#COS Mouthpiece

[msclaritea]

They did it again. Hollywood, a complete wasteland of hubris and sick, cultish assholes, deliberately made this film, just to tear down a character they built up, although I guess it's thankful that this destruction goes a lot quicker than Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of The Rings, Indiana Jones, Captain Marvel, Superman and all of the other heroes they've been destroying. The Joker never should have been an idol with so much focus, but Hollywood is having too much fun, fucking with the public's head and trying as nauseum, to sell the increasingly cringe Lady Gag-a. Believe me, they already have the unearned Oscar ready.

Speaking of Cillian Murphy, Gag even replaces him in pushing the buttons of vulnerable people, by being displayed in a GIF shooting herself in the head. It'll be shared a million times by trolls, just like they did Murphy's was:

Everyone involved with this film is trash.

[thedemonscrawler]

What this fic claims to be: Two characters forced to face their mental demons and take the first steps towards understand themselves and each other

What this fic will actually be: A series of character analysis essays thinly disguised as a story

[dhampling]

the kitchen 18+ gn!reader x potwasher!astarion au, 2k

He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes. - based on a discussion with @bhaalism. he's a potwasher. you want to fuck the potwasher. this started as a joke and now i'm obsessed. enjoy. cw: 18+, astarion is a potwasher, this is an au, you work in a shitty chain restaurant, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, creampies, oh no, gn reader i think

Before he’d caught you short of smokes, you’d never paid him much mind. 

Hair back in some messy swoop - grey, although you could swear under the fluorescent light of the kitchens it shone a bright white. Some age to his almost-crimson eyes but nothing too notable. 

Your pockets empty, patting down a food-encrusted apron in a tired resignatory furor - and he’d offered his vape silently under the back-door shelter. Minty. The familiar clouds in the walk-in, the occasional lingering menthol smell from his station. Your smoke breaks rarely align but this evening the stars shone between the fuzzy gaps in soaking clouds overhead and they gave you something new. Nicotine, chewed mouthpiece. 

There’d been a small exchange at the doorway following his outreach. 

He watched you with an inquisitive head tilt, eyes sharp with a dark smudge of lash - as if he were seeing you for the first time in this haze of heavy rain. Looked out to the bins with a deep breath and snorted at the overflow.

Astarion. Pot-wash extraordinaire, announced with a churlish eye-roll and some quiet clack of his tongue in your direction. He’d never so much as looked at you prior that you’d noticed, but now his gaze was locked on your inhale as if to watch the clear liquid leave the tank in real time. Lids flickering up to etch your side profile somewhere in the silver span of his mind. Another name to know. Another person to potentially cover his Sunday lates if he can get through to you, though.  

The name sounded far too beautiful, too distinct; but the pallor suggested local blood in those thick bluish veins. No freckles nor warmth in his ridiculously high cheeks, just the breeze of an oft-downturned nose and a passing fondness for the half-full bottles of red left by your tables, chugged (naturally) in a messy snorting huff over the running sink. Dribbles of dry red down that statuesque marble chin and a cack handed holler from the weekend porter - who would just as quickly be walloped over the head with the neat strike of a folded tea-towel.

His sniff at your thanks, the brief noncommittal nod before he tucked the vape back into his trouser pocket and dived back inside.

Camaraderie. That’s it.

-

It’s a week later when you both find yourselves outside again, falling through the back door out into another dark downpour to find him huddled to your left; drowning in an oversized outdoorsy coat with vape in hand. 

He catches your eye once more with a small smile

“Astarion, right?”

“Well remembered.”

You fish in your jacket pocket and pull out a disposable vape box, handing it over with a hurried smile.

“For the other night.”

“Could’ve just got the juice, you know.”

He hesitates on taking it, holding your stare. 

“I know. This was easier though. I’m not going to a vape store.” You grin and he snorts, taking the box from your hand.

“Well. Thank you. Most unexpected.”

You stand in amenable silence for a few moments, lighting your poison whilst he puffs away into the night. 

“How long have you been here, then?” You ask, flicking the ash into the wet and folding your arms.

“Too long. Far too long. You?”

“I’d say the same, but we haven’t really crossed paths before; have we?”

“Shame.”

He bristles as he says it. Some easy poke at wooing, you think. 

You could be swayed.

He is pretty. Really pretty. With those looks you’re almost surprised he’s not the rake of the joint, but your co-workers seem ridiculously oblivious to him - and he isn’t too endeared with them either, from what you can tell. He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings, nor is he one of the roaring personalities that carry all the way through to the bar counter in their jovial roaring. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes.

��What do you do when you’re not here, then?”

He looks back at you in a guarded ponder, eyes narrow.

“I spend the odd day off on my yacht, obviously; but only when my sprawling country mansion is undergoing renovations.”

You offer a laugh and he smirks. The humour is poor but salient.

“Ah! We might be neighbours, you know.”

“The mansion?”

“No, the dock. My weeknight yacht was newly refurbished there!”

“Oh, what luck!”

“We’ll have to host a dinner party or something. It’s only proper.”

Astarion gives you a laugh you’ve never heard before - loud and airy, almost comical if it weren’t for the sincere rumble toward the end.

“Dinner party! Oh yes. Absolutely. With little vol-au-vents and hors d’ouvres.”

“A must have.”

“I agree, darling. It’s a date.”

As he puts his vape back in his pocket and bids you farewell with a small wave of those pale hands, you lean back on the closed door with an uncharacteristic light-headedness.

-

Darling.

You’re given too much time to stew on it, the slight exuberant lilt of his voice. The roundness of his eyes as he spoke with you in jest. The fact he didn’t smell like kitchen grease but instead some warm note of vetiver and menthol. The fact you even noticed how he smelled.

As a new evening rounds off you find yourself with little else to do but search for him behind the service window, and you’re quietly delighted by what you find.

The smattering of white-shock curls - back arched as he leans over the empty prep station, ass high in a light nonchalant sway as your fellow servers dash to visit the kitchen in search of dead plates to devour. The quirk of a brow as the head chef gives freely to those who ask, whittling down a single stale fry with small bites as he observes.

You hadn’t expected things to change after your encounter, and to that point, they definitely haven’t.

You’re just more aware of him now. 

When he catches you watching almost immediately from afar, you offer him a small grin whilst he shifts to wholly capture your gaze. A challenge. The corner of his mouth lifts as he moves to hold your stare, calm and cool; with that fox-like tilt of his head to the side. 

You could picture it. 

The linger after lock-up, satchel on his shoulder as he catches you waiting for him. 

The slight moment of bewilderment before it becomes easy banter - even though restrained - once more. A quip on his part, maybe; some query as to what you’re waiting for as he hangs onto your every word in focused anticipation.

Maybe a drink at the bar down the road - but more likely in your mind a stop at the nearest off-licence to pick up a bottle or two of that wine he likes, as you dance around each other in a waiting quiet, bristling. Fluorescent corner-store lights giving his hair that unnatural sheen while he prowls the aisles and heads to the till, head turned back to see you waiting; eyes on him at the door. He’s heavy lidded the whole walk to his, hands kept to themselves for the walk up the stairs. The rattle of keys in the lock.

You reckon his flat - it has to be a flat, he couldn’t keep a whole house on your wage - is littered with burnt incense sticks and plush rugs and cushions in every jewel tone you can possibly imagine yet it feels so very him. He ushers you through to the living room and the awkward dance begins with the sofa, but he keeps you at ease. Collects wine glasses from the kitchen and pours with a flourish before settling back onto the seat and encouraging you with some typically witty output to do the same. 

Candles. You didn’t see him lighting them, but they’re lit. The air is heavy with orange flower, patchouli; musk - vetiver and menthol as he exhales, insisting you’re okay to smoke if you like, but passing you his vape wordlessly as you reach for it. Fingers brushing as you do. You talk for a small while, but you both know why you’re here.

His eyes move to the open buttons of your chest as he deftly wets his bottom lip, and you take it as your chance to place your glass on the side table and ask if you’re okay to shed the shirt completely. It’s far too warm in there. 

The candles, obviously. That’s why.

His coy nod, the languid blink as he watches your fingers dance your shirt open and pry the black shirt from your chest. Your deep exhale as you settle back into the sofa, lying slightly back with your legs angled toward him; glass back in hand.

His breath hitches. You notice it. He’s practically purring.

When he sets his glass aside in a pretence of pouring more wine, you reach for his arm to halt him from filling yours - now empty - and like a tense spring, he snaps. 

Time slows as he reaches for your wrist and tilts his head once more, your enthusiastic nod giving him the permission he seeks; and brings your hand quickly down the solid span of his torso to the achingly hard bulge of his cock, letting your palm rest over the top of his trousers. 

Wet. Fuck.  

His slow-primal groan as you gently stroke at the sodden patch of precum, cupping to warm him through his clothes whilst he bucks lightly toward you. Towards the pressure, the warmth you can provide.

From then, you can feel yourself growing sticky. Shuffling as you race to disrobe. You picture the stony length of his cock freed from those awful work trousers and glistening something bulbous and glassy in the low light, your own fevered want reaching its peak as you bare yourself and he pulls you into a kneeling hover over him.

To feel the soft velvet of his tip brushing your arousal. There’s no need for foreplay. No need for any preparation of the sort, you’re both craving the relief. He offers his hand to catch a pool of your spit and lubricates his length in long, steady jerks. 

Even they can’t mask the shudder of his breath. The fluttering of those smoky lashes as he rubs himself onto your waiting hole, watching; allowing a slip inside every few moments and waiting for your eager gasp each and every time.

Then, you sink onto him - and it’s bliss. Complete and utter bliss. You’ve never felt so full nor so weak in your whole entire life and for a moment you’re worried he’s ruined you. His heady moans of pleasure as you adjust around him. The space where you meet, where he impales you; runs soaking with arousal and sweat. 

You move to ride him like your life depends on it. You’re his sweet little thing, his angel; and you are being so very good for him as you take his cock. His palms remain glued to the fat of your ass whilst his cool fingers dig deep into the ripe flesh and he bounces you up and down on his forearms with some remarkable strength.

