#Government Tenders for Alarm System

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (20)

Miu loomed above him, its keen eyes narrowed, yet Will could discern the facade it was presenting. Behind those narrowed eyes, there was no authentic malice to be found. It extended one of its elongated claws, lowering it deliberately. Graham remained vigilant, his body motionless, as he closely monitored the dangerous proximity of the claw to his abdomen. "Ca-careful. I still need that," he warned, his eyes widening in mock alarm. The claw resumed its motion, prompting Will's instinctual response to shut his eyes, bracing for an impending incision. Yet, as he sensed the sleek surface glide across him, he discerned that Miu was endeavoring to replicate his earlier exhibition of playful affection. It gingerly employed the non-sharp side of the claw for this purpose, stroking him with an expression that seemed to mix in a hint of revulsion. Its head turned slightly away, almost as if it were pouting and preemptively rejecting any insinuation of tenderness in its gesture. It possessed a certain grace, though Will couldn't help but notice that it lacked finesse in employing those claws with tenderness, far more accustomed to their use in slicing and dicing than in gentle caresses.

Nevertheless, it was a deeply comforting experience, one that seemed to possess a touch that transcended the purely human. It traced deliberate patterns across his belly, setting his nerves alight with tingling sensations.

It's fascinating how millions of nerves and neurons connect the gut and the brain, and the chemicals produced in the gut have a significant impact on the brain's functioning. By modifying the composition of gut bacteria, there's potential to enhance brain health. Their closeness is such that they can sense each other's distress; if a condition affects one's digestive system, it may also impact the nervous system. While one may not be consciously aware of their gut 'thinking,' it's responsible for producing approximately 95% of the body's serotonin and 50% of its dopamine. The enteric nervous system, which governs the gut, is often referred to as the body's 'second brain.' While it can't craft poetry or solve equations, this network employs the same chemicals and cells as the brain to facilitate digestion and alert the brain to any anomalies.

In contemporary science, it's estimated that a staggering 95 percent of our brain's activity operates at the subconscious level. This implies that the majority of our decisions, actions, emotions, and behaviors are heavily influenced by the vast realm of unconscious brain activity. This includes the large web of habits and patterns, automatic bodily functions, creative processes, emotional responses, personality traits, ingrained beliefs and values, cognitive biases, and the repository of long-term memories.

This raises a compelling question about the existence of free will, although delving into that theory is a separate and complex matter altogether.

In contrast, the realm of pseudoscience introduces the concept of the 'superconscious,' a proposed facet of the mind that operates alongside the conscious and subconscious or unconscious layers. According to proponents of this idea, the superconscious possesses the extraordinary capacity to acquire knowledge through non-physical or psychic means and transmit this knowledge to the conscious mind, transcending the boundaries of ordinary consciousness.

The term 'superconscious' is also employed to describe states of consciousness achieved through transcendental practices, such as meditation, enabling direct access to this elevated realm of the mind.

In this model, knowledge obtained by the superconscious is not confined to the present or nearby events; it may encompass information from the past, future, physically distant places, or even from entities beyond the reach of our physical senses. As a result, supporters of the superconsciousness theory contend that it provides a potential explanation for psychic phenomena like precognition, remote viewing, and séances.

While it might sound almost absurd, delving into the realm of pseudoscience, where anything unproven by conventional science appeared unsettling to him, it strangely resonated with his experiences. After all, he had the uncanny ability to pluck data seemingly out of thin air, and at times, it felt like he was communicating with alternative realities, perceiving events before they unfolded, albeit on a vague and subconscious level, manifesting as nothing more than a gut feeling. Remarkably, he rarely erred in trusting this intuition, arriving at conclusions that defied conventional data. Predicting events lying far beyond the realm of probabilistic calculation or explainable phenomena, even when coincidences no longer sufficed as an explanation, was all too familiar.

Sometimes, he could sense an incoming call before it rang, foresee events that would unfurl months into the future, merely observing them come to pass. On seemingly random days, he could anticipate unexpected visitors showing up at his doorstep, despite their actions contradicting all established patterns. He was attuned to detecting the vibes of ill intentions oozing from individuals when they conversed with him. He could anticipate a surprise test in class before it was announced, or even predict the test topics with an astonishing accuracy of 95%.

These were not phenomena he could readily rationalize. He speculated that his heightened sensitivity to electromagnetic waves might explain why he had an uncanny knack for answering the phone before it rang.

Alternatively, he reasoned that perhaps he possessed an innate understanding of what topics interested his teachers most, thanks to his pattern-recognition abilities linked to autism. That could account for his impressive accuracy in predicting their favored subjects.

Yet, there remained those instances that defied logical explanations. These were the scenarios where his instincts led him toward outcomes at odds with probability calculations and established patterns. The events seemed to move in a direction starkly contrary to his instincts.

When he considered these occurrences collectively, the sheer quantity of such coincidences transcended the realm of natural happenstance. They pointed to a driving force behind them—an unexplainable, supernatural awareness of things beyond the ordinary. Contemplating the fact that he represented a mere 5%, likely even less, of conscious awareness, tethered to a vast, incomprehensible entity, was undeniably harrowing. The very thought left him in a state of deep, inexpressible dread. Will was never able to confide in his parents about his struggles. The last time he exhibited behavior deemed abnormal, it resulted in his mother subjecting him to an exorcism instead of seeking medical help. This experience compelled him to become adept at concealing his trauma and projecting a facade of 'normalcy.' People erroneously classified his autism as 'high functioning,' a gross oversimplification. The anxiety stemming from his awareness of the severe and draconian punishments awaiting him if he ever disappointed his mother honed his ability to meticulously control his facial expressions, hide information, and adopt a demeanor that wouldn't arouse her suspicions.

He endured various forms of therapy aimed at curbing his perceived 'aggressive' and 'disobedient' tendencies, with these labels assigned to him whenever he tried to speak out against the abuse or resist the punishments. Consequently, he learned from an early age how therapists, psychiatrists, and neurotypical individuals operated and how to manipulate their perceptions, keeping them at a distance by constructing emotional barriers and concealing the depth of his suffering. This is why he concluded that traditional therapy was ineffective for him.

Their inability to comprehend the underlying triggers of his actions was compounded by the well-intentioned yet counterproductive advice they offered. Their well-meant suggestions, urging him to open up to his mother and lay bare his vulnerabilities, only deepened his sense of despair. Past experience had taught him that this path led to a brief interlude of her gentleness, followed by a ruthless exploitation of his trust and vulnerability. It was a cycle of emotional torment that ultimately pushed him to the brink of suicide.

To compound the ordeal, he was then encouraged to embrace a belief in the inherent goodness of all, even as his mother continued to wield her manipulative powers under the guise of caring for his best interests.

They remained oblivious to the extent of his deception, completely unaware of the tremendous effort he channeled into the facade that convinced them he was perfectly fine. In truth, he had been unraveling since the tender age of eight. If they couldn't penetrate the veil of his most glaring pretense, how were they ever expected to assist him with the intricacies he couldn't even find the words to articulate? It's not as though he hadn't made the effort; he had tried, repeatedly. But every attempt had resulted in misinterpretation or the recording of some outlandish observation in his notes, which, predictably, his parents would peruse, and his mother would wield against him. She would either punish him or use it as another instrument in her arsenal during her ongoing psychological and emotional torment.

His mother possessed remarkable intelligence, exuded charisma and charm, yet her character was marred by delusion, emotional manipulation, sadistic tendencies, and extreme cruelty toward animals. Her sense of entitlement demanded that the world revolve around her, with every man existing to serve her whims. She voraciously sought as many men as she could ensnare, on one occasion even mustering the audacity to inquire whether, on an island brimming with men and her as the sole woman, she could claim them all as her lovers. When his father replied that she was free to act as she pleased but that he would distance himself from her to the farthest reaches of the island, she flew into a rage.

Her daily interactions were rife with mind games, occasionally sowing chaos to reassert control over others and issuing threats if her desires were not immediately obeyed.

A disturbingly perverse fixation also entwined itself around Will within his home. His mother harbored an unsettling obsession, envisioning him as her future groom when he reached the appropriate age. Her intrusive behavior knew no bounds – from monitoring him in the shower to finding excuses to slip into the bathroom when he undressed, all under the guise of checking on things or claiming urgent restroom needs. The house itself was a prison, with no allowances for locked doors, for such an act would impede her uninvited ingress. Even the refrigerator was outfitted with an alarm system. Every basic act, even a simple slice of toast, demanded his request for permission. Guests were perpetually unwelcome, their entry steadfastly thwarted by a cascade of fabricated excuses.

None of this he dared share with the therapist. When she sat before them, she exuded an aura of benevolence, her smile gentle, her manners excessively polite. She had everyone wrapped around her finger. If he ever let a hint of the truth slip through, people dismissed his claims, and accusing her only made the ‘broken’ boy appear utterly delusional.

His father's faith was a tranquil stream, meandering gently through life, while his mother's zeal was a raging tempest. She regarded herself as a prophet, her sanity unraveled by fanaticism. Throughout his youth, she was physically present yet emotionally absent, her attention only captured by his accomplishments or her fervent religious visions. Her iron grip extended to thwarting any inclination he or his father harbored about seeking medical assistance, recognizing that it might unveil the truth about her. The prospect of counseling or any revelation of her culpability was something she strangled at its very inception. By ensnaring them within the web of their insular religious world, she maintained an unrelenting hold over their surroundings. Her vigilance was all-encompassing, monitoring every interaction he engaged in and scrutinizing his every action at every moment of the day.

In her quest for control, she ensured there was no access to the vast expanse of the internet or modern computing, leaving them tethered to antiquated technology. The deliberate aim was to keep them far removed from the real world and to sever any avenues of communication with the outside world, safeguarding her dominion over their lives.

As a child, Will devoured numerous books, including encyclopedias and dictionaries, which enriched him with a vast and pulsating vocabulary. Regrettably, this linguistic prowess only seemed to intensify the bullying he endured from other children. Whenever he ventured to use words that deviated from the common slang, he became an even greater target for their ridicule. Hence, he learned to tailor his vocabulary to a more commonplace register in an effort to fit in more seamlessly.

Gradually, he came to understand that his inherent nature was a source of agitation for his mother, except when he served a purpose in her eyes. His honesty, in particular, stood out as one of the traits she loathed most. She welcomed his honesty solely when it mirrored her version of 'truth.' Consequently, he had been conditioned to withhold his words, to silently observe rather than engage in idle chatter. She had systematically molded him into silence, extolling the virtues of restraint and only permitting him to speak when expressly called upon.

Her descent into infidelity marked a precipitous fall from grace, leading to her expulsion from the community. This cataclysmic event prompted his father to break the shackles of their union, aided by the elders' intervention. Alarming secrets, concealed behind closed doors, weighed heavily on his father's conscience, hastening the separation.

His parents held strong religious beliefs, but they weren't evangelical Christians, as one might assume. They were Jehovah's Witnesses. This affiliation perpetually cast him as an outsider wherever he ventured. However, during the time he traveled from boatyard to boatyard with his father following their separation, driven by the escalating abuse from his mother's side, the brothers and sisters of the Jehovah's Witness community welcomed them with open arms. They provided shelter, food, and even financial support. Despite the religious isolation he experienced, their generosity meant they never had to worry about their next meal or bed. Subsequently, their lifestyle became more nomadic, and Will chose to accompany his father. His mother's persistent stalking and menacing behavior posed a significant threat, but law enforcement refrained from intervening until a crime had been committed or the situation escalated to that point. With a constant state of motion, they aspired to ultimately outrun her, securing their escape.

In his youth, he was a fervent believer, engrossed in the narratives, but as time passed, and he witnessed his mother's actions, the inconsistencies and falsehoods became glaringly apparent. Gradually, he distanced himself internally, awaiting the opportune moment to break free. Yet, that's a different story altogether – a saga of its own. A tale where he orchestrated his escape under the cover of a mental institution and with the unexpected aid of an ex-girlfriend.

As time passed, he came to identify as somewhere between atheistic and agnostic, distancing himself from the teachings of the Bible. His father respected this choice and allowed Will the freedom to chart his own path. He was a gentle man, though at times a bit naive, maintaining his loyalty to his faith despite enduring a lifetime of hardship.

The belief in a soon-to-come Armageddon, the world's end, and the promise of paradise and eternal life discouraged many within their community from pursuing higher education, as they were staunch believers in the imminent apocalypse. Their devotion was poured into the fervent preaching and zealous propagation of their faith, striving to rescue as many souls as they could before the sands of their earthly existence slipped away. It was an undeniably noble endeavor, yet he remained convinced that their zeal led them down a misguided path. This conviction meant his father was content with a modest lifestyle. Will, however, saw things differently, and that's why he embarked on the journey of higher education, persistently working his way up.

In the realm of hypothetical scenarios, even if the world teetered on the precipice of its own demise, it still wouldn't warrant a surrender to suffering as the sole recourse. The likelihood of such doomsday prophecies remained, at best, speculative or perhaps only relevant to distant centuries, if valid at all. Thus, his determination was to focus on the pursuit of what he deemed righteous, and to explore avenues for aiding others. His ultimate aspiration boiled down to a simple yet profound goal: to transcend the shadow cast by his mother's influence and to become a better person.

Despite his departure from that insular community and the deliberate concealment of his past involvement from those around him, he couldn't escape the indelible imprint of their teachings. In their rigorous schedule, they had ensured that he had a deep reservoir of Bible verses etched into his mind. With two, and at times even three, weekly gatherings dedicated to biblical study, they delved into the many narratives and unveiled the hidden significance of prophetic revelations.

As a result, he possessed a deep understanding of the Bible that far surpassed the average, perceiving its teachings through a unique lens forged by the associations and experiences tied to his former community.

During his school years, he had been exposed to diverse perspectives on religion, gaining insights into the Catholic and Evangelical faiths. This exposure broadened his knowledge and provided him with a diverse repertoire of information to comprehend and relate to various belief systems.

Will contemplated the lingering religious scars that Hannibal carried from his tumultuous childhood. He likely received his baptism in the Catholic tradition, as Lithuania predominantly adheres to Catholicism. However, despite the Catholic backdrop of his homeland, he was nurtured in the embrace of atheism, an anomaly, but one that stemmed from the era's pervasive atheistic upbringing under the Soviet regime.

Adding to the complexity was Hannibal's noble Lithuanian heritage, a class left dispossessed and destitute during the harsh Soviet years. Their social status was utterly abolished, compounding the trauma of his past.

The deep disillusionment that Lecter grappled with stemmed from a God who seemingly allowed the most heinous of acts, such as the German war crimes and the heart-wrenching loss of Misha. His medical profession, especially within the realm of surgical residency, provided him with a god-like power over life and death. As a psychotherapist, he could penetrate the very soul of his patients, a role akin to belonging to the divine in many religious beliefs.

Hannibal, much like the sculptor of human souls, shaped and twisted them to his design. His practice as a psychotherapist exuded an existential quality, and his frequent references to God denoted a Theist Existentialist perspective. A Deist. He echoed the thoughts of Deist Existentialist philosophers, perceiving God in a manner distinct and complex.

He surmised that Lecter, with his own intimate familiarity with religious trauma, possessed an instinctive ability to discern the hidden wounds within Will. This insight shed light on Lecter's strange 'door-to-door interview' remark during their first assignment, sending a chilling shiver down Will's spine. It was as if Lecter, by some supernatural instinct, had delicately probed a deeply buried fragment of Will's past, one that struck terror into his very soul.

This was precisely why Will held a deep affection for science. Science, for him, represented a realm of ever-evolving understanding, yet it was a dependable and explainable kind of change. It lacked the elusive nature that often cloaked religious beliefs. What particularly intrigued him was the complexity of the human mind, which fueled his choice to delve into psychology. However, this pursuit intensified his awareness of the inaccuracies and limitations of some of the teachings in the field.

He had an unequivocal disdain for therapists and their verbose, empty rhetoric, with one remarkable exception - an unlicensed practitioner who defied the conventional mold. This man, not a traditional therapist in the clinical sense, was more of an alternative healer, a benevolent elder with a dash of irreverence and deep wisdom. When teetering on the precipice of despair once more, he sought a more unconventional path, one that led him to the door of this old, sassy sage.

This unique practitioner offered a blend of hypnosis and therapies that, to some, bordered on the fringes of pseudo-science. Though the sessions came with a hefty price tag, their effectiveness was undeniable. He absorbed the intricacies of these unorthodox techniques, was taught the tricks, understanding their mechanics, yet finding them impossible to articulate. With a ring or a simple teacup, he could perform hypnosis, navigating through each step with precision. It was a realm of unspoken power, even when words failed to capture the mystique. It felt as if he were witnessing magic unfold before his eyes, with the old man assuming the role of a wizard in his life. Initially skeptical, Will soon dedicated himself to the careful observation, diligent study, and documentation of the old man's techniques. To his amazement, the old man willingly shared the inner workings of his methods, explaining them in vivid detail. Where conventional therapy had faltered, this unorthodox approach appeared to be the remedy that finally resonated with him.

The old man's assistance held the power to mend much of the damage inflicted on him. In an ironic twist, during their second session, he even astutely identified his autism, long before Will knew. The revelation stemmed from a nuanced observation – whenever Will attempted eye contact, his body instinctively entered a defensive stance or resorted to self-soothing gestures. However, when deep in thought, he unconsciously averted his gaze, with his body remaining motionless. The only time he sprang into defensive mode was when their gazes intersected, a defense mechanism to shield himself from the potential agony and strain of eye contact. The old sage had remarkable powers of observation.

This strange therapy, beyond his full comprehension or explanation, had granted him a new sense of well-being – and that, ultimately, was what counted. Even if he couldn't fathom the mechanics behind it or if it operated as a mere placebo, the paramount fact was that it improved his overall well-being. It wasn't a panacea that miraculously resolved all his challenges, but it equipped him with the tools to confront and manage them more effectively. This encounter with the inexplicable had expanded the horizons of his mind, enabling him to contemplate ideas and possibilities that transcended the conventional wisdom held by most.

It occasionally transported him into the celestial domains, where he pondered concepts that science hadn't even assigned names to yet. Ultimately, this fusion of madness and reason afforded him a unique advantage – the ability to discern insights beyond the reach of most. He embraced the inexplicable, weaving it into the fabric of his observations. This stance granted him a heightened connection to his subconscious mind and, perhaps, even a glimpse into the enigmatic world of the supposed superconscious.

During his tenure with the FBI, he had distanced himself from these aspects of his past, his focus singularly directed toward the pursuit of criminals. For many years, it had been his sole, unwavering point of concentration, ever since he embarked on his own path within the bureau. His newfound profession provided him with the means to acquire a modest house, a patch of land, and to create a tranquil oasis far removed from the hustle of society. His father, in stark contrast, continued his nomadic way of life, sustaining himself by the bounty of his surroundings and the meager earnings from repairing boats. Their connections remained through lengthy telephone conversations, when time allowed.

