failures and her triumphs and her strides thus far, willing to set them all aside as long as she gets closer to her vengeance, closer to her retribution, closer to her justice.

dock level 45, subsection k, row 4.

when she comes upon it, she almost laughs, almost cries, almost screams, her mind blank as a white page, confused and spread out, her gaze checking once, twice, three times that she got the right coordinates, that she hadn’t missed anything.

the ship that sits before her is large and ancient-looking, a firefly class heap with wings that burn and a tail that buzzes, the kind with an open engine that rotates and an ip tracker that’s detachable, perfect for smuggling and piracy and anonymity, rugged in that uniquely beautiful way that old machines can be sometimes. the side of her declares her name in burnt oranges and crumbling yellows, like a fire that’s still burning despite all the odds against it. serenity.

“there you are,” her captain greets, stepping out from the yawning cargo bay, tugging on a crate he begins loading inside.

“what is this?” she demands.

“you want to know your answers, you’d better stick around.” he glances at her once, those glowing, amber eyes like lanterns, beckoning her on further than she’s ever been before. “you coming?”

#verse one. lianna #backstory #this is the story of the blackhound women

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kinoyoga · 5 years ago

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The majority of thinking happens in the subconscious mind. The conscious mind represents only 5% of all thought. Try to take that in. This means that a staggering 95% of thinking is automated and happening at a largely unconscious level. Right now, as you read thus, you are thinking thoughts and reacting based on those thoughts without your awareness. To a large degree the framework of the subconscious mind hold the deepest thoughts we carry, the ones that form the framework for what we think reality and life really is. And since these thoughts are so deeply programmed and happening non-stop the danger is that we assume our view of reality to be “the truth” when in fact it’s just a bunch of deeply programmed unquestioned unconscious thoughts, many of which were laid down during trauma or received without consent through socialization. _ To make any substantive life change you will need to reprogram and reprogram your subconscious mind. If all your affirmations and identifications circulate in the realm of the conscious mind alone you cannot break free from the past. Only by diving deeply into the innermost caverns of the mind, body and soul will you be able to bring out the most powerful part of the mind. I don’t mean to say that subconscious mind is bad. It’s not bad. It’s powerful. And anything that is so powerful it controls 95% of your thoughts needs to be respected. The spiritual path is about gaining volition over the direction of your subconscious mind, choosing to actively participate in the work of worship and creation. _ Meditation is more than the next trend. Meditation is an age-old tool to start a revolution in your mind, one that has the power to fully liberate you. The path is there for all who are called, so if you feel you’re ready to do the work, all you need to do is start sitting... in a chair, on the floor, however it’s comfortable for you, just start with as little as five minutes a day. You will light the spark of true change and your life will never be the same again. _ #practiceofpeace Join me on @omstarsofficial for this free 18-day meditation and practice challenge 🙏 (at Miami Beach, Florida) https://www.instagram.com/p/BylL7kUnHiD/?igshid=1dm8010k88zxh

#practiceofpeace

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bountyofbeads · 5 years ago

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This expose` is an fascinating look at Joe Biden’s life growing up as a stutterer and the effects this disability had on his life, including in politics. It's long but well worth the read in light of his debate performances being questioned and whether he's up to the challenge of facing off against Trump.

Biden says his father taught him about “shouldering burdens with grace.” Specifically, he told his son, “Never complain. Never explain.”

What Joe Biden Can’t Bring Himself to Say

His verbal stumbles have voters worried about his mental fitness. Maybe they’d be more understanding if they knew he’s still fighting a stutter.

Photography Mark Peckmezian, Story by John Hendrickson

SPECIAL PREVIEW: JAN/FEB 2020 ISSUE

LISTEN TO ARTICLE ON WEBSITE

His eyes fall to the floor when I ask him to describe it. We’ve been tiptoeing toward it for 45 minutes, and so far, every time he seems close, he backs away, or leads us in a new direction. There are competing theories in the press, but Joe Biden has kept mum on the subject. I want to hear him explain it. I ask him to walk me through the night he appeared to lose control of his words onstage.

“I—um—I don’t remember,” Biden says. His voice has that familiar shake, the creak and the croak. “I’d have to see it. I-I-I don’t remember.”

We’re in Biden’s mostly vacant Washington, D.C., campaign office on an overcast Tuesday at the end of the summer. Since entering the Democratic presidential-primary race in April, Biden has largely avoided in-depth interviews. When I first reached out, in late June, his press person was polite but noncommittal: Was an interview really necessary for the story?

Then came the second debate, at the end of July, in Detroit. The first one, a month earlier, had been a disaster for Biden. He was unprepared when Senator Kamala Harris criticized both his past resistance to federally mandated busing and a recent speech in which he’d waxed fondly about collaborating with segregationist senators. Some of his answers that night had been meandering and difficult to parse, feeding into the narrative that he wasn’t just prone to verbal slipups—he’s called himself a “gaffe machine”—but that his age was a problem, that he was confused and out of touch.

Detroit was Biden’s chance to regain control of the narrative. And then something else happened. The candidates were talking about health care. At first, Biden sounded strong, confident, presidential: “My plan makes a limit of co-pay to be One. Thousand. Dollars. Because we—”

He stopped. He pinched his eyes closed. He lifted his hands and thrust them forward, as if trying to pull the missing sound from his mouth. “We f-f-f-f-further support—” He opened his eyes. “The uh-uh-uh-uh—” His chin dipped toward his chest. “The-uh, the ability to buy into the Obamacare plan.” Biden also stumbled when trying to say immune system.

Fox News edited these moments into a mini montage. Stifling laughter, the host Steve Hilton narrated: “As the right words struggled to make that perilous journey from Joe Biden’s brain to Joe Biden’s mouth, half the time he just seemed to give up with this somewhat tragic and limp admission of defeat.”

Several days later, Biden’s team got back in touch with me. One of his aides gingerly asked whether I’d noticed the former vice president stutter during the debate. Of course I had—I stutter, far worse than Biden. The aide said he was ready to talk about it. Last night, after Biden stumbled multiple times during the Atlanta debate, the topic became even more relevant.

“So how are you, man?”

Biden is in his usual white button-down and navy suit, a flag pin on the left lapel. Up close, he looks like he’s lost weight since leaving office in 2017. His height is commanding, but, as he approaches his 77th birthday, he doesn’t fill out his suit jacket like he used to.

I stutter as I begin to ask my first question. “I’ve only … told a few people I’m … d-doing this piece. Every time I … describe it, I get … caught on the w-word-uh stuh-tuh-tuh-tutter.”

“So did I,” Biden replies. “It doesn’t”—he interrupts himself—“can’t define who you are.”

Maybe you’ve heard Biden talk about his boyhood stutter. A non-stutterer might not notice when he appears to get caught on words as an adult, because he usually maneuvers out of those moments quickly and expertly. But on other occasions, like that night in Detroit, Biden’s lingering stutter is hard to miss. He stutters—if slightly—on several sounds as we sit across from each other in his office. Before addressing the debate specifically, I mention what I’ve just heard. “I want to ask you, as, you know, a … stutterer to, uh, to a … stutterer. When you were … talking a couple minutes ago, it, it seemed to … my ear, my eye … did you have … trouble on s? Or on … m?”

Biden looks down. He pivots to the distant past, telling me that the letter s was hard when he was a kid. “But, you know, I haven’t stuttered in so long that it’s hhhhard for me to remember the specific—” He pauses. “What I do remember is the feeling.”

Istarted stuttering at age 4.

I still struggle to say my own name. When I called the gas company recently, the automated voice apologized for not being able to understand me. This happens a lot, so I try to say “representative,” but r’s are tough too. When I reach a human, I’m inevitably asked whether we have a poor connection. Busy bartenders will walk away and serve someone else when I take too long to say the name of a beer. Almost every deli guy chuckles as I fail to enunciate my order, despite the fact that I’ve cut it down to just six words: “Turkey club, white toast, easy mayo.” I used to just point at items on the menu.

My head will shake on a really bad stutter. People have casually asked whether I have Parkinson’s. I curl my toes inside my shoes or tap my foot as a distraction to help me get out of it, a behavior that I’ve repeated so often, it’s become a tic. Sometimes I shuffle a pen between my hands. When I was little, I used to press my palm against my forehead in an effort to force the missing word out of my brain. Back then, my older brother would imitate this motion and the accompanying sound, a dull whine—something between a cow and a sheep. A kid at baseball camp, Michael, referred to me as “Stutter Boy.” He’d snap his fingers and repeat it as if calling a dog. “Stutter Boy! Stutter Boy!” In college, I applied for a job at a coffee shop. I stuttered horribly through the interview, and the owner told me he couldn’t hire me, because he wanted his café to be “a place where customers feel comfortable.”

Stuttering is a neurological disorder that affects roughly 70 million people, about 3 million of whom live in the United States. It has a strong genetic component: Two-thirds of stutterers have a family member who actively stutters or used to. Biden’s uncle on his mother’s side—“Uncle Boo-Boo,” as he was called—stuttered his whole life.

In the most basic sense, a stutter is a repetition, prolongation, or block in producing a sound. It typically presents between the ages of 2 and 4, in up to twice as many boys as girls, who also have a higher recovery rate. During the developmental years, some children’s stutter will disappear completely without intervention or with speech therapy. The longer someone stutters, however, the lower the chances of a full recovery—perhaps due to the decreasing plasticity of the brain. Research suggests that no more than a quarter of people who still stutter at 10 will completely rid themselves of the affliction as adults.

“Mr. Buh-Buh-Buh-Biden, what’s that word?,” a nun asked Joe Biden in front of his seventh-grade classmates.

The cultural perception of stutterers is that they’re fearful, anxious people, or simply dumb, and that stuttering is the result. But it doesn’t work like that. Let’s say you’re in fourth grade and you have to stand up and recite state capitals. You know that Juneau is the capital of Alaska, but you also know that you almost always block on the j sound. You become intensely anxious not because you don’t know the answer, but because you do know the answer, and you know you’re going to stutter on it.

Stuttering can feel like a series of betrayals. Your body betrays you when it refuses to work in concert with your brain to produce smooth speech. Your brain betrays you when it fails to recall the solutions you practiced after school with a speech therapist, allegedly in private, later learning that your mom was on the other side of a mirror, watching in the dark like a detective. If you’re a lucky stutterer, you have friends and family who build you back up, but sometimes your protectors betray you too.

A Catholic nun betrayed Biden when he was in seventh grade. “I think I was No. 5 in alphabetical order,” Biden says. He points over my right shoulder and stares into the middle distance as the movie rolls in his mind. “We’d sit along the radiators by the window.”

The office we’re in is awash in framed memories: Biden and his family, Biden and Barack Obama, Biden in a denim shirt posing for InStyle. The shelf behind the desk features, among other books, Jon Meacham’s The Soul of America. It’s a phrase Biden has adopted for his campaign this time around, his third attempt at the presidency. In almost every speech, Biden warns potential voters that 2020 is not merely an election, but a battle “for the soul of America.” Sometimes he swaps in nation.

But now we’re back in middle school. The students are taking turns reading a book, one by one, up and down the rows. “I could count down how many paragraphs, and I’d memorize it, because I found it easier to memorize than look at the page and read the word. I’d pretend to be reading,” Biden says. “You learned early on who the hell the bullies were,” he tells me later. “You could tell by the look, couldn’t you?”

For most stutterers, reading out loud summons peak dread. A chunk of text that may take a fluent person roughly a minute to read could take a stutterer five or 10 times as long. Four kids away, three kids away. Your shoulders tighten. Two away. The back of your neck catches fire. One away. Then it happens, and the room fills with secondhand embarrassment. Someone breathes a heavy sigh. Someone else laughs. At least one kid mimics your stutter while you’re actively stuttering. You never talk about it. At night, you stare at the ceiling above your bed, reliving it.

“The paragraph I had to read was: ‘Sir Walter Raleigh was a gentleman. He laid his cloak upon the muddy road suh-suh-so the lady wouldn’t soil her shoes when she entered the carriage,’ ” Biden tells me, slightly and unintentionally tripping up on the word so. “And I said, ‘Sir Walter Raleigh was a gentle man who—’ and then the nun said, ‘Mr. Biden, what is that word?’ And it was gentleman that she wanted me to say, not gentle man. And she said, ‘Mr. Buh-Buh-Buh-Biden, what’s that word?’ ”

Biden says he rose from his desk and left the classroom in protest, then walked home. The family story is that his mother, Jean, drove him back to school and confronted the nun with the made-for-TV phrase “You do that again, I’ll knock your bonnet off your head!” I ask Biden what went through his mind as the nun mocked him.

“Anger, rage, humiliation,” he says. His speech becomes staccato. “A feeling of, uh—like I’m sure you’ve experienced—it just drops out of your chest, just, like, you feel … a void.” He lifts his hands up to his face like he did on the debate stage in July, to guide the v sound out of his mouth: void.

By all accounts, Biden was both popular and a strong athlete in high school. He was class president at Archmere Academy, in Claymont, Delaware. His nickname was “Dash”—not a reference to his speed on the football field, but rather another way to mock his stutter. “It was like Morse code—dot dot dot, dash dash dash dash,” Biden says. “Even though by that time I started to overcome it.”

I ask him to expand on the relationship between anger and humiliation, or shame.

“Shame is a big piece of it,” he says, then segues into a story about meeting a stutterer while campaigning.

I bring it back up a little later, this time more directly: “When have you felt shame?”

“Not for a long, long, long time. But especially when I was in grade school and high school. Because that’s the time when everything is, you know, it’s rough. They talk about ‘mean girls’? There’s mean boys, too.”

Bill Bowden had the locker next to Biden’s at Archmere. I called Bowden recently. “It was just kind of a funny thing, you know?” he told me. “Hopefully he wasn’t hurt by it.” Bob Markel, another high-school buddy of Biden’s, went a little further when we spoke: “ ‘H-H-H-H-Hey, J-J-J-J-J-Joe B-B-B-B-Biden’—that’s how he’d be addressed.” Markel said the Archmere guys called him “Stutterhead,” or “Hey, Stut !” for short. He fears that he himself may have made fun of Biden once or twice. “I never remember him being offended. He probably was,” Markel said. “I think one of his coping mechanisms was to not show it.” Bowden and Markel have remained friends with Biden to this day.

Before collecting from customers on his paper route, Biden would preplay conversations in his mind, banking lines—a tactic he still sometimes uses on the campaign trail, he says. “I knew the one guy loved the Phillies. And he’d asked me about them all the time. And I knew another person would ask me about my sister, so I would practice an answer.”

After trying and failing at speech therapy in kindergarten, Biden waged a personal war on his stutter in his bedroom as a young teen. He’d hold a flashlight to his face in front of his bedroom mirror and recite Yeats and Emerson with attention to rhythm, searching for that elusive control. He still knows the lines by heart: “Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views, which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon, have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries, when they wrote these books.”

Biden performs the passage for me with total fluency, knowing where and when to pause, knowing how many words he can say before needing a breath. This is what stutterers learn to do: reclaim control of their airflow; think in full phrases, not individual words. I ask Biden what his moment of dread used to be in that essay.

“Well, looking back on it, ‘Meek young men grow up in li-li-libraries,’ ” he begins again. “ ‘Li’—the l.”