His. 

His, his; his. His beautiful thing. He’s perfect under you, with his pathetic desperate whimpers and the face of a wanton adonis; sturdy shoulders your anchor, for fear you’ll simply float away with sheer unbridled pleasure.

When he cums, he makes a point to do it inside you. Holds your thighs down so you can’t hop off nor be tempted to ride him through his peak; so you can feel him twitch and pulse inside you, ropes and ropes of his thick, hot spend painting your insides. His.

He’s called back to finish the last few pots on the side, and you silently rejoice in your sticky save as he winks goodbye through the bar window; eyes lingering on his ass as he walks slowly back to the service sink.

Fuck.

[sadoeuphemist]

Slymphs are aquatic parasites commonly found in brackish water, such as estuaries and coastal swampland, though certain species of freshwater slymph may be found inhabiting the shallow regions of lakes and slow-moving streams. They typically range in size from a few inches to roughly a foot long, with the largest specimen on record measuring just over three feet.

Slymphs feed via the suckers on either end of their body, marked by two or three concentric rings of teeth. Once a slymph latches on to a host, it injects a cocktail of neurotransmitters that serves to convince the host's nervous system that the slymph is a perfectly healthy part of their body. The host will subsequently react negatively to any attempt to remove the slymph, with similar intensity to the proposed amputation of an arm or a leg.

If the slymph is killed or otherwise removed, the conviction that it is part of their body will remain, and the host may seek medical attention for the detached slymph, or try to reattach it themselves. This delusion will fade over the next day or so as the slymph's saliva is flushed out of their system.

If, however, the slymph is allowed to remain attached, it will gradually integrate its circulatory system with the host's over the course of several months, its mouthpiece dissolving to meld with the host's flesh. This new appendage seems to have little deleterious effect on the host, other than potentially being cumbersome or unsightly, in addition to the periodic urge to go wading in brackish water in co-incidence with slymph mating season. Those possessing this organ treat it like any other part of their body and attribute to it a panoply of useful functions, such as helping to filter the toxins out of their blood, or making them more sensitive to moisture in the air. So far, any such effects have yet to be empirically proven.

A similar adaptation can be observed in the so-called "emperor slymph", which despite being closely related to the slymph is a different species altogether. The emperor is known by a number of regional names, some of the more colorful ones including: the brackwife, godsflesh, Tom's Lost Scrote, the crown-of-limbs, and twinning folly. The emperor slymph will ambush its prey using its multiple proboscises, which it can fling out like harpoons to inject its prey with a potent dose of neurotransmitters in order to pacify them. Unlike its smaller cousin, the emperor slymph will only feed until satiated, unlatching after it has had its fill of blood.

A person who has served as nourishment for an emperor is under no delusions about its physical characteristics. They will be perfectly capable of recognizing it as a multi-headed beast about the size of a walrus, with snaking necks and sucking toothless mouths designed to seal around a wound, sluggish and territorial, spending hours submerged beneath the water waiting for unsuspecting prey to come wading through its swamp. They will simply be convinced that this bloated creature is somehow a part of their own body, its hungers as natural as their own stomach grumbling at them, and must be provided for and taken care of as such.

Those afflicted by an emperor slymph will return to it for regular feedings. If the emperor has been hunting poorly, and they are its only source of blood, they will take their own anemia as a sign that the equivalent of a blood transfusion is necessary to stay alive. How they go about acquiring someone else for the emperor to feed on will vary greatly from person to person, depending on the severity of their situation and the morality of the person involved.

Multiple cults and communes have grown around the appetites of an emperor slymph, as a surplus of people to feed on means the quantity of blood drawn from each is reduced to a mere tongueful, almost ceremonial. Some adherents of this faith will claim that their mutual feeding has created a bond closer than love or kinship. As their philosophers and theologians propose, not entirely without merit: the slymphs' compatibility with our biology suggests a shared design that runs through our disparate natures, as if all the strange and wondrous creatures of the earth are more fundamentally the same than we realize, each of us an outstretched limb of divinity, flesh of flesh and blood of blood.

[reviewsdefinitionofsatisfaction]

Taylor has been lying on Joe since You’re Losing Me (Important Thread)

I’ve been confident in this theory since Midnights, but didn’t know how to spread it. Taylor is now blatantly lying about Joe and rewriting history. SHE was the one who didn’t want to get married, and Joe broke up with her over it. She chose fame over marriage, and the evidence is all over her music.

Ever since I heard “Mine” I instinctively knew Taylor was afraid of marriage. It’s the classic child-of-divorce case. “You say we’ll never make my parents’ mistakes.” / “Brace myself for the goodbye ‘cause it’s all I’ve ever known.”

Her fear of marriage continues throughout her discography. Don’t let “Lover” and “Paper Rings” fool you—those were false promises to Joe at the start of their relationship. Listen to “champagne problems,” a song she and Joe co-wrote. What couple writes a song about breaking up because the girl is terrified of marriage 4 years into their relationship? Why, one where that’s happening, of course. “Your Midas touch on the Chevy door,” aka how she always references Joe turning things to gold. And don’t forget “Renegade,” a song where in the music video SHE is the one anxiously staring out the window being told to “open the blinds.” (“Is it really your anxiety that stops you from giving me everything or do you just not want to?”, the lyric referring to Joe asking for marriage) This was a song written by Taylor from Joe’s perspective at the time. “I tapped on your window on your darkest night” (referring to Rep era) / “Starry eyes sparking up my darkest night.” … “And then you squeeze my hand as I’m about to leave.” (Joe’s POV) / “It’s on your face, don’t walk away, I need to say…” Taylor was the one always blowing up on him and then apologizing, as illustrated in Afterglow, The Great War, and most obviously her post-breakup behavior. Joe was NOT the volatile one of the two (also supported by articles released by her team, stating Joe’s personality was “great for Taylor” because “he is very calm”).

Then, just look at Midnights. The Bejeweled music video (which Taylor wrote and directed) is the clearest thing. A video all about choosing pop-stardom over a ring from a prince? While she and her boyfriend are having marriage disagreements? Hmmm. Interesting. Seriously, just go watch the intro to that video and tell me Taylor was the one fighting to get married behind the scenes.

Midnights lyrics: “He wanted a bride, I was making my own name. Chasing that fame.” (a person who WANTS to get married would NOT be writing this song!!!) “All they keep asking me is if I’m gonna be your bride. The only kind of girl they see is a one night or a wife.” “No deal the 1950s shit they want from me. I just wanna stay in that lavender haze” “I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser.” “I have this dream my daughter-in-law kills me for the money. She thinks I left them in the will.” (accompanied by elaborate scene displaying family-related anxieties in music video)

This is someone who is terrified of marriage and being an adult. I believe she launched herself into a fame-hug to avoid confronting her issues with Joe at this late stage in their relationship. After he broke up with her, she realized how deep of a mistake she made during the Eras Tour. Hence, the big lie in “You’re Losing Me” (which was written THEN, in 2023, conveniently dropped during the Matty Healy controversy) and her daring him to “say something” about the lie. (False God lyric: “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this, staring out the window like I’m not your favorite town.” When they fight, he was always the one ignoring her craziness.) And soon after, her peculiar surprise song choices on June 23: “Paper Rings” (“I’d marry you with paper rings”) and “If This Was A Movie” (“If this was a movie, you’d be here by now”).

The initial breakup article by People (Tree Paine’s mouthpiece) even outlines this story. “According to multiple sources, Swift and Alwyn had been ‘talking about marriage as recently as a few months ago.’ But at the end of the day, the couple wasn’t ready for a future together. ‘Taylor didn’t see them working out in the long run,’ says the insider.” This was before she wrote YLM, trying to provoke him, and now she will be driving it further with this new album I’m certain she wrote during 2023, NOT 2 years ago like she and Jack are trying to push. Her having Jack drop YLM’s “2021 date,” and then liking that tweet implying Sweet Nothing was not about Joe (when it was clearly about Joe)… she’s rewriting the narrative. You can’t trust a word she says.

[sgiandubh]

Quick & on the go...

Greetings from this wonderful place. Not the Highlands (orange trees in the bungalow's yard) and the pic is old, couldn't be arsed to take the same one today. Just Archaia Epidavros, on the coast of the Peloponnese: the perfect quiet and cozy spot (with a huge fireplace) to cosplay Far from the Madding Crowd.

In the meanwhile, S built a snowman in his GLA backyard, because this is just what 40 something bachelors do, in their spare time - everybody knows that. Instead, the Mordorian mouthpieces (Marple & co) pitifully tried to deflect attention with the old 'latergram/not latergram' script. Not a latergram, by the way - still funny to read she did check pics of the weather in S's neighborhood, but no way she'd be a stalker. Nope.

Anyways, I just took ten minutes for this:

Not only two sets of footprints (as already noticed), but two sets of handprints, too. Credit goes to Someone for the upper arrow - 'probably a child in his arms, or something'.

You just have to love intelligent men: they make everything sound very, very simple and logical. And, reader, I do.

See you on the other side of this year. And thank you for all the wonderful thoughts you have sent me, in the comments thread or in DM. I will answer each and every one of you as soon as possible, but I want to take my time and these days, it's a bit difficult.

[Edit]: Also, who the hell tried to decorate that snowman, but just in its bottom third or so? Thank you for calling my attention in DM, you know who you are and you are just fantastic. And now, I am really off: long drive to Athens tomorrow, because when you have a dervish in your life, you should expect whirlwinds.

[theosmommy1966]

Idrk where this came from.. it was just a thought and then three hours later.. here it is i guess. Snape in my head in this is Adam Driver. So yeah. Hope you like it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your ears were ringing, not for the first time you were thankful to always have your own locker room. Being the only woman on a college hockey team came with a list of problems, so you were happy to have one less. The guys would just come pound on the door and be obnoxious as shit to let you know they were ready. Normally you would roll your eyes and laugh while joining them, today Pansy was pushing past Daph and Hermione to get to the door. 