Contemplating the past as a means to illuminate the future felt peculiar to him. He couldn't quite fathom why all these long-repressed memories were now resurfacing, but Miu's gentle touch held a meditative quality, offering him the safety to invite these recollections back into his mind. He allowed himself to wander through the corridors of his early life, observing the memories that clung to the walls of this aged, decaying passageway, a place where light seldom penetrated and the air bore the heavy scent of damp mold.

This was a fragment of his psyche that he had intentionally kept submerged, as if attempting to drown it beneath the surface. Yet, when Miu stirred the dormant emotions in the pit of his stomach, all those suppressed memories surged upward like waves, enveloping him. It was as if he had been swimming in a sea of darkness all this time, oblivious to the shadows that clung to his consciousness. His vision had been so intently fixed on the tiny candlelight illuminating the script before him that he had remained blissfully unaware of the submerged depths within.

As the entity tenderly traced circles upon his belly, it felt as though it was delicately stroking the very contours of his mind. The sensation carried an electrifying quality, yet it held a soothing allure, akin to the mesmerizing effect of a gentle hypnosis. 

Receiving belly scratches from a demon, now there was an experience that would baffle anyone who heard of it.

Yet, amidst this surreal and, most likely, drug-induced fantasy, Will couldn't shake the peculiar sensation that he had stumbled upon a friend. It felt like a twisted departure from any conscious imaginings he could muster. He could only surmise that his entire inner world had been contorted and derailed, a reflection of his ongoing psychological deterioration. Within him, an eerie pulse coursed, akin to a discordant melody of madness, one he could not audibly perceive but could distinctly sense vibrating in his entire being. It felt as though the very essence of his eyes trembled, and for a fleeting moment, a heightened clarity overcame him. He consciously recognized that he had to be dwelling within a dream, or perhaps within a concept too elusive to be adequately named, teetering on the precipice of the supernatural.

It all felt too surreal to be real, or maybe his mind was simply in a state of denial.

This, he realized, was the semblance of insanity—an awareness too vast for the human psyche to accommodate, akin to a spear thrusting into the celestial realms, unveiling realities far beyond our terrestrial dimension. To embrace such knowledge was to disrupt the delicate equilibrium of one's mind, a revelation so monumental that it would instantaneously induce shock, weighing down the heart beneath its oppressive magnitude. It was the kind of insight that could paralyze the subconscious, causing it to forget the rhythms of life that kept our fragile hearts beating.

Ah, the fragile nature of the conscious mind, when confronted with the vast expanse of the unknown. Yet, it possessed the latent power to metamorphose and acclimate, but only if carefully primed.

A fragment of his own self served as an invisible sentinel, preventing him from uncovering the unvarnished truth. It was this very ignorance, he realized, that sustained his ability to function. There existed a knowledge, a secret, he wasn't meant to possess, a safeguard for his own well-being. What truth could be of such magnitude that it eluded the grasp of a mere human intellect? He found himself adrift in a sensation defying precise description, except for the undeniable sense that his thoughts now navigated entirely unfamiliar terrain. This was a transitory condition, a fleeting awareness of the intricacies of time, space, and the countless, unfathomable variables that interplayed, inundating him with their overwhelming complexity. Was he, in fact, deceased? He stared into Miu's boundless eyes, recognizing that the claw had ceased its gentle caress. In that shared moment, an understanding unfurled between them. It didn't provide a direct answer to his query, but within those enigmatic eyes lay a warning. It conveyed the notion that he was, perhaps, toying with the metaphorical pin of a grenade by daring to tread along the treacherous path his thoughts presently dared to traverse. It was as though a wrong step on the path of his thoughts could obliterate his very consciousness. If he wholeheartedly embraced the notion that this was just a dream, a belief that would presumably lead to awakening, it might snuff out this particular incarnation of his existence. He would remain forever in the dark, forever unaware of what lay beyond that fleeting moment. A faint smile trembled upon his lips, and the glistening tears in his eyes conveyed the sense that a fragment of himself already possessed the answers he sought. It wasn't a distant God up there somewhere; it was a divine essence residing within us, within the depths of our subconscious—a sacred fragment of the divine whole. Miu's eyes delved far deeper than any description could capture. It was as though an entire cosmos, something grander and more profound than his own existence, resided behind those irises. Once again, he found himself awestruck by this creature. They said that eyes were the windows to one's soul, but Miu breathed new life into that age-old adage. There was an exquisite wealth of detail within them, and their size only added to the allure of delving into those shimmering hues that danced across its sharply defined irises. Usually, he despised making eye contact, to an almost irrational degree. Yet, as he locked eyes with Miu, it was akin to Dracula beholding the sun's radiant beauty for the very first time. Just as when he gazed at Hannibal, it felt akin, almost uncannily so. There was a peculiar sense of comfort in the familiarity of it all. It carried traces of Hannibal's essence, or at least a portion of it, but it was not Hannibal himself. Nevertheless, it had undeniably been shaped and molded by his influence. Miu stood as a manifestation of something dwelling deep within him. The question lingered: which facet of himself could be simultaneously so alluring and so shrouded in darkness? Could he even put a name to it, even when he harbored a sense of recognition? Could this be the result of the fusion of Hannibal and Will's psyches? As their boundaries blurred, and they melded into one, was Miu born from this union?

His thoughts became increasingly obscured, as a hazy veil descended upon his vision. Will recognized that he was shedding tears. His hands, bewildered, reached up to his own cheek, collecting the tiny droplets that seemed to possess a deeper understanding than he did. Miu embodied a fusion of darkness and empathy, an entity capable of discerning beauty in places where others found only horror. It carried with it a medley of Hannibal's distinct mannerisms, yet also bore traces of Will's presence. Could this creature represent the culmination of their combined potential?

While Will locked eyes with Miu, the entity remained absolutely still, as if its very existence hung in the balance, contingent upon the impenetrability of its countenance. Within the depths of Miu's eyes lay something otherworldly, striving to erect a defensive bulwark, cautioning Will against further unraveling that very notion. Do not delve any deeper into that path, do not subject yourself to it. Was Miu the embodiment of the beauty Hannibal had drawn out from within Will? His genuine beauty? Was that why Will found it indefinable, hovering on the precipice of something truly divine? Miu's eyes gently closed, as if seeking additional protection from Graham's mental intrusion. And just there, his thoughts came to an abrupt standstill, jumping onto a different train. He yearned to awaken, yet the uncertainty of whether Hannibal would await him on the other side gave him pause. Moreover, in this surreal realm, he was beginning to find a sense of security in Miu's presence. He no longer wished to leave it behind. They had forged an unexpected bond, transcending the boundaries of their circumstances, and Will now considered the cat a friend.

The feline's eyes parted, and it fixed its gaze upon Will, radiating an almost palpable sense of gratitude and warmth. Its pupils slowly dilated, as if it were making a deliberate attempt not to let them fully round out, but they had expanded to about 40% of their capacity.

He had a friend. An exceedingly peculiar and quite possibly imaginary friend, but a friend nonetheless. This realization filled his inner child with immense joy, a feeling that summoned an innocent, childlike smile to his lips—something he couldn't have fathomed producing before. It was as if a fragment within him had healed, as though a gentle sunbeam had grazed his heart, coaxing it to cautiously lower its defenses. For so long, it had learned only to harden and shield that delicate flicker of warmth nestled deep within its fragile core. He had forged a friendship with one of his inner demons. Had anyone ever ventured down this path before? Rather than engaging in combat with the demon, he had chosen to nourish and befriend it.

Miu sat in tranquil silence, elegantly stretching its lengthy form beside him. Its proportions appeared to have expanded, as if it could encircle him without breaking a sweat. Will couldn't shake the feeling that something about Miu had undergone a transformation. It now exuded that serene energy once more—a sensation akin to an inaudible but palpable harmony. It wasn't madness; it was simply an aura of unshakable peace.

This time, Will didn't pause; he leaned his head against the feline's side, utilizing it as a makeshift pillow. Miu appeared less perturbed by this gesture, exhaling with a faintly amused quirk of its lips. Exhaustion was settling in, and the need for rest had become undeniable. Though the concept of time or day and night had lost all meaning, the encroaching weariness was unmistakable. Will also noted that Miu's touch was no longer as chilling as before. He sensed that there might be a deeper meaning in this observation, but for now, he chose to set it aside and simply savor the moment.

As shifts occurred within him, they seemed to manifest in the environment around him. He was unquestionably within his own mind, but the nature of this existence eluded him. Was it a dream, death, or something entirely different? The solitude and the encounter with these peculiar fragments of his own self had steered his thoughts into uncharted territory, realms he could have never fathomed even in his wildest dreams. With no external distractions, he could delve so profoundly into the recesses of his own mind that it was simultaneously chilling and utterly enthralling.

It was akin to an intoxicating reverie, where colors and flavors surged with such heightened vividness, each detail so exquisitely rendered that it verged on the precipice of overwhelming. And within this intoxication, there existed a rarefied clarity, a lucidity attained only at the borderlands of madness. As Will gradually succumbed to sleep, it occurred so naturally and gently that he almost failed to recognize the moment when it overtook him. Instead of the usual nightmares, he experienced a serene sensation, as if he were shielded by something so fearsome that even the darkest nightmares dared not draw near.

He had never experienced such tranquil slumber before.

Was this what death would be like? An endless, surreal dream? A drug-infused reverie? A seamless loop so intricate that we might not even realize we had traversed the threshold of death countless times? He had awoken once more, yet the sensation lingered as though he were still ensconced in slumber's embrace.

His arms folded, and he settled onto the floor with a wholly new perspective on the situation. It was almost clinical and philosophical, bordering on detachment and dissociation.

He only became aware that he was seated at a table when the aroma of eggs and sausage knocked on his senses, and the realization that he was sitting across from Hannibal caused Will's mind to momentarily short-circuit.

Had he just awakened from a dream? Utterly disoriented, with the shift having transpired unnoticed, it was as if his consciousness suddenly snapped back to full attention. Will blinked repeatedly, unfurling his arms, and as he took in his pajamas, a sense of impending insanity gnawed at him, pushing him perilously close to the precipice of a scream he wished to disintegrate beneath. Then, Hannibal shifted, and to his simultaneous horror and relief, he discerned that it was Miu now occupying the seat behind Hannibal's eyes. The entity had assumed his form, perhaps to appear more familiar or approachable. “You nearly gave me a heart-attack.” Will remarked, a subtle hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes. His voice, oddly serene and unusually deep, remained perfectly steady. Hannibal turned his gaze towards Will, then his attention shifted to the sausage and eggs on the table. His hand made a vague gesture toward the food. "Finish your breakfast," he uttered. Despite the utter mundanity and simplicity of those words, and the crystal-clear memory of having heard them before, it nearly sent Will's heart into a standstill. He understood that Miu was the one behind it all, speaking in sentences Hannibal had once uttered, inhabiting scenes that Hannibal had once occupied. Yet, there was something so surreal and captivating about the experience that Will dared not delve deeper into it. He simply began to eat. A soft smile graced his lips as he savored the meal. It tasted every bit as exquisite as he had etched in his memory.

"Thank you, Miu," he murmured softly, his mouth too full to articulate his words properly. He hastily raised a hand to cover his lips, caught between a chuckle and the act of chewing.

Upon further reflection, once he had swallowed his bite, he turned his gaze toward the entity.

"Is … is it acceptable if I refer to you as Miu?" he inquired, his tone thoughtful. "I had a …notion that you might find it somewhat mocking, given that you are," he made a vague gesture toward it, "quite formidable, and the name does sound rather … adorable for such a, uh, imposing figure."

Hannibal's visage regarded him, his fork pausing mid-air, a genuine curiosity shining in his eyes. He subtly tilted his head, his gaze descending in contemplation before returning to Will. Shifting ever so slightly in his seat, he then resumed his meal, retrieving the fork and continuing to eat calmly.

"I'll take that as acceptance," Will remarked softly, his gaze fixed on Lecter, but soon his brow furrowed in thoughtful consideration. "Is … Is there a name you'd like to share with me?"

Hannibal set the fork down and pondered for a moment, then reached for the napkin, withdrawing a pen from his breast pocket to scribble something upon it. Will's anticipation grew palpable as he realized the entity possessed the ability to write.

What weighed even more heavily on his mind was the realization that it was imparting valuable information. Audibly clicking the pen against the table, Lecter pushed the napkin across to Will, who eagerly seized it and read the inscription: 'Seraphell, but I prefer Miu.'

That name sounded more like that of an angel than a demon. Will's gaze lingered on the elegant script, recognizing the significance of names. Names held power, a deep and resonant meaning. After all, once you could name something, you held the key to summoning it.

Graham’s lips trembled slightly, his eyes shimmering with appreciation as he perused the impeccable handwriting, nearly identical to Hannibal's own. He nodded in acknowledgment, then carefully folded the napkin and cradled it close to his chest. "May I please keep this?" he asked.

Hannibal dipped his head in a subtle nod of agreement, and with gratitude, Will slipped the napkin into his pocket.

The last time he had witnessed this scene, it had been steeped in negative coding. It exuded coldness, even revulsion, akin to a semi-frozen, slimy, and damp thing. However, now it radiated warmth, like a sunbeam piercing through. Miu was engaged in a process of rewriting within him. It was reassembling a fractured piece of porcelain, embellishing its fissures with golden dust. It was revealing beauty where once there had only been horror.

In this dream, the contents of the sausage held no consequence. Will didn't ponder whether it matched the meal from their shared reality, nor did he contemplate whether it contained human flesh. Such concerns were irrelevant here. He savored the taste purely for its own sake. It was utterly delectable, and that was the sole consideration that mattered. In this moment, he was simply relishing breakfast with Hannibal.

It was a very simple and beautiful moment.

In stark contrast to the chaos that had engulfed Hannibal, found amidst a sea of scattered papers and notes sprawled across a spacious table. His once-impeccable composure had started to unravel, betrayed by the emergence of noticeable stubble upon his visage. Days seemed to have passed without a shave or a proper shower, as all his usual routines had been unceremoniously cast aside. His countenance had grown even more gaunt, appearing almost as if it were collapsing in on itself, and it was uncertain for how long he had abstained from eating. Chiyoh made valiant attempts to accommodate his culinary idiosyncrasies, yet most of the time he declined sustenance, opting primarily for an array of teas and coffee. His dedication was channeled wholly into the construction of a far grander plan. Rescuing Will consumed his every thought. He would not find solace until he had assembled every piece of this puzzle. It was an endeavor of monumental proportions, one he would have typically deemed extravagant, as he considered it wasteful to extend his theatrics to this extent. Yet, for the sake of Will, nothing was extravagant, no effort too grand, and no display too ostentatious. He would leave no stone unturned, sparing no expense, and sparing no effort in his quest.

No matter where Will's soul resided, he would offer a sacrifice of such magnitude that any entity holding him captive would be compelled to release him.

Chiyoh strummed her lute outside, gazing out at the expanse of the ocean, while Hannibal sat indoors, deeply engrossed in his work. He scribbled and sketched furiously, his mind weaving through a multitude of parallel thoughts, calculating the web of variables at play. His calculations spanned from the architecture and structural vulnerabilities of the building to the precise names that would grace the stage, all in pursuit of manifesting what appeared to be an unattainable design into reality.

He possessed maps of the city, the underground network, and the building itself, with a detailed schedule of significant upcoming events. His arsenal comprised a staggering 42 distinct plans, each carefully crafted and accompanied by a thorough probability assessment. His objective: to determine which of these scenarios held the highest likelihood of success.

As his mind raced with thoughts, his hand struggled to keep pace, hurriedly jotting them down in his compact black notebook, where he recorded his musings in elegant Italian.

The grand scheme he had concocted demanded several months of preparation.

Simultaneously, he planned to execute his exit strategy by leaving the country entirely. This endeavor involved the discreet movement of substantial sums of money, as well as the search for several new locations to serve as their next operational bases. While a part of him yearned to linger in the comforting embrace of nostalgia, he understood that remaining stationary would inevitably result in their discovery. Thus, the imperative was to keep moving, to stay one step ahead of those in pursuit.

Neither Jack nor Alana showed any signs of slowing down. His recovery had consumed a significant portion of his time and momentum, leaving him with the urgent need to intensify his efforts in order to regain lost ground. Now that he had Will back in his grasp, Hannibal couldn't fathom allowing anyone to tear them apart once more, pushing them even further apart than they already were. A mysterious allure drew him toward Germany—a land with which he held a complex relationship. Born into the midst of its war, he had suffered great losses in a conflict unrelated to his family. Perhaps that was precisely why it beckoned him. It felt closer to home. His sights were set on Bavaria, specifically Munich, a city that held a particular fascination for him. The Munich Frauenkirche, in particular, had ignited his curiosity. Legend had it that it bore the mark of the devil's footprint. He couldn't help but wonder if it would match his size. Stuttgart, too, piqued his interest, though its residents were a complicated lot. One thing was certain—hunger would never be an issue in that city. While Munich might offer less prey to hunt, it boasted a plethora of captivating architecture to nourish his soul. Germany's rich tapestry of history was quite familiar to him, making it easy to blend in. He was already fluent in the language; all he needed was to polish and refresh his skills. One aspect he found particularly appealing about Germany was its robust health insurance system, which not only ensured Will's well-being but also shielded them from mounting medical expenses. This was especially crucial for cases beyond Lecter's expertise, requiring the skills of seasoned specialists. It translated into significant cost savings.

The inhabitants were known for their politeness, and the country boasted a solid infrastructure. However, Hannibal couldn't help but grimace at the thought of the exorbitant taxes. The politicians, to put it mildly, provided quite an intriguing spectacle. He knew he wouldn't grow bored with witnessing the dry humor and sassy retorts exchanged when rival political parties clashed. Will would likely appreciate their mindset as well. They tended to be more straightforward than Americans, albeit cautious about sharing their true thoughts. Many of them were remarkably honest and virtuous individuals. The country did bear a somewhat somber atmosphere in certain regions, driven by an intense work ethic bordering on self-sacrifice, but their character was steadfast and dependable. Sometimes, they were slow to open up, but they were exceptionally well-educated individuals, fostering intelligent conversations. Boredom was a rare find among Germans. While they might come across as cool and reserved on the surface, leaning towards restraint in their personalities, they harbored a wealth of fascinating insights for those who could breach their defenses. They toiled relentlessly to atone for their historical errors and stood prepared for self-sacrifice in the pursuit of justice. Germany was earnestly laboring to rectify its past and prevent history from repeating itself. The devastation wrought by the Nazis had inflicted significant personal loss on him, but he could recognize the nation's efforts to atone for the sins of its forebears. It was among the few countries genuinely committed to such a pursuit.