“That kind of sound, the l sound, is like the … r sound,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes I’ve noticed, watching old clips, it looks like you do have a little trouble on the r. It’s your middle initial.”

“Yeah.”

“Like ‘ruh-ruh-ruh-remember,’ ” I say, intentionally stuttering on the r.

“Well, I may. I-I-I-I-I haven’t thought I have. But I-I-I-I don’t doubt there’s probably ways people could pick up that there’s something. But I don’t consciously think of it anymore.”

Biden says he hasn’t felt himself caught in a traditional stutter in several decades. “I mean, I can’t remember a time where I’ve ever worried before a crowd of 80,000 people or 800 people or 80 people—I haven’t had that feeling of dread since, I guess, speech class in college,” he says, referring to an undergraduate public-speaking course at the University of Delaware.

This is when I ask him what happened that night in Detroit.

After saying he doesn’t remember, Biden opines: “I’m everybody’s target; they have to take me down. And so, what I found is—not anymore—I’ve found that it’s difficult to deal with some of the criticism, based on the nature of the person directing the criticism. It’s awful hard to be, to respond the same way in a national debate—especially when you’re, you know, the guy who is characterized as the white-guy-of-privilege kind of thing—to turn and say to someone who says, ‘I’m not saying you’re a racist, but …’ and know you’re being set up. So I have to admit to you, I found my mind going, What the hell? How do I respond to that? Because I know she’s being completely unfair.”

I eventually realize that he’s describing the moment from the first debate, when Harris criticized his record on race.

“These aren’t debates,” he continues. “These are one-minute assertions. And I don’t think there’s anybody who hasn’t been taking shots at me, which is okay. I’m a big boy, don’t get me wrong.”

Listening back to that part of the conversation after our interview made me feel dizzy. I can only speculate as to why Biden’s campaign agreed to this interview, but I assume the reasoning went something like this: If Biden disclosed to me, a person who stutters, that he himself still actively stutters, perhaps voters would cut him some slack when it comes to verbal misfires, as well as errors that seem more related to memory and cognition. But whenever I asked Biden about what appeared to be his present-day stuttering, the notably verbose candidate became clipped, or said he didn’t remember, or spun off to somewhere new.

I wondered if I reminded Biden of his old self, a ghost from his youth, the stutterer he used to be. He and I are about the same height. We happened to be wearing the exact same outfit that day: navy suit, white shirt, no tie. We both went to all-male prep schools, the sort of place where displaying any weakness is a liability.

As I listened to the recording of our interview, I remembered how I used to respond when people asked me about my stutter. I’d shut down. I’d try to change the subject. I’d almost always look away.

In early september, I got in touch with my high-school speech pathologist, Joseph Donaher, who practices at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. I hadn’t heard Donaher’s voice for almost 15 years. Immediately, I was transported back to the little windowless room in the hospital where we used to meet. Donaher was the first therapist—really the first person—who ever leveled with me. I can still see his face, the neutrality in his eyes on the day he looked at me square and said the sentence my friends and parents had avoided saying my entire life: You have a severe stutter.

Donaher and his colleagues try to help their patients open up about the shame and low self-worth that accompany stuttering. Instead of focusing solely on mechanics, or on the ability to communicate, they first build up the desire to communicate at all. They then share techniques such as elongating vowels and lightly approaching hard-consonant clusters, meaning just touching on the first sound in a word like stutter—the st—to keep the mouth and throat from tensing up and interfering with speech. The goal isn’t to be totally fluent but, simply put, to stutter better.

This evolution in treatment has been accompanied by a new movement to destigmatize the disorder, similar to the drive to view autism through a lens of “neurodiversity” rather than as a pathology. The idea is to accept, even embrace, one’s stutter. There are practical reasons for this: Research shows, according to Donaher, that the simple disclosure “I stutter” benefits both the stutterer and the listener—the former gets to explain what’s happening and ease the awkward tension so the latter isn’t stuck wondering what’s “wrong” with this person. Saying those two words is harder than it seems. “I’m working with people who spend their whole lives and are never able to disclose it,” Donaher told me.

Biden says his father taught him about “shouldering burdens with grace.” Specifically, he told his son, “Never complain. Never explain.”

Eric S. Jackson, an assistant professor of communicative sciences and disorders at NYU, told me he believes that Biden’s eye movements—the blinks, the downward glances—are part of his ongoing efforts to manage his stutter. “As kids we figure out: Oh, if I move parts of my body not associated with the speech system, sometimes it helps me get through these blocks faster,” Jackson, a stutterer himself, explained. Jackson credits an intensive program at the American Institute for Stuttering, in Manhattan, with bringing him back from a “rock bottom” period in his mid-20s, when he says his stutter kept him from meeting women or speaking up enough to reach his professional goals. Afterward, Jackson went all in on disclosure: Every day for six months, he stood up during the subway ride to and from work and announced that he was a person who stutters. “I had this new relationship with my stuttering—I was like Hercules,” he told me. At 41, Jackson still stutters, but in conversation he confidently maintains eye contact and appears relaxed. He wishes Biden would be more transparent about his intermittent disfluency. “Running for president is essentially the biggest stage in the world. For him to come out and say ‘I still stutter and it’s fine’ would be an amazing, empowering message.”

Occasionally, Biden has used present-tense verbs when discussing his stutter. “I find myself, when I’m tired, cuh-cuh-catching myself, like that,” he said during a 2016 American Institute for Stuttering speech. Biden has used the phrase we stutterers at times, but in most public appearances and interviews, Biden talks about how he overcame his speech problem, and how he believes others can too. You can watch videos posted by his campaign in which Biden meets young stutterers and encourages them to follow his lead. They’re sweet clips, even if the underlying message—beat it or bust—is out of sync with the normalization movement.

Emma Alpern is a 32-year-old copy editor who co-leads the Brooklyn chapter of the National Stuttering Association and co-founded NYC Stutters, which puts on a day-long conference for stuttering destigmatization. Alpern told me that she’s on a group text with other stutterers who regularly discuss Biden, and that it’s been “frustrating” to watch the media portray Biden’s speech impediment as a sign of mental decline or dishonesty. “Biden allows that to happen by not naming it for what it is,” she said, though she’s not sure that his presidential candidacy would benefit if he were more forthcoming. “I think he’s dug himself into a hole of not saying that he still stutters for so long that it would strike people as a little weird.”

Biden has presented the same life story for decades. He’s that familiar face—Uncle Joe. He was born 11 months after Pearl Harbor and grew up in the last era of definitive “good guys” and “bad guys.” He’s the dependable guy, the tenacious guy, the aviators-and-crossed-arms guy. That guy doesn’t stutter; that guy used to stutter.

“My dad taught me the value of constancy, effort, and work, and he taught me about shouldering burdens with grace,” Biden writes in the first chapter of his 2007 memoir, Promises to Keep. “He used to quote Benjamin Disraeli: ‘Never complain. Never explain.’ ”

Stephen colbert launches across the Ed Sullivan Theater stage, as if from a pinball spring. It’s early September, and his Late Show taping is about to begin. To warm up, he takes a few questions from the studio audience. Someone asks what he’d want in a potential new president. “Empathy?” Colbert deadpans. “A soul?”

Colbert tapes in Midtown Manhattan on the same stage where the Beatles made their American television debut 55 years ago, when Joe Biden was a mere 22. Biden struts out to a standing ovation and throws up his hands in amazement: For me? A brief “Joe! Joe! Joe!” chant erupts.

At first, Colbert lobs softballs, and Biden touches on the key parts of his 2020 stump speech: Why voters must stand up to the existential threat of Trumpism and how the Charlottesville, Virginia, white-supremacist rally crystallized his decision to run. Then Colbert goes for it.

“In the last few weeks, you’ve confused New Hampshire for Vermont; said

Bobby Kennedy and MLK were assassinated in the late ’70s; assured us, ‘I am not going nuts.’ Follow-up question: Are you going nuts?”

“Look, the reason I came on the Jimmy Kimmel show was because—”

The audience howls. Biden flashes a flirty smile. Colbert adjusts his glasses, sticks his pen in his mouth, and nods in approval. The joke was probably canned, but Biden landed it.

Colbert continues to press him about accuracy issues in his storytelling. The studio audience is silent; I’m watching from the balcony and can hear the theater’s air-conditioning humming overhead.

“I-I-I-I-I don’t get wrong things like, uh, ya know, there is a, we, we should lock kids up in cages at the border. I mean, I don’t—” People applaud before Biden can finish.

When the interview is over, Biden receives a second standing ovation. He peers up toward the rafters, using his hand as a visor against the bright lights. A white spotlight follows him offstage. Several minutes later, he glides through the stage door and out onto West 53rd Street. People call to him from the sidewalk. “Joe! Joe Biden!” He climbs into the back of an idling black SUV, and the doors

clunk close.

I follow Biden for a couple of days while he campaigns in New Hampshire. His town halls have a distinctly Norman Rockwell vibe. One takes place in the middle of the day on the third floor of a former textile mill, another on a stretch of grass as the wind whips off the Piscataqua River. His crowds are predominantly older, filled with people who stand for the Pledge of Allegiance and wait patiently to ask questions. After he speaks, Biden typically walks offstage to Bruce Springsteen’s “We Take Care of Our Own,” then saunters down the rope line for handshakes and hugs and selfies. One voter after another tells me they’re unaware of Biden’s stutter. “Knowing that he has had something like that to deal with and overcame it, as well as other really sad things that have happened—it just makes me like him more,” says 70-year-old Grace Payne.

Back in New York, I start to wonder if I’m forcing Biden into a box where he doesn’t belong. My box. Could I be jealous that his present stutter is less obvious than mine? That he can go sentences at a time without a single block or repetition? Even the way I’m writing this piece—keeping Biden’s stammers, his ums and pauses, on the page—seems hypocritical. Here I am highlighting the glitches in his speech, when the journalistic courtesy, convention even, is to edit them out.

I spend weeks watching Biden more than listening to him, trying to “catch him in the act” of stuttering on camera. There’s one. There’s one. That was a bad one. Also, I start stuttering more.

In September, before the third Democratic debate, in Houston, I called Michael Sheehan, a Washington, D.C.–area communications coach whose company website boasts clients ranging from Nike to the Treasury Department. Sheehan worked with President Bill Clinton while he was in office and began consulting on and off for Biden in 2002, when he was in the Senate. On the day we spoke, he was in Wilmington, Delaware, doing debate prep with Biden.

Sheehan and I traded stories of daily indignities—he stutters too. “I remember exactly where the deli was; it was on 71st and First Avenue,” he said with an ache in his voice. He lamented the interventionists, the people who volunteer, “ ‘You know, why don’t you speak more slowly?’ I always want to say ‘Holy shit! Why didn’t I think of that? Thank you!’ ”

Sheehan’s own stutter improved, but didn’t fully go away, when he took up speech and debate in high school. This eventually led him to the theater, which is a common, if surprising, place where some stutterers find that they’re able to speak with relative ease. Taking on a character, another voice, the theory goes, relies on a different neural pathway from the one used in conversation. Many successful actors have battled stutters—Samuel L. Jackson, Bruce Willis, Emily Blunt, James Earl Jones. In 2014, Jones, whose muscular baritone is the bedrock of one of the most quoted lines in film history, told NPR that he doesn’t use the word cured to describe his apparent fluency. “I just work with it,” he said.

At an August town hall, Biden briefly blocked on Obama, before subbing in my boss. The headlines afterward? “Biden Forgets Obama’s Name.”

Sheehan was extremely careful with the language he used to describe Biden’s speech patterns—“I can’t say it’s a stutter”—though he noted his friend’s habit of abruptly changing directions mid-sentence. “I do hear those little pauses, but I really don’t hear the stuff that you would hear from me or I would hear from you,” he said. A few minutes into our conversation, he choked up while discussing Biden’s tenderness toward young stutterers. “Sometimes I feel when he goes a little long on a speech, he’s just making up for lost time, you know?”

Sheehan told me about a night when he came home with his wife and saw the answering-machine light blinking: “Hey, Michael, it’s Joe Biden. I just was watching The King’s Speech with my granddaughter, and I just thought I’d give you a call, because it made me think of you. Goodbye!” He says the message felt like a secret fraternity handshake: “You and I have both been there, and only people in that society know what that is about.”

In Biden’s office, the first time I bring up his current stuttering, he asks me whether I’ve seen The King’s Speech. He speaks almost mystically about the award-winning 2010 film. “When King George VI, when he stood up in 1939, everyone knew he stuttered, and they knew what courage it took for him to stand up at that stadium and try to speak—and it gave them courage … I could feel that. It was that sinking feeling, like—oh my God, I remember how you felt. You feel like, I don’t know … almost like you’re being sucked into a black hole.”

Presidential candidates usually don’t speak about their bleakest moments, certainly not this viscerally. It resembles the way Biden writes in his memoir about the aftermath of the 1972 car accident that killed his first wife and young daughter and critically injured his two sons, Beau and Hunter: “I could not speak, only felt this hollow core grow in my chest, like I was going to be sucked inside a black hole.”

A few weeks later, I ask Jill Biden what she remembers about sitting next to her husband during the movie. “It was one of those moments in a marriage where you just sort of understand without words being spoken,” she says.

As he watched The King’s Speech, Biden accurately guessed that the screenwriter, David Seidler, was a stutterer. “He showed me a copy of a speech they found in an attic that the king had actually used, where he marks his—it’s exactly what I do!” Biden tells me, his voice lifting. “My staff, when I have them put something on a prompter—I wish I had something to show you.”

He pulls out a legal pad and begins drawing diagonal lines a few inches apart, as if diagramming invisible sentences: x words, breath, y words, breath. “Because it’s just the way I have—the, the best way for me to read a, um, a speech. I mean, when I saw The King’s Speech, and the speech—I didn’t know anybody who did that!”

Biden is running for president on a simple message: America is not Trump. I’m not Trump. I’ll lead us out of this. With every new debate, with every new “gaffe,” the media continue to ask whether Biden has the stamina for the job. And with every passing month, his competitors—namely Senator Elizabeth Warren and South Bend, Indiana, Mayor Pete Buttigieg—have gained on him in the polls.

A stutter does not get worse as a person ages, but trying to keep it at bay can take immense physical and mental energy. Biden talks all day to audiences both small and large. In addition to periodically stuttering or blocking on certain sounds, he appears to intentionally not stutter by switching to an alternative word—a technique called “circumlocution”—which can yield mangled syntax. I’ve been following practically everything he’s said for months now, and sometimes what is quickly characterized as a memory lapse is indeed a stutter. As Eric Jackson, the speech pathologist, pointed out to me, during a town hall in August Biden briefly blocked on Obama, before quickly subbing in my boss. The headlines after the event? “Biden Forgets Obama’s Name.” Other times when Biden fudges a detail or loses his train of thought, it seems unrelated to stuttering, like he’s just making a mistake. The kind of mistake other candidates make too, though less frequently than he does.

During his 2016 address at the American Institute for Stuttering, Biden told the room that he’d turned down an invitation to speak at a dinner organized by the group years earlier. “I was afraid if people knew I stuttered,” he said, “they would have thought something was wrong with me.”