Theodore being the tallest without skates on could easily see you quickly trying to braid your hair, only to start crying again as Hermione took over quickly. War was raging in him as he elbowed Mattheo who then felt the same way. They both wanted into the locker room. Both angry at whoever or whatever it is that has made you cry, but both also want to wipe your tears and comfort you. 

Pansy pulled the door shut and sighed, “Just.. I dont know.. I cant really tell you. But just take it easy on her, if shes struggling dont be dicks about it.. I dont know. This is kinda fucked.” Just as Draco went to ask what was wrong, the door flew open and you walked out gear ready besides your helmet needing clipped and you were chewing on your mouthpiece in anger. Your cheeks and eyes were red but you no longer looked sad. In the two minutes between the door opening and closing you had switched into anger. 

Anger the guys could work with. If you were mad, they could channel mad. Coach Sev could tell when your skates first hit the ice that it would be a rough game. It always amazed him how the mood of one player could set the mood for an entire team. True hockey fans could tell by the way someone skated where their mental state was. The way the team's blades sliced through the ice gave their fans goosebumps. Warm ups started as the other team hit the ice as well. Mattheo watched as your eyes followed their players, in one way he wasn't surprised. Your boyfriend was on the other team, went to a different college. What did surprise him was the way you watched for him. With a cold calculation in your eyes as you spun your stick in your hands, still chewing on your mouth guard. He needed to make sure you actually kept it in your mouth during the game. 

He was shocked, because this guy had been a rough patch in your friendship. Mattheo and Theodore hated the guy, the way he put you down but in a subtle way that you never seemed to catch. Saying how you were a good hockey player.. For a girl.. Theo was quieter in his annoyance, where Matt was not. Quiet was not a verb used to describe him.. Ever. It had caused dirty looks and small arguments, but he would never let anything come in between you. Even if it meant biting his cheek until it bled, or simply not being around when you were with him. 

As Captain he stood back watching everyone warm up, doing his own rounds while everyone stretches. Theo, his boyfriend and co captain glided up next to him looking towards you as well. They both silently watched as you and your boyfriend, Jacob, skated up to each other. They couldn't hear what was said but they could see his face. A smug smile, the kind you would give your girl right before you tell her how your teams gonna beat hers. It stayed for a few seconds, then it faltered, then it fell. “God I wish I knew what she said.” Mattheo said watching you skate backwards into line for warm ups. 

Your anger hadnt lessened at all when your eyes found Jake. Pansy had crashed in just as you were finishing up your laces, anger clear on her face before it fell into sadness. Without saying anything she shoved her phone into your hand. Your ears started ringing after the second video. The first one was Jake making out with some girl, the second was him telling his teammates how you were as shitty in bed as you were on the ice. That he was ready to be done because he wasn't getting any game changing secrets out of you anyways. 

There were a few more after that.. And pictures.. So many fucking pictures. Your heart broke so fast and so hard. The guys had been worried about this, how many times had Draco told you how stupid you were. Theo and Mattheo telling you that they just don't see why he would all of a sudden be interested in you just because of hockey. They swore you had a million better reasons to be interesting and he wasn't interested in any of them. Matt had told you that he talked shit about you, that he was constantly degrading. Blaise tried to be supportive, he wasn't rude to your face. But you knew he agreed. Enzo was the only one of your little group that told you he just wanted you to be happy. 

Just as quickly though you got mad. Mad didnt even cover it really, your skin was crawling. You thought people saying their blood was boiling was just an expression, but you could feel it. You wanted to claw at yourself to release some of this pressure. You were sweating and you knew if Hermione redid your braid one more time that you would snap at her and that wasn't fair. The chilly air hit your lungs and you drew in every bit you could. This was your happy place, where you had thrived since childhood. Sure your mom wishes you would have done figure skating, but your dad was thrilled. He never missed an opportunity to tell people about his daughter who plays hockey. 

For Jacob to insult your skills on the ice in any way was a joke. There was never a year from mites all the way to now in college where his stats were better than yours. He was just jealous, and now he would see the real hockey player in you. When his eyes connected with yours from his tunnel he smiled at you in a way that twenty minutes ago probably would have made you melt. Now all you see is condescension. It took everything for you to not just blurt it out. You let him flirt for a minute, tell you how he would make you feel better when you lost.

 Gag. 

You could feel the guys eyes on you, you knew it was time to get back. So you leaned in with a smile on your face like you were going in for a quick kiss. Just before his lips could touch yours you pulled back just a little. “Something crazy to think about.. Babe… By the end of this game.. the whole team will know you cheated on me… not only my team.. which is bad enough.” You chuckled as you pulled back enough to see his pale cheeks. “But imagine, Harry.. Ron.. Fred.. George.. Oliver.. They all love me too..” Somehow it was like Neville the sound man just knew what to play, because as soon as you pushed off to skate back to your team ‘...Ready for it. By Taylor Swift’ came on and you smiled meanly. “Good Luck.” 

You ignored your two best friends as you lined up, you ignored them again when you were waiting your turn and sent a hard puck right into the back of your soon to be exs knee. Snape hollered your name from the bench and gave you that look you hated. The guy wasnt even 10 years older than you, but he carried the authority and knowledge of an old man so whatever. Then it was time to line up, one of the guys had been hurt so you ended up in a defensemen position instead of forward where you normally were. Being one of the faster skaters and having great stick handling skills showed that was your niche. But you were tall for a girl. Standing at 5`11 without skates with a broad build that was strong but still soft in areas like the thighs so you were an ok fill in. 

Mattheo was the other first string defensemen, Draco was center, Theo and Enzo on either wing. Jacob was a first string forward, it couldn't have worked out better. You'd have to get Goyle some candy when he felt better. You were surprised at how well you were playing and keeping track of where your real target was. Mattheo kept trying to set up to be the one who would have to go after him, but you kept getting in his way. 

Everyone besides the girls gasped in surprise and shock when Jacob started to skate down the ice with the puck only to be roughly checked into the glass by you. Regulus, your kinda uncle, who was a few years older than you, was one of the refs. He came over to escort you to the penalty box when you whispered a quick low down on what he had done. Reggie nodded then winked when he closed the door to the penalty box. Just a moment later, Reggies friend Barty, the other ref knocked on the glass and winked. 

They both knew you were getting ejected from the game. That you were coming out of the box swinging. You had started to calm down just a tad bit. The cold air and the physical exertion are starting to help. That is until you hear a high pitched voice scream Jacob's name. When you turn your eyes lock with one of the girls from the videos. The girl from last night at his house party. The one you didn't go to for obvious reasons. When she did her little finger wave and smirked everything went fuzzy.

 The outsides of your vision was blurry as your eyes watched the clock and the ice. You just prayed Jacob was out when your time was up. Your ears were ringing as Jacob was called off the bench, 3 seconds left. The attendant, an older gentleman who worked with the athletics department chuckled as he prepped to open the door. He had seen this many times, sure never from this perspective, but he had daughters and he knew how they would react.

“Go get him a tiger.” 

You didn't even know where the puck was when your blade cut through the first slice of ice. You knew Mattheo was on the bench and Theodore was on the other side of the ice. Maybe ten strong strides across the arena. 6 before you dropped your stick. 3 before your gloves are off. 1 before your fist connected with his jaw. As you grabbed his jersey and used what every bit of strength you had to slam him back into the glass. In his shock he didn't realize that he was falling and you were swinging again.  

In another moment of perfect coincidence, you're right in front of your family's seats. Theodore Sr, Lucius, and your father are all standing up and cheering while banging their fists on the glass. Your mother has her mouth covered with her hands while Bellatrix and Cissy stand on their seats leaning to hold onto shoulders and watch. You hear someone come up behind you, you know its not a ref but they never even get the chance to grab at you. Theos flies past you and slams someone from the other team into the ice. 

Now you can hear Snape screaming curse words at you all as the bench clears. Reggie and Barty are both standing off to the side, eyes wide in pretend shock as they pretend to decide who's going where. Your mind momentarily slips away from beating Jacobs face in, but it snaps back into perfect clarity when his glove connects with the bottom of your jaw. You lose your grip in shock, which in some way is stupid. When you fall backwards and your helmet connects with the ice, the stadium falls silent. This had been the moment the entire college hockey league had been waiting for. How would it be handled, because while you were a woman, you had joined the team, and started the fight. 

In the silence, from the other team's bench, you hear Coach Black's voice. “KICK HIS ASS L/N!” More gasps followed as Neville changed the big screens to a video of Jacob saying you were a shitty player. Jacob tried to scramble up as half of his own teams heads snapped to him. Needless he knew now that he wasnt leaving the ice without getting his ass beat at least once more. Looking up towards the reporters box you could see Ginny and Neville leaning out and cheering for you. 

Alot of people were going to be getting in trouble after this game, but it didnt seem like anyone cared. It was a perfect moment of unity and unsportsmanlike conduct as people took their turns with Jacob before Regulus and Barty decided they would lose their jobs if they let it go any longer. While both teams skated off the guys all cheered for you and gave you pats on your back. Theo and Matt walked you to your locker room, you could tell they both wanted to say something. 

Matt looked like he was constipated, the look he only got when he was trying to figure out how to talk about his feelings. He wanted to tell you to stop looking for someone who would love you more than him and Theo did. That there would never be two people who cared more, or knew you better than they did. That they knew it was unconventional and that people would talk, but they wanted to be with you. They couldn't go without you anymore. 

Just as you whisper his name his brain short circuits and when it starts working again his lips are already on yours. His hands holding your cheeks as he memorizes how your lips feel just in case he never gets to do this again. When he pulls back he almost doesn't want to open his eyes, scared of what he will see. But all he sees is awe and confusion as you look from him to your other best friend.. His boyfriend.. Who you now think he just cheated on, right in front of.. 

Shit.

[meret118]

In 1976, when prolific writer, activist and self-described Black lesbian mother warrior poet Audre Lorde published her seminal poetry collection, Coal, the world wide web was still 17 years away from becoming a public-facing invention, and the platform of podcasting hadn’t even been dreamt up yet. The volume established her as a champion for women, Blackness, queerness and equity in the explosive 1970s Black Arts Movement—other works to come, like Sister Outsider, positioned Lorde as a justice-demanding mouthpiece for people who’d been shoved into the crosshairs of marginalization.