He had observed how they diligently uprooted and pursued the remnants of Nazi ideology wherever it still festered. There was no nation that harbored a more profound aversion to Nazis than Germany itself. This was fortunate, for he, too, vehemently abhorred Nazis. He was a cannibal, and he found racism abhorrent. What justification could anyone possibly have for treating another human being discourteously based on their ethnicity? To him, everyone appeared uniformly inferior and beneath his notice, with one notable exception – Will. The notion of rectifying errors resonated with his current state of mind, and perhaps, it was this sentiment that had drawn him to that place. A nation that resolved its troubles, much like his intentions of addressing his own issues with Will.

Germany, on occasion, bore a resemblance to the world's conscientious scholar, an autistic one. Methodical and driven by principles of equity, they could exhibit a tendency towards rigidity, occasionally even overcorrection. However, beneath this surface, their character was imbued with benevolence and an amiable disposition. Their lessons gleaned from history struck a harmonious chord with Hannibal's own beliefs. The legal landscape promised to provide its own brand of amusement. Germany boasted an abundance of laws, including the absence of death sentences, ensuring he wouldn't face execution even if they apprehended him. With a plethora of astute investigators and a relatively low crime rate, especially in terms of serial killers, his killings would undoubtedly stand out. Yet, it would also render their capture exceedingly difficult; they would be caught unprepared. Inevitably, it would evolve into a contentious political debate, making headline news and drawing attention from the American side. Connecting the dots wouldn't pose much of a challenge for them, and Germans were known for their efficiency. They could quickly mobilize substantial forces if they wanted to, and they were cooperative towards Americans.

However, laws were a double-edged sword. With the German legal system's clarity, he could play it to his advantage in a multitude of creative ways. It promised to elevate the game's complexity, making it all the more thrilling.

A nation unprepared for a perilous serial killer would undoubtedly struggle to contend with such a menace. It amused him to envision their futile pursuit, as they chased after his artful misdirections, all while grappling to train even a proficient bloodhound to track his elusive path. Their elusive path.

Furthermore, there was a substantial opening at the moment. Germany had absorbed a significant number of immigrants, resulting in a diverse population with a range of accents. Since 2011, the native German population had ceased to experience any growth, relying solely on the absorption of outsiders into their midst. It was a poignant realization that their own population was gradually dwindling. The country had a reputation for being exceptionally friendly and welcoming to outsiders, which would make obtaining citizenship relatively straightforward. It wouldn't raise any eyebrows for him to hail from a different nationality; he would blend in seamlessly. Additionally, nearly all of them were fluent in English as their second language, a mandatory skill. Those aiming for higher education were even obligated to master a third language.

When it came to intellectual stimulation, Germany would undoubtedly offer him ample nourishment. He could acquire multiple residences—a home in a bustling city like Munich and another house up north. These properties were exceptionally affordable, owing to the sparse population in comparison to the more densely populated regions in the south or in Berlin. He could explore the vibrant cities for intellectual stimulation and savor the serene beauty of the northern regions when in need of a peaceful day. Germany wasn't particularly large, so traveling between these contrasting landscapes wouldn't pose much of a logistical challenge.

France, Spain, Italy, and England were neighboring countries, and his home was close. If they adopted a more nomadic lifestyle, they could acquire a spacious trailer and journey around—an entirely ordinary practice for many Germans. Such a choice would attract no suspicion whatsoever. By dispersing his kills across multiple countries, he would utterly confound those in pursuit, leaving them clueless about his actual location or base of operations. A German passport held a position of formidable influence in the world, capable of granting access to nearly any destination. Germany possessed an exceedingly robust economic standing, effectively shouldering the weight of the entire European continent. It was a country both intimidating and potent, often unaware of the true extent of its power. Strategically, they served as an ideal stronghold, not primarily due to military might, but rather because their intricacies provided him with the opportunity to orchestrate moves against the rest of the world. Considering the state of affairs within the British Empire, their continued presence in the EU seemed doubtful. He couldn't depend on them. As for the majority of other nations, they were grappling with economic turmoil, with the exception of the Scandinavian countries, which appeared suspiciously content and prosperous in their corner of the world. Perhaps people should consider taking them as role models. After all, no one harbored animosity towards the Scandinavian people. He wasn't a politician, but he couldn't help but wonder how political leaders could mishandle their roles when there were such well-functioning examples to learn from. How indeed. If he introduced a random element to the sequence, refrained from initiating in the country where his true base was situated, and avoided a linear pattern of killings that might indicate his intended route, they would find themselves facing an exceedingly challenging task. Tracking his movements and anticipating his next moves would become nearly impossible.

He could organize a list of countries alphabetically, in reverse alphabetical order, sorted by the number of letters in their names, or by geographic positioning, either from left to right or vice versa, or employ any of those fabricated random patterns often used to select targets. 

However, he would ensure that none of these patterns emerged, opting instead to throw a die and see where it landed, leaving the selection entirely to chance. They could embark on journeys and carry out their lethal pursuits, like true murder husbands—sightseeing with a touch of bloodshed.

Deciphering his method for selecting a target country would prove to be an arduous and time-consuming endeavor for them. What concerned him slightly was the need for caution regarding his diet, as it had been the element that led them to discover his whereabouts last time. Alana was a clever and persistent nuisance, so he would have to take measures to eliminate her as a potential threat.

Will would undoubtedly miss his dogs, and Hannibal knew he couldn't overlook this. He would need to adjust the plan to accommodate them, or risk Will's unforgiving wrath for leaving his beloved pack behind. He smiled, sighing. Ah, yes, there was that matter too. While he went to retrieve the dogs, he would have to eliminate any remnants of Will's old family. Nothing that could entice Will to leave him could be allowed to survive. He didn't relish the idea of eliminating a child, but the situation left him with doubts about whether he could persuade the boy to accept Hannibal and Will as his parents if he removed the mother. Particularly in the scenario where Will remained in a coma, the option of merely persuading the boy through conversation would be rendered relatively inaccessible. Unless, of course, the child remained unaware of Hannibal's involvement, but the likelihood of that seemed slim. Will had likely shared information about him with his family. Or had he not? In fact, that was an intriguing question. How much did his wife truly know about Will Graham?

With the Red Dragon's failed mission, persuading the boy wouldn't be a simple task. Having a hostage added a complex variable to the equation, one that could jeopardize their cover if mishandled. It was a risk Hannibal wasn't willing to take, especially with Will in his current state. He tapped a pen against his lower lip, deep in thought. What should he do about this situation? Hm. He could opt to wait until the boy had reached adulthood. Hannibal was a patient man. However, it might not become necessary to eliminate him now. His primary target was to erase Molly, after all. He contemplated the possibility of leaving the child at an orphanage to guarantee his well-being. However, Molly's presence had to vanish entirely; there was no place for a wife in this equation. Besides, marrying Will legally presented a labyrinth of complexities, unless, of course, the spouse ceased to exist—a far quicker resolution than a protracted divorce process.

They could choose the path of expeditious matrimony in Las Vegas and then vanish from the scene.

His thumb slowly rubbed against his index finger as he contemplated his options. Lecter realized he would have to make Molly's death appear as if it were the result of both him and Will acting together, rather than just reflecting Hannibal's modus operandi. Failing to do so could lead Jack and the others to quickly deduce that Will was no longer in the picture. His eyes lifted, narrowing. If they pieced that together, they would realize that Hannibal was currently vulnerable. However, if they assumed Will was still killing alongside him, they would likely be more cautious, believing that the two were still operating at full strength together. Should Will commit the act of ending Molly's life, it would serve as an unequivocal testament to the utter abandonment of all restraint, his complete surrender to the pull of Hannibal.

The act of taking off his ring would liberate the space for Hannibal. No, his smile broadened. Molly's demise couldn't come at anyone's hands but Will's. It had to be a final crucible, a test of faith and commitment, especially after Will's audacious betrayal. Molly's worth was too precious to squander at this juncture. It would tell him precisely if Will had been truthful about his intentions. If he killed her, it would reveal an important truth: either Will had loved him all along, or Molly had been nothing more than a meaningless diversion from the start. Hannibal yearned to witness the expression on Graham's face.

The act might also serve as a signal to Jack. As his thoughts meandered, Hannibal acknowledged the profiler’s cleverness. He couldn't entirely discount the possibility of Will attempting to deceive him once more. To extinguish that possibility, he concluded that Jack must be eliminated. If he severed every single tie to Will's former life, there would be nothing left in the world capable of tearing him away from Hannibal. No allure that could tempt him away. Ironically, right up until their final moments together, he had entertained the idea of terminating Will. Even as he gripped the bottle opener, the thought had crossed his mind. But now, as he gazed upon Will in the wheelchair, engaged in his daily talking as if he were coaxing a house plant to thrive, he found himself incapable of going through with it.

It was only in the presence of Will that he could genuinely embrace life.

It was merely a matter of time before they would uncover Bedelia's absence. Jack most likely had already noticed her disappearance. Hannibal had been meticulous in covering his tracks, and even though Will was no longer on Jack's side, he shouldn't underestimate Crawford's tenacity and investigative skills.

As Hannibal reclined in his chair, his gaze directed upward to the ceiling, he could vividly conjure the entire Bureau in motion. Agents scurried about, their fervor evident in the scattered folders and haphazardly strewn papers. Jack, with stalwart determination, marshaled all his forces, each one diligently following the trail, licking evidence, sniffing blood, and attempting to catch a scent. With Bella's absence, Jack had committed all his remaining time and energy, for he had nothing left to lose. Hannibal and Will loomed as his final grand quarry, but beyond that pursuit, Crawford clung to little else that kept him tethered to life. Hannibal knew he had the power to drive Jack to the brink of madness if he played his cards right. And he harbored the desire to extend Crawford's torment for as long as possible. After all, they were friends, and Lecter relished the prospect of observing Jack's countenance when they remained tantalizingly beyond his grasp. The exquisite insanity that would manifest in his eyes was a vision Hannibal anticipated with morbid fascination.

And the endless barrage of prank calls they could unleash to further aggravate him.

It was to be their ultimate pursuit, a monumental clash, preceding the moment they'd finally find solace together, embracing a tranquil existence. United through a bond deeper than most, they would wed in crimson, sharing kisses on the veranda as they savored martinis and gazed out upon the expansive northern sea. Ignoring Alana indefinitely was also not a sustainable option. Hannibal had made a solemn pledge to deliver her demise, and he intended to honor that commitment. Upon deeper reflection, it occurred to him that they could claim their child and raise it as their own. Will yearned to experience fatherhood. Their initial attempt had ended tragically, the second never even made it past the fetal stage, and the third was now destined to be orphaned. The fourth child, however, would represent their stroke of good fortune. Margot held a certain intrigue, yet the fact that she had shared a bed with Will had extinguished any warm sentiments Hannibal might have harbored for her. He couldn't help but appreciate her audacity—a lesbian enticing a handsome man to undermine her brother's scheme, all in the pursuit of birthing a new Verger heir. Nevertheless, this audacious endeavor did not absolve the undeniable truth that she had not only caused pain to Will but had also spent a night in his company. That was a matter Hannibal was determined to set right.

There were still a couple of loose ends he needed to tie up before he could fully savor his time with Will.

Bedelia represented the first loose end that demanded his immediate attention. He had allowed her to languish in the darkness of his cellar, a place where isolation tended to unravel even the most resolute. If she refused to divulge willingly, he would employ alternate methods to extract the information—hypnosis, pharmaceuticals, or any means necessary to unlock her secrets. However, these endeavors required him to regain his full strength, both physically and emotionally. Moreover, he needed time for his influence to subtly infiltrate the consciousness of a mind as resilient and astute as hers. She was not an easy one to crack through direct confrontation. He had to diligently mislead other psychiatrists, and even work more arduously if he had to mislead them repeatedly. His wounds needed time to heal completely, and he needed to fortify himself for what lay ahead. Whatever revelation the blonde harbored, it promised to reshape his entire worldview. He had to be prepared for what would spill from her lips. After that, he would focus on the grand stage, and their exit plan. From there, he could manage two parallel paths: forging their new lives together with Will and fulfilling his promise to Alana. Locating her would demand a substantial investment of time and resources. His entire financial assets were frozen, save for those discreetly held under aliases, ensuring they remained beyond the FBI's grasp. Germany would be his next destination, along with the dogs, Chiyoh, and Will.

With that foundation in place, he could amass the essential funds needed to undertake more substantial endeavors.

Yet, his foremost objective remained the safeguarding of Will, concealing him in a secure location and rousing him from his slumber before embarking on a bloodthirsty pursuit. The notion of eliminating their adversaries without Will's presence weighed heavy on his conscience; thus, they would be preserved and held captive until Will's awakening. Amidst it all, he came to a stark realization of his own paralysis in the absence of Will. Everything he did seemed pointless, save for one thing—escape. The act of dispatching any of their adversaries held no allure, for it would elicit no response from Will as long as he lingered in that coma. Likewise, Will, in his current state, couldn't rouse him. His entire driving force revolved around Will. Graham occupied the central orbit of his universe, the very sun that gave life to his existence. It was the void, the blankness, that left Lecter disquieted. His existence thrived on Will's reactions, the subtle skirmishes, the witty repartee. Hannibal's very reason for living was entwined with Will. He was determined to sustain their lives, no matter how protracted the endeavor, until Will's return to him. It all seemed like a nightmarish phantasmagoria, a scenario more dreadful than he could have ever conceived. It wasn't Will pitted against him, or Will deceased; it was the nightmarish realm where Will lingered, trapped in the twilight state between life and death. Here, even Lecter's reach couldn't breach, and not even the radiant warmth of their love could caress him.

In those moments when his warm hand grazed Will's locks or he shared his daily musings and grand plans, he felt an undeniable closeness. Yet, that proximity was paradoxically shattered by the void of any response.

The lines between them had blurred to such an extent that the absence of one was gradually killing the other. They were twin souls, two halves of a whole, even as they occupied separate vessels. He was compelled to breathe life back into Will's very essence, to resurrect him from the depths of his slumber and awaken his dormant spirit.

Regardless of the rivers of blood he needed to shed, he was determined to appease the cruel deity that had sundered them. The same deity who had stolen his sister and mercilessly forged a young, innocent boy into a cannibalistic serial killer. This God thirsted for blood, and Hannibal, in his defiance, would ascend to deityhood, becoming the very embodiment of that insatiable divine hunger.

Nightmares seldom ventured into his realm. They quivered in his presence. However, an unsettling shift had occurred, and now, his slumber was besieged by visions. The shattering bottle, the splintering teacup, the thunderous gunfire, and the harrowing sight of Will, soaked in blood, weakly swaying with him on the precipice—it replayed every night. The waters claimed them both, and every morning, he awoke to a lifeless Will. Yet, he clung to a fervent belief, like an unhinged religious zealot, that Will had not departed. He remained, and Lecter grasped that conviction with all his desperate might.

Chiyoh's words were sparse, but her silent presence was a constant reassurance. She hovered nearby, vigilant in her care, tending to baths and ensuring Lecter's well-being. When she did speak, it was in hushed tones, akin to comforting a demented father, ever mindful not to unsettle him further. The loss of Will had left him bereft of his former brilliance, and now, it was the moment to rekindle that lost splendor.

His pace needed to quicken, the search for solutions intensified, and the subsequent escape with Will had to be swift, far away to a place where no one could ever tear them asunder. There, they could finally embrace a life of tranquility, becoming a family, as husbands should, basking in the serenity of normalcy. A locale by the water, where Will could cast his lines, and Lecter could conjure the most exquisite dishes from the day's catch, side by side with Will. It was one of the rare moments when he had abstained from partaking in human flesh, allowing Will's catch to sustain them. The notion of subsisting on fish, if that was Will's preference, was something Hannibal could wholeheartedly yield to, but solely for the sake of Will. Even the presence of dogs was tolerable. While he harbored a fondness for animals, the nuisance of fur and the chaos they could create did not align with Hannibal's meticulous nature. Cesar, the aged and now departed horse, held a special place in his affections. Swans, elegant and captivating, also found their place in his admiration, though he maintained a distance. Their ephemeral lifespans, far shorter than humans, made it challenging for him to form attachments. He couldn't bear the idea of growing close to a pet, only to endure the pain of losing them, as he had with so many others.

Birds, ravens in particular, held a special place in his affections. An assortment of rare and exotic avian companions was a luxury he could afford himself. However, he suspected that if he ever relented to the notion, Will would likely amass an even more extensive menagerie of animals, potentially creating a veritable zoo. Yet, if it brought Will happiness, he was willing to endure it. Ravens were known to be trainable, and their mischievous nature presented an opportunity for him to impart a few tricks.

Nonetheless, those were considerations for the distant future. At present, his primary focus was on navigating their escape from the perilous grounds and guiding them to safer shores.

But before departing, he intended to make a memorable exit. Something that would leave a lasting impression on Jack, Alana, and Lounds, a memory they wouldn't soon forget. A loud bang.

[gongwei491350778]

Mr. Peter, an Ethiopian customer who specializes in the solar energy projects and reselling at local. He mainly does farm engineering and industrial and commercial solar energy projects. Recently, he has a project of 20kw. He found us from our official website. He saw our website and learned that we started to install solar energy systems abroad in 2009. We have been in this industry for 12 years. Also see that we are focusing on the African and South American markets.

Because Mr. Peter is a intermediate merchant, he cares about quality, delivery time and service. We tell customers that what we give him is the quality of government projects. We do many solar projects all over the world, like the 80kw government office building in Kenya,60kw airport project in Indonesia, the 200kw solar project in Papua New Guinea,etc.

Regarding the delivery date, our factory has recently put in a brand new production line, and the production efficiency has increased by 15%. Therefore, even in the current global shortage of raw materials, we can still guarantee the delivery date required by our customers.

Regarding the service, why this time he chose our company, the most important factor is that there was a tender, which required WIFI monitoring. He found a lot of suppliers in China, only could check the data monitoring, like RS485 that only could see that data, can not get the actual monitoring and maintenance function. But our WIFI monitor can completely solve his problem. Because of this technology, it really helped him win this bidding order successfully. So he placed a sample order of one container at first.

His tender file wrote:

Remote Monitoring:

Remote monitoring to include:

1.WiFi enabled device capable of reading and storing battery data in memory as well as transmit this

2.data regularly (1 sec intervals) to an online internet portal

3.Data to be transmitted must include real time battery State of Charge (SoC), battery voltage, maximum cell voltage, minimum cell voltage, battery current, battery temperature and battery alarm status

4.Portal to include historical recording of data in graph and csv format for at least 30 days

5.Feature for downloading recorded data onto PC required

6.Email alert functions for battery alarms required

We will help him do a maintenance backstage so that he can see all the internet connected projects, so as to better maintain the after-sales service, realize online maintenance and shorten the after-sales time.