Yet even when sharing these old, hard stories, Biden regularly characterizes stuttering as “the best thing that ever happened” to him. “Stuttering gave me an insight I don’t think I ever would have had into other people’s pain,” he says. I admire his empathy, even if I disagree with his strict adherence to a tidy redemption narrative.

In Biden’s office, as my time is about to run out, I bring up the fact that Trump crudely mocked a disabled New York Times reporter during the 2016 campaign. “So far, he’s called you ‘Sleepy Joe.’ Is ‘St-St-St-Stuttering Joe’ next?”

“I don’t think so,” Biden says, “because if you ask the polls ‘Does Biden stutter? Has he ever stuttered?,’ you’d have 80 to 95 percent of people say no.” If Trump goes there, Biden adds, “it’ll just expose him for what he is.”

I ask Biden something else we’ve been circling: whether he worries that people would pity him if they thought he still stuttered.

He scratches his chin, his fingers trembling slightly. “Well, I guess, um, it’s kind of hard to pity a vice president. It’s kind of hard to pity a senator who’s gotten six zillion awards. It’s kind of hard to pity someone who has had, you know, a decent family. I-I-I-I don’t think if, now, if someone sits and says, ‘Well, you know, the kid, when he was a stutterer, he must have been really basically stupid,’ I-I-I don’t think it’s hard to—I’ve never thought of that. I mean, there’s nobody in the last, I don’t know, 55 years, has ever said anything like that to me.”

He slips back into politician mode, safe mode, Uncle Joe mode: “I hope what they see is: Be mindful of people who are in situations where their difficulties do not define their character, their intellect. Because that’s what I tell stutterers. You can’t let it define you.” He leans across the desk. “And you haven’t.” He’s in my face now. “You can’t let it define you. You’re a really bright guy.”

He’s telling me, in essence, that my stutter doesn’t matter, which is what I want to tell him right back. But here’s the thing: Most of the time, Biden speaks smoothly, and perhaps he sincerely does not believe that he still stutters at all. Or maybe Biden is simply telling me the story he’s told himself for several decades, the one he’s memorized, the one he can comfortably express. I don’t want to hear Biden say “I still stutter” to prove some grand point; I want to hear him say it because doing so as a presidential candidate would mean that stuttering truly doesn’t matter—for him, for me, or for our 10-year-old selves.

Now his aide is knocking, trying to get him out of the room. I push out one more question, asking what he saw reflected in that bedroom mirror as a kid.

He goes off into a different boyhood story about standing against a stone wall and talking with pebbles in his mouth, some oddball way to MacGyver fluency. I do the thing stutterers hate most: I cut him off. “What did that person look like?”

Biden stops. “He looked happy,” he says. “You know, I just think it looked like he’s

in control.”

This article will appear in the January/February 2020 print edition with the headline “Why Won’t He Just Say It?”

🍁☕🍂🍞🍁☕🍂🍞🍁☕🍂🍞🍁☕

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zemathas · 6 years ago

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Chapter 1: The City of Isoraptus

The City of Isoraptus San’rei, give me strength, Oom’rei grant me wisdom, Mah’rei, aid my passions, and Lah’rei, show me temperance. To the Mother, my soul belongs; may I never be lost to Darkness.

Though the summer heat and humidity bore down on those working the fields and tending to their animals, Ketirin’s sweat was earned in one of the dusty mines beyond the borders of Descena, alongside her brother. Together, they worked on a drill that had broken down the night prior. Covered in grease, brown hair pulled back from her face with a leather strap, she and Heirus had once more climbed atop the machine and opened its access panel. Their last attempt to fix it had resulted in a small fire, and it was fortunate that they’d had an extinguisher and emergency shut-off switch, not to mention the respirator masks, goggles, and leather gloves that kept them safe.

“Ketti,” Heirus caught her attention and handed her a wrench, which she took without a word. He had confidence in her ability after teaching her for over a decade, though he never passed on an opportunity to test her. Watching her work brought a small, proud grin to his expression, hidden by his protective gear.

Lips pursed and brows furrowed, Ketti retrieved the determined part from the machine and handed it out to her brother, arm remaining extended until he gave her its replacement. Once it was positioned and bolted, she withdrew from the machine with a heavy sigh, wiping sweat from her forehead with her grease-covered forearm. “Turn it on?” she requested as she stepped to her brother’s side, waiting with bated breath as Heirus tried to start the engine from a control display at the back of the machine. The engine roared to life, and after a few moments of watching, Ketti threw her arms up and exhaled a relieved sigh. Heirus directed the drill into position, set it to automate, then met his sister’s grimy hug with a chuckle.

“Ready for lunch?”

“Yes! I’m starving,” she skipped a few feet toward the mine’s exit, then waited for her brother to catch up so she could keep pace with him.

“Clean up, first.”

“Yes, I know. I know,” she rolled her eyes, though neither her amusement nor excitement were hindered. She removed her gear and attached it to her belt as they broke from the mine and into the welcoming breeze; the air had cooled since morning, and the wind carried the scent of a coming storm.

Their village was a mile trek from the ore mine, and there was a small building just before the border prepared specifically for miners and engineers to remove grease and dust on their way home. The siblings parted, here, to step into their respective sides of the building, promising to meet at home. She showered quickly and changed into fresh clothing, taking those dirty through the rain to be cleaned at home.

Her house, like many of those in the village, had a metal roof, something she greatly appreciated as rain pelted it, creating a symphony throughout the community. She couldn’t help but grin as she crossed the threshold, her mother’s cooking rising through the open windows. Her home and family offered a sense of love and serenity, hope. It didn’t take much for their presence to wash away doubt, their encouraging smiles and support unmatched by any other in the village, so far as she was concerned. She greeted her family in passing to promptly drop her work clothes in their laundry machine (built, of course, to withstand the task of grease); her mother was already setting the table, and the others had taken their seats to wait. She could hear them discussing the work they’d each completed, and their plans for the next few days.

“What’s for lunch?” Ketti called as she added detergent. Through the years experiencing the scent of oil and metal shavings that her parents, brother, and she carried, it had earned a special place in her heart; even still, the clean scent of soap never failed to give her a sense of relief.

“Roast chicken sandwiches,” her mother replied. She heard a faint knock at the front door, followed by the scoot of a chair across the floor and footsteps. Curiosity touched her, and so she hurried to finish loading and setting the machine. She headed to the kitchen with a slight skip, stomach aching after hours of work, though as she crossed the threshold, a sense of foreboding and building anxiety overcame her. Her family was quiet, gazes turned down or otherwise away from where she stood; their food laid only partially eaten, and since untouched, aside from her younger sister’s picking at a bit of chicken poking from its bread.

“... Wha--...” Ketti began, falling silent as her mother looked at her; the others remained quiet, forlorn. Ketti’s gaze drifted to two, white-clad men as they entered the kitchen and into view. She recognized them and, as she always did, found herself wondering how the Isorici managed to keep their sleek fabric and polished armor so white in the Boton Forest; it didn’t even look wet, despite the heavy rain pelting the roof.

“Ketirin Fessa Aroio,” one of the men spoke, both of which had their heads turned toward her, though she couldn’t make out their expressions behind their masks. She felt fear pull her features before it properly settled in her stomach. Already, her breaths quickened, heart pounding in her chest as her fingers began to tremble. The agents were fluent in her native language, something she was already well accustomed to. “Come with us.”

“... N-no…” she spoke weakly, her voice sounding distant. Her field of vision narrowed as panic took her; before she could think, she was at the back door, flinging it open and sprinting as fast as her feet could carry her into the forest with a desperate desire for freedom and safety.

She heard footsteps behind her, before long, two sets carrying an odd rhythm. They were lighter than what she would have expected from the men she’d met in the kitchen, the Agents. She dared to look back, to gauge their proximity and judge whether or not she could escape them.

Never could she have imagined the creature that darted after her, faster than she could outrun it. Her breath caught in her throat. In the moment she’d been distracted by the horror behind her, unable to look away, she tripped, foot catching on a root to send her into the foliage of the forest floor.

The sound of the downpour upon the forest drowned out everything else, offering peace that seemed to carry on for ages, and yet not nearly long enough. So many hours were spent in the trees above her, settled on a thick, mossy branch with a journal, sketching the brightly colored frogs and beetles, the jaguars that prowled below, the packs of capybaras near the wide river to the south. So many passionate notes filled those pages. The forest inspired her inventions, her mind traveling back to the workshop and her efforts to create a robotic replica of the large cat to protect the village; it was yet unfinished, and she feared she’d now never complete it.

The creature that trailed her was no doubt one born of Darkness. It’s large, singular eye, situated in the middle of his forehead was milky gray, and it’s muzzle was replaced with what she could only describe as a wriggling, tapered, worm-like appendage that seemed to seek something with the small opening at its tip; it didn’t appear to have a mouth, nor ears, aside from the holes on the side of its head. Its wrinkled, pale skin was hairless and hung from its slender body, shifting with each lunge of its long, narrow limbs through the foliage, over roots and fallen trees, slim tail whipping behind it to aid its balance. It had hands with thick knuckles on its otherwise svelte fingers; it was upon these knuckles that the creature appeared to move. Those warm hands pressed to her shoulders, pinning her to the ground with strength unexpected from such a small being; she startled out of her brief, welcoming reverie.

She uttered a delayed shriek with its close proximity, the nightmarish monster’s proboscis exploring her face. She tried to turn away, to push the monster back, though she found she couldn’t break eye contact, her own strength was swiftly sapped. As the appendage pressed to the center of her forehead, her fear drained almost instantly. The world faded; the last thing experienced was the lush grass she felt beneath her fingertips.

-+-

Ketti groaned, dazed as she woke from a restless sleep. She could hear rain hitting the roof overhead, though it sounded muffled, as if the roof was made of something unnatural, unlike the metal roofs she was accustomed to. As her senses roused, she came to realize that she was was being moved. She theorized, momentarily, that she’d somehow fallen asleep on one of the trader’s trucks and had gone unnoticed, or perhaps had fallen ill, which would explain the fading nightmare. She was unsettled, and her heart ached, though she hadn’t quite pieced together why.

She lifted a hand from the cool floor soon after a constant, faint scraping and tapping beyond the pattering of the rain reached her tapered ears, intending to rub her eyes. She found, however, that lifting one hand tugged at the other’s wrist, and her inattentive state resulted in the loose hand smacking against her face, startling her further into consciousness. With a frustrated sigh, she managed her intended task and sat upright, then tried to blink away the haze.

She found that she was in a dark space, save for the dim stormy light that filtered through a window beside her; the surrounding walls were made of a dull, gray metal, the floor surprisingly cool despite having laid upon it for an undetermined amount of time. As the haze slowly faded, she realized that the window bore no glass, only a set of metal bars, and there was another room beyond it. Two fellow Terera sat in the seatless room with her, against the walls, bearing shackles on their wrists and ankles, just as she did. They weren’t made of metal, she’d noticed, but rather an unnatural, sleek material that reminded her of the armor the Agents wore over their clothing. Each cuff bore a single small, green light. Further inspection offered her no understanding of how to remove them; she had no means to sever the thick cable that kept them together, though at least that between her ankles suggested that she could walk, albeit slowly, if she managed to escape the moving prison she was confined to.

She considered speaking to the other Tetera, but they seemed weary and didn’t appear to hold any hope of escape, themselves. For now, she’d leave them be, and instead turned her focus to the window. She gripped the bars with both hands for balance and lifted herself to her feet to peer through it. The vehicle was large enough to stand fully in, perhaps even for the taller Agents that had entered her home. On the other side of the wall was a section large enough for the doors of her cell to open, and for two black-armored men to sit comfortably in seats against the walls. They each held rifles, though she was uncertain of their make, and thick helmets hid their faces.

“Hey, uh,” she attempted, barely managing to keep her dread at bay, “We’re going to the City, right?”

They didn’t look at her, let alone answer her. They were unmoving, resembling deactivated machinery. The occasional bump that the vehicle encountered didn’t seem to jostle them in the least; she couldn’t even tell if they were breathing.

“... H-how long until we get there?”

Again, they offered no response. Lips pursing and teeth gritting slightly, she sank back down onto the floor and let her forehead rest against the door before her.

“Ketti,” one of the Tetera spoke behind her; she looked over her shoulder, misery finally beginning to work its way into her expression. She recognized him, someone she’d worked with regarding schematics, a few times. He was clever, and someone she’d admired; she quietly chastised herself for not recognizing him sooner. She offered him a small, hesitant smile, trying to force herself to feel some semblance of hope. “... You’ll just have to accept it.”

What little light she’d garnered was swiftly smothered; she fought to keep her withering smile in place, resulting in a tight purse of her lips and furrowed brows. She had to take a moment to regain her composure before she could reply. “... I don’t want to,” however hushed, her voice cracked and stiff, “I didn’t choose this.”

“They’ll kill you if you don’t comply. You know that, right? They’ll kill you. If you do as they say and just accept this fate, maybe--”

“What? You think they’ll let us go?” her tone took on a harsh, though weak, edge, “You think they’ll ever let me see my family, again? This is shit, Eddy! None of us--”

“Ketti, stop, alright? You’re not in this alone, so just stop.”

She inhaled stiffly through her nose, scowling at him, and pressed her forehead to the door a little harder than she’d intended. She could hear the girl behind her sniffling, and regret began to heavily weigh on her heart. “... Okay,” she murmured, body deflating as she quietly grieved.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t help but think of everything that she was leaving behind. Not only had she left her family - which, of course, was the most difficult aspect for her to accept - but her projects, her journals, the aspirations she’d held. What made her fate so galling was the fact that she had no idea what it was. She could be headed to her death, put to physical labor that kept her from intellectual advancement, or kept as a pet by some sick Isoricus. She hadn’t thought much on the subject in the past, unwilling to accept that being abducted was even a possibility. She trembled as she tried to hold herself together, tried to think positively, to consider that her knowledge might be put to use. Although that notion was less dreadful than the others, it made her feel no brighter. Why would the Isorici trust Tetera with technology?

-+-

As the days passed, she grew numb. The Order didn’t feed them well, offering rations just large enough to keep them alive. She’d never been so hungry in her life. She’d quickly taken to conserving her energy as much as possible, though the silence had begun to drive her mad. She hadn’t realized how social she was, how much she enjoyed the conversations with her family and friends over meals, the lessons of her elders, and the instruction she gave to those younger than herself. She prayed for her little sister, Gemma, that she would be safe as their brother had been; there were, after all, others her age. She thought to pray that she didn’t meet their standards, though that felt nearly as cruel as committing her to the cell. Ketti wanted her to excel, to learn and create, to have freedom to do as she pleased. By the end of the week, however, she’d decided that it wasn’t worth it. She missed them, and the aching loneliness and hunger was too much. The Agents offered them no means of bathing, though at least they occasionally stopped to let them relieve themselves. Everything was on a schedule, she quickly learned, and no amount of pleading for anything earned a reward. At least they didn’t treat them with aggression.