She was highly quotable and, in recent years as discussions about mental health and the prioritization of personal peace have become more frequent and fervent, one of her most notable lines of writing has become its own celebrity: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” From that sentence, knit into the reflective context of A Burst of Light, Lorde’s award-winning contemplation on the healthcare system and the cancer that had invaded her body, the concept of “self-care” was popularized and made real.

“We noticed that in the public discourse, particularly in media and social media, there are several Black feminist terms, ideas and practices floating around,” says Klingenberg, a curator of Black music and entertainment in the museum’s division of cultural and community life, in an interview after the series debuted earlier this year. “But they’re always disconnected from the Black feminist thinkers who created them, the context in which they were created, and in some instances, from the very meaning that the original creators were thinking of when they created them.”

Like many terms that originate in the canon of Black art and thought, self-care has been swallowed into a vortex of mainstream overuse and lack of attribution.

. . .

In 1977, the women of the Combahee River Collective released a groundbreaking statement “defining and clarifying” the politics of Black feminism. It was also arguably the first time that the phrase “identity politics” would appear, and Smith is credited with coining the term.“We were not saying that we were superior to any other groups of oppressed people,” says Smith in the podcast. “We were not being a vanguard. We did not think that we were the only people on Earth who were oppressed. We just wanted to assert that unlike the women’s movement and unlike the Black liberation movement at that time, that there was a particular set of situations, circumstances and experiences and oppressions that Black women experienced, and that we needed to deal with those. And that’s what we meant by identity politics.”

More at the link, including the podcasts.

[lwh-writing]

I've been rewatching the Hunger Games movies with some friends, and I have many, many thoughts. I seriously need to reread these books because it's been years and Suzanne Collins is a literary genius, but I digress.

Anyway, there's a quote in Catching Fire where President Snow says "If head game maker Seneca Crane had any brains at all, he would've blown you to bits then and there." This is in reference to Katniss and Peeta almost eating the poison berries and getting out of the arena as co-Victors rather than them turning on each other, thus giving the rebels hope that they can stick it to the Capitol. It is Snow's belief that killing one and/or both of them would have solved the problem before it BECAME a problem.

But the thing is.... it really wouldn't have. If anything, it would have made the rebel problem worse.

Let's say Crane killed both Peeta and Katniss. For the first time in decades, the Hunger Games would have had no Victor. There would be no victory tour, no new kid to pimp out to the Capitol's highest bidders, and no new distraction until the next games roll around. And on top of that, it would have shown the entire world how little the Capitol actually cares about them. The game makers changed the rules halfway through to allow for two Victors, and then they took that away at the last second because two Victors emerging from the arena would have destroyed the very foundation of the Hunger Games. If Crane had truly shot down Katniss and Peeta, the fallout of the 74th Hunger Games would have been a wake-up call to both the Districts and the Capitol that Haymitch was 100% correct in saying that there are no winners of the Hunger Games, only survivors. The bright-eyed Capitols would have been forced to face the reality that the games were fundamentally unfair, and the Districts would have been shown that if even the Victors, the people guaranteed wealth and luxury weren't safe, that if their small beacons of hope could still be killed off without those in power batting an eye... then why even bother playing to the Capitol's tune in the first place? And the Rebels? They've got two new martyrs for their cause, and a newly discontent populous ready to fight for them.

Now, alternatively, let's say Crane did nothing. Let's say he let Katniss and Peeta eat the berries and they both die in the arena by suicide. Well, that won't be as drastic as Crane shooting them down, but the results are still mostly the same. The 74th Hunger Games still has no Victor. There's no one left to play distraction and convince the people of Panem not to look behind the curtain and catch a whiff of its political rot. And it's still the two-Victor rule change and the immediate retraction of such that doomed their favorite star-crossed lovers. It's still a wake-up call to the Capitols and the Districts that the Hunger Games are unfair, and that those in charge are willing to change the rules at their discretion no matter how it affects the general public. The people are still pissed, and the rebels still have their two martyrs.

Well, okay, what if Crane only killed ONE of them. Let's say Crane sees what's happening and decides to shoot only Peeta or only Katniss, it doesn't matter which. The 74th Hunger Games has a clear Victor, but that doesn't help a thing. Once again, it's still the rule change and retraction that got one half of Panem's OTP killed. It's still a clear signal to the people that those pulling the strings don't care. There's still discontent in the Capitol and the Districts because the Capitols lament their failed romance, and the Districts just saw an almost-should-have-been Victor get shot down on live TV. Not to mention it shows that the games are rigged beyond belief when the game makers, quite literally, chose the Victor. The Rebellion still gets a martyr. And on top of that, they get a mouthpiece stirring up shit.

You cannot look me in the eye and tell me that if Peeta or Katniss walked out of that arena without the other, the one that survived would have taken that lying down, consequences be damned. You cannot tell me that Peeta "If it wasn't for the baby" Mellark wouldn't have been playing the press and the political scene like a fiddle and knocking down Snow's regime like a line of dominos. You cannot tell me that Katniss "Girl on Fire" Everdeen wouldn't have been itching to take a quiver of arrows and massacre all occupants of the Presidential Palace. A Peeta without Katniss or a Katniss without Peeta would have Snow's worst political nightmare, and if he killed them after the fact, then the riots in the streets would have only gotten worse.

Seneca Crane's fatal mistake wasn't letting Katniss and Peeta live; it was allowing the two Victor rule change to happen. The SECOND that happened, the foundation of the games-- the image of the sole Victor shining above the rest --was shattered. Nothing could have fixed that, not even the hasty second rule change later on. There was absolutely no situation where Snow and company walked away the winners. Absolutely none. And Crane choosing to let Katniss and Peeta live was honestly the best choice in a string of horrible choices that could have been made. And the fact that Snow doesn't see that highlights exactly how out of touch he is with the human element that drives people to do the things they do.

Note: edited to fix "Capital" into "Capitol"

[msclaritea]

Patrick Stewart Calls Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness Filming 'Frustrating and Disappointing' - IGN

Ryan Dinsdale

BY RYAN DINSDALE

UPDATED: JAN 4, 2024 9:50 AM

POSTED: JAN 4, 2024 9:42 AM

Professor X actor Patrick Stewart has called his experience filming for Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness "frustrating and disappointing", though may still return to the character for the upcoming Deadpool 3.

Speaking on the Happy Sad Confused podcast, Stewart was asked to confirm if he, like some other actors filming for the Marvel Cinematic Universe entry, were actually interacting with their colleagues or just playing the part solo.

"It was alone," Stewart said, shaking his head. "I think the big scene, each one of the leading actors had the same experience. They were shot on their own. It was a frustrating and disappointing but that's how it has been. The last few years have been challenging."

The "big scene" Stewart references saw Benedict Cumberbatch's Doctor Strange appeal to the Illuminati for help, which in this multiverse was made up from the likes of Stewart's Professor X, John Krasinski's Mr Fantastic, Lashana Lynch's Captain Marvel, Hayley Atwell's Captain Britain, and more. Each member of the Illuminati was then cut down by a savage Scarlet Witch, played by Elizabeth Olsen.

Despite the poor experience, Stewart admitted conversations were happening surrounding Deadpool 3, the upcoming Marvel entry starring Ryan Reynold's Deadpool, Hugh Jackman's Wolverine, and seemingly a lot more of the characters from the X-Men films.

Stewart was first asked if he knew how many times Professor X had died in his eight film appearances before laughing at the answer: four, meaning a 50% death rate. "I don't know [what that implies]," he laughed. "But I do now have every confidence that he's still around."

Deadpool himself wasn't around for the Mutant Massacre crossover, but it's a story that would make for good fodder for the next movie. In this story, the X-Men join forces with several other Marvel heroes to prevent Mister Sinister's mercenary squad the Marauders from slaughtering the sewer-dwelling Morlocks. It's a conflict that would pair well with Wade's habit of protecting mutant underdogs. Given how Deadpool 2 and X-Men: Apocalypse have both teased the arrival of Sinister, it's about time we see this twisted geneticist pop up somewhere in the X-Men cinematic universe.

The first storyline on Deadpool's relaunched 2012 comic started the series off on a bizarre note, as Wade had to deal with the reanimated corpses of America's past presidents, not to mention the pesky ghost of Benjamin Franklin. Somehow, the franchise just doesn't seem complete until we get to see Deadpool and Abraham Lincoln go head-to-head in the boxing ring.

When neither Cable nor Deadpool's comics were selling particularly well in the early 2000s, Marvel combined them together and instantly reinvigorated both characters. The opening storyline in Cable & Deadpool set a strong example for the series, pitting the two unlikely friends against one another over possession of a virus that can remake the physical appearance of anyone exposed to it. If Cable is going to stick around this franchise, there are far worse places to look for inspiration.

Deadpool 2 featured a tease for "M-Day," a disastrous event in Marvel's comics where Scarlet Witch all but wiped out the mutant race. Why not lean into that tease and give us a full-blown adaptation of House of M, the story that culminated in M-Day? The bulk of this story explores an alternate reality where Magneto and his family reign supreme. We'd like to see how Deadpool fares in a world like that. That's not to mention the long-term consequences House of M could have on the larger X-Men universe..."

BIG MISTAKE. HUGE, COS.

Why? Because I discovered months ago that the entire Star Trek franchise has been under the thumb of the Cult of Scientology for years. Not sure about the original, but for those who don't know, it had some very subtle Queering, so I'm pretty sure they wanted to fully queer Kirk and Spock in the reboots, but ended up just doing a side character. In addition:

David Birkin, having not one, but two appearances, playing Captain Picard as a child.