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 5

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit) Word Count: 6.4k Warnings: canon rewrite, slow burn, canon-typical violence, sexual harassment/unwanted sexual advances, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: When you’re caught in a firefight with a bounty hunter and the Crest is damaged, you and Mando stop on Tatooine to find a job. A shadow of your past catches up with you. Notes: Sorry not sorry for making Toro even worse than he already is. Taglist: @bbdoyouloveme @beskarhearts @dincrypt @dunderr @honey-hi​ @just-me-and-my-obsessions00 @mbpokemonrulez @red-leaders @speakerforthedead0 @theflightytemptressadventure @zoemariefit

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

After leaving Sorgan, you and Mando chose a second “backwater skughole” several systems away as your next destination. Mando set the nav, and the automated voice of the computer informed you that the trip would take almost five days. The thought of spending five days confined to the Crest was not appealing, but you knew it was important to keep your stops as remote as possible.

Time was a functionally meaningless concept in space anyways, hours and days bleeding together. Without the usual environmental cues to govern your circadian rhythm, you had to rely on a schedule to maintain some semblance of normalcy, keeping alarms on your chrono to remind you when to sleep. Mando, on the other hand, seemed so completely accustomed to this slippery sense of time that he needed no reminders; this was natural for him.

If you hadn’t already seen some of his skin, you might actually think he was a droid. Aside from his hard metal exterior, the most compelling piece of evidence to support this theory was the fact that he didn’t seem to need much sleep. He disappeared into his bunk for maybe four or five hours a day, plus twenty minutes here or there to eat. You suspected he settled into a half-asleep, half-awake hibernation mode when he sat in the pilot’s seat for hours at a time without moving. Once, he jolted so violently when the child sneezed that he had to catch him by his collar before he slid off his knee.

His relationship with the kid, though, was achingly, heartwarmingly, vulnerably human.

You lived for the glimpses of their bond—the way Mando would remove a single pauldron so he could rest the child’s head on his shoulder to lull him to sleep, whispering to him as he swayed gently. When the kid was restless and energetic from being cooped up, Mando would roll the little silver sphere from a control in the cockpit along the floor of the hull for him to chase. For a generally impatient man, his patience for the child seemed almost inexhaustible; he would hold him and pat his back endlessly while he wailed his way through particularly bad tantrums.

You collected these precious moments and held them close to your heart, unwittingly creating a catalog of comfort that you’d return to later. They weren’t necessarily your moments to claim, as a visitor in their world, but you treasured them nonetheless.

***

You were out of colored contacts. You could only wear each pair continuously for a month, and your current pair was due to be switched out any day. The morning you threw them away, Mando stopped you as you passed him in the hull with a light hand on your shoulder. The kid was tucked in his other arm.

He stepped in front of you, just inches away from your chest, tilting his helmet down to look at you. You looked up to meet his gaze, puzzled. He cocked his head, a silent question.

Not for the first time, you wondered about the color of his eyes.

You held your breath, unsure of what he was going to do.

He said nothing but brought his gloved hand up to your face, running this thumb along the crest of your cheek—so lightly, the leather was barely touching you. The tender gesture brought goose bumps to your arms, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

The kid reached up a tiny hand toward your other cheek, mirroring Mando’s movement. He babbled quietly, breaking the tense silence. You flicked your eyes down to watch him but remained still, not wanting to disrupt the spell of the moment. The baby wiggled his fingers and whined when he realized he couldn’t reach you. You smiled.

You looked back up into Mando’s visor. You wanted so badly to reach out and touch him back, to pull him closer, but you let fear keep you rooted to the spot.

To your astonishment, he dipped his helmet, as if he was going to lean his forehead against yours. He was inches from your face—you could see your surprise reflected in his visor and hear his steady breathing through the modulator. But Mando seemed to change his mind mid-gesture, and the moment was over before you knew it. He straightened, dropped his hand, nodded stiffly, and stepped past you. The child let out a frustrated cry in protest.

Without the kid’s lingering whines, you might have thought you imagined the whole thing.

Little by little, you were revealing your real self to the Mandalorian, placing your safety in his hands. This would have been harder to stomach if you weren’t getting pieces of him in return. Spending this much time in such close quarters with someone—even someone as closed off as Mando—was enough to get to know them fairly well.

For instance, you weren’t quite fluent, but you were getting really good at reading his body language. He relied on his armor to mask his intentions with strangers, and he wasn’t accustomed to people spending extended amounts of time with him—time to learn his patterns and tells. Over time, it became apparent just how many minute things there were to unpack: subtle tensions in his back and shoulders, clenching of his fists, tapping of his fingers, the lean in his hips, audible inhales or exhales, the tilt of his helmet. Plus, there were nuanced flavors of each movement: a sassy head tilt, an angry head tilt, a confused head tilt. Soon enough, you’d be able to create a dictionary of the Mandalorian’s body language. 

It was strange to think that you’d only been with him for a few weeks, and you might be the only person in the galaxy who could read him so well.

Something else you’d come to learn about Mando was that he was very particular about where his things were kept. This made sense—he’d clearly been living alone for years, if not decades. Of course someone with such a nomadic, unsettled lifestyle would want to carefully control what little in his environment that he could, but his compulsive organization was next level.

You came to this conclusion after you scooted his toothbrush and toothpaste over just slightly in the med cabinet to make a space for yours. The next morning, you opened the cabinet to find his things exactly where they had been before you’d moved them. You looked down to see that yours were sitting precariously on the edge of the sink, waiting to fall to the floor at the first sign of turbulence. Seriously?

That inspired you to devise a fun game—well, it was fun for you. You were pretty sure Mando hated it, though to his credit, he didn’t say anything about it for several days. Every day, you’d move one of his items just slightly to see if he’d notice and move it back. So far, he’d caught every tiny adjustment. He even reoriented his bar of soap when you moved it so it sat slightly off-kilter in its dish in the shower. He hadn’t even showered yet that day.

After three days, he finally cracked.

He was digging through a storage compartment, huffing dramatically though his modulator as he searched for something.

“I can’t imagine you’ve lost something,” you said, from where you were sitting on a crate sharing a ration pack with the kid, who was perched on your lap. “Not with how terrifyingly organized you are.”

“Yeah, well, that was only true before you started moving my stuff around.” 

You grinned. “I was wondering when you were going to say something.”

“I was wondering when you were going to stop,” he huffed, but you detected the lightest trace of amusement in his tone.

“I haven’t actually moved anything,” you laughed. “Just... adjusted.”

He harrumphed, still digging around in the box.

The kid chittered and reached toward your hand for more food. You gave him another piece.

“If you let me leave my toothbrush and toothpaste in the med cabinet, I’ll stop.”

He looked up. “That’s it?”

“I’m a reasonable woman.”

“Deal.”

When you went to brush your teeth that night, one of the three shelves in the med cabinet had been completely cleared for you.

As you slowly began to insinuate yourself into Mando and the kid’s life, the guilt of not telling him about the bounty on your head started to weigh heavier on your mind. He deserved to know, but you couldn’t imagine him letting you stay if he found out. Why would he assume any extra risk? I’ll tell him soon. We probably won’t be together much longer anyways.

***

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

The unfamiliar voice of the bounty hunter echoed over the com in the cockpit. A ship was hot on your tail, landing several shots that rattled the Crest violently. The child, who was strapped into the seat beside you, seemed to enjoy the excitement of the chase, arms raised and giggling. Mando maneuvered the Crest quickly and deftly, so the pursuer was suddenly directly in front of the viewport.

“That’s my line,” he said dramatically, as he pulled the trigger and obliterated the ship in his sights.

Despite the fact that your heart was pounding in your chest, you couldn’t help but let out an exasperated laugh at that. 

The chase had been short-lived, but the hunter had managed to inflict some serious damage. Alarms beeped and warning lights flashed along the console.

“Losing fuel,” said Mando. He was working hastily, his hands flying from one control to the next. He was trying to address several warning alarms at once.

“You work on that. I got this,” you said, unbuckling.

You stood next to him, attending to the controls in front of you.

“What are—Don’t do that,” he said, “Stop. I need to—”

He didn’t finish his sentence when he realized you were doing exactly what needed to be done to stabilize the ship.

“I thought you said you worked in programming.”

“I did. Mostly avionics.”

The second thruster sputtered and died. The cockpit went dark. All of the usual mechanical sounds that the ship made whirred to a halt. Mando turned in surprise, looking around. He clicked a few buttons. Nothing happened.

The child giggled from his seat.

“I’ll get it.” You walked to the back of the cockpit and wrenched open a panel to do a manual reset of the controls. Some of the lights came back on. Mando flicked several switches, and the displays came alive.

Together, you got the ship in good enough shape to limp to a nearby planet. Luckily, you were already close to Tatooine. The Razor Crest rattled alarmingly as it cleared the atmosphere, and Mando landed the ship with an unceremonious clunk in a bay in Mos Eisley.

Mando left the now sleeping baby in his bunk, despite your objections. That never works. He walked down the ramp to haggle with the mechanic.

Peli was a gruff woman, sassy and straightforward. You liked her right away. Mando deserved the sass Peli dished out, considering he had begun their interaction by shooting at her pit droids when they tried to approach the Crest.

He really hates droids.

You and Mando headed to the cantina to inquire about work. As soon as the ship went dead, you’d both known you’d need to pull a job to pay to fix the damage because there was no way the Crest was making it to your destination in its current state.

You trailed a few steps behind him, watching the intimidating way he stalked down the sandy street, his cape billowing behind him. He seemed less scary now that you knew he secretly had a sense of humor and an occasional flair for the dramatic. And that he once let you sleep on his shoulder. And tied your shoe for you.

When you entered the cantina, you shivered from the abrupt change in temperature. Outside the twin suns beat down; inside the dark cantina, it was cool.

Mando strode up to the bar. You followed him, taking in your surroundings.

“Hey, droid. I’m a hunter. I’m looking for some work.”

“Unfortunately, the Bounty Guild no longer operates from Tatooine,” replied the droid in a stilted voice.

“It doesn’t have to be Guild work,” you clarified.

“I am afraid that does not improve your situation, at least by my calculation,” said the droid, continuing to wipe down the surface of the bar with a rag.

“Think again, tin can,” interrupted a smug voice behind you. You and Mando turned.

A young man, his legs propped brazenly on the table in front of him, continued, “If you’re looking for work, have a seat, my friends.” He gestured to the seats across from him.

“Name’s Toro, Toro Calican. Come on, relax.” He beckoned for you to join him again.

You and Mando exchanged a look and walked over to where he was seated.

Toro swung his legs off the table and slapped a bounty puck down in front of him as you slid into the booth and Mando followed.

“Picked up this bounty punk before I left the Mid Rim,” Toro explained. The hazy image of a woman with dark hair hovered over the puck. “Fennec Shand, an Assassin. Heard she’s been on the run ever since the New Republic put all her employers in lockdown.”

Toro had thick brown hair and dark eyes, a boyish face despite the scruff of five-o’clock shadow on his jaw. He couldn’t be older than 25.

“I’ve heard the name,” said Mando.

You nodded beside him. Fennec Shand was a legend. Having been chased by enough hunters, you were familiar with the big players.

“Yeah, well, I followed this tracking fob here. Now the positional data suggests she’s headed out beyond the Dune Sea. Should be an easy job.” He shrugged.

This kid clearly has no idea what he’s doing.

“Well, good luck with that,” said Mando, standing up. You stayed where you were, relaxed against the back of the booth.

“Wait, wait, wait, hey. I thought you needed work?” Toro looked from Mando to you, confused.

“How long you been with the Guild?” asked Mando.

“Long enough,” Toro spat unconvincingly.

“Clearly not. Fennec Shand is an elite mercenary. She made her name killing for all the top crime syndicates, including the Hutts. If you go after her, you won’t make it past sunrise.”

Mando looked at you and jerked his head to signal that it was time to go. He started to walk away. You stayed seated, saying nothing.

Toro looked at you, pleading. You nodded toward Mando: “You’ll have to convince him.”

Toro scrambled after him. Mando turned to face him, and Toro had to look up to meet his visor.

“This is my first job,” he admitted in a strained voice. “You guys can keep the money, all of it. I just need this job to get into the Guild. I can’t do it alone.”

Mando looked to you. You smiled knowingly, and he let out a sigh and nodded.

The man cannot say no to someone who needs help.

Toro was visibly relieved.

“Meet us at hangar three-five in half an hour. Bring three speeder bikes and give me the tracking fob,” instructed Mando, holding out a hand.

Toro’s shoulders pulled together. Someone doesn’t want to let go of the fob.

Without any warning, he smashed the fob on the wall. It sparked.

Mando gave Toro his angry head tilt.

“Don’t worry, got it all memorized,” assured Toro, tapping a finger on his temple.

“Half an hour,” growled Mando.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me now, guys,” Toro said triumphantly, turning to look at you.

Mando pushed past Toro and walked back to the booth, leaning down toward you. “I am not that predictable,” he muttered in a low, irritated voice.

“You really are,” you smiled up at him. “I’ll meet you at the hangar in 20. I want real food.”

He nodded and left.

Toro looked very pleased with himself, grinning at you.

“You better go track down those bikes,” you reminded him, gesturing for a droid to come take your order.

Toro ignored your advice. Instead, he looked you up and down in a way that made your skin crawl and slid back into the booth across from you.

“You know what? I have an even better idea. Me and you can take Fennec ourselves. You look like a girl who can handle herself. Let’s ditch that rusty bucket right now and do this together. Fewer people to split the reward.” His eyes sparkled.

Is he fucking serious?

You already weren’t a huge fan of Toro and his cocky attitude, but the minute he called you “girl” like that, your regard for him plummeted. What little patience you had for this kid was wearing thin.

“Not interested.”

The droid came over, and you placed your order.

Toro, still looking at you expectantly, scooted around the table to sit next to you, and you moved in the opposite direction to maintain the distance between you.

“Mando is old, you know? I don’t know if you can tell, but I can. That’s an old man under that shiny armor. You look like you need someone younger to keep up with you.” He winked conspiratorially, as if the two of you were sharing a mutual joke.

You watched him through narrowed eyes, a sour feeling settling in your stomach.

He was clearly terrible at reading people because he responded to your disgusted look by reaching over to run a heavy hand along the inside of your thigh. He barely made it an inch past your knee when you ripped his hand off your leg, tightening your fingers around his wrist until your nails dug into his skin.

“Touch me again and lose a hand,” you spat at him, releasing him and pushing up from the table. You wrapped your fingers around the hilt of the blade at your hip.

“Whoa, whoa! I was just being friendly, sweetheart,” he said loudly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He looked around at the other patrons as if seeking outside confirmation that you were the one who was being unreasonable in this situation.

“You should leave.”

“I was obviously kidding about ditching Mando,” said Toro, shaking his head. “You really need to lighten up.” He didn’t even have the decency to look abashed.

You spared him a biting response, fixing him with a glare instead.

“I’ll go find those bikes.” He stood to leave, purposefully brushing past your shoulder as he went.

***

After finishing your meal, you stalked out of the cantina and back to the terminal to find Mando.

He was sitting at the top of the ramp of the Crest fiddling with an open control panel in the wall. He looked up to nod at you when he heard you approach.

“I don’t like that kid, Mando. I don’t trust him. I don’t think we should do this.” You stopped in front of him and put your hands on your hips.

“I know. He’s inexperienced, but he’s harmless.”

“No, that’s what I’m saying—he’s not harmless.”

“What did he say to you?” Mando continued working on the open control panel, only vaguely listening to you.

“He tried to talk me into ditching you and teaming up with him, so we didn’t have to split the reward three ways... He also hit on me.” You added the last part as an afterthought and grimaced at the memory of his gross hand on your thigh.

His head snapped up to look at you. “He—what?”

You looked at him, waiting for him to verbalize a more coherent question. You weren’t sure which part of what you’d shared horrified him the most.

“I—what—uh, yeah, I know... I don’t trust him either,” he continued, “but there are two of us and only one of him. We need the credits—and we’ll get the full reward, like he agreed, whether he likes it or not. We’re not going to find many other jobs here, and I don’t think he’s smart enough to pull anything.”

“I guess,” you shrugged. Toro doesn’t seem capable of critical thinking, let alone concocting and carrying out an elaborate scheme. The bounty was too high and other jobs too scarce to resist.

“We’ll keep a close eye on him. Let’s just finish this job quickly, and then you, me, and the kid can move on.”

“Okay,” you agreed, reluctantly. The way he emphasized the fact that you and him and the kid were a team was an obvious attempt to quell your worries. And it did. Mostly. It was a little startling how well he knew you already.

“Where’s the baby?” you asked, suddenly realizing the door to his bunk was open, and it was empty.

“He left the ship, and Peli found him. She agreed to take care of him while we do this job.”

Again, here he is, trusting a complete stranger.

“I told you he never stays put,” you scowled.

“Don’t worry, Peli already gave me an earful about how much I don’t know about kids.” He sounded defeated, so you decided not to pile on.

“You’re doing a good job, you know. The kid really loves you.”

He seemed surprised by your sincerity, his shoulders pulling back slightly. “I’m not, but thanks.”

It hurt your heart a little to hear him say that. 

***

When you left the terminal fifteen minutes later, Toro was outside, leaning against one of two speeder bikes with a cocky smile on his face.

Peli, who was holding the kid and arguing with Mando about payment, stood in the doorway to see you off. You caught the curious look that Toro gave the baby in Peli’s arms.

“Hey, what do you think? Not too shabby, huh? I could only track down two. You guys will have to share,” Toro said.

You and Mando looked at each other. Mando started to inspect the bike closest to you. Before he could beat you to it, you threw a leg over the speeder bike and sat down at the front of the seat.

“What are you doing?” Mando asked you.

“Driving,” you said, shrugging and reaching into your bag. You pulled on a pair of googles and wrapped a scarf around your nose and mouth. You secured your bag on the back of the bike.

When you noticed that Mando had made no move to join you, you looked at him and tipped your head back toward the seat behind you. “Let’s go.”

You could tell by the resigned drop in his shoulders that he knew it would be more work to try to convince you to scoot back than was worth it. He climbed on the speeder behind you, crowding you forward and reaching his long arms around you to grab the controls.

“Nope. Nice try,” you said, slapping his gloved hands away and grasping the controls yourself.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around your middle. You hoped he didn’t notice the goose bumps that appeared on your neck when he touched you. It was way too warm out under the two blazing suns to explain them away.

You jerked your wrists down and leaned forward to take off across the open sand, not waiting for Toro to mount his speeder.

“What the hell??” he yelled after you.

He caught up after a few moments.