Upon the first opportunity to step outside, they were greeted by armed soldiers, and accompanied by two Agents each. As she was guided to the side of the dirt road, privacy a luxury she’d previously taken for granted, she attempted to run. She’d forgotten about the shackles on her legs, and as she took her second step, the cord between them suddenly tightened and she was unable to properly catch herself with her bound hands. She landed hard, though at least her fall had been cushioned by foliage. She was lifted by her arms and dragged back to the vehicle, locked away and prevented from taking a break from the darkness. In a later escort, she noted that the white truck stood out dramatically against the wild green forest around them. Painted neatly on the side of the cargo container was the symbol of the Order. This truck was escorted by several other smaller vehicles, large enough to house the plethora of Agents and soldiers that accompanied them.

She didn’t try to escape a second time.

Compared to the humid heat she was accustomed to, the air steadily grew chilly as they continued north. The color of the light, too, changed, taking on a gray tone. By the time the truck finally stopped outside schedule, she was almost constantly shivering. She’d lost weight and felt sick. The two with her didn’t seem as heavily affected as she was; they didn’t share her abnormally high metabolism.

Unlike when they’d stopped previously, they weren’t given food, nor a chance to step outside. Her malnourished mind worked slowly to the assumption that they’d reached their destination, that she’d soon understand what the rest of her life would entail. She’d had a week to prepare for this moment; despite the numbness that had set in, she wasn’t ready. Once more, fear and misery found her weakened consciousness, further burdening her exhausted body. Heavy clinking sounded beyond her cell walls and she pulled her knees closer to her chest. Isoricus voices called around her, though she couldn’t understand their words.

Quietly, she uttered a prayer to the Mother, to keep her soul, should she die, that day. She prayed for her family, for those she was confined with.

The vehicle began to move, again, and she slumped against the door. Her body ached, muscles and joints stiff. She wanted desperately to sleep, though she’d hardly managed to do so since she’d left Descena. The vehicle jostled far too much, and closing her eyes for any extended period brought about nightmares she couldn’t recall.

As they traveled, the ambiance changed. She occasionally heard the Isoricus dialect, and light of various colors flickered through the cell’s barred windows. A small part of her was intrigued by the sounds of footsteps, the overall bright atmosphere, the occasional foreign song as they passed its source. She couldn’t, however, bring herself to peek; that small part was simply too dull to overcome the exhaustion she felt.

Eventually, the vehicle stopped, once more. A clinking similar to that she’d heard previously resounded toward the front of the vehicle, then they continued. The atmosphere, here, was darker, sullen. The lights weren’t as colorful, though she did notice dialect that she was familiar with. Perhaps the last area bore few of her kind, or none at all. She knew her fate was encroaching, though the familiarity brought her a small spark of hope that she would survive, and perhaps, someday, escape.

The truck made its final stop and she could hear the Isorici unloading from their vehicles. The doors opened and sets of two Agents each collected and guided the captives individually. As Ketti was dragged to her feet, her gaze moved to the world beyond. She mustered strength to walk, a sense of wonder barely peeking over her fear.

Tall buildings made of white brick towered above, reaching toward the black night sky like massive trees, which she could see none of. Lights lined the dark cobblestone streets, painting splashes of blue across the building walls, lined with rectangular windows that reflected magnificently. The people that passed them had nearly gone unnoticed, though she couldn’t tear her eyes away from them once they drew her attention. Although their skin, eyes, hair, and ears varied greatly, pulled from diverse parts of the world, all of their clothing was bright blue and simple; everything from the occasional jacket or short sleeved shirt was the same. There was no true deviation, aside from the stark difference held by the Agents and the soldiers. They all, she noted, wore a single band on their right wrists, similar to the cuffs she bore. Her wonder faded as she realized how quiet and unnerving this place was.

They were escorted into an underground facility with a foreign word in bright blue lights above the entrance. The walls were made of the same white stone of the rest of the city, the matching ceiling inset with lights that made it difficult to see; it was too bright, compared to the outside, with nothing to mute it against the blinding white.

They passed through a door and into a small room. Behind three white desks were Agents, before which were large displays, facing away from the entering group, each provided a single chair, into one of which Ketti was guided. She sat and stared wide-eyed at her assigned Agent, whom began to touch the display. Ketti looked to her left, toward the others. Edwic sat with forced stoicism, while the girl that joined them appeared to be on the verge of tears. As her attention returned forward, brows furrowed, she fidgeted with the short cable between her wrists, awaiting her Agent to begin whatever it was he had planned.

“Ketirin Fessa Aroio, correct?” he asked in Teteron. Ketti swallowed thickly, then reluctantly nodded, gaze dropping to the material that made up the surface before her. The Agent tapped the display as he continued to speak, “District 4B, Department K-1, Class 5-D,” Ketti frowned, unsure what to make of this information, “You’ll receive your full identification number in your assigned dwelling.” The Agent retrieved a band similar to those she’d noticed outside, “Give me your hands. I’m going to remove your shackles. Should you try to flee, you’ll only be causing more trouble for yourself. Do you understand?” She offered him a hesitant nod, her frown deepening, and offered her hands forward. “I’ll remove those on your ankles shortly.” The Agent removed the shackles and replaced the cuff on her right wrist with the band; she didn’t see how those cuffs had been unlocked, and the band smoothed over and offered no clear means of removal once it was in place. She felt it mold to her skin, which set her into panic; she immediately tried to remove it. It wouldn’t budge. “You needn’t worry about cleaning it,” he didn’t seem perturbed in the least by Ketti’s attempts, “Nothing can get between your skin and the band, and it is self cleaning.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, clutching her arm to her chest, trying not to hyperventilate, to calm herself. The girl to her left shrieked and tried to run; she tripped as Ketti had upon her first effort to escape and was quickly returned to her chair, shoulders held in place by both Agents behind her.

“It means that sweat and other such grime will be pushed from beneath the band. Any violent attempts to remove the band will result in temporary paralyzation, at which point Agents will remove you and you will be punished accordingly. Do you understand?”

She began to tremble, pulling her heels up to the edge of the chair, striving to make herself as small as possible. “... Y-yes,” she replied meekly.

The Agent looked to those behind her. “She’s ready.”

“Ready?” The Agents lifted her out of her seat by her arms, and she found that the shackles at her ankles fell away, collected by the Agent behind the desk; she was guided through a door at the back of the room. “Where are you taking me?!” They explained nothing, though her question was soon answered. They escorted her into a private area, leaving her with two women wearing dust masks and gloves that stuck to their skin, their hair and ears hidden by a white cloth cap. They immediately began to strip her, preparing to clean her to the standards of the City.

Too exhausted to properly fight them, she struggled and begged weakly as she was dragged into a large tub. They held her down as they sprayed and cleaned her with soft brushes as she gradually gave up. The process seemed to last forever, leaving her humiliated and uncomfortable. Whatever they used smelled acidic, though at least it didn’t burn. At least the electric toothbrush they’d used bore a compound that tasted almost sweet. By the time they’d finished, she felt degraded and wanted nothing more than to collapse and curl into herself. They didn’t allow her to, however; one held her upright as the other dried her, then they clothed her in the same dress she’d seen in the city. She was too worn, by that point, to pay much mind to the various syringes they pierced her arms with, injecting her with foreign serums prepared prior to her arrival.

The Agents that had remained outside the door entered to retrieve her, partially carrying her out to the truck. She pulled her knees to her chest and trembled weakly, silently pleading for her freedom and safety, her return home. It was all far too much to cope with.

The girl that had joined them from Descena was not with them when the doors were closed and the truck began to move, though Ketti had hardly noticed. Whatever had happened to her couldn’t have been good, and she didn’t wish to consider the possibilities. Even Edwic seemed affected by the process they’d suffered through, slumped against the wall as she had been on their journey to the city. She wanted to comfort him, somehow, believing it might bring some hope to her own heart, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter a word, nor to reach out to him. Soon, he was unloaded, and Ketti was alone.

Time passed slowly as she was transported elsewhere, the ambiance of her surroundings drowned out as her focus turned inward. If what she’d experienced, thus far, was any indication of how things would be for the rest of her life, she couldn’t help but feel as though being put to death might have been welcomed. She pulled her legs closer to her chest and buried her face in her knees, telling herself to breathe deeply, to think positively, though her mind refused to withdraw from her present situation. She worried for Edwic, for the girl that had come with them. Once more, she prayed, though she found that she was having trouble keeping her faith.

The doors opened and she was lifted to her feet, guided to one of the many, nearly identical stone buildings. She paid little attention to the environment, even as they passed into a small space and the doors closed automatically behind them. “Floor 5,” the Agent spoke, and she felt uneasy as the floor lifted beneath her. She was aware that he was looking at her, though her focus was too dulled to react properly. That aside, there was little information she could garner by looking at him; most Agents wore masks that covered the entirety of their faces, inset with goggles that bore glass as white as their uniforms. He guided her down a hallway to a door, pointing to the lettering neatly painted in black; the first set she didn’t recognize, though those below it were Teteron.

“This is your room: District 4B, Building 2, Floor 5, Apartment 12. Do you understand?” She nodded numbly and he directed her banded wrist to the door’s white face; several quiet, mechanical clicks resounded from the frame and the door slid open, into the wall. She might have been fascinated by such a thing, if not for her attempts to keep her composure; she didn’t want to break down in front of the Agent. He guided her inside, though remained in the doorway, speaking to her back. “Your band controls everything, though will only allow you access to what your position dictates. I recommend you explore the console,” he gestured to a display set into the wall beside her, just inside the door, “as soon as possible.” With that, he stepped from the threshold and the door slid closed, once more locking. The moment it did, her lip began to tremble.

She couldn’t recall falling to her hands and knees, nor curling up on the floor on her side. The separation from her family - of which she couldn’t quite remember, either - plagued her deeply, as did her experiences in the City and the journey to it. She sobbed until she no longer could, until there was nothing left but emptiness, and soon after, exhaustion took her.

She awoke some time after the sun rose; it filtered through the one window she had at the back of her room. Stiffly, she managed to sit up. She was starving, a sensation she’d grown accustomed to, recently. A heavy weight remained in her chest, a willingness to give up brewing within her.

But she wasn’t dead, yet. She considered her family, and though that caused the ache to worsen, it likewise brought about a small spark. She was an Aroio, a Teteron; her family wouldn’t give up, even after she’d been taken, she was certain. Heirus would continue his work, and Gemma would continue to learn; her mother and father would diligently teach and support both of them, as they always had. They were faithful to the Mother and her Children. Despite the fate she now suffered, and the risk Gemma still bore, they wouldn’t lose hope. All things happened for a reason, and she wasn’t dead.

Trembling from weakness, both mentally and physically, she pushed herself to her feet and finally began to explore her new home. Like so much else in the city, everything was white, meticulously clean. There was a refrigerator - far nicer than the one she had at home - and what she’d determined to be a stovetop on one of the counters. An appliance she wasn’t familiar with sat beside it, one that looked like a small oven. Two spaces of counter was taken by a sink, the last left open for meal preparation. Dish soap was kept below the sink, along with a tub with a container of bleach, sponges, and a plug. There was a single pot and pan beneath the small oven. A fork, spoon, knife, and can opener were found in a drawer, and cabinets overhead contained a plate, bowl, and cup. Beside that cabinet, to her excitement, was food: Canned fruits and vegetables, boxes of rice and oatmeal, soup, pasta, and various other non-perishable goods. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

She took down pasta and soup, quickly fetching a pot to dump both within, not caring enough whether or not it was cooked fully; she just wished it to be edible. After a brief bit of fumbling, she managed to turn on the stovetop with only buttons, no dials, then checked the freezer, finding a few cuts of cheap steak and chicken. The fridge was empty. Beneath her small bed, the white mattress bare, were drawers, one of which contained several pairs of underwear and socks. Beside it was a closet, which she found held more of the bright blue shirts and pants, though it seemed the shoes she wore were her only set. A broom and dustpan were tucked in the corner, a pillow, set of sheets, and a blanket on the shelf above.

She stirred her meal before inspecting the last door, which she found lead to a bathroom. A stacked washer and dryer were in the corner, just large enough, she’d determined, to cram the thin blanket into. Beside it was a shower, and on the other side was a sink and toilet. She found toothpaste and a toothbrush in the mirror cabinet, and below the sink was one towel, three small clothes, bath soap, hand soap, and a combined bottle of shampoo and conditioner. It was far more than she’d expected; they clearly intended for her to be healthy, at the very least.

Meal prepared, she poured half of it into the bowl and stood near the stove as she shovelled it into her mouth. She ate the rest of it on the bed, a bit slower. It was quite plain and the noodles were a bit firm, but it filled her. She didn’t bother with cleaning, just yet, simply setting the dishes in the sink.

The white of the band against the dark skin of her wrist caught her eye; she’d managed to ignore it, up until this point, though with her hunger sated and an inkling of hope weaving into her being, she truly remembered where she was, and the instructions she’d been given.

As she touched the band in thought, she looked to the console; it was nothing more than a screen, glowing blue with the familiar white symbol at the center. As seemed the theme of the city, she couldn’t read the first line, though below it were the words ‘Order of Rapture’. She frowned and hesitated, fidgeting with the band, uncertain as to whether or not she could take the step, or even how to. The Agent had said that the band controlled everything, and it had seemed to open the door on the way in. She swallowed thickly and tentatively lifted her arm to the console.

The screen changed, startling her into withdrawing her wrist to her chest. She saw her face beside a listing of information: Her age, birthday, the date she was ‘acquired’, and the date of her ‘processing’. She noted that Descena was mentioned, and her identification number was at the top, just below her full name. Her frown returned as she saw the names of her family members, including her grandparents. She touched the screen over their names.

“Ketirin Fessa Aroio: You have logged in to the employee system,” a woman’s voice spoke from the console, startling her to once more withdraw her hand to her chest.

“... E-employee?”

“That is correct,” Ketti’s eyes widened, not having expected a response, “You will receive a stipend each week, so long as you continue to work for the Order of Rapture.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“You have been assigned to District 4B, Building 2, Floor 5, Apartment 12 as a member of Department K, Division 1, Class 5-D. In this position, you are expected to produce and maintain new equipment for the Order of Rapture’s use. Your skills as an engineer have been noted, and the Order of Rapture does not intend to waste them.”

“W-wait, so, if I’m working for them, why don’t they just say that instead of fucking kidnapping people?”

“All work for the Order is strictly confidential; it is for this reason that none are provided with the truth upon acquisition. You will continue to work for the Order until you are deemed no longer useful, or you reach the end of your lifetime.”

The weight began to settle in, again, somewhat quelling her anger; she briefly chewed her lip. “So, forever..?”

“In mortal terms, yes. Do you have any questions?”

“I mean.. yes, a lot of questions, but… I guess the most important is: Can I leave?”

“You are not permitted to leave the City without permission and the escort of an Agent of the Department and Class according to your reason for leaving. You may, however, roam the City, so long as you do not enter the City’s Heart and attend your work as you’ve been assigned.”

“... Alright. Uh, s-so, what have I been assigned, then?”

“You’re to report to your Department Supervisor, K-1-2-B Mellina Bessen, at 8am tomorrow morning.” A map of the city was loaded to the display, indicating her current location, where she needed to be, and the best route to take, “Your work schedule will be dictated to you by K-1-2-B, and you will be expected to adhere to it.”

“... Okay. Do I have any bits?” she asked hesitantly.

“You have been alloted thirty credits. The city does not trade with bits.”

“... Is that a lot?”