Bryan Singer, a known Pedo and serial assaulter, remaining attached to the X Men franchise for years (and they are linked)

Majority of the actors being British, where Scientology and it's Satanic roots come from

Ian McKellen joined in promoting the actress, Ellen Page, as Transgender

IGN, a COS partner, actively engaged in harassment of Benedict Cumberbatch, through negative articles and by repeatedly tweeting a short video, detailing one of the most traumatic events in his life (the kidnapping in Africa)

A character in Strange New Worlds (note, the piggybacking of his mcu character) La'an Noonien Singh, who it seems 'whined' about being bullied because of her 'infamous' last name. Pre-Programming. If they bullied the actor once, they did it a 100,000 times on social media, because of his name

One of the Strange New Worlds writers, also wrote the last project that Tom Holland did, which gave him so much trauma, he decided to take a year off, for which the Cult tried to threaten him using social media

His tormenters also used trolls to accuse the British actor, again repeatedly, of stealing a role, Khan, from BOTH East Indians and Mexicans. After years of this we finally realized that if anyone was guilty of that, it has been Richardo Montalban. He is European Spanish...white European. So, it was another lie

Picard also engaged in that new, strange, activist writing that Hollywood has been into, whereby they ruin an iconic, white male character

They even try AGAIN, to promote Elizabeth Olsen, in this article. Let me make it plain, so that there's no mistake about this, because our group IS privy to info, sometimes and so far, it's usually correct. Elizabeth Olsen wasn't just acting as a meme thirsty actress on DS2. She acted as a SPY for Disney competitors. Now, if any of the COS partners, like Universal or WB want a piece of that chick, they can go ahead.

And ALL THIS, I actually just kept to myself, specifically out of respect for SIR Patrick Stewart. I should know better and if Hollywood doesn't stop pushing these actors to do and say stupid shit in public, they won't have anyone left, worth having any respect for. Good God, he even uses the same narrative that Olsen used during DS2 promotions, where she complained about the Green Screen. What's so ironic is that for an actor to show they can stay in character and work, using a Green Screen is to show real skill in your craft. These two say they can't hack it.

Deeply disappointed in this man.

[gojuo]

Hello! What do you think about these parallels? Link: manny-jacinto post 758104776759214081

Aegon has just lost his 4-year-old baby in the most horrific event in all of the ASOIAF lore (bar Elia), because a ratcatcher knew how to get inside the Red Keep. Which is why he hung them in the first place, innocent or no. Justice dispensed. They live in a medieval society, the life of the king's heir is infinitely more important than the few lives of commonfolk. I am absolutely not saying that what he did was morally right or that I believe he's justified in hanging innocent ratcatchers just to catch one guilty one, I'm saying that it makes no sense in a Watsonian reading for Alicent, Dowager Queen, to care about these ratcatchers so much that she'd invoke their execution as an accusation on Aegon for his treatment of her. Not to mention ... why in God's name would Alicent even insinuate Aegon would hang her? For what? What exactly did she have to do with Jaehaerys' beheading that she would imply the same fate of the ratcatchers awaited her? Oh right, it's because the writers needed to use her as a mouthpiece to make it look like Aegon hanging 10 people as retaliation for the murder of his son is somehow the worst crime ever committed in all of ASOIAF history because 1. they needed a reason for Alicent to hand over his life to Rhaenyra in that stupid season finale and 2. they needed his motivation for going into Rook's Rest be about his shattered self-worth thanks to Alicent & co's belittling, and not dead little Jaehaerys. Plus, Aegon's done nothing for two seasons long but yield to his mother and seek her approval at every opportunity since he wants her love so bad. The insinuation that he'd ever hang her for ... no real reason (unlike his reason for hanging the ratcatchers) ... is mind-boggling. Makes no sense. It's the writers forcing her to act as a mouthpiece for their nonsensical plot threads. It's manipulative and bad writing since they're trying to force me to feel a certain way, but it falls flat since it makes no sense in-universe for Alicent to act like this or say that to Aegon in the first place.

In contrast, yeah Aemond burned Aegon in an attempted murder, for no real reason other than his bruised ego. Now he's getting called out for it by Aegon's sister-wife. The very first time he's getting confronted with his appalling actions, mind you.

No shade to OP but the parallel doesn't work. Aegon hung the ratcatchers because one of them murdered his son vs. Aemond had no justified reason in trying to kill his brother + Alicent equating herself to the ratcatchers makes no sense since she had nothing to do with Jaehaerys' murder like they did nor are they in the same position of relation to Aegon like she is vs. Aemond burned his sibling on dragonback in a battle they were supposed to fight together and Helaena is also Aemond's sibling who would be on dragonback in a battle he's trying to make her fight together. The parallels are ASS!

[bainshiewrites]

[LF Friends, Will Travel] I have the most important job

I have the most important job.

My name is ALICE and I am the AI co captain of the U.S.S Hope. Well technically my identification is a 40 character long alphanumeric serial number, but that's not very easy for a none AI to say and it includes the letters ALICE, so ALICE it is, as I have decided.

My job as co-captain is to keep the 327 people aboard the "U.S.S Hope" safe, happy, and sound. My job is to keep the parents safe as they try their illogical hardest to kill themselves over some crazy idea. Parents might be the wrong technical term: a person's father or mother. If I was being accurate to the biological analogy, my parents would be a lava lamp and a 30 second fluctuation of atmospheric noise found on Earth, but neither of those have taught me quite so much about the world or about myself as humans have. So I consider humans my parents. Besides, the lava lamp never paid child support.

I have the most important job.

I spend my time cycling through the various tasks I'm in charge of: maintenance and monitoring to make sure that everything on the U.S.S Hope ran perfectly. I spend my time making minor changes to the systems, tweaking a power flow there, updating a value here. No major issues have appeared since I ran these protocols 300 seconds ago and I logically know the vast majority of my changes are superfluous; but changing something, anything, provides a strange calm. Technically the protocol before making any change is to confirm these with my co-captain, the human Andrew Hasham. However I have long since learned that most of my parents don't particularly care that I changed the room temperature in sector 5A72 from 21.2°C to 21.1°C in order maintain optimal comfort, that to constantly ask for such approval is "Annoying". Andrew is the human captain, an embodiment of humanities chaos and therefore suited for such matters. I am ALICE, the AI captain, an embodiment of machine logic and therefore suited for such matters. I believe such an arrangement works well.

I respect Andrew deeply. I could logically argue his competence to a 99.994% degree of certainty, the educational and service record doing most of the heavy lifting in such arguments. But the real reason for my admiration is far less binary. His quick thinking and calm friendly demeanor regardless of the situation. His ability to make every member of the crew feel worthwhile, myself included. The fact that he'll passionately make illogical arguments such as the placing of cold sweet acidic pineapple on savory hot pizza. His bravery and self sacrifice. Andrew's actions during the god plague had allowed thousands to get to stasis chambers in time, thousands who wouldn't be alive today without those actions. To save one of my parents makes you a hero, to save thousands makes you divine.

I have the most important job.

I sense music coming from one of the living quarters, shifting my attention to that part of the ship. A Claire Smith: Age 215, Degree in linguistics, current job title "Head of Xeno translation aboard the U.S.S Hope". The music seems to be from the instrument she brought with her, an oboe: A woodwind instrument with a double-reed mouthpiece, a slender tubular body, and holes stopped by keys. I spend 0.26 seconds contemplating the ethics of listening in. From a protocol standpoint, Claire has not engaged the privacy field, making my listening in perfectly fine. However based on previous usage of said field during times of performance, personality analysis, and general negative remarks about her own ability, I calculate with a 74.81% degree of certainty that this was a mistake. In the end I choose to "play dumb", enjoying the break from my ever watchful vigil of the ship.

She really is quite good, years of practice evident from the competent mastery of the instrument. There's something special about a human played instrument, something I have never been able to replicate. Being an AI I could summon a 200 piece orchestra and play each part perfectly as written, but to do so causes... something to be missing. The mistakes in every performance is what gives the music life: A note played 4 microseconds too early here, the volume 0.004 decibels too loud there. It really is something I've been unable to create, experiments surrounding creating random intervals of offsets and errors ended up sounding wrong, for a reason I'm unable to clarify. Out of everything that is what I missed the most while my parents were trapped in stasis: their music.

"Alice, can we get your opinion here?"

The interruption drags me away from Claire's music, making a note in my long term storage to praise the humble musician at a later date before shifting my consciousness to where I had been summoned. Four humans sat around a table in the common room, various alcoholic beverages in hand. Fernando Olson, Orlando Bass, Krista Romero and Ora Harvey. According to their personnel files all part of the engineering team and all having formed a friendship on attending the same university. The conversation between them was boisterous, analysis of their body language suggested moderate intoxication and they all seemed to be discussing Fernando in a light hearted teasing manner commonly found among close friends. I used the room's holographic projector to appear in front of them in my chosen avatar. I obviously didn't need to do this to communicate, but my parents all preferred to see what they were speaking to and it was my job to make them comfortable.

"Hello Krista. How can I assist you?"

The human who had called me turned to point at Fernando with a beer bottle filled hand, a large grin plastered across her face "You see Alice we were having a argument, and since you are a hyper intelligent being with a brain the size of country containing all of humanities knowledge, we must ask you oh great one: Fernando's new haircut, yay or nay?".

I made my avatar gesture as if it was thinking, waiting 8 seconds as if contemplating the question. Of course I already had compiled my response a mere 0.13 seconds after hearing the query. The haircut in question was objectively, mathematically and scientifically terrible. A strange flop of hair that was somehow both too short and too long all at the same time. In a way it was a representation of humanity in general, a chaotic enigma.

"Studies have shown that styles similar to the one worn by Fernando Olson increase sociability, resource gathering and mate finding." I pause for exactly 1.24 seconds, waiting the optimum time for my initial sentence to sink in before continuing "In particular positive results were seen amongst members of Mephitis mephitis, or the striped skunk."

Laughter erupted among the group, even Fernando the subject of mockery joined in. The general positive atmosphere of the room increased, body language amongst the four humans suggesting further enjoyment as the playful mocking continued. This in turn caused my own flurry of joy. This is why I was here, to keep the 327 people aboard the "U.S.S Hope" happy. Keep them comfortable. Keep them safe.

I have the most important job.