After awhile, you let yourself relax back against Mando’s chest, and you smiled to yourself when he tightened his arms around you. 

The suns slipped lower in the sky as you coasted over the shifting surface of the Dune Sea.

***

You and Toro slowed your bikes to a halt when Mando released your waist to hold up a fist.

“What’s going on?” asked Toro.

“Look. Up ahead,” The rasp of Mando’s modulator in your ear and the concurrent rumble in his chest made you shiver, so you hastily hopped off the bike.

Mando stayed seated while you and Toro each pulled out a set of binocs to scan the landscape. Neither of you had the heightened vision that Mando’s helmet afforded him.

Through your binocs, you spotted two Tusken raiders standing beside two very hairy Banthas a short distance ahead. You lowered your binocs and scanned the immediate area.

“Tusken raiders. I heard the locals talking about this filth,” spat Toro, who was still watching them through his binocs.

You stepped back toward the bike as two Tuskens crested the hill you were on. Mando reached out a hand to grab your wrist, squeezing gently. You looked at him, and he nodded reassuringly.

“Tuskens think they’re the locals,” Mando said coolly, turning back to Toro. “Everyone else is just trespassing.”

“Well, whatever they call themselves, they best keep their distance,” Toro remarked.

“Yeah? Why don’t you tell them yourself?” asked Mando.

You grinned. There’s that flair for the dramatic.

Toro turned, and the two Tuskens screeched at him. You laughed at the way Toro positively jumped. Mando stood, raising a calming hand toward Toro, and told him to relax. You followed him as he approached the Tuskens and started gesturing to them, clearly proficient in their sign-based language.

Mando’s hands moved smoothly though deft, controlled movements. You looked down and bit your lip, trying to focus on twisting the toe of your boot back and forth in the sand to prevent your mind from wandering somewhere less appropriate.

“What are you doing?” Toro asked Mando.

“Negotiating.”

The Tuskens signed back to Mando.

“What’s going on?” asked Toro.

“We need passage across their land.”

“What did you think he meant by “negotiating”?” you said, raising your eyebrows at Toro.

“Let me see your binocs,” said Mando, holding out a hand to Toro.

“Why?”

Mando said nothing but kept his hand out, waiting. The two suns, now low in the sky, reflected brightly off his helmet. Toro handed them over begrudgingly, and Mando tossed them to the Tuskens. The Tuskens looked satisfied with their payment.

“He—hey! What? Those were brand new!” stuttered Toro in surprise.

“Yeah? They were.” Mando stalked away and remounted the speeder bike. You followed him.

And there’s that sense of humor. It’s sassy.

“You couldn’t have taken hers instead?” Toro asked, nodding at you.

“Nope,” said Mando.

You smiled sweetly at Toro as Mando scooted back in the seat and let you climb on in front of him.

***

The next time you stopped more abruptly. Mando raised his fist and barked, “Get down!”

You and Mando sprang off your bike in unison and crouched down. Toro, struggling to keep up with what was happening, fumbled with his goggles before following suit.

The three of you made your way to the edge of the dune in front of you, staying low. You set yourselves up on your stomachs at the top of the rise. Not far below, a dewback trudged forward slowly with what looked like a dead rider trailing after it, a rein wrapped around the figure’s limp ankle.

“Is that her? Is that the target?” asked Toro.

“I don’t know... I’ll go.” He looked at you to say, “You two cover me.”

You nodded.

He looked at Toro to emphasize, “Stay down.”

You and Toro pulled out your blasters. Mando ran hurriedly down the dune, his own blaster drawn. He approached the dewback slowly with a reassuring, “Whoa, whoa.”

Mando flipped over the prone body.

“So, is it her? Is she dead?” yelled Toro.

Mando turned, “It’s another bounty hunter.”

Toro turned to look at you. “He’s not planning to keep all that stuff for himself, right? I at least want that blaster.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Can you shut up for one second?”

He gave you a disbelieving look. You ignored him and focused your attention back on Mando.

Mando started to rise, turning suddenly to yell, “GET DOWN!” as blaster fire hit his pauldron, knocking him to the ground.

“Mando!” you yelled.

He scrambled back to his feet and broke into a run. He crested the hill as a second shot screamed after him. Again, it hit him in the beskar, sound reverberating off the metal. He threw himself down with a grunt, rolling towards you in a shower of sand.

“Are you okay? You didn’t get hit, right?” You reached out towards him.

“Yeah, it hit me in the beskar. And at that range, the beskar held up.” He sounded winded.

“What happened?” asked Toro, as Mando set himself back up on the crest of the hill, lying between you and Toro.

“Sniper bolt. Only an MK-modified rifle could make that shot.”

“Fennec,” you said. Mando nodded.

“Did you see where the shot came from?” he asked you.

“Yeah, from that ridge.” You pointed.

“Okay, we’re gonna wait until dark.”

“Well, what if she escapes?” asked Toro from where he was resting on his elbows on the other side of Mando.

“She’s got a good position,” you said. “She’s not moving.”

“Exactly,” agreed Mando. “She’ll wait for us to make the first move.”

Mando rolled over and stood only part of the way up, offering a hand down to you. You grasped it and got to your feet. You both hunched low to keep yourselves behind the protective swell of the dune.

“We’re gonna rest. You take the first watch. Stay low,” Mando said to Toro.

You followed Mando back to the bikes.

“Be extra careful. I don’t like you being out here with no beskar,” he said to you, more quietly.

“I will.” 

Your stomach clenched at the way Mando’s voice warmed when he was talking only to you. He spoke to Toro in a clipped tone, like he was scolding an unruly kid. He spoke to you like an equal, a partner. You couldn’t pinpoint when he’d started talking to you this way, but it had shifted recently. It was a tone you’d heard him use with the kid and with Omera. Something that felt a lot like hope sparked in your chest at this realization.

He slumped down against your speeder bike and reached up to pull you down next to him. You leaned back against the bike next to him, your body flush with his, and let your cheek fall against his shoulder.

After a few moments, you could hear a light snore rasping through his modulator. Apparently this man can fall asleep anywhere.

Eventually, you fell into a light sleep, not trusting Toro enough to sleep deeply.

***

You woke to Toro saying, “Time to ride, guys.”

“Come on, wake up!”

You opened your eyes and lifted your head. It was dark out; the last lavender traces of the sunset were disappearing along the horizon. Mando was still beside you, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

“Look at him, asleep on the job. I told you he was an old man,” leered Toro.

You felt the cadence of Mando’s breathing shift beside you.

“You’re right. He’s ancient—basically dead already,” you quipped, patting Mando on the knee to signal that you knew he was awake.

Toro couldn’t tell if you were mocking him or joking with him, so he just looked at you, slack-jawed, trying to parse it out.

“Not quite,” Mando said, jabbing you in the ribs lightly with his elbow. Toro started at Mando’s words.

You stood, this time extending a hand down to help Mando up. It was more of a symbolic gesture than anything else—he weighed way more with that armor on than you could ever lift. Nonetheless, he took your hand as he hauled himself to his feet.

“We’re going to ride as fast as we can towards those rocks,” explained Mando, pointing to where Fennec was presumably perched.

“That’s your plan?” scoffed Toro. “She’ll snipe us right off the bikes.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t seem remember the amazing plan that you came up with?” you sniped, raising your hands in disbelief.

Mando snickered, a short rasp through the modulator, and in answer to Toro’s question, he tossed a small item his way then handed something to you.

“They’re flash charges. You two will alternate shots. It’ll blind any scope temporarily. Combine that with our speed, and we got a chance.”

You looked down at the charge in your hand, noting the button that would set it off.

“A chance?!” blurted Toro.

You bit back a scathing retort, turning back to your bike.

“Hey, you wanted this. Get ready,” replied Mando, tipping his helmet at Toro.

Mando stepped close to you, lowering his voice. “Let me sit in front this time. In case she manages to make any shots.”

You nodded in agreement, appreciating his protective nature.

You mounted the bike behind him and wrapped your arms around his middle, the charge grasped tightly in your right hand. Mando wrenched his wrists down, and your speeder bike took off, with Toro in your wake.

Mando pushed the bike as fast as it could possibly go, launching it over the swells of sand. You gripped him tighter, and the wind whipped the edges of his cape against your legs.

Apparently Fennec spotted you easily from her vantage point on the cliff because she started her assault immediately, firing at Toro’s speeder first.

Mando reached one hand down for a moment to squeeze your arm, and you understood. Holding his waist tightly with your left arm, you reached your right one up into the air to set off the charge. It went off with a screech. Even through your closed eyelids, you registered the blinding flash of light.

Fennec recovered fairly quickly. She resumed firing only moments after the light dissipated. Mando weaved the bike in a serpentine pattern to avoid the shots.

He turned to Toro and yelled, “NOW!”

Toro let off a charge. Another searing light rippled across the landscape.

After a moment, Fennec fired again, her aim becoming more precise as you drew closer to the cliff. This time, she didn’t miss. A direct shot screamed across the sand and hit the front of your speeder bike. You let go of Mando in the jolt of the impact, and you both flew over the top of the bike and landed in the sand.

Ouch.

Toro zoomed past, looking back for only a second. You didn’t like how easily he left you both behind, but logically, you knew that someone needed to get to Fennec as soon as possible.

You stayed prone on the sand, lifting just your head to see where Mando had fallen a few feet ahead of you. You were relieved when he sprang to his feet and ran back towards you. Without any warning, he lowered himself down over you to protect you from any more incoming fire. He braced himself on his elbows and knees so his body was pressed against yours, but he wasn’t crushing you with the combined weight of his body and armor.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice right behind your ear.

“Yeah.” Your face was pressed against the warm sand. “You?”

“Good. You got the charge?”

You handed it up to him. Luckily, you’d managed to hold onto it during the impact. Mando fumbled for a moment, then lifted an arm to set it off.

After the searing light faded and the dark blanket of night returned, another blaster shot landed in the sand a few feet from your head. Mando edged forward and rested his helmet on the sand above your head. You were completely shielded.

“Thanks,” you muttered up to him, slightly self-conscious that this purely protective position was affecting you so much, a slow heat coiling tight in your stomach. His whole body was flush with yours, his breath heavy and fast in your ear, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his armored chest against your back. The places where he wasn’t covered by beskar pressed warmly against you. Think about anything else.

A shot pinged off his back. Mando tensed and grunted at the impact. You gritted your teeth and focused on burying your fingers in the sand, definitely not thinking about what other things might draw similar sounds from him.

“Alright, I think Toro got to her. Let’s go, but stay behind me,” Mando rasped in your ear, squeezing your shoulder with a gloved hand.

You nodded beneath him, stifling the shiver that was threatening to run up your spine. Think about anything else.

He rolled off you, and you both got to your feet. You breathed a sigh of relief and positioned yourself at his back, both of you drawing your blasters. In the dark, you could see red streaks of blaster fire on the cliff where Fennec had been perched.

“We gotta run,” you yelled, pushing him forward. “Toro wont be able to take her alone, Mando!”

You stayed close behind him, a hand on his lower back, so he knew you were with him.

When you reached the foot of the cliff, you could hear Toro’s groans and Fennec’s grunts, but you couldn’t see them. You and Mando scrambled up the sandy incline that was littered with boulders and crested the cliff right as Fennec wrestled Toro to the ground.

“Nice distraction,” said Mando, training his blaster on Fennec. She reluctantly released Toro from her hold and put her hands up in defeat. You waited, partially concealed behind Mando until you knew she was restrained.

Toro grunted in pain as he stood up slowly.

“Cuff yourself,” Mando ordered Fennec, tossing the cuffs in front of her.

“A Mandalorian. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of your kind.” She stood. “Ever been to Nevarro? I hear things didn’t go so well there, but it looks like you got off easy.”

Fuck, just how much has she heard about what went down on Nevarro?

Fennec smiled even wider when you stepped out from behind Mando. There was no avoiding her now. Sure enough, recognition flickered in her eyes.

Uh oh.

“Well, well, well... if it isn’t my favorite bounty,” she drawled, and before you could react, your name—your real name—fell from her lips. “You lead me all over the damn galaxy, sweetheart.”

***

Chapter 6

[creepingsharia]

Philadelphia’s Elected Leaders Put Themselves and Islam Ahead of Civic Duty

Remember, Philadelphia is nicknamed Muslim Town amongst the sharia supremacist crowd and the media who adore them.

by Leonard Getz

Last year, the Philadelphia chapter of the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) celebrated six Muslim Americans elected to public office in the Greater Philadelphia area. Yet, as with CAIR, several of these lawmakers are Islamists who do not reflect the values of the city’s dynamic Muslim community.  Some have been involved in corruption, including accusations of theft and charity embezzlement, while others have used their political privilege to promote an Islamist agenda.

       Philadelphia has been called “the most corrupt city in America,” where dozens of politicians and power brokers have been convicted in the past decade on charges of bribery and corruption. Until recently, Islamists have only gamed this corrupt system from the outside, but now groups such as CAIR can rely on political representatives in positions of power to advance their extremist agenda.

       Former State Rep. Movita Johnson-Harrell (right) is chief among the city’s corrupt Islamist politicians. After winning a special election in March 2019, the Muslim Democrat’s political career ended in shame less than a year later with multiple felony convictions.

       In January 2020, a disgraced Johnson-Harrell was sentenced to three months in prison for embezzling over $500,000 from her nonprofit, which was established to assist the poor, homeless, and addicted. She spent this money on fur coats, lavish vacations, and even a political donation.

       When Johnson-Harrell wasn’t busy enriching herself from her charity, she spent much of her short-lived career as a state assemblywoman galavanting from coast to coast to raise money for CAIR, an Islamist civil rights organization identified in federal court as an affiliate of the terrorist group Hamas. Attending multiple CAIR fundraisers, Johnson-Harrell praised fellow speakers such as Marc Lamont Hill, a former CNN analyst who was fired from the network after unapologetically calling for the destruction of Israel.

       In 2019, Johnson-Harrell attended a convention in Philadelphia organized by the Muslim Ummah of North America (MUNA), where she called on Muslims to "occupy every space of this world." MUNA is a nonprofit closely linked to the Bangladeshi branch of Jamaat-e-Islami, a violent South Asian Islamist movement.

       Philadelphia City Councilman Curtis Jones, Jr. (right) has used his official position to advance an Islamist agenda. In 2016, Jones hosted and promoted an event at City Hall titled, “Thomas Jefferson’s Quran: Islam and The Founders.” In addition to CAIR, the event was sponsored by Emgage PAC, an Islamist Political Action Committee known for hosting  conventions at terror-tied mosques and featuring anti-Semitic speakers.

       Incidentally, Jones’s wife Jazelle is the city’s Deputy Manager and Director of Operations for Special Events.

       While Jones has eagerly sponsored resolutions condemning anti-Muslim bias, he has ignored blatant examples of anti-Semitism. In January 2017, he hosted a townhall meeting with CAIR-Philadelphia to introduce Resolution 161119 condemning the  “alarming increase in anti-Muslim violence and hate speech in the wake of the November election.”

       However, as a board member of the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission (PHRC), Jones was asked (by this writer) but refused to censure the Philadelphia chapter of the Muslim American Society (MAS) for propagating anti-Semitic hate speech. In 2019, an Islamic school under MAS administration produced a video of Muslim children singing about torturing and beheading Jews, and PCHR responded by calling the scandal a “mistake.” The commission’s failure to take action attracted the attention of U.S. Congressman Lee Zeldin (R-NY), who believes that PHRC whitewashed the investigation.

       The city’s corruption problem may even extend to local law enforcement. Philadelphia Sheriff Rochelle Bilal (right) campaigned on a promise to rid the office of previous bribery and sexual harassment scandals. However, she wasted no time firing her office’s Chief Financial Officer Brett Mandel, allegedly for questioning her six figure “off budget” payments to four contractors who worked on her campaign. The Philadelphia Inquirer admonished her actions as contrary to her commitment to “operate the office with transparency and integrity on behalf of all of the citizens of our city.”

       Apparently, this was not Bilal’s first impropriety. In 2013, the City of Philadelphia Internal Affairs determined that she violated the department’s conflict of interest policy by taking a job with the Delaware County borough of Colwyn as public safety director. This resulted in her resigning from the police force.

      Finally, Sheikh M. Siddique (right) was elected to the Upper Darby Township Council despite serious accusations of theft from local Muslims. The Masjid Al-Madinah Mosque, where Siddique serves as vice president, accused him of stealing over $17,000 in donations earmarked for a widow, taking $9,000 meant for a “family in need,” and diverting money set aside for a Ramadan food drive, using it to visit Bangladesh. He was also deemed responsible for destroying charity request forms and “abusing” the mosque as a storage area.

       “I am going to complain about your councilman—he is corrupt” mosque member Kamruzzman Khan shouted at a township council meeting. “Shiekh Siddique, he took the money from our safe without any permission. We have the proof—we have the videotapes,” he said.

       Siddique refused to tender his resignation from Al-Madinah and pleaded innocent to all charges. Nevertheless, the district attorney’s office is currently investigating the charges, and Siddique still sits as councilman of Upper Darby Township.

       The unfortunate common thread among these elected officials is their devotion to themselves and to Islamism. What Philadelphia needs is responsible Muslim leadership that reflects the vibrant Muslim community that prioritizes good governance over Islamism, to replace what Philadelphia has today.  

Len Getz is the Philadelphia Associate with the Counter-Islamist Grid

[a-stitch-in-time-and-space]

Headcanon: Julian Bashir is autistic and has frequent sensory overload, and the only two people who can help him are Garek and O’ Brien. Me? Projecting? It’s more likely than you think!!!

Ha, moooood. Which on that note I have a somewhat intense fic here in which Julian has a meltdown. It’s not related to sensory issues so much as “oh boy a lot of shit’s happened to him” but if you want more O'Brien helping him out after this – so because we gave that fic to O'Brien, let’s give this one to Garak.

Also can we talk about the fact that it’s canon that Julian and the other augments can hear sounds at decibels that non-augments can’t and that it causes them pain, but Julian just taught himself to not react, like fuck, how did someone write this and not follow through on Julian-Bashir-is-autistic-and-or-otherwise-nd!

sorry for taking so long, a. this got a bit longish so it’s under a cut and b. I got distracted by the fact that I always want to see everyone’s notes on reblogs in case of interesting discussion points and i have just now learnt that that cannot be done easily if a lot of people reblog at once… oh hyper-fixation how you get me time and again

this takes place post-Doctor Bashir I Presume and alludes to the fact that during this time Garak and Bashir’s interactions were gradually stripped away in the show (because it too gay) - Andy Robinson ran with that in A Stitch In Time and had Garak write about how much he regretted the two of them not remaining close/hinted that he was in love with him… so take that background as you will.