“It will allow you some measure of leisure during your first week in an effort to avoid unnecessary stress that may impede your work. You will receive a stipend of one-hundred-fifty credits each week. You are expected to provide food for yourself, as well as purchase and maintain your own clothing, bedding, and otherwise. You have been provided with supplies for hygiene, sustenance, and other necessities to accommodate until you receive your stipend.” Ketti took a moment to process this, apparently longer than the console expected, as it interrupted her thoughts. “Do you have any further questions?”

“Will I get a chance to ask some in the future?”

“Yes. You may use your console to request answers, though understand that classified information may not be accessible to you.”

“How do I use credits?”

“To pay for goods, you must present your band. All credits are handled electronically.”

“... That’s all, then, I think.” She fidgeted with the band, blinking a little as she tried to comprehend everything.

“Obey the Order, and no harm shall come to you.” With that, the console’s screen returned to white symbol.

Ketti remained where she was, for a time, considering her ‘employment’, her wage. She started to hyperventilate with anxiety as she became overwhelmed and needed to sit to gather composure. Minutes passed before she pushed herself to her feet, allowing herself to briefly fall back against the wall as she settled her breathing.

She needed to get out; even if she couldn’t leave the city, she needed to leave the small, white space she now dwelled in.

With her band, she tentatively opened the door and stepped into the hall. She made note of the lettering she could read, trying to commit it to memory, then slowly traced her steps back down the hall until she came to a door labeled ‘LIFT’ above the frame. Hesitantly, she held her band forward and the doors dinged; a screen beside it displayed numbers in ascending order until it reached five, then the doors opened. Tentatively, she stepped inside and the doors closed behind her.

“Uh… Floor.. 1?” she spoke to nothing in particular. The lift descended and she braced herself against the side, watching the floor. The doors opened on the third level and a man joined her; she moved as close to the wall as she could, giving him room as he watched her.

“Floor 1,” he uttered, then spoke to her, “You new?” Without looking at him, she nodded, lips pursed. “Name’s Alexian.”

“... Ketti,” she managed; she was pretty sure he was an Isoricus, judging by the curvature of his ears.

“You alright?” Her lips turned downward and her brows furrowed before she managed to shake her head. The doors opened and she hurried out into the hall, placing a hand firmly on the stable wall opposite to steady herself. “Hey,” he’d followed her, “I can show you around, if it’ll help. Been here a while, myself. What’s your Department?”

She chewed her lip a little, gaze still down, “... Uhm… E-engineering? K.. something.”

“K. Nice. I’m in R. I recover relics and stuff. We work with engineers a lot, though usually those from L.”

She slowly lifted her gaze to his face, noting that his eyes were brown, as was his hair, and his skin was paler than hers was; he was smiling at her, reassuringly, and seemed patient. “... What’s L?”

“Weaponry. I can’t tell you anything else about it, though. If you’re interested, you could probably work your way up to it. The Order doesn’t take engineers that aren’t talented, just like everyone else in their individual Departments.” She chewed her lip, considering that, then took a shaky breath. “Hungry? Could go eat. Just got off, so I’ve got time to give you a tour.”

Ketti was always hungry, sometimes simply more than usual. She nodded and slowly pushed herself from the wall. He lead her toward the exit as he spoke. “We don’t have anything fancy, but might still be different than you’re used to. You’re Teteron, yeah?” Again, she nodded, letting him talk as he seemed willing to fill the silence. “I’m Exericus. My people don’t live far outside the city walls. We’ve got some smart people, but we’re mostly fighters. Most people go on to join the military, some stay behind to raise kids and train new recruits and stuff. Others end up here. Everyone goes through some variation of what you did, so you’re not alone, alright? It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”

She’d taken to watching him as they walked down the sidewalk, trying to focus on him rather than her surroundings. She was still coping, the world daunting. He continued to talk, gradually helping her relax. “I’m R-3-3-B, a Veteran. I’m hoping to move up to 2, soon, Supervisor, but that means one of the other Supervisors has to be promoted or, well, die. Relic recovery’s dangerous, you see,” she noticed he gestured a lot as he spoke, “It’s either that or we’d have to get enough people in R to justify adding another Division. There’s a lot of moving around of people depending on numbers and needs and stuff. You get used to it. Oh, speaking of, you know your ID number?” She shook her head. “You’ll learn it, soon enough. Most people directly above you call you by it, especially when you’re working. Your Department, Division, and Rank are kind of like your title, then you have your ID number after that. The whole thing is used in documents and formal settings and stuff. So mine’s R-3-3-B-2176.”

It occurred to Ketti, at that moment, that Alexian was fluent in Tetaron; her brows raised with curiosity. “Do all, uh, Exerici know Tetaron?”

“Nope. Just those around here, really. Gotta learn it, otherwise there’s a lot of people you can’t communicate with. Isoricus isn’t too different from Exericus, so that’s easy for me. Then there’s the occasional Herisicus we get in from the desert, so I know that, too, but not nearly as well. Way different than Exericus. Know a little Boton, but we don’t interact with ‘em much.” She looked upon him in awe, and he chuckled. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it. Might be difficult at first, but the more you interact with people, the easier it gets, and I’ve found that learning others after the first is easier, too. I’ll help you out.”

He turned down into a tunnel similar to the facility she’d entered, and she hesitated, clutching her hands to her chest. She’d stopped several paces away, unwilling to move any closer as horror touched her. He paused and turned to face her on the steps, offering her that reassuring smile. “It’s not that place, I promise,” he reached a hand out to her, “All the places that aren’t apartments are underground to save room. Plus they’re usually added after the apartments, so it’s kinda necessary. There’s food down here. Smell it?”

She took a deep, tentative breath; the scent of cooked meat and vegetables reached her, far better than the soup she’d made for herself. She’d left her apartment without doing the dishes, which seemed extremely important, just then. “... Uhm.”

“I can go get it for you, if you want to stay here. We can go to the park to eat. I get it. I went through it, too, remember?” She shifted her weight uncomfortably, but gave him a series of small nods. He retracted his hand, though didn’t seem disappointed, at least. “It’ll be a bit. Don’t go anywhere. This place is big, and it’d be a pain to find you, not to mention you might get lost.” She bit her lip, but nodded, once more, then looked for somewhere to sit.

As he headed down, she settled for sitting against a nearby wall, bringing her knees close to her chest. For a while, she simply stared ahead, though her attention eventually moved to those passing; they seemed to pay her little mind. The city seemed less gloomy, now, even as the sun had begun to set, casting orange over the blue-lit streets and bright clothing.

There was a great diversity, she’d noticed, in the people, themselves. Their clothing matched, but she could see people from all walks of life. Old, barely of age, dark and pale skinned, ears curved and tapered. Some held the hand of another, others scowled as they passed someone else. She noticed a few armed soldiers patrolling, though they, too, only gave her a passing glance. Devices hung high on the surrounding buildings, swiveling and glinting in the orange light, giving her the impression that they watched the streets. Most seemed to have accepted this new life, forming new bonds and altered aspirations. There were a few that, she’d determined, must not have been around much longer than she; they hardly seemed to be in a better mindset.

Eventually, Alexian returned, offering Ketti a cardboard container that smelled of fish, though not any she’d recognized. “Figured you’d like to try something new, something native,” he smiled, then offered his hand to help her up; he’d held a second box, intended for himself. She took his hand tentatively and rose, then quickly withdrew it; he didn’t seem bothered by this. “We can go to the park. I think you’ll like it. Probably not like your homeland, but at least it’s green.”

She smiled just a little at the prospect, then frowned as she thought of her family. He guided her onward as she willed her stomach not to grumble. She hadn’t eaten long before, but it still felt like ages since her last meal. The walk was long, and he mostly kept quiet, though occasionally checked to see if she was behind him, and to smile.

Her expression brightened and her pace picked up as she spotted the vibrant green foliage in the distance, the towering trees. Even from so far, she could tell it wasn’t like home, but it was better than her otherwise white surroundings. He chuckled and allowed her to lead, though kept up with her easily; he was much taller than she, and much broader, built to lift and fight.

She took her time seeking out a good spot, roaming the park quickly before deciding to settle beneath one of the large trees. They weren’t they only occupants, some even playing some sort of game with a disk, but she’d hardly noticed them. She folded her legs and opened the container in her lap. It had begun to grow cold, but she didn’t care. The fish had been breaded and fried, alongside a container of tartar and fries; she’d never seen anything like it, but it smelled wonderful. She didn’t hesitate to start eating.

“Dip the fish in the sauce,” he instructed her, opening his own container.

She did so, unable to help a hum of satisfaction. “It’s so good!” she spoke, mouth still full. She was eating quickly, as she tended to do. He chuckled, choosing to savor his food.

“So, what do you do for fun?” he asked once she was finished eating; he was halfway through his own.

“I build stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Robots, mostly. Or, at least was working on some stuff. I did a few small things and helped upgrade some of the mining machines. I’d started on this jaguar, but didn’t.. get the time to finish it.” Her voice had taken on a sullen tone.

“Hey, maybe you can do it here?”

She shook her head, frowning, “No point. It was meant to help keep the village safe from predators and stuff. Don’t need that, here.”

He shrugged. “Just ‘cause you don’t need it in the city, doesn’t mean it’d have no use.”

Fear struck her as she vividly imagined a horror she never thought she was capable of; although the image was quickly forgotten, sickness still lingered in her tightened gut. She looked elsewhere, sliding the empty container from her lap and bringing her knees to her chest.

“... You alright?” When she didn’t respond, he set his own meal aside, leaning to better see her face. “Hey. Ketti?”

She looked at him, startled; her mind had wandered, momentarily forgetting where she was, and that she was with company.

“You okay..?”

Her lip trembled and she shook her head, turning her attention to the grass before her, noting in her need for a distraction its distinct lack of insects and other wildlife.

“Hey, whatever it is, you’re safe now, yeah? So long as you don’t do anything stupid like try to fight people or run, you shoul--” He trailed off as her feet turned inward and she tipped her head down to hide her face in her draping hair. He knew he’d said something upsetting. He lifted his hand to touch her shoulder, but hesitated and withdrew it, thinking better of the action. “... You’re safe, I promise. Whatever it is, you’re safe. If.. you have some trouble, come find me, okay? I’m on Floor 3, Room 6. Same building. Just knock and I can make you something to eat and.. we can talk or.. sit in silence. Whatever you need. I’ll help you out.”

She gave a delayed nod, though kept her head down, fighting back tears. Each tight breath trembled. He let her have time to regain her composure, not wishing to disrupt her any further.

Ketti clung to her faith desperately, though each moment in that city wore at the strength of her grip. She couldn’t fathom what the Mother could have possibly intended for her with such a fate.

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magnet-rose · 7 years ago

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The Division Bell - A Reylo fic - Ch 2

Chapter 2 Round and Round

As embers fall like rain, Rey opens her eyes. There's a painful ringing in her ears, lines of the room around her swim in all directions, and she can't seem to focus. She pushes herself up to sit and slowly the room settles into place. He is lying on the ground just couple hundred feet away. The power of a lightsaber was no joke. It had thrown them clear across Snoke's chamber. The shattered saber lie in between them, like a broken promise. She feels her breath catch in her chest, the tears want to come again, but she takes in a deep intake of air and pushes the exhaustion, the sadness, the betrayal away.

Living on Jakku she'd never had very many friends. Until Finn had crashed into her world she'd been on her own, lived as a hermit once she was free to live alone at the behest of Unkar Plutt and made no close friends because they would return one day. But with Finn, Chewbacca… Han… Leia... she had begun to feel like she had that foundation of friends that she'd never had-never let herself have-and her life had been filled with something she never knew she wanted: friends. There is a connection, a hope, a love tied to friendship that fills all the corners of her empty world and for a time had eased the pain of missing parents.

Rey pulls herself to her feet using the wall as leverage. Her back smarts angrily in reminder that she had hit that wall after the saber exploded.

When the impromptu Force connection with Kylo-no, Ben- had happened she had been angry, fueled by a revenge ridden urge to kill the man who had killed one of her friends, her almost-mythological childhood hero.

And then there on that tiny isolated island with Master Skywalker she had begun to feel lost, alone, and she was losing her mission to find her purpose. He had been there, an ear to tell her frustrations, a lost soul like herself. Ben, so she thought, was entering that realm of friendship. She had even entertained the idea of being with him. He was attractive, they had a momentary connection, a spark deep in the Force that had nearly shouted: You compliment each other, like shadows and light in a mirror. She had trusted it, that feeling. But maybe she shouldn't have.

Rey begins the slow walk towards Ben, lying on the floor, crumpled and knocked out from the blast. Ashes and embers are still falling around them, sparks and bits of dying ship glowing out ever corner of the window. The ringing in her ears has subsided only to be replaced by the emergency klaxon and an automated voice saying in a tonally boring voice that there was a severe breech and all personnel were ordered to their muster stations and escape pods.

As she passes it she grabs the pieces of the shattered lightsaber, each a testament to a broken trust. The rage is filling her again, betrayal isn't something she takes lightly. The way he treated her isn't the way she wants to be treated.

She isn't sure, as she stands over his slack body, how much the eyebrow pinched expression on his face is from nightmare or physical pain.

She kneels down and reaches for his lightsaber. That violent, uncontrolled, untamed, crimson blade that had killed those she cared for, and probably would again because of its owner if he wasn't ended.

"You're nothing! But not to me."

She isn't a nobody. She knows herself! She is Rey, crack pilot, woman, partially trained Jedi. She is someone. To her friends, her true friends, she is someone. She knows even if they aren't physically there, that Finn, Chewbacca BB-8, Leia, and even Han, are with her because the Force connects all things.

She draws her hand back and instead presses a single finger to the space of pale skin between pinched eyebrows. At her touch his expression softens and he seems to just be sleeping peacefully. She feels that blind rage drain away and she sighs.

"You can't fix what isn't broken, and you can't change people who don't want to," she says in a chiding tone. "I hope what I saw comes true, I hope you let the light back in, but I won't take your toxic behavior lightly. It's your job to change, Ben. If you ever want to redeem what we could have had. I believe in you, never forget that, but I have to take care of myself and the people who need me now."

She touches his hair, smoothing out the tangles on top, and then smiles sadly as she rises to her feet.

In the corner a small light blinks above a sign for the emergency escape pod. With one last glance back at the man on the ground she goes to the escape pod and begins the departure tasks. Flip a switch, press a button, confirm. Step back, close door, press button, confirm.

The gravity shifts as the pod takes over power, propulsion, gravity, and direction. She presses a small beacon pinned to the inside of her vest under the collar and tries to meditate in the spare minutes until Chewie catches the beacon signal and retrieves her.

Later, as she reaches out to pull an avalanche of rocks away she reaches out just a little too far and there he is, just out of sight between the streams of the Force. She doesn't acknowledge it, him, until just after she feels Luke presence, like a single strand of a lute being plucked across the galaxy just before it breaks. There is a chill because for a time she could feel that not just her, not just Leia, but Ben too felt that lifeline twinge and vanish and they flowed in the same stream of the force, the waves rocking them all to the core.

Before she severs her end of that last red string of the Force between them she makes eye contact with him and she whispers across streams, waves, and currents of the Force: I believe in you.