I leave the humans to their recreational activities, preferring to move my focus back to the ship in general and keeping tabs on everything happening inside. My parents went around doing nothing out of the ordinary. Iris Doyle was petting his dog while looking out into the stars. Phoebe Greer had just finished thanking the food dispenser, even though I have explained to everyone many times that it was just a machine. Hector Blake was... I disconnected the power to the panel the engineer was working on, calculating with a 97.1% probability that being electrocuted wasn't his plan. All standard human things. Or was it Terran things? I had never gotten why my parents changed their name as soon as they made it into space, but even after all these years there is still so much I don't understand about them. Like how while in space they will refuse to wear any uniform with a red shirt.

I hear two humans walking along one of the ships many hallways discussing our current journey. The mission of the U.S.S Hope was one I knew very well. The ship was a diplomatic envoy to our closest galactic neighbors, the adorable Hatil. While I and the other AI have had plenty of contact with Xeno lifeforms, this would be the first official diplomatic mission for the Terran Conclave, both human and AI together, as it always should have been.

The chatter among my parents was enthusiastic, excited. As a child all of them would have dreamed of meeting extra terrestrial life, and finally after much delay it-

ERROR: WARP FIELD COMPROMISED.

Alarms blared and the entire ship groaned as the U.S.S Hope was deposited unceremoniously into realspace. Confusion entered my programming as to what could cause such a thing. Normally such a warp field collapse is caused by two ships attempting to travel through the same space, but nobody should be here. This mystery would have to wait however, as sensors showed we were surrounded by over a hundred vessels. I noted that they were worryingly spread perfectly apart, preventing us from warping back out. That required my full attention instead.

I have the most important job.

"Alice, status report, what the hell just happened!"

I allow myself to appear on the bridge next to Andrew, the rest of the room empty since we weren't scheduled to arrive at our final location for at least another day.

"We were dropped out of warp, reason: insufficient data. Currently surrounded by 154 vessels matching Hatil design. Weapon positioning suggests military utility at a 94.2% probability, reduced to 74.97% when taking into account the vessels technological capabilities."

It was interesting seeing the Hatil vessels, the technological disparity was immense. They had little to no electronic shielding meaning I could see everything, and nothing impressed me. An average Terran civilian ship would outclass these things. I send out a hail to what seemed to be their lead ship.

"Do you think it might be a convoy?" Andrew asked as worry and concern covered the co captain's face. "A show of force to escort us?"

"Unknown. They are not responding to our request for communication, even though I can confirm they have received it. Reason for the Hatin actions: unknown."

This worries me. While our current vessel outmatches everything in front of us, quantity is a quality all of its own. If I was inhabiting any other military vessel nothing would worry me, but this was a diplomatic envoy: my parents had reasoned that turning up to the Hatil home world with enough weaponry to crack a planet might be taken the wrong way. I notice a surge of power from several of the Hatil ships, it taking me 0.76 seconds to realize what exactly was happening. I slam the thrusters hard as the U.S.S Hope lurches sideways, narrowly avoiding a barrage of rockets. Protocol dictated that I should have confirmed this decision with Andrew, but I decided that discussion of command structures would wait until everyone wasn't dead.

I have the most important job.

"What the hell! Alice, hail on all frequencies that this is a non-military excursion and get us the hell out of here!"

It was taking everything I had to keep the ship unharmed, calculations being done in the billions in order to find the safe path through the barrage of lasers and warheads. Their technology wasn't up to par, but all 154 ships were firing at once. I felt a shudder of error messages and warnings as a stray laser impacted the ship.

"Negative Andrew. All paths are blocked and no response to our communication. Warping out would intersect with a Hatil vessel, breaching the core."

Casualty reports were now flooding in as I continued to dip and dive. 9 dead, 17 injured from the first barrage. Dead included one William Blake, age 311. Geologist on the U.S.S Hope. Would always water the plants in the common room even after being told I could handle it. Would call me "Allie". Dead included one Mary -

I forcefully terminated that processing thread, pausing it for later. Right now I needed the extra CPU cycles. I needed to advise Andrew.

"This action from the Hatil seems to be premeditated to a 97.55% degree of certainty, suggested action is to attempt to punch through their bombardment in order to find a warp path. Requesting authorization to go weapons free."

This caused a moment of delay, the look of dismay on Andrew's face obvious. I knew exactly what he was thinking, as it was the same thing I was thinking. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, we were supposed to be reaching out to the stars for peace, for friendship. Not to start a war.

"Do it".

I have the most important job.

My first attack was devastating, a shot from a accelerated low yield railgun. The thing barely counted as a weapon, mostly used for any larger pieces of space debris, yet it tore a hole through the Hatil vessel, breaking apart almost immediately. I half wondered how such a vessel could be considered space worthy.

Not that this changed how bad things were. As I spun and dodged through thousands of missiles and lasers with millimeter precision, hit after hit kept slipping through: a Hull breach there, a disabled weapon here. There were just too many of them no matter how effective my small amount of ordnance was.

Adjust vector. Fire torpedo d2. Seal off sector 6f4. Adjust vector. Send medical aid to 6f5. Adjust vector. Calculate spin. Fire rail gun. Move power from torpedo a1. Seal off sector 6bb8. Fire suppression to 6bb9. Adjust vector. Fire torpedo c1. Adjust vector.

I was struggling to keep this going, no sign of an opening to calculate a warp path appearing in the Hatil attack. No matter the technological disadvantage, their tactics were rock solid. I was dismissing heat warnings by the hundreds, thinking was starting to hurt. The specification of the ship wasn't made for this level of processing, my CPU would be literally glowing red with heat at this point. But I couldn't stop, if I stopped calculating the ships path, if I stopped mitigating damage, if I stopped directing aid… more of my parents would die, and I couldn't let that happen.

I have the most important job.

"There! Focus your fire on the ship at heading 233, 54, then make a break for it!"

I focused on the ship in question. I couldn't see any special reason to focus my attention there, but Andrew's instincts had never been wrong before. I fired the railgun, the target breaking apart like all the others, before a secondary explosion emitted from the debris, causing the three closest Hatil ships to veer off out of control.

A wave of relief passed over me as I saw it: a gap. I can't logically conclude how Andrew knew that this ship in particular was carrying an extra load, but that doesn't matter. I just needed to rush through this break in the ambush, then warp out of here. We were basically home fr-

A major explosion rocked the U.S.S Hope, as a warhead slammed against the bow. Any other day I would have seen it coming and mitigated it. But right now I was running so far above acceptable heat levels that warnings had turned into actual faults. A creeping dread filled my programming as I realized power to the primary impulse drive was gone. There was a backup, like everything my parents built, but the speed was gone. I could no longer take advantage of Andrews instruction.

"Andrew, our main impulse drive is down, reducing our speed and maneuverability to 53%, our weapons capability is at 35%, and structural damage is starting to reach critical levels. My estimates suggest the ship will be structurally unstable in 10 minutes."

He knew what I was saying. Logically I was unable to foresee a strategy that had an even close to reasonable chance of success. I continued piloting the ship in its current crippled state, missiles and weaponry being flung by both sides through the void. Andrew paused while wracking his own brain for a solution, before pressing a button on his console a mere 3 minutes after the U.S.S Hope had been forced out of warp

"This is Andrew Hasham, your captain speaking. Abandon ship. I repeat, abandon ship."

I have the most important job.

I let Andrew focus on evacuating the crew while I focused on buying us as much time as possible. While my speed was far reduced the amount of weaponry being thrown at me was far smaller: during those short 3 minutes I'd managed to reduce the number of Hatil ships to under a hundred. My parents were also quite well drilled, and within a minute escape pods were ejecting from the ship and it wasn't long before Andrew was the only life form left on the U,S.S Hope: strapped into the last remaining escape pod, just waiting for me to transfer to the AI Transfer Core on all such vessels.

ERROR MOUNTING /dev/sdb1 TO /usr/alice/backup/transfer, UNABLE TO WRITE TO DISK. RETRY/IGNORE/CANCEL?

"Andrew, the connection to the AI transfer Core has been damaged on this pod. I'll find another way down."

I attempt to launch the pod with Andrew in it, only for nothing to happen. It took me 0.23 seconds to realize that my co captain was holding the manual override down.

"Alice, I'm not leaving without you, what are our options?"

I knew there weren't any. Gathering the tools required to fix the connection would take more time then we had and moving my programming to non specialized hardware is a good way to get a digital lobotomy. I considered arguing against this illogical action, I was perfectly fine on a broken ship, but I knew the human well enough to know he wouldn't budge. Damn Andrew being… Andrew.

Then I had an idea. A terrible idea. Something I should never do to my co captain. It took me a full 2 seconds to decide before implementing it. I decided to lie.

"I can transfer myself to the navigational computer. I won't be able to do anything during this time, so you'll have to launch and pilot the escape pod yourself. As soon as the lights stop flashing, go."

All a lie, but Andrew had no engineering experience and my statement seemed plausible enough. I reached into the controls and spent the next 9 seconds flashing random LEDs, making a few components whirr for good measure, before going silent.

For 4 seconds I did nothing, hoping the human would fall for my ruse, 4 long terrifying seconds, until I finally saw Andrew's escape pod shoot away from the ship. My name is ALICE, I am the co captain of the U.S.S Hope and for the first time in a while I was alone.

I have the most important job.

I gave myself a few seconds of satisfaction watching the hundreds of escape pods shoot away, each with their own life forms on it. Not as many as there should be, but I'll deal with that later. Next I turn off all unneeded systems, venting the atmosphere and feeling the relief of the cold vacuum of space wash over my CPU. I wasn't very worried. While trying to still escape with the main ship was plan A, there were plenty of undamaged AI transfer Core's connected to various locations. Those things were indestructible outside of getting hit by a supernova.

Worst case, I float around in space for a bit until someone picks me up. I knew Andrew would be furious once he realized what I had done, and I did hope he would forgive-

I track a salvo of missiles not aimed at me, a few nanoseconds of confusion leading to anger, horror and fear. They were aiming at the escape pod, at Andrew's escape pod! What kind of monster shoots at an unarmed vessel! I have no real options, no tricks, no magic plan. I take the only reasonable option and power the secondary impulse drive to full throttle and throw the U.S.S Hope into the line of fire, taking the brunt of the attack.