—— More Space ——-

Thank goodness, he thought after an indeterminate amount of time. O'Brien was here. He would be able to calm him down, he would know how to come up with some soothing description of exactly which of DS9’s pistons or pipes or programs was currently making that noise and he’d either fix it or stay with him until it sorted itself out. Or maybe the noise was gone and the residual whining was just himself recreating it perfectly in his head, or maybe he was just too far gone by now for it to matter, but O'Brien would help. Since the two of them had become friends and some of Julian’s old ticks had returned after his augmentation had come to light, Miles had been a surprisingly steady presence in his life.

“Doctor?”

No, not Miles.

Garak.

He couldn’t make himself respond. His body felt like it was compressing him into a vice, with all his ability to focus somehow splintered into a million shards, each of them painful to the touch. Oh no, what if Garak touched him? If Garak touched him right now he might shatter or scream or something else entirely outside of his control, but talking was also impossible right now, so he couldn’t ask him not to touch, please don’t touch-

Garak sat down in front of him, far enough away that it didn’t feel like too… much.

“Doctor. You don’t need to say or do anything.”

He could manage that.

“I was wondering why you’d missed our lunch date. Very pleased to find you didn’t simply opt not to come without telling me, although I find the alternative to be distressing.”  He stopped talking for a moment then. “Apologies for breaking into your room. Again.”

While Garak simply sat and occasionally spoke Julian was dimly aware of the fact that he could feel his edges hardening again. The shards were being pulled back together.

He also noticed now that he was freezing. It usually happened like that, having sat sedentary for however long or coming down from some emotional extreme. He shivered.

“This station is cold,” said Garak.“The temperature, the lights, the people… all too cold.”

Julian managed a smile and it was like his mouth was freed from a curse. “It is, isn’t it.”

“Not to mention loud,” Garak added.

“All that machinery,” Julian nodded and spoke slowly. His mouth still needed to unstick. “Every time an alarm goes it’s like a sharp pain… I used to be… much better at this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to… I used to get these all the time as a child. Meltdowns, shutdowns, I think. But then my parents told me later that it was a side-effect of the augmentations and I tried to… to will myself to stop them, to bypass my natural instincts in order to not be found out and it worked, in a way, or at least nobody found out. I familiarised myself with and categorised any sights, sounds, smells, feelings I came across on earth during my Starfleet training and ordered them into lists and sublists: What I could handle mostly, what I could handle sometimes, what I needed to avoid at all costs. I managed to… to pretend. And then I came to Deep Space Nine and for awhile it was all too much again, I had to make new lists, but I managed, I really… I really did, I really did, I really-” he was talking himself into hyperventilating again, he knew this, but he couldn’t stop now, “- and then I got captured and it was like everything just stopped. I barely- I don’t even remember most of it, but when I got back it was so much worse -”

“Julian,” said Garak and the sound of his first name coming from Garak’s mouth surprised him back to the now. “Julian,” said Garak again. “You’re here. With me. On a floor that is quite cold, I might add.”

Julian breathed out and mumbled under the exhale. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

“What is that,” asked Garak.

“Counting my fingers. It… helps.”

“Noted,” and the easy way in which Garak seemed to have just accepted that he would be helping Julian again in future was another shock to his system, but then why wouldn’t he? Even if they hadn’t met up as often as they used to. Even if he was untrustworthy at heart and Julian could never figure out why Garak wanted his company at all. He found he missed Garak’s simple and complicated nature. It grounded him, somehow.

He got up off the floor, reaching out for Garak when he stumbled. He held him just tight enough to make sure that he wouldn’t fall. Not overcrowding – Julian suddenly remembered that Garak was claustrophobic. He must know how easily sensory inputs could become too much.

At Garak’s questioningly soft hold on his arm, Julian nodded and he helped him to the sofa. “Would you like some water?”

Julian nodded. As Garak went to fetch it, he began to talk again. Somehow… he just needed to get it out now, like an excision. “After the truth came out my mother told me that they’d been lying. I mean, they’ve been lying about so much, but specifically about this. I’ve always been like this. Or. Some of it. The meltdowns. I thought… those memories weren’t real. But now they are? Some of them. I’m having trouble sorting them.”

Garak handed him the water.

“I developed a theory,” said Julian, forgetting to sip.

“Tell me your theory doctor,” said Garak, his tone of voice tender as he sat down beside him, again, close enough if he needed him, but not too close.

“I was wondering why a heightened inability to process inputs was a side-effect of the vast majority of augments, when I had this inability before my augmentation. I started to suspect that it was less to do with the augmentations and was simply… who we were. The augmentations gone wrong could throw that into extremes, but that may have more to do with medical trauma responses than… anyway, I can’t confirm until I have more data. I did research into my own developmental delays, the medical history – it’s fascinating how we repeat cycles actually, first it was considered a form of possession or changelings, then it began to be classed under a broad form of what would be known as schizophrenia, then divided into narrow and still somewhat inaccurate categories of autism, aspergers, adhd, add, high and low functioning etcera, and then was gradually broadened again under general brain-differences known as neuroatypicals or neurodiverse,” he took a breath and continued: “- I’m not too interested in 21st century history honestly, but I know the government upheavals affected medical classifications and concepts of what was known broadly as “disabilities” at the time, and that it fundamentally shifted again once we formed the federation. But then -” and here he started gesticulating widely in excitement or outrage - “it all becomes the same just repackaged, doesn’t? Stigma against augments who are overwhelmingly people like me is stigma against neurodiversity is stigma against the “possessed,” it’s…” he trailed off. “It’s all the same,” he finished lamely.

He’d become very aware suddenly that he’d done that thing that annoyed most of the people he ever conversed with, running his mouth while forgetting the other person. But Garak didn’t seem annoyed. He was listening intently, in fact. At the pause he even nodded and offered: “The history of such matters is different on Cardassia. Or rather, mental and developmental differences don’t get acknowledged on Cardassia.”

“Eugenics?” said Julian with a frown.

“Not as such. We don’t mind in theory, as long as everyone can perform the tasks they’re assigned to. It’s a… class thing. If you belong to a powerful family and are expected to do great things in the army or politics or the sciences, being unable to do so for any reason is usually – what is the term humans use? - “Swept under the rug.” But then someone like you, dear doctor, if you had been Cardassian it might surprisingly have been easier for you.”

Julian shook his head. “My abilities are due to my augmentations. I’d have been… I don’t know. Not me,” he said softly.

At that, Garak gave him a look that he couldn’t pin down. Something… surprised for a moment, almost? Then smoothed out into an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps. From what you tell me you’ve always processed like you do, you’ve just been given better tools to translate and more…” he searched for the word for a second, before landing on: “space.”

At that Julian burst out into an unexpected laugh. “I certainly have enough space out here. More than enough, I’d say.”

Garak’s smile deepened. “But it doesn’t matter. Either you were always going to be able to pursue medicine and the stigmas of your parents and surrounding society were preventing you from discovering that on your own, or your augmentations made you unlock new abilities. But on Cardassia someone with the kind of passion you possess would have done well, with or without them.”

“If I were born into the right class. And if I didn’t get arrested for being fundamentally against the militaristic state.”

“Naturally,” acceded Garak. “And I must say I’m quite relieved to find the incorruptible, perfect federation comes with its own flaws. One wouldn’t have expected it with the way humans constantly go on about it.”

“Oh, we go on about the federation? According to you Cardassia is superior in culture -”

“- oh, definitely -”

“- politics -”

“- without a doubt, my dear -”

“- criminal justice system?”

“- well, we’ve never brought a wrong case before the court-”

“- I know you’re just saying that to rile me up-”

“- my dear doctor, when have I ever been anything but sincere?”

“- when have you ever said anything you meant?”

“- I am offended, truly-” said Garak with a big grin on his face.

Julian found it the easiest thing in the galaxy to return.

“Remember to drink your water,” he was reminded, gently, before they continued their lunch discussion. It was a moment in which they both forgot that they had ever begun to drift apart in the first place.

—— The End ——-

[capricornus-rex]

Two Sides of the Coin (13)

Chapter 13: Strange Way of Finding Things | Jidné Sheedra x Cal Kestis

Summary: Hell-bent on exacting revenge and retrieving the Holocron, the dreaded Darth Vader is now on the hunt for the young Jedi Knight, Cal Kestis. Under the assumption that he still possessed the artifact, while fueled by the intrigue of the boy’s strength and skill with the Force, the dark lord hires the bounty hunter, Jidné Sheedra, to track him down and have him delivered alive. However, the task becomes a trial for young Jidné, as she faces a conflict that tests her beliefs of a scarred past she had hidden for so long.

A/N: This was supposed to be a full-length flashback chapter but I looked at the word count and I just-- 😳😵😧😬 So I just decided to split it because I don’t wanna drag you guys on with more than 5000 words of a single chapter. I would’ve broken my record average word count 😜 anyway, I hope y’all are ready for the angst

Also tagging: @silver-is-in-too-many-fandoms​ @berenilion​ @justtinfoley​ @stellar-trinity​ @peterwandaparker​ @calgasm​ @queen-destenie​ @calsponchoemporium​ @cal-jestis​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @sweeetteaa​ @fallenjedii​ @superwarsofthrones​

Also in AO3

Tags: Fem OC, Jidné Sheedra, Force-Sensitive! Fem OC, Bounty Hunter! Fem OC, Jedi! Fem OC | Additional (last 2 tags count as TW): Nomara Anesh, Jedi Master! Fem OC, Togruta Fem OC, Jedi Seeker! Fem OC, family separation, separation anxiety

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 | Previous: Part 12 | Next: Part 14 | Masterlist

13 of ?

31 BBY

ESHYN, LAU’NON SYSTEM, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

The clouds clear a path for the Jedi Starfighter, aboard it is the young Jedi Seeker, Nomara Anesh, one of the youngest seekers at only 34 years old.

Her aerial view of the archipelago captivated her as she flew by the land mass. The sapphire blue coastline surrounded the island, high mesas with a vast carpet of grass framed the formation while the torrential waves kissed the rigid rock faces with its ivory-white seafoam and mist.

It was simply breathtaking.

Though it saddened her that the Trade Federation has begun to press its ugly thumb into this tropical masterpiece. Prior to her visit, Nomara did her reading on the planet, its current political and economic state as well. She has always been the curious one amongst her batch—said her former master—thus resulting to her inquisitive upbringing.

“There it is, Evy,” Nomara peered through the side window of the cockpit. “Sa’Junna: where we need to be.”

She afforded another pass above the main island, searching for a safe place to land with the assistance of the astromech droid.

“Do you see anything, Evy?”

The droid, EV-65 or Evy as Nomara personally nicknamed it, chirped in excitement, equally as captivated as its Jedi owner; the droid popped out a tiny satellite from a small hatch on its dome head.

The young woman managed a smile at her droid’s happy trills, but something stirred within her as she approaches the island. The closer she got, the swirling at the pit of her stomach became stronger—though, it didn’t alarm her because she doesn’t sense anything wrong with it; nevertheless, whatever the Force was subtly telling her, it intrigued her.

“Bee-beep!!”

“Great job, Evy. Override the landing cycle now,”

“Beeep-doo!”

It took Evy a few seconds before relaying the area coordinates for a safe landing area to Nomara’s dashboard. A virtual map of the island flashed and a green blip blinked over the center section of the land mass. The Jedi followed the lead and managed to dock her ship in between the capital and a village half a mile away from each landmark. The droid remained on the ship while Nomara dismounted the vessel.

The city of Sa’Junna was developed by a civilization of old, and then later cultivated and nurtured by the past generations until the current one. Having grown and thrived for countless millennia, a great majority of the residents were humans, but other humanoids like Twi’leks and Nautolans have migrated to this idyllic sanctuary. The place appeared to have seen better days priors to the Trade Federation’s occupation.

Nomara could see the bustle of trade in the city, it wasn’t as grand as Coruscant or Naboo, but the prosperity is evident.

Upon alighting her starship, she was promptly greeted by a tall stature of a human male with a greying beard that covered half of his olive-skinned face. He gestured with open arms, welcoming the Togruta, while subtly keeping a tinge of caution in his words and actions.

Nomara bowed slowly and solemnly in greeting.

“Welcome, traveler. What is it that you seek in our already-disturbed home?”

“The exact disturbance you speak of, friend.”

The tribe leader introduced himself as Sentuk Nirmo, he governed one of the villages that networked with the main city—where most of the trade transpires. Seeing that Nomara bore better will than the Trade Federation’s emissaries, he invited her into their settlement where they could speak openly within closed walls. As they walked, Sentuk briefed Nomara of their situation.

“At first, they wanted the metal. But when they found the deeper caverns, that’s when they’ve completely sucked our mines dry! The Federation has robbed us of our own homeland.” Sentuk grieved, and then added. “They barricaded the Yishen Strait—our main trade route—from civilians and real traders. Since then, business has been slow for many of us.”

Sentuk’s voice trailed off when he noticed Nomara subtly panning her head left and right, as if searching for something. The Jedi apologized for zoning out, the tribe leader dismissed it as a fascination towards the planet as well as exhaustion—and so he invited her to their settlement. The Togruta follows the Sentuk into the village; along the way, he explains that each village has a leader which then comprises the council. With every step, the faint trace of the Force that Nomara has picked up gotten stronger.

Sentuk presented his humble home, it seems that the Federation has already left its mark in this village along with the others surrounding the capital city—Nomara looked around and found children playing out in the open, whilst weavers make baskets and rucksacks out of their looms for the hunters to store their game, other residents tend and plow their modest vegetable gardens and orchards.

“It seems so peaceful here,” Nomara’s smile faded as instantaneously as it appeared. “But I sense the distraught in these people.”

Sentuk hummed in agreement, recalling his grievance of their overall predicament. Nomara’s brows pulled together, she closed her eyes for a moment to detect that trail she’s picked up.

“There’s something else,” she mumbled so quietly that Sentuk barely heard.

The Togruta blinked her eyes open and the first thing she saw was a small girl watching the other children play—she looked like she had just learned how to stand and walk. Forgetting that she stood with the tribe leader, Nomara approached the child slowly until the girl acknowledged her with wide, quiet eyes bursting with curiosity.

She knelt down to level with the child, she offered her open palm, and without a single ounce of hesitation the toddler placed her pudgy hands on the vibrant red-skinned palm of the visitor. Their eyes met, Nomara’s heart leapt for a reason she can’t explain, her lips involuntarily curled and by impulse, her fingers folded around the soft, tender hand.

“Jidné!” a melodic voice beckoned from the cottage.

Both Nomara and the child turned to the direction of the voice, it was the mother. Nomara slowly hoisted herself back to her full height, when the mother stepped out of the doorway of their home, two more little girls followed behind her—presumably the little one’s older sisters—but they kept themselves close by the skirt of their mother, intrigued and at the same time shy of the unusual-looking visitor.

“I’m sorry, I just…” stammered the Jedi softly. “Your daughter.”

The mother flashed a friendly smile, “Yes, what about her?”

“She’s strong with the Force. For someone so little, she carries a significant amount of it within her.”

The woman immediately got the hint, she’s heard the stories, though this is the first time she’s met one in the flesh. Her eyes wandered to the waistband of the Togruta’s robes and spotted the silver hilt shimmering, dominating the neutral colors of her clothes.

“You’re a Jedi, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my name is Nomara Anesh,” the Jedi bowed her head briefly as soon as she uttered her own name.

“My name is Tymara Sheedra, I see you have met my little Jidné,” the woman peeked over the backside of her skirt, spotting her two other daughters, she introduced Krea and Maryn—aged eleven and eight respectively. The girls greeted the Togruta who beamed a gentle smile at them as she returned the gesture.

Nomara clarified that she was a Seeker and stated her purpose to Tymara, the Togruta’s emotions synched with the other woman’s—that friendly smile reduced into a poker face and then replaced with a blank smile.

“Um… Why don’t we talk inside? I just finished making supper,” Tymara invited the guest into her house, who politely obliged despite the tension.

The single-storey cottage was quaint, although each room was cramped and limiting to a number of persons inside. The kitchen was in the same space as the dining table—which lacked chairs and had woven cushions and mantles in its place. If one is to peek a little bit to their right, they could see the bedroom—the girls’ beds were thick-enough cushions each sitting atop a wooden frame, whilst the parents’ bed is settled on another side of the room; the only thing distinguishing the “rooms” was a wooden divider panel.

Nomara wagered this house couldn’t fit any more family members, Jidné would be the live marker of the home’s limit. She settled herself by the table—across where she sat, the three girls played in a small space that only fit them perfectly without needing to duck or crouch, the two older sisters watched with great fascination as Jidné lift a doll off the floor without touching it, Nomara watched intently along with them.

Tymara offered her a bowl of broth and bread on the side.

“I’m really sorry about our house. It’s not exactly much, isn’t it?” Tymara initiated quite apologetically, poking the bits of meat in the soup.

“I don’t mind,” Nomara awkwardly chuckled, parroting Tymara’s nervous poking before scooping up a spoonful and then bringing it into her mouth.

“What is it that you Seekers do?”

“We search the galaxy for Force-sensitive children. We bring them to the Jedi Temple in Coruscant and then train them into becoming Jedi Knights like myself.”

Tymara bit her lip and gawked emotionlessly at her food, it took her a good minute before she started to touch her food again. She spoke again, but didn’t face Nomara when she did.

“Have you come for her?”

The Jedi’s head perked to the mother, Tymara let the bottom of the spoon float above the soup—sensing her fluctuating appetite swirling together with the anxiety slowly eating away her mind; Nomara inhaled deeply, ceasing to touch her food to find the right words to say.

“Not specifically. I didn’t even know it was her until I… well, found her. The Force—or perhaps the universe—has a strange way of showing things we need to see when we least expect it, no matter how difficult it is to accept the signs.”

“And this Force… showed you to my daughter?”

“It would appear so,”

“Are you going to take her from me?”

“I wouldn’t force it,” Nomara replied somberly, as if understanding the grief of separation. In a way, she has felt that in one way or another.

There was silence, even the girls have purposefully hushed their voices and giggling to secretly listen to their conversation between the guest and their mother—even the little, two-year-old Jidné followed suit of her sisters.

“Eshyn isn’t what it used to be anymore, this was my home, and my husband’s, and our parents…” Tymara mumbled, watching her daughters resume playing. “We thought the Federation would make us prosper—because that’s what they promised us. You could imagine how stupid we all felt when the Trade Federation delivered the perfect opposite of what they told us. Ever since then, life has been hard for all of us. Especially the children—even if they don’t see it that way, at least not yet.”

Nomara understood Tymara’s sentiments, after all, she is a mother just looking for out for children and wanting what’s only best for them. The collective giggling of the girls was the only thing that warmed the abode today.

“Where’s their father?”