He feels betrayed too. They really are so much alike, but like the sides of a coin they face opposite directions.

Until we meet again.

It's not exactly a challenge, but a promise. They will meet again, equals, two sides of a coin, spinning around each other but always in balance, whether on the battlefield or across the oceans of space.

With determination she ruptures the Force connection between them. The amputation is punctuated by the close of the Millennium Falcon's gangway. As they speed away from Crait she takes a few deep breaths to release the stress that had piled on her shoulders. She smiles to herself as she watches Finn fuss over a small unconscious woman. She couldn't wait to tell him everything she had learned, and find out what he'd been up to. She had missed her friend and she can sense some measure of strength in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. She was proud of him no matter what he had been through because something had bolstered his place in this world.

Like Maz had said, the belonging she had looked for is ahead and not behind her. It is right in front of her the whole time. Maybe one day she and Ben could reconcile, maybe they could find themselves on the same page, maybe find themselves in the same stream of the Force behind a unity, a balance of that same Force. Only then would she ever put the maybe friend, the briefly entertained significant other, in his own place in her picture of her belonging.

...

"Please..." he says to her. He can feel the connection between them straining. Ever since their fight in the forests of the Starkiller he had recognized in Rey something that had always been with him. Something that he had yearned for for as long as his memory would take him back. The dream fades away and he wakes with a gasp. He is so angry. He wants to destroy it all.

He rages because Snoke manipulated his feelings. He created a bond with Rey that wasn't real. Had any of it been real?

He rages because Hux is weak, sniveling, and clearly doesn't see that he is in control now. No one was going to control him. HE, Ben, Kylo WHATEVER he was, was in control. He now had the power.

He rages, throws every ounce of his anger behind fighting what's left of what SHE cares for more than him. That stupid resistance. That stupid beautiful, strong woman. He wants her with him, but she has denied him. Just like his parents, just like Skywalker, and just as Snoke had done time and again, made him feel like he was an outsider.

He rages through the fight with Skywalker. Luke. His uncle. How could he have done this to him? It was his fault! And when he fades away with the final words that he would always be with him like... like his father... he shatters just a little bit more. It doesn't seem to matter how much resolve he finds, there's always another part of him breaking away.

And then there in the abandoned base he feels her, and looking up he sees her. Just out of reach. But so close he can see the look of sadness and hurt on her face.

Until we meet again. She says to him over their connection before her end of it breaks.

He's never felt more broken in his life. But then he realizes that Snoke is gone. The connection was still there. He reaches out for it, but her end is so tightly closed it would be like throwing a snowball at a star destroyer. If she were a weaker mind then it might have been possible, but always Rey had been strong. Just as strong as him and his equal in the force. He looks at his hand where they had touched, where he had felt the vibrancy of their connection. They had something. They had lost it. He wondered if he would ever feel that connection again.

He leads the troops out, feeling Hux's anger at him boiling in the background. He doesn't care. Right now he wants to sleep. The exhaustion is taking over and he still had so much work to do to fully establish himself as the new Supreme Leader.

TBC...

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sunriseoverastorea · 6 years ago

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Hunger

♬ Jeremy Soule - Secunda

Rajya Sleekfur grew up in the copper valleys of Ascalon. The lake near her fahrar was tainted, turned shifting shades of oily incandescence, so she didn't learn to swim as a cub. It wasn't until she became a full-fledged soldier, when a superior pushed her into a river because she had sneaked away to read a book, that she miraculously, by virtue of necessity, figured out how to keep her massive weight from sinking like an anvil into the murky depths of the water. The book had been ruined, swept away and soaked. The Priory forgave her for the loss. They never hesitated to loan her books.

Now, Rajya Sleekfur finds herself on the sea. She can't feel the waves, the swell of the ocean. Nor can she feel the sun, the blessed, blinding sun, or the sharp, salty wind that cuts through the ship's sails and sends sailors running about the deck, yanking on ropes and shouting orders to each other. She cannot feel, but she can hear, and see, as if in a dream.

The Unending Sea is bigger than she ever could have imagined. Of course she understood the concept of a sea, a huge body of water spanning hundreds of miles, if not thousands. If not millions. After all, it is called 'unending.' Is it simply due to Tyria's limitations, or could it go on forever and ever? Her chest tightens at the thought of such a thing. Sucked into the depths of an ancient, unknown world. All it would take is one storm, one undetected leak, one small mistake.

Pen Yfan pats her own shoulder, shaking her head as she turns away from the sea. “Do not be afraid. Nothing can happen to us, not as long as I am in charge of my body. You understand? No more screaming at the captain. He thinks sylvari are strange as it is. We will find her, wherever this ship takes us. I am sure of it.” She speaks softly, as if to a child. Rajya is conscious of this, on some level—condescension. She should be insulted. A seasoned scholar of her years. But she is not who she once was. A shadow of a creature, reduced to basic instincts—fear, brooding, longing, and love. She clings to Pen's words as to the hand of a mother, and knows that Pen would do the same with her.

The sylvari makes her way to the captain's quarters, dodging a scampering young deckhand as she slips through the swinging door into the cabin. Typhon Bashere sits at his desk, a large map spread before him, covered in scribbles of coordinates and notes. He holds his weathered head in his hands, deep in thought.

“Captain Bashere,” chimes Pen, sitting on the little stool in front of the desk. She pushes her fronds back from her face, and smiles warmly, trying to seem approachable. “Any news on the search? I see you have made some additions to the map. Perhaps I could look over them again?”

Bashere glances up at her with eyes sunken into sun-baked wrinkles. “Aye. That seems a fine idea. Though I do dislike having a talking tree upstage my own plans. There's no denying that you earn your stay on this ship with that intellect of yours.” He relaxes, sinking back into his threadbare armchair, and crossing his arms over his chest. “We detected tremors from the northwest at approximately 6:02. We've been heading in that direction since then, but the wind is fighting us. Perhaps you can discern the trajectory of whatever caused the tremors. Save us some effort.”

Pen bows her head obligingly, ruddy fronds falling about her face once more, and she leans in over the desk. She closes her eyes for a moment. Releases the reigns of her spirit to Rajya. And when she opens her eyes again, they glisten gold as they take in the intricacies of the map. Every minor slash and dot, hastily erased coordinates, frustrated doodles of squids and octopuses, every detail settles into place in Rajya's mind, and a thousand scenarios unfold beside them.

What do you think, Rajya? Are there conclusions to be drawn?

Yes. Unfortunately.

Pen lifts her head, and allows the charr to speak through her lips.

“Captain, I am afraid there is no trajectory. Just as with all of the past tremors, it was extremely powerful, and remained in a fixed point throughout the episode. If it were to have moved, we likely would have suffered from the fallout of such an obstruction in the sea. It also seems unlikely that the source of the episode remains; however, if we can reach the coordinates before nightfall, we may be able to find evidence of the cause.”

“Aye,” Bashere says softly, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “That'd be the closest we've gotten, at least. We should make it in time.”

Rajya lets go, willingly, and Pen has the sudden, jarring sensation of plopping back into her body. She jerks in her seat, as if startled awake, and Bashere raises a tufted eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Pen says with a chuckle, “I had a chill. These ships are awfully drafty, are they not?”

“They can be. Best get you back in the sun, warm your bark, or whatever.”

“Yes, certainly! Thank you for allowing me to assist in your search, Captain. As always, I look forward to the day when we either find my friend, or your enemy.”

She tilts her head back, and smiles at the mural on the ceiling. A pearly white squid, tangled in a mess of tentacles and indigo ink. A tiny human depicted for scale—merely an ant beside the primal, otherworldly beast. She waves to the depiction, and then turns on her heel, making her way back to the hectic, frenetic world of the deck, where she sits in the sun, and tells Rajya of the warmth on her back.

Hundreds of miles away, Marea descends from the sky. She breathes deeply as the ley lines streak past her ship. She can feel them, buzzing in her blood. The air is alive with magic, intoxicating, sending the automated controls on her ship into a frantic beeping frenzy. She performs the landing unaided, coming to a smooth stop in the shallows of the ocean, and drifting forward a few more feet until the bottom of the ship becomes lodged in the sand. She quickly fills a small pack with rations and ammunition, hands shaking with anticipation, and then she's out on the deck, leaping into the water and wading the rest of the way to the beach.

As her feet connect with solid, dry ground, she drops to her knees. A smile of pleasure tugs at her lips, fills her eyes with a manic light as she swivels her gaze from side to side. The beach is small, only a couple miles long, before it meets the bulk of the island—those spire-like cliffs, pirouetting high into the sky, almost high enough to touch the clouds. Fairy tale towers with a dense network of pulsing rainbow light weaving through them.

“This is fucking crazy,” she says aloud, cackling lightly. “How has nobody found this yet?”

In her ecstatic state, she spares little thought for how she found it herself—there were no changes in the readings, no warning bells, not a single telltale ley line that she could've followed from farther back in her journey. It was as simple as nothing, becoming something.

She gets to her feet, and makes her way up the beach, to where the cliffs begin, their foothold shrouded by sparse, wiry jungle plants. Lush and green, she plucks a leaf from one, and experimentally shoves it in her mouth, chewing loudly. It tastes like shit, but she keeps at it anyway, never one to waste 'food,' and presses on past the trees and bushes.

The foliage only lasts for a moment. Soon she stands in a sandy valley of spires, and she cranes her head back, eyes straining to find their tops up in the violet sky. Down on the ground, the spires are far wider than they appeared, each one at least twice as wide as she can hug—and hug them she does. She wraps her arms around the base of one, pressing her face to the cool gray stone, flecked with a slightly porous pattern. A surge of energy flickers through her bones, and she imagines she could kill the birds in the sky with so much power. Though it occurs to her suddenly that there are no birds. She pulls back from the spire, and her eyes slowly scan the valley floor. Not a single sign of the smallest lizard, or even a fly. Just a few plants, like a rudimentary shield against the ocean, protecting their rocky friends from the water.

Despite the lack of life in a place so teeming with energy, she is unperturbed. She forms a metal fist and knocks on a spire experimentally—a hollow, deep chime echoes through the valley, bouncing from spire to spire until it fades into the distance. The ley lines high above seem to tremble from the vibrations. She feels each knock like a heartbeat, pulsing against her skin, trying to burst forth from her pathetic, mortal body. So weak, flesh and bone. So sad, a human form. Her teeth suddenly ache. She pushes the feeling away, and strides deeper into the forest of stone, footprints absorbed by the sand as soon as she leaves them.

The sky fluctuates softly, shifting from violet to indigo to deep blue and back again. The light here feels strange—there is no warmth to it. It comes from nowhere, and fills everywhere. Still, the island is comfortable, not cold or hot; in fact, she came to realize a short while ago that she could feel no temperature, as if the air was constantly adjusting to her body heat. Soothing her senses. There are no smells, either, except for the faint hint of steel on the breeze, like pavement after the rain. She sees an oily puddle in her mind's eye. With tiny bare feet, she splashes into it, splattering her pale legs with mud. An older child's hand grips her shoulder roughly, wrenching her away from the water, steering her into a dark alley, and putting a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she whispers. Marea stares at the girl's face, and after a moment, she realizes it's Winnie. Deep, cool brown skin, a round face, and rattlesnake braids that hang loosely over her shoulders. She stumbles along beside her guardian, the alleyway swimming before her eyes. She feels something, in the pit of her stomach—hunger. But so great that it spreads to her chest, and she struggles to breathe. Suffocated by it. Her ankle twists, and she crashes to the ground, not even a peep escaping her lips.

“Come on, Marea,” Winnie snaps, fingers gripping her wrist and yanking at her, to little effect. Winnie was always rather weak. Not in Marea's way, where she could have been more, had more, if only someone had bothered to notice her. For Winnie, it was ingrained in her being. A part of who she was. Physically and emotionally, the girl had little to offer. But if she picked on her baby doll, the infant she found abandoned in the trash and chose to tote around like an accessory at the ripe old age of five, she could be powerful. Everyone in the family picked on her doll, her stupid, tiny 'Rea, and the doll would come to her for comfort. Which she would give to her, for a time. A few minutes, perhaps. Before she found more interesting things to do.

Winnie yanks at Marea's wrist, and her stomach drops as she realizes the girl isn't getting up. She falls on her butt, shell-shocked, and begins to cry, holding the cold hand of her charge, stricken with the fear.

Marea awakens with a shout. Her head bangs into one of the spires, and she squeezes her eyes shut in pain as the echoing stone chorus rebounds through the valley once more. The eerie sound reverberates in her eardrums, increasing with intensity, until suddenly, without preamble, it stops. Blissful silence once again sits upon the island.

She slowly looks around her, eyelids heavy with weariness. She had been meditating—but at some point she must have fallen asleep. She remains where she was before, deep in the sea of spires, stretching up like pillars to support the ripening sky. It must be morning, of a new day. Surely not that much time has passed? Yet there it is, the sunrise. Without a sun. The sky only goes through the motions, here.

She gets to her feet, and reaches into her bag. She makes grabbing motions—unable to feel with her prosthetic appendages, she simply digs in and hopes to pull out what she needs. But this time, she grasps nothing. She upends the bag. Flattens it on the ground. The rations are gone. When did she eat them?

With an irritated huff, she turns back the way she came. She squints at the stone spires ahead of her. They fade into the distance, becoming a mist-like blur the farther off they get. She whips her head around, looking in the opposite direction.

Endless spire forests, in every direction. The sand unmarred by her passing—wherever she passed from. Her stomach grumbles, and with sudden urgency, she reaches for a lone bramble sprouting from the ground, stuffing it in her mouth, stems and all. The leaves are sweet, but the stem is bitter. It reminds her of Winnie—a strange person to recall, at a time like this, or any time. She tries not to remember her. She tries not to remember anything of her life before Rajya. Even without thinking about it, the lingering effects of that time cling to her like poison.

She chooses a direction, and she walks.

Winnie digs her fingers into a cake. An entire chocolate sheet cake, stolen from a bakery window. She pulls out filthy handfuls and stuffs them in her mouth, then offers the bits that cling to her skin to Darius, who drags his tongue over them slowly. Winnie giggles wildly, swinging her legs. Marea also swings her legs, wanting them to be like Winnie's. Skinny but pretty. They sit atop a crumbling wall in the courtyard of an abandoned townhouse, shadows of the towers of Divinity's Reach stretching across them in the afternoon sun.

Marea watches her companions. Darius is slightly older than Winnie, with a classic Krytan look, bronzed skin and brown hair, long and unkempt in a way he thinks is dashing. The rest of the family agrees with him. Their mop-headed savior. He knows the routes the Seraph will take before the Seraph themselves do. He has informants, real adult ones, leaders of gangs. Sometimes, when Winnie and Marea are out walking, gathering food or medicine, Winnie gushes about marrying him.

“One day, Darius will be the greatest crime lord in the whole city. We will live in a mansion with silk curtains and Elonian antiques, as my mom always wanted, and we'll eat the finest food, drink as much alcohol as we can without dying, and have lots of pets. I want five cats, personally. Darius will probably want something nastier, like a drake.”

Marea spots an apple in the gutter, likely fallen from someone's shopping bag, and snatches it up, promptly biting into it. It hurts her teeth.