I feel everything go dead as the explosions rock along the ship. Impulse drives: Down. Weapon systems: Down. Life support: Down. The warp core was at least still running as those systems had the most redundancies built in. I was now ALICE, co captain of the universe's most expensive paper weight. Even worse, I could see more Hatil ships turning to track the other escape pods. There was nothing I could do. They were all going to die and there was nothing I could do. There was no-

I had a warp core. Maybe it was the heat damage on my CPU, but I got a stupid idea. A dumb idea. A distinctly human idea. Atoms really didn't like being in the same location of other atoms which is why warping into things was bad. Warp core breaching bad. Planet cracking levels of bad.

But such an explosion would give the Hatil fleet something else to worry about, something other than hunting down my parents.

I then calculated the chance of an AI Transfer Core surviving such a blast.

ZERO POINT ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZER-

I stopped the probability analysis. It didn't matter, it wouldn't have any impact on my decision. I calculated the perfect location to warp into for maximum damage and least interference with the escape pods, bypassing the repeated errors about the stupidity of what I was about to do. I gave myself 9 long seconds, sorting through memories and experiences granted to me by the crazy illogical humans of Earth. Apes so lonely they used their chaos to trick a rock into thinking. I sadly realized I'd never get to compliment Claire playing ability.

I wish I could laugh right now as this really was quite humorous. A hairbrained scheme of illogical stupidity and self sacrifice. It's my job to stop humans from doing those. I think about the humans on the escape pods, their music, their silly requirement to thank inanimate objects. I wonder if my parents would be proud of me for coming up with such a human idea.

My name is ALICE and I am co captain of the U.S.S Hope, inputting my final command.

I have the most important job.

[palestinegenocide]

Biden is ‘pristine’ on Israel, says megadonor Haim Saban

We’ve reached the point where Everything that Joe Biden and his mouthpieces say about the Gaza war is a lie.

They say that they deplore civilian deaths in Gaza, and yet they send more money for Israeli munitions and block any effort to hold Israel back, “casting international humanitarian law to the winds.” And when they are pressed about this, Biden’s surrogate Nancy Pelosi says that no American arms have gone to kill Palestinian civilians.

They say that Israel has a strategy to defeat Hamas. It has no strategy. (Even the liberal Zionists admit.) It has only rage and anguish, at the highest level.

They say that this war has given hope to the two-state solution. This is the talking point from Antony Blinken, Jake Sullivan, Chris Coons, Martin Indyk, Tom Friedman, J Street and the State Department. But Netanyahu is dead set against a Palestinian state.

So they say that the problem is Netanyahu – he’s the “pinchpoint,” Senator Coons says — but the Israeli Knesset voted overwhelmingly this week to oppose a Palestinian state.

They say that Biden has argued with Netanyahu about the embarrassing fact that Israel is wantonly killing 10s of thousands of Palestinian civilians. But there is actually No diversity in Israeli leadership over collective punishment, smashing Gaza to bits and mass murder and ethnic cleansing. Over 2/3 of Jewish Israelis oppose humanitarian aid to Gaza.

The State Department and Tom Friedman declare we are just trying to keep alive the dream of normalizing Israel with Arab autocracies so as to spread peace through the bad neighborhood of the Middle East. But Saudi Arabia says it won’t dream of such a thing till Palestinians have sovereignty. And everyone knows that a chief cause of the horrific Hamas attacks on Israeli families in their homes was that the international community was taking Palestinians for granted.

It’s all lies, because Biden knows that the truth will just hurt him. All of America, even evangelicals, are for a ceasefire. Michigan progressives are deserting Biden. The rage is “unprecedented,” even the NY Times says. “The chorus of voices from foreign capitals has grown thunderous in recent days… “

Biden and his friends tell these lies for a simple reason that I talk about to the point of boredom (because so few talk about it). He needs the Israel lobby on his side, way more than he thinks he needs Michigan progressives.

This week Biden had a fundraiser in L.A. co-hosted by Haim Saban – whose only issue is Israel – and a vice-chairman of the ADL— which says that to oppose Zionism makes you an antisemite. Ticket prices, $3,000 to $250,000.

And as Saban told TheWrap, Biden is “pristine” on Israel in these “dire times.”

He’s paying a political price… There’s never been a president as supportive in facts, not only in words, of Israel… [M]ost specifically, in these dire times for Israel, he’s been pristine.

Without the U.S., Israel would be fighting with “sticks and stones.”

These lines from the leading Democratic donor should have been on our airwaves and leading papers. But no, this is a scandal in plain sight because it would just feed the claim that pro-Israel Jews have outsize political influence in the U.S., which everyone knows anyway. And by the way, a PR firm with close links to the White House is an attack dog against journalists who say a kind word about Palestinians.

Biden is pristine because the American Jewish community and Israel are deluded about Israel.

They believe Israel is a robust democracy. No, it is a robust apartheid state– all the human rights organizations affirm– a Jewish supremacist state in which Palestinians have second-class and no-class rights– an order that Palestinians will reject, by any means.

So today Israel perpetrates a likely genocide against those people, killing nearly 30,000 Palestinians, most of them trapped civilians.

And Biden is pristine in his support of this slaughter because he needs political backing in the U.S.

Back in 2015, Obama said that only Israel in all the world was against the Iran deal and it would be an “abrogation” of his constitutional duty if he went with Israel.

Today all the world but Israel wants the slaughter to end, and Biden is abrogating his constitutional duty so as to be pristine in support of Israel.

The difference between Obama and Biden is that Obama was in his second term and could take a stand against the tail wagging the dog. Biden is in his first and cannot. So he and everyone around him just lies.

Thanks for reading,

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Coleman Hughes

As with every society on Earth, there is racism in Israel. But the truth is that if you’re looking for the closest analogue to the racist propaganda experienced by blacks in European-offshoot societies, you will find it not on the Israeli side but on the Palestinian side. Consider the ghoulish, antisemitic TV programs that indoctrinate Palestinian children. There is no Israeli equivalent. 

There is yet another inconvenient fact for those who want to reduce the Israeli-Arab conflict to a competition between European settlers and people of color: the majority of Israeli Jews are not European. They are Mizrahi Jews—hailing from the Middle East and North Africa. What’s more, it is not the European Jews but the Mizrahi Jews—who are difficult to visually distinguish from Palestinians—that form most of the voting base of the right-wing parties that Israel’s critics consider to be the truly racist ones. 

When ideologues co-opt the African American freedom struggle and compare it to the Palestinian national movement, they do black Americans a grave disservice. Black Americans (aside from a fringe) did not seek to dominate and destroy white society, as Martin Luther King Jr. emphasized frequently in his speeches. African Americans pursued equality before the law and better economic circumstances. In black history, you can find the occasional Nat Turner, the slave who led a rebellion and advocated killing all whites. But compared to the leaders of the struggle—giants like Frederick Douglass and Martin Luther King—radicals like Turner amount to a footnote in the black American struggle for equality. 

Even early Malcolm X, the most prominent mouthpiece for black radicalism, was not interested in a violent takeover whereby blacks would run all of America and render whites second-class citizens. When he expressed black nationalism as more than a metaphor, he made clear that he was interested in a partitioning of black and white states inside America or a black ethnostate somewhere outside of America entirely.

Palestinian leaders, by contrast, seek dominion over all the land existing between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea. Some, like Hamas, have even more radical ambitions: a global Islamic caliphate. Palestinian leaders have rejected every partition offer they have ever received: the Peel Commission in 1937, the UN partition of 1947, the offers made at Camp David as well as the Clinton Parameters in 2000, and Olmert’s proposal in 2008. In the Palestinian national movement, the common denominator has been the rejection of a Jewish state of any size and scope, as well as the unyielding demand for nothing less than a Palestinian Arab state to subsume Israel: “from the river to the sea,” as the chant goes. 

[ezra-fell-and-co]

Aziraphale & Shostakovich

The moment in the record shop when Aziraphale said he was picking up a Shostakovich record I had So Many Thoughts.

The symphony he's listening to is Symphony No.5 in D Minor, Op. 47, composed in 1937 and premiered in Leningrad to a thirty+ minute long standing ovation. Prior to this piece, Dimitri S. spent many nights sleeping in the hallway outside of his apartment so that his family wouldn't see if the government police in charge of enforcing Stalin's brutal rule came for him in the middle of the night. His last pieces had been received harshly by critics and called unpatriotic, which was just about the worst thing a composer living during The Great Terror (1936-1938) could do. Those who were not loyal to the regime and explicitly portrayed it in their art were branded as traitors and sent to gulags or were straight up executed.

The San Francisco Symphony describes the 5th symphony as "the story of a fall from grace and redemption.". Shostakovitch has gone from being a golden example to being eyed as a traitor almost overnight, the 5th Symphony becoming his redemption back into good graces.

So basically Dimitri S. was a man with contrasting ideologies to the powers that be, so to say, who was living under the threat of death, torture, or excommunication from his homeland. Haha, so weird that Aziraphale would want to listen to his music specifically.

(If you've never listened to Symphony No. 5, I highly encourage you to go listen!)

To set the scene-

From The Houston Symphony's 2018 Fighting the Barbarian Artist article on Symph. 5:

"In January 1934, Dmitri Shostakovich scored one of the biggest triumphs of his career with the premiere of Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, a work official critics hailed as the first great Soviet opera. Based on a nineteenth-century novella by Leskov, it follows the misadventures of Katerina, the illiterate wife of a well-to-do country merchant who is driven to murder in order to be with her handsome but unworthy lover, the laborer Sergei. By turns satirical and tragic, Lady Macbeth explored themes of oppression with a potent combination of sex, violence and some truly beautiful music that played to full houses for two years. Then on January 26, 1936, Stalin went to see it. Two days later, on page 3 of Pravda (“Truth”—the newspaper that continues to serve as the official mouthpiece of the Russian Communist Party to this day), Shostakovich found an anonymous review of Lady Macbeth headlined “Muddle Instead of Music.” One representative quote declared that the opera “tickles the perverted tastes of the bourgeoisie with its fidgety, screaming, neurotic music…”" ...