Tymara’s clasped fingers tightened around one another, she breathed deeply and bit her lip before she spoke a word.

“I lost him to a mining accident… because they wanted more metal. That’s all we ever heard from them. More metal. More work. More yields.”

“I’m sorry,” Nomara averted her gaze to the food that had now gone cold.

Little Jidné approached the table, specifically to Nomara’s side. She waddled towards the Jedi, the baby stared and studied the vibrant indigo patterns of the montrals while feeling its texture; then her pudgy paws found the tassel of turquoise beads that framed the side of the Togruta’s face, mistaking it for a toy. The two women giggled, endeared the little one’s innocence as Jidné continued to lightly swat the accessory and watch it dangle, immediately and easily entertained. Eventually, her sisters joined in and bombarded the Togruta with questions of wonderment—to name a few, they asked her where her species lived, if the white patterns on their faces were actual skin or tattoos, and how long can their montrals grow.

Nomara is simply overwhelmed by the cheeriness of these three girls combined, but the unexplainable lightness of Jidné prevailed. She knew it was the girl’s Force energy, but also the purity of her heart and spirit.

Tymara smiled at the sight of her youngest daughter getting along too easily with their visitor, but it was a sad smile—in her mind, she was already arguing against herself for the betterment of her youngest. With the occupation rendering them dirt poor and being a single parent, she had to make the toughest decision of her life. It took Tymara the entire evening to let it sink into her and toughen herself up even though she’s already falling apart because of their economic state.

By sunset, the entire village was rattled by the presence of the Trade Federation emissaries and their guards—a small unit of battle droids. What barred them from taking a step further into the settlement is Sentuk, with his warriors and hunters united to making a barricade out of themselves to protect their home.

“Not one step further!” Sentuk bellowed.

“I am sure you are aware of your settlement’s dues, old man,” the Neimoidian official flapped its trouty lips at the tribe leader.

“Your demands do not have a single drop of realism in them! You demand large yields over a short period of time, not even the manpower of two villages combined can make that quota,”

“Yeah, with what you’ve done with our mines—that quota is ridiculous!” added a spear-wielding warrior standing beside Sentuk and the men behind them murmured in agreement.

“Is your brain smaller than what it appears?!” taunted another man in the barricade, the joke was received differently from each party.

Vexed and provoked, the Neimoidian emissary raised a finger at Sentuk.

“I have given you more than enough time for that quota and you have failed me once more! I told you what would come to you should you not do what you are asked!”

A hasty wave of the hand prompted the guards to aim their rifles at the people making up the human barricade, the people in the village shrieked in fright—many of which have already retreated into their homes but peered through their windows. Nomara, who had been observing the sour exchange between the leader and the slimy emissary, rushed into the scene a split second after the command to fire has been given—killing off five of the men already and fatally wounding Sentuk after being shot in the side of his stomach.

“Jedi!? Here!?” the Neimodian screeched in a panic.

All of the villagers completely retreated into their homes—including Tymara and the girls—while Nomara aided the warriors in eradicating the battle droids, leaving the empty-handed emissary standing amongst the pile of dead clankers. Completely befuddled and frightened for his life, Nomara had him at swordpoint.

“I… I didn’t give the order! I’m just a messenger…!” he whimpered and his sheer terror had unconsciously dragged his legs to make him run away, leaving the wake of the ruined droids behind him.

When the tension eased, Nomara quickly turned her attention to the wounded Sentuk. A group of people have already gathered around him.

“Bring him to your healer, quickly now!”

The group carried their leader by the feet and underneath his arms, they briskly brought him to the cottage of the village healer while Nomara caught her breath and examined the droids’ remains. She felt the gaze of Tymara piercing right through her, she found the mother and children huddled by the doorway after the skirmish; Nomara saw the sad, disdainful sigh of the mother as she herded her children back into the house again.

After tucking the girls to bed, Tymara joined Nomara who was overlooking the coastline; the ocean breeze made the ladies’ robes and skirt billow wildly above the grass. There was a voiceless banter between the women, as if they have already began this conversation in their minds and linked it to each other.

“Will she be taken care of?” Tymara blurted.

Taken aback by the question, Nomara turned her head to the mother and stared at her for a long moment, unaware that her lips have parted due to the surprise. She turned her eyes back to the ocean slowly being devoured by the evening’s darkness.

“What?”

“Jidné. If you bring her with you, to become a Jedi, will she be taken care of?”

“Tymara, a Jedi’s hard life is a hard life,” Nomara shifted her body to face Tymara. “Jidné will have to grow up facing a lot of dangers as she grows up if she comes with me.”

Tymara bitterly chuckled, more of a nasal exhalation than an actual laugh, “Better than scratching the earth for her next meal. At least I know that she lives fighting for something honorable.”

“What about you? And Krea and Maryn?”

“We’ll manage. They’ve already learned how to loom and tend farms, they know their craft well. But for Jidné, well…” Tymara licked her lips. “This will always be her home, but I know she’s made for something greater. I just know it. You can never underestimate a mother’s intuition.”

Nomara smiled, although sadly, mostly for Tymara and the girls. Having nothing more to say, the two of them continued to look into the horizon, finding an individual sort of comfort underneath the pale blue moonlight.

“No, I suppose not.”

That night, Tymara snuck upon her sleeping daughters, but fixated her eyes on the youngest—plump cheeks squished against the pillow, her round and supple belly rising and falling as she slept, and her twitching eyelids made Tymara wonder what the little one could be dreaming of. She knelt down by Jidné’s bedside, her hands smoothly glided over her soft head and fine head of dark hair, and leaned forward to kiss Jidné’s forehead—it was a long kiss, and even after she pulled her lips away, the roundness of the baby’s cheek perfectly fit the curve of Tymara’s nose bridge, inhaling Jidné’s infant scent.

The woman bit her lip as she battled with her tears. It’s going to be a long night for Tymara.

Nomara watched from the open doorway, arms crossed with each other, there was a heavy gloom around the house that suffocated her—not even sighing deeply helped. She retired to the space in the bedroom that Tymara had personally fixed up for her.

In the morning of their departure, Tymara held her youngest daughter for the final time and rocked her as if putting her to sleep. Her sisters, as well, bade their own tearful goodbyes to their baby sister, ceaselessly riddling her plump cheeks with kisses and leaving tears stains upon her skin—in a way, Jidné is lucky that she is unaware that this is the sorrow of parting.

Tymara nuzzled her cheek against Jidné’s smooth forehead. One last embrace and a kiss buried into the crook of the child neck; with her eyes closed, she imagined how Jidné would grow up to be—but she’s completely certain that she’d grow up to be a strong, courageous woman—and she painted a mental picture of how her daughter would look like once she’s come of age.

In a prayerful solemnity, Tymara whispered all of her wishes for Jidné to Jidné herself—be strong and brave yet remain kind, wise, and gentle; make good friends with the other children if she meets any; listen well to the instructions of the elders; and most importantly, listen to her heart.

Tymara savored this last moment, Nomara was kind enough to give all the time she needs—the Togruta passed the time by prepping her Starfighter and doing the necessary maintenance checks before takeoff.

“I love you… I love you so much, my darling girl,” Tymara feigns a brave face. She held Jidné right in front of her, then Jidné’s pudgy hands caressed both of her cheeks, and that’s when she lost it—tears streamed down her cheeks, wetting the child’s tiny fingers.

The true, final embrace and kiss from her mother before Jidné is transferred to the arms of Nomara Anesh.

“You have my word. She’ll be treated well.”

“I know,” muttered Tymara quite weakly, rubbing her arms together to whisk away the cold goosebumps pelting her skin. “I know.”

Tymara watches her daughter walk away in the arms of the Togruta. She watches a part of her heart and soul shrink in the distance, unaware eyes looking over the shoulder of the Seeker and back into the grieving eyes of her mother. Tymara’s hand flinched into a short-lived wave and quickly brought them to her lip, biting into her fingernails until her daughter has fully disappeared in a ship with Nomara and out of Eshyn.

[mideastsoccer]

Turkey signals sweeping regional ambitions

By James M. Dorsey

A nationalist Turkish television station with close ties to President Recep Tayyip Erdogan has dug up a 12-year-old map that projects Turkey’s sphere of influence in 2050 as stretching from South-eastern Europe on the northern coast of the Mediterranean and Libya on its southern shore across North Africa, the Gulf and the Levant into the Caucasus and Central Asia.

Buoyed by last year’s Azerbaijani defeat of Armenia, TGRT, a subsidiary of Ihlas Holding, a media and construction conglomerate that has won major government tenders, used the map to advance a policy that has long constituted the agenda of some of Mr. Erdogan’s closest advisors.

The broadcasting of the map, first published in a book authored by George Freidman, the founder of Stratfor, an influential American corporate intelligence group, followed calls by pan-Turkic daily Turkiye, Ihlas’ daily newspaper that has the fourth-largest circulation in Turkey, to leverage the Azerbaijani victory to create a military alliance of Turkic states.

In a country that ranks only second to China as the world’s foremost jailer of journalists, Ihlas Holding media would not be pushing a pan-Turkic, Islam-laced Turkish regional policy without tacit government approval at the very least.

The media group’s push reflects Turkish efforts to capitalize on the fact that Turkey’s latest geopolitical triumph with Azerbaijan’s Turkish-backed victory is already producing tangible results. The military victory has positioned Azerbaijan, and by extension Turkey, as an alternative transportation route westwards that would allow Central Asian nations to bypass corridors dominated by either Russia or Iran.

Turkmenistan, recognizing the changing geopolitical map, rushed in January to end a long-standing dispute with Azerbaijan and agree on the joint exploitation of Caspian Sea oil deposits. The agreement came on the heels of a deal in December for the purchase from ENI Turkmenistan of up to 40,000 tonnes of petroleum a month by the State Oil Company of Azerbaijan Republic (SOCAR).

The agreement could boost the completion of a Trans-Caspian natural gas pipeline (TPC) that would feed into the recently operational Southern Gas Corridor (SGC), bypass Russia and Iran, and supply Greece and Bulgaria via the former Soviet republic.

Last month, Azerbaijan agreed with Turkmenistan and Afghanistan to develop the Lapis Lazuli transport corridor that would link the war-ravaged country to Turkey. At about the same time, Kazakhstan began exporting copper cathodes to Turkey via Azerbaijan in a first step intended to capitalize on the Caucasian nation’s position as a transit hub.

Azerbaijan and Turkey’s newly found advantage has rung alarm bells among Russian and Iranian analysts with close ties to their respective governments even though the TGRT broadcast may have been primarily intended to whip up nationalist fervour at home and test regional responses.

Russian and Iranian politicians and analysts appeared to take the broadcast in that vein. Nonetheless, they were quick to note that Friedman’s projection includes Russia’s soft underbelly in the northern Caucasus as well as Crimea while Iranians took stock of the fact that the Turkish sphere of influence would border on Iran to the north, south and west.

Turkey and Ukraine have in recent months agreed to cooperate in the development of technologies with military applications related to engines, avionics, drones, anti-ship and cruise missiles, radar and surveillance systems, robotics, space, and satellites. Turkey has refused to recognize Russia’s annexation of Crimea, home to Crimean Tartars, and criticized Russian support for Ukrainian rebels.

Most Russian commentators sought to downplay the significance of the map, leaving Andrei Krasov, deputy chairman of the defence committee of the Russian parliament’s lower house to warn that “if they (the Turks) want to test the strength of the Russian spirit and our weapons, let them try.”

With Iran excluded from TGRT and Stratfor’s projection of Turkey’s emerging sphere of influence, Iranian officials and analysts have largely not responded to the revival of the map.

Yet, Iran’s actions on the ground suggest that the Islamic republic has long anticipated Turkish moves even though it was caught off guard by last year’s Azerbaijani-Armenian war.

For one, Iran has in the past year sought to bolster its military presence in the Caspian Sea and forge close naval ties with the basin’s other littoral states - Russia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, and Kazakhstan.

Viewed from Tehran, TGRT’s broadcasting of the Stratfor map was the latest in a series of provocative Turkish moves.

They include Mr. Erdogan’s recital of a nationalist poem while attending a military parade in Azerbaijan that calls for reuniting two Iranian ethnic Azeri provinces with the former Soviet republic and publication by state-run Turkish Radio and Television’s Arabic service of a map on Instagram, depicting Iran’s oil-rich province of Khuzestan with its large population of ethnic Arabs as separate from Iran.

The Instagram posting came days after the disclosure that Habib Chaab, a leader of the Arab Struggle Movement for the Liberation of Ahvaz, or ASMLA, had been kidnapped in Istanbul by an Iraqi Kurdish drug baron in cooperation with Iranian intelligence and transported to Iran. Mr. Chaab had been lured to Istanbul in October from his exile in Sweden.

While senior Iranian officials talked down the Turkish provocations, Iran’s semi-official Fars News Agency left little doubt about what Iran’s true sentiments were.

“Those who have greedy eyes on the territories this side of the Aras River had better study history and see that Azerbaijan, specifically the people of Tabriz, have always pioneered in defending Iran. If Iran had not helped you on the night of the coup, you would have had a fate like that of former Egyptian President Mohammed Morsi,’ protesters chanted in front of the Turkish consulate in Tabriz, the capital of Iran’s East Azerbaijan province.

The protesters were responding to Mr. Erdogan’s poem recital and referring to the failed military coup against him in 2016 as well as the toppling of Mr. Morsi in 2013 in a takeover by the Egyptian armed forces.

A podcast version of this story is available on Soundcloud, Itunes, Spotify, Stitcher, TuneIn, Spreaker, Pocket Casts, Tumblr, Podbean, Audecibel, Patreon and Castbox.

Dr. James M. Dorsey is an award-winning journalist and a senior fellow at Nanyang Technological University’s S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies in Singapore and the National University of Singapore’s Middle East Institute.

[diarrheaworldstarhiphop]

The Chinese government has drawn wide international condemnation for its harsh crackdown on ethnic Muslims in its western region, including holding as many as a million of them in detention camps.

Now, documents and interviews show that the authorities are also using a vast, secret system of advanced facial recognition technology to track and control the Uighurs, a largely Muslim minority. It is the first known example of a government intentionally using artificial intelligence for racial profiling, experts said.

The facial recognition technology, which is integrated into China’s rapidly expanding networks of surveillance cameras, looks exclusively for Uighurs based on their appearance and keeps records of their comings and goings for search and review. The practice makes China a pioneer in applying next-generation technology to watch its people, potentially ushering in a new era of automated racism.

The technology and its use to keep tabs on China’s 11 million Uighurs were described by five people with direct knowledge of the systems, who requested anonymity because they feared retribution. The New York Times also reviewed databases used by the police, government procurement documents and advertising materials distributed by the A.I. companies that make the systems.

Chinese authorities already maintain a vast surveillance net, including tracking people’s DNA, in the western region of Xinjiang, which many Uighurs call home. But the scope of the new systems, previously unreported, extends that monitoring into many other corners of the country.

The police are now using facial recognition technology to target Uighurs in wealthy eastern cities like Hangzhou and Wenzhou and across the coastal province of Fujian, said two of the people. Law enforcement in the central Chinese city of Sanmenxia, along the Yellow River, ran a system that over the course of a month this year screened whether residents were Uighurs 500,000 times.

Police documents show demand for such capabilities is spreading. Almost two dozen police departments in 16 different provinces and regions across China sought such technology beginning in 2018, according to procurement documents. Law enforcement from the central province of Shaanxi, for example, aimed to acquire a smart camera system last year that “should support facial recognition to identify Uighur/non-Uighur attributes.”

Some police departments and technology companies described the practice as “minority identification,” though three of the people said that phrase was a euphemism for a tool that sought to identify Uighurs exclusively. Uighurs often look distinct from China’s majority Han population, more closely resembling people from Central Asia. Such differences make it easier for software to single them out.

For decades, democracies have had a near monopoly on cutting-edge technology. Today, a new generation of start-ups catering to Beijing’s authoritarian needs are beginning to set the tone for emerging technologies like artificial intelligence. Similar tools could automate biases based on skin color and ethnicity elsewhere.

“Take the most risky application of this technology, and chances are good someone is going to try it,” said Clare Garvie, an associate at the Center on Privacy and Technology at Georgetown Law. “If you make a technology that can classify people by an ethnicity, someone will use it to repress that ethnicity.”

From a technology standpoint, using algorithms to label people based on race or ethnicity has become relatively easy. Companies like I.B.M. advertise software that can sort people into broad groups.

But China has broken new ground by identifying one ethnic group for law enforcement purposes. One Chinese start-up, CloudWalk, outlined a sample experience in marketing its own surveillance systems. The technology, it said, could recognize “sensitive groups of people.”

“If originally one Uighur lives in a neighborhood, and within 20 days six Uighurs appear,” it said on its website, “it immediately sends alarms” to law enforcement.

In practice, the systems are imperfect, two of the people said. Often, their accuracy depends on environmental factors like lighting and the positioning of cameras.

In the United States and Europe, the debate in the artificial intelligence community has focused on the unconscious biases of those designing the technology. Recent tests showed facial recognition systems made by companies like I.B.M. and Amazon were less accurate at identifying the features of darker-skinned people.

China’s efforts raise starker issues. While facial recognition technology uses aspects like skin tone and face shapes to sort images in photos or videos, it must be told by humans to categorize people based on social definitions of race or ethnicity. Chinese police, with the help of the start-ups, have done that.

“It’s something that seems shocking coming from the U.S., where there is most likely racism built into our algorithmic decision making, but not in an overt way like this,” said Jennifer Lynch, surveillance litigation director at the Electronic Frontier Foundation. “There’s not a system designed to identify someone as African-American, for example.”

The Chinese A.I. companies behind the software include Yitu, Megvii, SenseTime, and CloudWalk, which are each valued at more than $1 billion. Another company, Hikvision, that sells cameras and software to process the images, offered a minority recognition function, but began phasing it out in 2018, according to one of the people.

The companies’ valuations soared in 2018 as China’s Ministry of Public Security, its top police agency, set aside billions of dollars under two government plans, called Skynet and Sharp Eyes, to computerize surveillance, policing and intelligence collection.

In a statement, a SenseTime spokeswoman said she checked with “relevant teams,” who were not aware its technology was being used to profile. Megvii said in a statement it was focused on “commercial not political solutions,” adding, “we are concerned about the well-being and safety of individual citizens, not about monitoring groups.” CloudWalk and Yitu did not respond to requests for comment.

China’s Ministry of Public Security did not respond to a faxed request for comment.

Selling products with names like Fire Eye, Sky Eye and Dragonfly Eye, the start-ups promise to use A.I. to analyze footage from China’s surveillance cameras. The technology is not mature — in 2017 Yitu promoted a one-in-three success rate when the police responded to its alarms at a train station — and many of China’s cameras are not powerful enough for facial recognition software to work effectively.