“What about me?” she says softly, but with an edge to her voice, unable to keep the bitterness from surfacing. Some days are like that. Days of clarity, awareness. Few and far between.

“Marea!” Winnie snaps, whapping the apple out of her hand. It rolls right back into the gutter, and seems content to stay there. “You do not eat first! I don't know how many times we have to go over this. You get what's left. And now nobody gets the apple, because you've ruined it. Wasted it.”

“Wh—what about me?” Marea asks again, unfazed, until Winnie's hand cracks across her face, and her spindly legs topple over.

“You!” Winnie hisses, sticking a foot on her head to keep her down on the cobblestones. The street is suddenly empty. Marea imagines she can hear the sounds of doors and windows locking, curtains being drawn. “You might get to stay with me and Darius, if you're very good, but I wouldn't count on it. Selfish and inconsiderate. I regret the day I ever took you in. You know that?” She shouts down at her, wild, sudden rage filling her voice. “You would be dead if it weren't for us! Show a little gratitude!”

With that final note, her foot connects with Marea's face, and the world goes dark.

The three of them sit on the wall in the townhouse courtyard, and Marea watches chocolate cake crumbs tumble into the grass. Ants have already assembled for the feast, picking up bits five times their size and marching off towards their fortress. Marea hops down from the wall, and crushes them beneath her bare feet.

The awakening is worse this time. She gasps so hard her chest cramps, and the pain is piercing. She grits her teeth and waits for it to subside. And as soon as it has, she rolls over onto her stomach, face to face with lush green moss. She digs into it without hesitation, teeth tearing up greenery and sand alike. She sighs, she laughs, and at the end of it, when the binge seems to be over, she presses her face to the ground and begins to sob. The magic is everywhere. When she looks at her hands, they seem to vibrate before her very eyes. She has to get out. Has to—eat. No, she is a human, not a cow. She doesn't eat moss and leaves. She hates vegetables. Hates them, hates them. Even so, she finds herself digging up clumps of moss a moment later, and sticking them in her mouth.

“What the fuck is this?” she whispers through her mouthful, green juices dripping onto her chin. “Ship. Ship is that—that way. Because the stars, no stars, right. Okay. So the ship is, it's gotta be that way, because that feels right, and, and--”

“And you wouldn't want me to get hurt, would you?” Darius says gently, though not without a hint of warning. Of consequences for Marea's that don't put the needs of others before themselves. “You're a big girl now. I just need you to keep watch, and make your best judgment if anything goes wrong. Got it?”

Marea shakes her head. She's not a big girl. Winnie told her that she just turned five. She gave her a gift—a small knife, though not small enough for a five year old's hands. Grape vines decorate the handle, and her own name has been sloppily scraped into the blade. She's never seen it spelled before. It looks strange to her.

Darius gives her a hug, too tight, the touch of his hands filling her with a feeling she can't yet place—revulsion. And he rolls his eyes as lets her go and starts away. “You better not fuck this up.”

Marea slinks behind a pile of crates, peering out attentively, though she trembles like a frightened rabbit. After only a minute, a man in fine clothes, perhaps a merchant, appears at the end of the alleyway. He storms toward Darius, furious, counting something off on his hands as he attempts to lord over the younger boy. Marea hears his exclamations, but the words don't add up in her head. Too many, too fast, and with so much anger. She picks out the letters of the alphabet as she listens, and they spin about and tangle in her mind like an alien language.

The merchant draws a pistol. He backs Darius into a corner. Marea hears Darius call her name, and the reaction is automatic—she lifts her dress, taking her knife from the holster on her thigh. She walks into the open. Her hand moves. There is resistance. She struggles to plunge the blade into the merchant man's waist. Her appearance alone buys her enough time, as the man stares at her, dumbfounded, by the skeletal little girl that just appeared from the shadows with intent to kill.

As the man falls, her knife slips out from his flesh. She grips it tightly in her hand, and watches as thick drops of blood dribble down the blade. It reminds her of icing. Or ketchup. Or the sweet sauce that the butcher's wife puts on her homemade meatloaf.

Darius wraps his arms around Marea and spins her through the air, clutching her tight to his chest. “Nice work, kiddo! Wasn't expecting the man to pull a gun on a kid like me, but hey, you were there to save the day.” Her plops her back down on the ground, and wipes at a bit of blood on her cheek, where she was sprayed from the dying man's wound. “I'm proud of you, 'Rea. And I know Winnie will be, too. Hey, what's the matter? Don't get all teary eyed on me. This is exciting! Come on, I know you're a little brat, but you can do better than this.”

She stares at the merchant's lifeless body, a crimson pool spreading beneath his hips. She wipes at her eyes, but the tears just replenish themselves, hot against her chilly skin.

“What's, wr—wr--wrong?” She whispers, vision blurring.

Darius looks from her to the man, and back again, an eyebrow playfully raised. “Well, he's bleeding out on the ground. You killed him. That's the magic of knives.”

Marea shakes her head.

Darius nods.

Marea looks up at the sky, pure and blue across the low rooftops of the Commons. It sickens her.

She sits up, and before she can grab the nearest flora and begin ingesting it by the handful, she turns to the nearest spire and bangs her head against it, as hard as she can. The valley echoes like thunder, and she screams in pain at the sound, ears ringing, warm blood dripping down her neck. She gets to her feet and she runs, footsteps light as a child's upon the smooth sand.

She runs, and she runs, and soon she sees the faint outlines of bushes on the horizon, sprinkled amongst the misty gray spires. A flurry of memories fight for dominance in her mind, but she forces them away, she thinks only of her ship, of her friends, her cat and her books, she thinks of what she left behind, good and bad, old and new. She thinks of what she has learned to live for. She thinks of Rajya's burnt remains, Kaylee's crushed face, Noctis appearing behind her as if he were her shadow; and she thinks of her first kiss, with an uncouth, juvenile sylvari. She hasn't seen him in a long time. She tossed him aside, and he made certain that he would never feel anything but disappointment towards her, ever again.

She thinks of Raigar and Geneva. She thinks of the world, and how wrong it feels. Of how it has always felt wrong, since Darius swept her off her feet and twirled her around with joy. How dare he? How dare Tyria? How dare they allow her to be made like this? How dare they allow her to remember a world in which she wasn't the monster—everyone else was. She clings to memories of Raigar and Gen, sitting with them in the Sun, flying with them on the Rogue and lounging with them in the refuge. She clutches tight to Raigar's face in her minds eye. With the hands of a frightened little girl, who hasn't yet learned how to be empty.

She breaks through the foliage. Collapses to her knees in the sand, right where she knelt some time ago. Perhaps one day, perhaps several. After a minute spent catching her breath, she realizes the buzzing is gone. The humming in her veins, pulsing in her bones. She looks over her shoulder. And the island is only a patch of sand, perhaps a mile long. There are no bushes or trees. No spires, not even rocks. The ley lines are gone, and even as she stares, the far shore is growing closer, the relentless waves of the ocean eating it up and turning it to no more than particles, drifting in the endless abyss of the sea.

She is back in her ship, her eyes to the sky. It is black, now, just as it should be. The stars are all in their places. They fill her with hope. She munches on jerky from a large bowl, several day's servings within. She remembers little from the island. But whatever happened, it left her starving.

#marea the silent #pen yfan #rajya sleekfur #rp post #when i was writing this it was a massive trash can fire #it still is #but in a good way #chasing arcadia

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megamanishashekhawat-blog · 7 years ago

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vashikaran mantra for controlling a person

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vashikaran mantra for controlling a person

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on-the-wings-of-hope-prose-en · 7 years ago

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Unreality

By a road, made of black stone blocks, along with the anthem, coming from a loudhailer of the accompanying armored personnel carrier, accurately measuring out the pace, a military convoy was striding. Faces of soldiers were, precisely like ones of medieval warriors, protected by casting opaque gloss visors of their helmets, and they, proud winners, representatives of the highest human race, which has conquered Earth and near-Earth worlds, worn shoulder straps with a sign of black sun and eagle, who has captured entire globe in its mighty claws – a symbol of eternal night in the world.

This military convoy accompanied a group of terrorists, that has been captured a few days ago, into a distributive concentration camp – resistance fighters from defeated countries of China, the Soviet Union, and North Africa. The fate of these insignificant representatives of lower races was already decided when their sun-eyed immortal Fuhrer, governing their highest race for almost a century, ascended to the throne of Fatherland. The genetic material, used for extension of life by close to the Fuhrer confidants and generals, including himself – that what these under-humans will soon be transformed into by clever, perfect and efficient machines of the Reich. One way or another they will serve for the benefit of the great Reich in their death if they haven’t wished to serve as prisoners of concentration camps in their life. Soon enough – several years from now on – last remains of separated resistance fighters in the Central Asian and North African regions will be suppressed by the new stunning technological power of the Empire’s military machine – and battle for the Earth will be completed at last. Handfuls of survivors after atomic bombings of their countries by the Reich weren’t destined to win. Not in this scenario, in any case.

“Heil! Heil! Heil!” soldiers were loudly shouting, measuring out the pace.

“Glory for the great Empire! Glory for the sun-like Fuhrer! Glory for the eternal Reich!”

A few could brag of such a technological breakthrough, which has been achieved by the Reich during the last several decades in this compelled fight against the remnants of resistance forces.

Atomic weapons, used with the blessing of the great Fuhrer against the largest countries of Europe, Asia, Africa, and North America. Mechanized robots, towering like colossuses over buildings and capable to incinerate steel and concrete with plasma and lasers – in the past, they were used by the Empire on the front line, and today as a personal guard for high-ranking officers. Genetically modified soldiers of the Reich, surpassing by several times all of the best representatives of lower races in force, accuracy and reaction time. Cybernetic semi-humans, semi-machines, enclosed in nanofiber armor, whose mechanical bodies were controlled by a living human brain, deprived of the memory of own past – perfect killers, implicitly executing any issued orders. Insectoid-like nanorobots, carrying paralyzing vaccines in their tiny mechanical bodies, whose sting led to a cardiac standstill after several tens of seconds… paralytic gas “zaltsyn” had the same effect, only paralyzed entire organisms of its victims in a few seconds.

Microchips, implanted since the birth into all citizens of Fatherland, capable to activate themselves through a received in due time outer signal and complete control over the psychoemotional behavior of their carriers. Fine machines for genetic re-engineering, used both for treatment and improvements – correction of “God’s mistakes” – of Reich’s soldiers. Molecular re-integrators, that were transforming living beings into molecular admixtures, sorting their atoms and directing it to a proper pipeline inside enormous automated production conveyors…

This list went on and on, and many of the most advanced scientific and technical developments, designed to provide a space expansion of the Reich, were classified. One of the known to a wide public was a “ZigHeil” project – a group of circumsolar orbital modules that were collecting energy of a star and sending it back to Earth through sub-dimensional zero-channel. “Venus” was another publicly known space project – an industrial colonization of planet Venus by forces of more than one billion of Reich’s prisoners, the majority of which were fated to die.

The science was devoted to serving invincible Reich, giving birth to all new ways of destruction of rebellion’s remains and controlling of own representatives of the chosen race. What can be stronger than the science, given to the mercy of mad geniuses? It gave citizens of the Empire, true Aryans, a hope for immortality. And history is always being written by the winners.

“Heil! Heil! Heil!” greetings to a new day and their immortal Fuhrer of awakening from their night dreams citizens were filling streets of Empire’s city.

“Heil! Heil! Heil!” everything sank in this merged in a one huge cacophony polyphony, every morning for many decades already.

“Heil! Heil! Heil!” and there was no rescue from this mad roar of living dead people.

“Heil!”

***

“Hey! Quietly! Wing on the right!” the elderly Angel with a charred left wing and three golden feathers in a white right, all of a sudden entered the room, where several young recruits fussed around unusual device, forcibly pushing each other with their grayish-white wings in their desire to glance into the sphere of this probabilistic and time demodulator. At the sight of their chief, they immediately flew away from the sphere and stood in a row, soaring at a small height over a shining with an azure light floor of this institution.

In a clear human language this institution was called as Angelic Military Academy, and so suddenly appeared in this apartment colonel was one of the deputies of its top command. The device, which has drawn the attention of young Angels, was designed for a modulation – a viewing of the events, taking place in a real time in various worlds, where graduates of the Academy had to travel from time to time with special assignments and missions. And it was called probabilistic due to a reason that it allowed to estimate dynamics of a change of probabilities of scenarios of various events, as well as to study those scenarios, which could have happened in examined worlds but haven’t due to some reasons.

And colonel just found our cadets exactly when they were viewing such unrealized scenario of the human planet, known as “Earth”.

This device, even though it was one of the latest perspective scientific development of the Academy, wasn’t one of a kind. What wasn’t developed behind its walls by Angels-engineers and further used in practice in their missions by Angels-cadets! There were generators of energetic barriers, capable to protect whole nations of physical worlds from adverse events; defensive helmets for a protection of mind of certain people from the influence of false ideas and negative feelings, generated and directed to them by demonic opponents; infamous in human worlds bows of engineer Amur, which were striking their victims and never missing; armor suits made from angelic fluff, allowing worthy people to survive inexplicably, coming out dry from waters of accidents; there was even a well-known generator of alpha rays, capable to alter space, so that enemy bullets and shells cannot touch human fighters; beta-beams generator was used to change some of the local probabilities of events at the right time in order to encourage worthy people or punish guilty ones; beams of gamma-generator gave inflow of new powers to whole groups or nations of people, if their course of life was recognized as worthy by the Law. And this was just a short sample from a whole list of Academy’s miracles.

“Quietly!” meanwhile continued that elderly colonel, who has come through many battles with demons. “Who gave permission to use the demodulator without due induction?” and colonel severely looked over scared recruits with his golden-colored eyes. “Perhaps, I should send all of you to a mission on Earth?” he sounded his thoughts as if purposely.

“In no way, comrade colonel!” stammering, answered one of the young cadets, having put his right wing to a head. “Veterans speak – there are hard times there right now. And we lack the necessary combat experience, sir!”

“You are completely right, greenhorn!” colonel grinned. “You don’t even know yet how to counter-attack a simple human depression, but already tried to watch events scenarios. Now, who will tell me, what does the first law of Spiritual-dynamics tell us?”

“The first law of Spiritual-dynamics, sir, says, sir, that in favorable external conditions a soul grows wider and becomes softer and kinder, sir! And in unfavorable it contracts and becomes firmer and tougher, sir!” the same young cadet replied it as a tongue twister.

“This is a correct answer, you, greenhorn!” colonel barked in ears of his cadets. “All of you should learn it by heart and wing by tomorrow! And don’t you dare to use demodulator again without holding a proper induction. Is that all clear?”

“Aye-aye, sir!” hanging in the air Angels answered simultaneously as in a chorus.

“Otherwise I will send you all to the Earth tomorrow,” colonel thought silently. “Times are truly hard out there.”

05.08.2017

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anonymouslove342-blog · 8 years ago

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Science Fiction

FORBIDDEN SCIENCE: Paranormal Phenomena through a scientific lens

“THE MIND - MATTER CONNECTION”

It has long been held, by metaphysicists, occultists, and many theologians alike, that there is no such thing as a mere thought: that a thought is a thing and exerts real power, a view some physicists are beginning to adopt as well. Thus, in esoteric and theological circles we find endless warning against unguarded thoughts, wrongly directed thoughts, and deliberately misused thoughts. We see one discipline and practice after another dinged to first center the individual, clear the mind, and enable proper focus on the desired thought or even contemplation of the void, a state of no though in a completely stilled and empty mind.Interestingly it has also emerged as an unexpectedly fruitful area for psi research on mass populations.