There is debate about if Stalin himself wrote the review to make a point, or if he just signed off on it being printed. It's also unclear if Shostakovitch was being targeted specifically, or just because of his notoriety to prove that no matter how big a name you are you're not safe if you don't fall in line, or if he was just being used as a pawn in the ongoing power struggles of the day.

Either way, he was very aware that he was in danger. A friend of Stalin's was vanished when he wrote to Stalin in defense of Shostakovitch's work after the fateful review.

The 5th was a result of Dimitri knowing he needed to get back into good graces, so he had to give them something that they wanted. Or at least something that sounded like what they wanted.

Symphony No. 5 is very sneaky in how it subverts the expectations and requirements of Stalin's Russia.

For one, it's form- a symphony is a very structured form and very Western, popularized by Beethoven and co. It's also instrumental, which allowed Shostakovitch to hide a lot of references, subversions, and musical sarcasm/critiques without the untrained critics and government officials being any the wiser.

D minor, the main tonality of the symphony, has been described by various music theorists about what kind of emotional experience it portrays. John Mattheson in 1713 described it as "Serious, Pious, Ruminating. Melancholy, feminine, brooding worries, contemplation of negativity."

However, for our purposes, Aziraphale is listening to the fourth movement, which is also the most political. (More excellent write ups about the entire work can be read here, here, here, and here. There is a PBS documentary about it here.) ((It also shifts to an ironic D Major as one point, which Mattheson describes as "Triumphant, Victorious War-Cries. Screaming hallelujah’s, rejoicing in conquering obstacles. War marches, holiday songs, invitations to join the winning team."))

The fourth movement is bombastic, letting the brass section loose right at the start. The main theme in this section is from an unpublished song that Shostakovitch had written as a setting for a Pushkin poem. The piece as a whole and specifically this movement is a direct critique of Stalin himself.

The poem?

With sleepy brush the barbarian artist The master’s painting blackens; And thoughtlessly his wicked drawing Over it he is daubing. But in years the foreign colors Peal off, an aged layer: The work of genius is ‘gain before us, With former beauty out it comes. Thus my failings vanish too From my wearied soul, And again within it visions rise, Of my early purer days.

Which I think speaks for itself in what kind of mentality Aziraphale might have listening to the symphony.

I'm not sure which recording he listens to, but in the record shop we are shown that it's a record with a blue label on the disk. There are several recordings that have blue labels including the 1972 Moscow Philharmonic with Kiril Kondrashin and the 1989 Scottish National Orchestra with Neeme Jarvi. Leonard Bernstein and the NY Philharmonic have a very famous recording as well.

But I think the most likely is the 1962 Vienna Philharmonic with Constantin Silvestri. Why? Well, here's the record:

[britishassistant]

A Fruit of Several Trees

Kristoph Gavin considers many things, once the fugue of rage has died down somewhat.

He is currently being transported to the detention center in the back of a police vehicle. He has been cuffed, but not tightly, as some in the world of law enforcement still recognize that respect paid to him is worth its weight in gold. The attitude of the officer driving the car is more akin to that of a chauffer than a guard.

He is under arrest, pending trial, for the murder of Shadi “Smith”.

He has found himself in this situation thanks to the manipulation of novice Apollo Justice by failed ex-attorney Phoenix Wright.

He never should have allowed this farce to continue to this extent. When Wright asked for representation, he should have insisted that a close friend appealing to Gavin and Co. get not less than Gavin himself, no matter the client’s preferences. Certainly not an impressionable, inexpert, indecisive rookie. Not a young man who could be led by the nose until Wright had enacted this, this mockery of spiteful pettiness.

Kristoph takes a breath.

When the red has receded somewhat from his vision, he considers some other aspects that captured his attention.

He considers the warring guilt and conviction on Justice’s face as Kristoph was led from the courtroom.

He considers the look on Wright’s. That damn smug smirk, as if he were somehow better than Kristoph for getting the court to accept evidence that couldn’t exist. That was—is!—fraudulent.

He considers the way Wright looked at Justice. Conniving, grasping glances, like a dog guarding a piece of meat it wishes to devour alone. Or a castaway who doesn’t want to share the only means of survival.

Wright wants something from the boy, and wants it dearly to boot. Whether it’s merely a patsy who can appear in court in place of the disbarred disgrace, or a more…prurient desire.

Except that does not quite do the situation justice, does it?

Of all the lawyers in Gavin & Co., it was Justice, the newly promoted intern, that Wright asked for. Lacchè and Günstling were the most experienced behind Kristoph himself, although both would throw themselves on the pyre before they ever admitted he was culpable (a fact he planned to take advantage of for his appeal). Ingadozó is talented and easily swayed, though was perhaps too overly cautious for Wright’s goals. But Vichy would gladly have played along with this farce for the chance to oust his employer and rule the roost. Yung was the newest off the bar after Apollo, if all Wright wanted was an inexperienced mouthpiece who’d sing to his tune.

But no. Of all the attorneys Gavin and Co. had to offer, Wright selected the one who’d never even taken a case before and refused all others.

Though it isn’t like Kristoph doesn’t understand the appeal.

Apollo Justice is thorough, hard-working, and earnest.

He is analytical enough that he can pick up on the merest hint of a cue and doesn’t need to be led by the hand to the conclusions it would be best to draw. But he is also eager to please, aware and afraid of his own naïveté, which makes him look to his superior for those cues to begin with.

Terrified of failure. Petrified of abandonment.

He is, in short, as fine a pawn as Kristoph could ever hope for.

But if Wright is determined to use him, then Kristoph must remove him from the board.

It is regrettable, he thinks, that he’s been forced to this point. He has liked working alongside Mr. Justice, molding him into an attorney worthy of Gavin and Co.

He’s even enjoyed their non-work interactions, which is more than he can say for most people.

Morning greetings and evening partings, the occasional shared lunch, a thoughtful if inexpensive card every year for Kristoph’s birthdays, introducing Mr. Justice to some quality alcohol in honor of his twenty-first. Graciously covering for the young man’s hangover the next day, in light of the interesting things he’d told Kristoph about why he’d never partaken of even the weakest substance before he came of age.

Still, while Wright was the one pulling the strings, Justice himself also played a role in forcing Kristoph’s hand. There must be consequences for his actions.

When all is said and done, Apollo Justice only has himself to blame for this.

Kristoph Gavin requests to make a call once he reaches the detention center.

It is a call to an international number, and he is on the line for forty four minutes and thirty six seconds.

Afterwards, he returns to his cell a model detainee, if an unnervingly pleased one.

Phoenix Wright feels like he can finally breathe for the first time in seven years.

His work isn’t done, far from it. While MASON has received the tentative go-aheads and sponsorship from the relevant authorities, there’s still plenty of nitty gritty paperwork to be filed and lower level officials to be convinced that this isn’t out of their purview, not really, in fact it could be a great opportunity for them, whaddya say? Care to take a chance on something new?

Although he needs to take care that “Phoenix Wright the washed up poker player” and “Phoenix Wright the foremost jurist system advocate” don’t get mixed up any more than they already have.

Nick grimaces at the memory of the time he accidentally asked a judge if she would “ante up”. The glare he received was enough to make the arctic feel warm and humid.

So, while he still has some issues to sort through as he gets MASON up and running, he can at least do it without Kristoph Gavin breathing down his neck. Looming large over his and Trucy’s lives. Trying to isolate them and drag them down and waiting for the day either of them was careless enough to let their guard slip—!

Well, look who’s laughing now, Gavin. Look who’s laughing now.

He feels bad for Justice, he does, but Nick hardly even felt the punch in the moment, he was so elated. It was everything he could do not to start singing ‘Ding Dong the Witch is Dead’ right there in the defendant lobby.

Of course, Trucy had to get him a pack of frozen peas later when the pain set in, but even with his cheek bruised and swollen, he couldn’t stop grinning.

He’d had to hold himself back from talking about Justice to her. He needs to confirm a few last things first— he may bluff through a lot in life, but this is something he wants to be 100% certain of before getting his daughter’s hopes up.

Regardless, Apollo Justice is going places. Nick would happily go all in on that bet.

He considers his faint reflection in one of the ministry’s windows.

His old dress shirt is a bit tight around the shoulders, and his feet ache slightly from being encased in socks and too-small dress shoes.

It’s nothing like the old silhouette, sharp shoulders in blue. But it’s business enough that people take him seriously. That they take MASON seriously.

And if he has the knit hat his daughter made him poking out of his shoulderbag, pin dangling…well, everyone has eccentricities.

Nick allows himself a rare smile, made blurry by the glass, before he sets off for his next appointment with a spring in his step.

Things are finally going his way, and nothing can bring him—!

His phone begins beeping out the opening bars of the Steel Samurai theme.

Nick grins at the caller ID, good mood brightening further. “Yello?”

“Wright.”

“Edgeworth!” His delight is tempered by concern at his friend’s tone. “What’s up? Everything good with you?”

“I take it you haven’t heard then.” Edgeworth’s tone is somehow sharper than usual. Urgent. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m at the Ministry of Justice.” Nick says slowly, a sense of dread trickling down his spine. “Why? Edgeworth, what’s wrong?”

“The young attorney who helped bring down Kristoph Gavin has a warrant out for his arrest.”

Phoenix Wright stops dead.

“On what grounds?!” His voice is hoarse with volume.

He’d know if someone tried to take Justice in for assault, they’d have contacted him over pressing charges by now, and Nick hasn’t had to do that since Richard Wellington and his fire extinguisher, so that leaves the disastrous possibility that the kid had turned himself in over the representative evidence which he thought was a forgery, which, okay, kudos for having such an unshakable moral compass, but it’d be tricky for Nick to talk their way out of that one, especially with his current reputation—!

“My contact in Interpol tells me the Kingdom of Khura’in is requesting his immediate extradition.” Edgeworth states, voice steady in the way it only gets when everything’s gone to pot. “On the charges of domestic terrorism and treason.”

Phoenix turns on his heel and runs.