The great quest of psi research-repeatable, documented proof of the phenomena-hinges upon first constructing and conducting an experiment so airtight in every single aspect as to exclude all other sources of potential error, accidental or otherwise. To this end, there has been an ongoing effort to develop a truly random generator of events, events that can then be tested via rigorous statistical means for evidence of psi phenomena in the form of someone’s attempting to predict or even influence them.

The early work, under such pioneers as JB Rhine at Duke University in the 1920s, was based upon the calling of manual coin tosses and card draws, processes later automated and ultimately computerized. Such work also led to the development of Zener cards, the ones with the familiar stars, crosses, and the like, with the specific foal of giving the subjects trying to telepathically send the cards a strong, distinct mental image to convey the person acting as the telepathic receiving unit.

The advent of computers changed everything, though, by greatly increasing the speed and numbers of tests that could be conducted and the rate at which the resultant piles of data could be analyzed using statistical methods. Computers were themselves used as random number generators (RNGs), but it as soon found that the numeric seed used to key the RNG sequence was itself affecting the randomness of the numbers being generated. This led to a search for truly random phenomena, which could be harnessed for the painstaking work involved, one of which turned out to be radioactive decay.

Radioactive materials have inherent safety, legal, and administrative drawbacks, so there has recently been a migration to specialized, electromagnetically shielded RNGs, which utilize several types of exotic events (resistor noise and quantum tunneling) as the trigger for generating their random numbers. There are about fifty (a few less or more depending upon computer maintenance issues) such as devices in use worldwide for scientific research under the aegis of the Internet-based Global Consciousness Project (GCP), and their output is under the most minute scrutiny at all times. Theoretically, they are immune to human and other forms of intervention when operating properly and not having been tampered with, but several traumatic global incidents may have demonstrated en masse what generations of individual researchers couldn’t do in their labs-the influence of focused consciousness upon the real world. In that influence, properly understood, lies the very essence of metaphysics, ritual magic, and prayer-using nothing but thought energy to affect this earthly reality.

Dean Radin’s paper was but the latest in an ongoing series of investigations into the connection between mind and matter, with the earlier work being devoted to investigating the effects before, during, and after of highly focused or coherent group events, on the output of electronic noise based, truly random number generators (RNGs). How conclusions may startle: Results of these studies suggest in general that mind and matter are entangled in some fundamental way, and in particular that focused mental attention in groups is associated with negentropic fluctuations in streams of truly random data. In other words, focused mental attention of groups apparently is affecting the very randomness itself of the output from the RNGs, a theoretically impossible occurrence given their design and implementation.

No better test of this premise can be imagined than what befell the United States of America and the rest of the world (some seventy countries lost people when the World Trade Center was hit twice and quickly collapsed on September 11, 2001, and that was but part of the horror on a day that saw thousands of traumatic deaths and scenes of incredible devastation broadcast worldwide almost instantaneously. Dean Radin’s hypothesis was that such a catastrophe would in fact affect the RNGs’ data streams, and was he ever right. His painstaking research and analysis shows tat September 11, 2001 marked the single biggest negentropic episode to occur in the entire year of 2001. In order to be accepted, each device underwent a series of grueling tests, including a calibration test consisting of “one million 200-bit trials.”

It’s one thing to assert or claim that September 11th was the single largest negentropic fluctuation measured by Global Consciousness Project for the entire year of 2001. It is quite another, with much of the proof hinging upon a gamut of meticulous statistical tests, to say that the event caused the observed result, for there may well be other factors at work. Did the researcher, say, happened to choose an event window duration that caused data to display anomalously under the set of conditions and no other? Dean Radio addressed this matter by testing all kinds of window lengths. Was it an artifact of the sampling procedure? He reran the tests using a range of sampling methods, but the results didn’t change. The same hell true when he tries to find out whether unusual environmental conditions, diurnal condition (day-night, with their implication for electronic interference), or even cell phone usage might be skewing his data. Nothing was found to account for the obviously marked departure from the statistical norm for the behavior of the GCP network’s RNG. On September 11th, there is an extraordinary spike near the time of the attacks, driven by large deviations that preceded the first plane crashing into the WTC tower, corresponding the peak in the Z scores. The second spike occurs roughly seven hours later, with the weighted center at 1 PM. To make sure that he wasn’t falling himself by using knowledge obtained after the fact, he then went through multiple lists, day by day, of events reported for the year 2001 by several news services, nothing what event got how much coverage. Armed with this additional information, he then went back and applied the same statistical approach to other mass attention events, such as Princess Diana’s funeral, and found that the predicted outcome matched the observed outcome. In other words, events other than 9/11 that drew strong mass attention also generated negentropic fluctuations in the RNG network, though to a lesser degree.

Thoughts emit energy, and have power as evident in telekinesis, the ability of the mind to move objects. Exhibited telekinesis are evident in the graph where during periods of emotional distress and trauma such as the September 11th attack, negentropic fluctuation in the RNG peaked significantly, therefore the energy from emotional distress and trauma moved the RNG to peak levels. Electrical and energetic transmission has also been documented to transfer from person to person in telepathic communication demonstrated by grey aliens documented in the shadow government files. It has been hypothesized that the alien agenda of the Reptilian aliens genetically manipulated human DNA centuries ago, in order to take away our ability to “read minds” and communicate telepathically. The bible tells a story where God punished humans for their sins, and took away their ability to communicate, and essentially speak the same language. It can be inferred that symbolically, we all spoke the same language which was telepathic communication, and the sins committed and punishments were symbolic of the Reptilians who were demonized and infiltrated our populations and genetically manipulated our DNA. It was further hypothesized that Reptilians took away our telepathic capabilities in order to further control and subdue humans (Homo Sapien Sapiens). A biological evolutionary theory of our development today will be further discussed in another article. There is a large gap in the evolutionary timeline from humans evolving from fish to apes, and the gap in evolutionary biological development will be discussed, and has extraterrestrial alien connections. Documented humans (star children with the gift) who have telepathic capabilities have been suppressed into subversion with psychopharmaceutical medications by the Chinese government, and further gifted children within their population are monitored and surveilled by the Chinese government. It was theorized that President Nixon refused to meet with a grey alien because he was afraid the alien may read his mind, and tell the Russians what he was thinking. based on testimonies from the US military industrial complex’s physicists, Grey aliens have also been described to have telekinetic powers, such as in during the AREA 51 projects of reverse engineering and exchanging of anti-gravity technology with extraterrestrials, a grey alien telekinetically induced a fatal heart attack in a physicist who upset the grey alien. Morally and ethically, grey aliens have been described to lack remorse or ethics in murder because they believe in reincarnation. Their emotional frameworks encompass “robotic like features,” lacking in human emotion and morals. Based on testimonies, a grey alien captured described death and reincarnation in terms of, the soul transfers from body to body, and the soul never dies but transfers/travels metaphysically. Energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Grey aliens have also been described to having the ability to create artificial intelligence, intelligent robots that are utilized as soldiers and weapons. Based on a shadow government document, one US military soldier was attacked by an artificially intelligent robot with a laser beam sword that defended itself against bullets and being shot at, who was running with a grey alien, its master. Some aliens can shield themselves from bullets by teleporting into other dimensions, as they can physically withstand other dimensions that humans cannot survive in, or rather the human body. Some aliens are invisible to the human eye, can only be detected with thermal radar, and can physically travel through doors and walls. Some invisible aliens were caught sneaking into CIA headquarters. In the past 50 years, with rapid development of technology, documented sightings of extraterrestrials significantly increased (UFO sightings) that monitor and surveil humans, especially around military bases that house nuclear weapons. The alien agendas throughout history will be further discussed in a later article. Are they afraid of nuclear war and humans blowing up the planet? Or were they here the entire time infiltrating the population through stealth, and we just didn’t have the technology before to detect them? With further disclosure of aliens, the CIA has given me permission to go through their alien files for my research. I am going to ask the Russians and the US government to give me alien DNA for me to genetically sequence and PCR for experimentation and genetic manipulation projects. I have in the past worked on the Human Genome Project in Genetic Evolutionary Studies of HOX fish. After experimentation, I plan to sell the results and analysis to my clients. Documented in shadow government files, are alien and human genetically manipulated and hybridized “Super Soldiers” for the US military Department of Defense.

On the contrary to what some may think, scientific investigations don’t always immediately yield answers to the questions they raise. In fact, even though we know how to manufacture and distribute electricity, we still don’t really understand it after centuries of study. Dean Radin’s situation is similar in that he believes he’s found an anomaly that appears to confirm to the mind matter hypothesis. He now needs to back to his fellow researchers with his results and conduct further tests, in order to more thoroughly exclude chance or the peculiar effects of some obscure analytical choice. While he does that, we have the luxury of leaping ahead and pondering the implications od what seems to be a staggering discovery.

India’s Mystic Military

The Chinese invaded Tibet and the Dalai Lama fled. This much many people know. Fewer know, though, of the systematic, ongoing ravaging and suppression of the Tibetan culture, institutions, monuments, writings, and above all the people themselvess, who have been made strangers and subhumans in their own land, deliberately dispossessed by waves of Chinese immigrant brought in to Sinize Tibet. An the Tibetan monks have been the direct and particular targets of Chinese repression, for it is they who iconify direct and particular targets of Chinese repression, for it is they who iconify the essence of the Tibetan culture, its deep spiritual beliefs that are the polar opposite of Communism, and in whom reside much of its cultural tradition.

Persecuted in their own country, many, like the Dalai Lama before them have fled to India, reportedly bringing with the a raft of mystical abilities, abilities hones by successive generation of monks over the millennia. Apparently you see, the Indian military is mining these refugees for their long guarded mystical techniques, evidently seeking a unique kind of military advantage. This was even more advanced-antigravity, stealth, and other technology, derived from the unlikeliest of sources: ancient Indian religious poems and stories such as the Ramayana and Vedas, with data mining using Sanskrit scholars and Hindu clerics in addition to the usual crop of military and technical experts. The tales of the Vedas (extraterrestrials) have also interested the US government, when 8 military soldiers were in search of a Veda alien aircraft hidden in the Middle East, they disappeared (it was a suicide mission where they were to investigate the Vedas), and were described by Middle Eastern people as having been killed by the invisible gods for disturbing their hidden aircraft. In the bible, the “burning bush” of Moses talking to an invisible God, was this actually the Vedas, described as God in the bible?

Here we are informed that not only can Tibetan monks do all sorts of amazing things, though never showing them in public, but so, too, can Hindu hermits deep in the Himalayas. Further, the article says that fighting while in stealth mode and using antigravity were common events in the same sacred Hindu literature described above. Evidently, the Indians are trying to reconnect with an all but lost part of their full capabilities.

Ancient Mystical Capability in Modern War: The literature of what’s been seen and occasionally even filmed in Tibet by travelers is remarkable. We read of monks stripped down to loin cloths draping wet towels around their necks while sitting cross-legged outside in the snow in winter and through special breathing techniques designed to raise the chi, or life force-competing to see which one dries his towel first. The applications of that ability along to combat in winter and adverse weather are obvious, for cold, wet troops tend to be ineffective and frequently become casualties. Monks have also been documented to be able to be unharmed after lighting their bodies on fire, through harnessing and controlling their life force, chi.

There are accounts of visitors observing monks on foot, sometimes heavily laden blazing across the countryside in rapt concentration and a speed more familiar to those who like to watch the Roadrunner cartoon character in action. When they have expressed a desire to stop and talk to these paragons of human performance, though, the visitors have consistently but politely been warned off, being told that such an interruptions could “damage” the monk, though not the mechanism, other than that it constituted a shock to the monk’s system.

Chi life force has also been documented by one monk, where he used his powers given by his gods to heal the sick. But after showing his telekinetic powers of electrical transmission, he was told by the gods that he is not to use his powers for “show” or will be punished by taking away his powers, so he refused to meet with journalists and filmmakers afterwards. Are the gods extraterrestrials? Is it demon possession? Demon possession cases in the shadow government files, scared a police officer and social worker who went to investigate a child abuse case. The mother claimed her child was demon possessed, and her home was a haunted portal for the devil. A demon possessed child walked backwards up a wall on the ceiling, defying gravity and showing extraordinary paranormal phenomena. Demon possession is my belief to be an alien that lives inside a human body. Those who are demon possessed have been documented to speak languages they have never spoken before, and have shown to be able to levitate, while chanting ancient languages such as Sumerian.

Antigravity researcher Bruce Cathie, in his monograph “Acoustic Levitation of Stones,” part of antigravity and the world grid, edited by Hatcher-Childress, describes how in 1939 a Swedish doctor names Jarl, while on a scholarly visit to Egypt from Oxford, was contacted by a messenger from a Tibetan friend who’d been a fellow student with him in England. The messenger bore an urgent request that Dr. Jarl go to Tibet and treat and an old sick Lama (Tibetan monk). The Lama was important. She showed documented films of this. They showed carefully arrayed drummers, trumpeters, and singing, chanting monks aligned in a 90 degree arc 63 meter from a 1x1.5 meter stone set in a 1 meter bowl in a flat polished stone in the meadow. The instruments amounted to thirteen drums and six Tibetan trumpets. What happened next bears direct quotation:

When the stone was in position the monk behind the small drum gave a signal to start the convert. The small drum had a very sharp sound, and could be heard even with the other instruments making a terrible din. All the monks were singing and chanting a prayer, slowly increasing the tempo of this unbelievable noise. During the first four minutes nothing happened, then as the speed of the drumming and the noise increased, the big stone block started to rock and sway, and suddenly it took to the air with an increasing speed in the direction of the platform in front of the cave hols 2.5 meters high. After 3 minutes of ascent it landed on the platform. Continuously through brought new blocks to the meadow, and the monks, using this method, transported 5 to 6 blocks per hour on a parabolic flight track approximately 500 meters long and 250 meters high.

For those of you not accustomed to the metric system, that repeatedly and in a controlled manner, using nothing but concentrated sound and prayer, launching rocks weighing hundreds of pounds 82 stories high and almost a third of a mile downrange. The military applications of this acoustic levitation approach were so patently obvious that the English Scientific Society declared the work classified, and forbidden to the public. The reference monograph contain a much fuller description, together with a detailed discussion of the underling special mathematics though to make the levitation phenomena work.

The more truly advanced a society becomes, the less it need technology per se, and the more its able to accomplish things through thought and focused will, what the article terms “spiritual power,” a concept we encounter again and again in ancient texts, in discussions with shamans, and in a stack of UFO contact reports.

We read that what less advanced civilizations do with technology, more advanced ones do through the powers of their minds, literally molding reality to suit their needs. Which of course goes right back to all those warnings from religious and metaphysical teachers about guarding our thoughts and our tongues. Certain sources talk about earth’s being in a quarantine because its inhabitants would cause wholesale havoc in the universe beyond, which words on the principle of bringing things into being by simply speaking them.

TO BE CONTINUED

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