Yet they help advance China’s architecture for social control. To make the algorithms work, the police have put together face-image databases for people with criminal records, mental illnesses, records of drug use, and those who petitioned the government over grievances, according to two of the people and procurement documents. A national database of criminals at large includes about 300,000 faces, while a list of people with a history of drug use in the city of Wenzhou totals 8,000 faces, they said.

Using a process called machine learning, engineers feed data to artificial intelligence systems to train them to recognize patterns or traits. In the case of the profiling, they would provide thousands of labeled images of both Uighurs and non-Uighurs. That would help generate a function to distinguish the ethnic group.

The A.I. companies have taken money from major investors. Fidelity International and Qualcomm Ventures were a part of a consortium that invested $620 million in SenseTime. Sequoia invested in Yitu. Megvii is backed by Sinovation Ventures, the fund of the well-known Chinese tech investor Kai-Fu Lee.

A Sinovation spokeswoman said the fund had recently sold a part of its stake in Megvii and relinquished its seat on the board. Fidelity declined to comment. Sequoia and Qualcomm did not respond to emailed requests for comment.

Mr. Lee, a booster of Chinese A.I., has argued that China has an advantage in developing A.I. because its leaders are less fussed by “legal intricacies” or “moral consensus.”

“We are not passive spectators in the story of A.I. — we are the authors of it,” Mr. Lee wrote last year. “That means the values underpinning our visions of an A.I. future could well become self-fulfilling prophecies.” He declined to comment on his fund’s investment in Megvii or its practices.

Ethnic profiling within China’s tech industry isn’t a secret, the people said. It has become so common that one of the people likened it to the short-range wireless technology Bluetooth. Employees at Megvii were warned about the sensitivity of discussing ethnic targeting publicly, another person said.

China has devoted major resources toward tracking Uighurs, citing ethnic violence in Xinjiang and Uighur terrorist attacks elsewhere. Beijing has thrown hundreds of thousands of Uighurs and others in Xinjiang into re-education camps.

The software extends the state’s ability to label Uighurs to the rest of the country. One national database stores the faces of all Uighurs who leave Xinjiang, according to two of the people.

Government procurement documents from the past two years also show demand has spread. In the city of Yongzhou in southern Hunan Province, law enforcement officials sought software to “characterize and search whether or not someone is a Uighur,” according to one document.

In two counties in Guizhou Province, the police listed a need for Uighur classification. One asked for the ability to recognize Uighurs based on identification photos at better than 97 percent accuracy. In the central megacity of Chongqing and the region of Tibet, the police put out tenders for similar software. And a procurement document for Hebei Province described how the police should be notified when multiple Uighurs booked the same flight on the same day.

A study in 2018 by the authorities described a use for other types of databases. Co-written by a Shanghai police official, the paper said facial recognition systems installed near schools could screen for people included in databases of the mentally ill or crime suspects.

One database generated by Yitu software and reviewed by The Times showed how the police in the city of Sanmenxia used software running on cameras to attempt to identify residents more than 500,000 times over about a month beginning in mid-February.

Included in the code alongside tags like “rec_gender” and “rec_sunglasses” was “rec_uygur,” which returned a 1 if the software believed it had found a Uighur. Within the half million identifications the cameras attempted to record, the software guessed it saw Uighurs 2,834 times. Images stored alongside the entry would allow the police to double check.

Yitu and its rivals have ambitions to expand overseas. Such a push could easily put ethnic profiling software in the hands of other governments, said Jonathan Frankle, an A.I. researcher at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

“I don’t think it’s overblown to treat this as an existential threat to democracy,” Mr. Frankle said. “Once a country adopts a model in this heavy authoritarian mode, it’s using data to enforce thought and rules in a much more deep-seated fashion than might have been achievable 70 years ago in the Soviet Union. To that extent, this is an urgent crisis we are slowly sleepwalking our way into.”

[the-tenders]

Tenders for Alarm System

Tender for Providing Addressable Fire Alarm System In Newly Proposed Minister Chambers On Mezanine Floor Mantralaya

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  Tender for Repair Maintenance Operationfire Alarm And Fire Fighting System Etc. In Gsi Office Building At 15 A And B Kyd Street, 27 And 29 Jln Road, During 2016 17. Sh Supply And Installation Of Computer And Accessories.

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  Tender for Repair Maintenance Operationintelligent Automatic Fire Alarm System And Epabx System Of Bhasha Bhawan At National Library Complex Sh Replacement Of Old Defectice Smoke Detectors Cpu Card Power Card Display Card Communication Module And Loop Card Of Intelligent Automatic Fire Alarm System

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For More Information About  Alarm System Tenders Just Click Here

[hennessystevens-udaku]

My Bloody Valentine

A little twisted Love Day fic for my favorite rebel @thereturnofbadazz!

“I wonder how many lovers are gonna die today,” Aly’Sha said with sneer as she watched the news.

“What yo lil psycho ass talking about, Sha Sha,” Erik asked with a smirk.

“Yeah, it’s Valentine’s Day. Why you talking about folks dying?” Kimora chirped from the other side of the living room.

“It’s also Purge Day,” Aly’Sha responds casually.

“You mean poor man elimination day,” Angel says, cradling the twins closer. Now that she was older, she didn’t see the point of violence as a means of “cleansing” the country of its sins.

“Yeah that shit’s stupid,” Erik agreed, flipping the station. “Just another tactic white folks use to eradicate black folks. Alright ladies, if y’all don’t mind, me and Mama got a date,” Erik says with a sly grin in Hennessy’s direction.

“Actually baby, I was thinking maybe you could spend the day with another wife. You’ve spent the last 16 Valentine’s Days with me, spoil someone else,” she says not looking up from her MacBook. She was in the process of scouting out new locations for her dispensary and wasn’t exactly in the mood to break concentration. Before Erik could ask which of his wives would be the lucky lady this year, Ryley stormed into the house, chest rising and falling quickly with anger.

“What’s the matter, Princess?” he asked from his relaxed position on the couch.

“Them white bitches down the street keep fuckin with me. I’m trying to be nice and keep it cute since I’m a princess now and shit, but they about to make Ryley Badazz come out of retirement!” Erik chuckled at her, loving how sexy she got when she was angry.

“Calm down, Ry Ry. Tell Daddy what happened.” He listened intently, blood boiling as she explained how the Becky’s with the stringy hair had egged her car, slashed her tires, and had been overall mocking her for the past week.

“Calm down baby. You’re a princess, don’t lower your standards for peasants.”

“That’s cute and all, but look at what they spray painted on the house.” Erik’s smirk quickly faded to a menacing mug when he saw the words ‘Killmonger’s a bitch’ spray painted in bright red paint on the northern wall of The Kompound. Without another word, he made his way downstairs to his arsenal with Ryley hot on his heels.

“How about we show them white bitches who run shit,” he called over his shoulder.

“What you mean, Daka?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well it’s Valentine’s Day and it’s also Purge Day, so how about for our date we show them why they shouldn’t fuck with the Stevens-Udaku household?” Ryley’s face twisted into a devilish grin as she gazed upon the various weapons.

Wanna play, Candy Girl?” he asked as he handed her the Swarovski studded M-16.

“Let’s play, Daddy.”

--

“Y’all sure y’all don’t wanna get in on the action?” Erik asked the remaining wives as he prepared for the night’s festivities.

“This is Ryley’s night, why you inviting other people?” Henny scolded from her relaxed position between Charlie’s plush thighs. They had all agreed to watch the events from the body cameras Shuri had installed on his and Ryley’s protective armor, Angel not wanting to engage in the sport because she didn’t see the point of senseless violence.

“You right, Mama,” Erik replied solemnly, looking over at Ryley. “My bad, Princess.”

“It’s cool, Fathead. Now let’s go murder some white bitches,” she says with a laugh. She was all dolled up in a pink and black bejeweled bodysuit with a pink tutu and thigh high Louboutin Frenchissima boots. On her head, she donned a pink headdress that matched her bodysuit, each piece made out of vibranium to keep her safe. Not like anyone would dare try to harm a Princess of Wakanda.

“Damn you look good enough to eat, Ry Ry,” Erik said as he admired her attire.

“Later, Daka. We got business to handle first.” The announcement sounded as the pair finished adjusting their masks.

This is not a test. This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the Annual Purge sanctioned by the U.S. Government. Weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the Purge. All other weapons are restricted. Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity from the Purge and shall not be harmed. Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning at 7 a.m., when The Purge concludes. Blessed be our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn. May God be with you all.

At the sound of the alarm, Erik and Ryley made their way outside to his blacked out Lamborghini Aventador with butterfly doors. For aesthetic effect, he blasted the psycho version of I Got 5 On It as he maneuvered the car down the street.

“Which house baby?”

“That one, that last one on the right.”

“Sha Sha, do your thing, baby.”

In an instant, the target house went completely dark and all of their protective armor was disabled, leaving them completely exposed to the outside world.

“How did you even do that?” Kimora asked Aly’Sha, whose face was buried in her iPhone.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t really want the answer to,” Hennessy answered for her.

“You ready, Ry Ry?”

“Let’s go.”

The pair exited the vehicle and slowly crept to the bay window that displayed the living room. The owners of the dwelling could be seen crowded around one another, a desperate attempt to protect themselves. Idiots.

“Sha Sha, do the thing.”

With another press of a button, the living room began to fill with tear gas, forcing the occupants of the house to run off in different directions, unintentionally aiding the pair in their sadistic plan.

“Time to go hunting,” Erik says as he kicked the door in.

--

“Aye, Vita,” Bast called out quizzically to Big Sis meandering in her lab. “Why you not upstairs watching Erik and Ry Ry turn up on the Beckys?”

Vita had a theatrical setup with a projector and surround sound. It was as if she converted her space into a miniature IMAX theater.

“Because, I have some unfinished business that's about to play out on this computer screen,” she explained leaning back in her seat, gathering her snacks, getting comfortable.

“What unfinished business?”

“Did I ever tell you the story of how I came to own Amazon?”

“Since when did you own Amazo-”

“See, what had happened was…”

He bowed before me, kneeling with great shame and humility. Once a proud, vain man now driven to begging. It's his own fault you know, this present state of duress. Often times when you wish to destroy your enemy you don't have to pull the trigger yourself, you only have to had them the gun and watch them blow their own brains out.

What made him a target, you ask? They were the vices he frequently indulged himself in; greed, lust, hubris, all of which led him to being an easy mark.

What were the bullets I used? His disgruntled employees, his gullible mistress, his betrayed wife, his disloyal business associates. Each pawn having been strategically used for my benefit and mine alone.

What pulled the trigger? He dared to insult me as if I were anything less than greatness. He'd the nerve to belittle my life's work as if I weren't a force to be reckoned with. I had just finished a masterful presentation of my future plans for my then budding tech company and as everyone else showered me with my well deserved praise he thought it humorous to describe my exemplary business model as “cute”. I could not let such a slight get away with impunity, a lesson needed to be taught.

Shortly after his billion dollar divorce when his liaisons with another woman were “mysteriously” leaked he tried to push his already exhausted workers even further which led to an international strike, that lasted for several months due to strikers being funded by an “anonymous” donor that helped them pay their bills at home and even finance ad campaigns to expose the heinous labor practices of the company, causing a severe decline in business. With sales and online traffic on the decline stocks careened further into the economic abyss leaving investors dissatisfied. Receiving inside information from an “unknown” source, they collectively decided to relocate their interests into another expedition… Mine.

That's right, my “cute” little business became a worldwide conglomerate seemingly overnight. And he could have shared in that wealth had he not crossed me. Now I, Davita Roberson, tower over him as he's become a hollow shell of his former self, selling what remains of his share in his dying company for pennies of what it used to be. Both his ex wife and former flame have found new loves that I helped introduced them to, his former workers are living more fulfilled lives under my employ, and I've blackballed all of those crooked investors because they couldn't be trusted.

Jeff will have to live out the remainder of his life buried in debt and regret, but who cares. The moment he affronted me was the instant he sealed his fate…

“And that's what happened,” Vita concluded.

With a roll of her eyes Bast couldn't help but ask,“You righteously decided to pull a massive company takeover because he called your business cute?”

“He was being passive aggressive. By calling my business plan “cute” he was downplaying it as if I were some child. He was belittling me and underestimated my capabilities. So bitch had it comin!”

“Aight aight, so what does that have to do with this little personal movie night you got going?”

“Well, Bezos couldn't stand being broke so he sold his body for a Purge Feast. He was right back to living his old lifestyle only on someone else's dime.”

“OK? That sounds amazing, what's the catch and what is a Purge Feast? Is he about to be gangbanged, what?”

“He's about to be eaten.”

“WHAT?”

“When a person donates their body to a Purge Feast they are provided a lavish lifestyle, they have to be disease free, drug free, given massages to ensure their tenderness and are put on a supremely exquisite diet of delicacies so that they're meat is undeniably sweet. Jeff has been fattened, and now is the time for the slaughter.”

“Ooooooh shit scoot over, bitch!”

The two women watched as Bezos was guided onto a giant chopping block placed on a stage. He was stripped bare naked then instructed to lay face down on the human sized cutting board. The executioner came into view wielding a great axe with a long blade, sharp enough to split hairs. The massive weapon was hoisted into the air then brought down upon the back of the former CEO’s neck. A clean cut, in only one swipe the head was severed and the blood gushed forth like the intense orgasm of a woman. The executioner continued to dissect the body as a flock of chef's assistants scurried to pick up the pieces while avoiding the swings. Once completed, the good was quickly prepared and presented to a dinner party that catered to the adventurous elites of society. As the soiree carried on, Davita took a bite of her own snacks, inhaling deeply, savoring the moment.

“Mmmm, delicious.”

--

“My bloody valentine, sweet comic Valentine. You make me smile with my heart,” Erik’s deep voice sang from the body cam. Charlie, Kimora, Hennessy, and Aly’Sha watched with glee as their husband dismembered one of the sisters, impaling her on the banister of the grand staircase of the foyer. So far, the pair had murdered three of the six members of the family and were searching for the patriarchs of the family. They passed the young boy’s severed head and the second sister’s torso on the way upstairs. They found the mother and father huddled in their shared bedroom, the mother clutching a bible to her chest.

“Why white people always turn to God when they about to die?” Erik inquired, more rhetorically than anything.

“P-Please don’t hurt us. We’ll give you anything you want,” the woman attempted to bargain.

“Bitch I’m a Prince, I don’t need ya money. I’m just here to give your family a lesson in respect. Now, I’ll only ask this once, where’s Penelope?”

“What do you want with my daughter?” the father asked with a little too much bass in his voice. Erik fired a warning shot to his right thigh before answering.

“I ask the questions here, Bob, but if you must know, the little bitch vandalized my property and harassed my wife. She just wants an apology, right Ry Ry?”

“Yes Daddy,” Ryley said with mock sincerity.

“She’s downstairs, under the staircase.”

“Say less,” Ryley said, skipping downstairs to the girl’s hiding place. She growled with anger when she discovered the spot was empty.

“That bitch lying, Daddy!” Another set warning shots went off upstairs, this time striking the mother in the ribs and the father in the shoulder.

“See, I was tryna be nice about this. I’m already gone kill y’all, don’t expedite the process. Where the fuck is she?”

“I’m right here you black bastard!” Suddenly the entire room exploded in flames as Penelope appeared with a flamethrower. When the flames dispersed, Erik stood completely unharmed with a twisted grin on his face.

“You really though you did some shit, huh?” Penelope’s face twisted in horror as she watched Ryley appear behind her with a metal baseball bat, a weapon she’d gotten from the younger boy’s room. With one hard hit to the head, Penelope was out. Erik and Ryley the drug the bodies downstairs, tying them up in the center of the living room.

“We are gonna purge today, purge today, purge today. We are gonna purge today and burn this bitch down,” Ryley sang gleefully as they exited the house.

“Sha Sha, cue the fireworks.”

In an instant the entire house exploded, lighting up the entire neighborhood like the 4th of July. As a means to commemorate the night, the couple made love on the hood of the Lamborghini, the screams of the dying family serving as their background music.

“Wow. That was hot,” Charlie said as Erik emptied himself onto Ryley’s bloodsoaked face.

“Literally,” Hennessy said in agreement. Suddenly, Ryley’s voice could be heard from the cam.

“Happy Purge Day, sluts!”

***************************

TAGS: @itsangeludaku @hearteyes-for-killmonger @poosypoosy @vikkidc @panthergoddessbast @blackpantherismyish @dameshaemonique @sydneebleu @amethyst1993 @blowmymbackout @trevantesbrat @thadelightfulone @princessstevens @princesskillmonger @killmongersgurl @tgigoldie @supersizemeplz @wawakanda-btch @bidibidibombaclaat @calitexastrillgoddess @thehomierobbstark @mareethequeen @iamrheaspeaks @forbeautyandlife @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove

[poeticsandaliens]

Miracle

Rating: M because Will curses like a truck driver.

Timeline: Post-MS IV (I know, I know. If you look closely, you can see my middle finger pointing directly at Chris Carter.)

Summary: Six times Dana Scully called Will a miracle and what that word really means. 

Tagging @today-in-fic. This fic has been my pet project for the last two weeks and was interrupted repeatedly by the porn I’ve been writing. If you squint it can be read as the same universe as my other post-finale fics, namely Morning Hour, but that’s not really relevant.

‘Miracle’ is a dirty word, dirtier than ‘fuck’ used to be and much less versatile. When you work miracles, you set a precedent. You promise you can save people the next time.

Reading his own files in a government database, long-dead typists call Jackson Van de Kamp a miracle or a monster, savior of the world or bringer of the apocalypse. It’s a tired Superman story, and he’s read every possible ending in his childhood comic books.

He’s not the government’s mail-order Jesus, here to die for their fucked-up sins.

He can prove it, too. He didn’t forgive his murderers; he popped off their heads. And he didn’t die to absolve anyone of blame; he died for the very thing God didn’t want anyone to get ahold of—Knowledge. The Truth with capital T. He died because he taunted some chain-smoking bastard on a bridge. He didn’t mean to get shot, and he didn’t mean to come back to life.

                                                        * * * * * * *

The first time Dana calls him a miracle, Will leaves. He’s used to the word—which makes it worse but easier to hide. Still, he packs up his duffel and promises he’ll be back. He pretends it has nothing to do with them, everything to do with the itch of the road. It’s not her fault miracles make him sick.

He leaves them the adirondack chair. It’s a derelict piece of shit he picked up from some guy’s garage sale, but it’s his piece of shit. He hammered it back together, painted it the color of the Wyoming sky, and planted it in their yard. He hopes they take it as a sign that he’s making them his home, so he doesn’t have to say it out loud.

He drives South and lets the humidity suck him in. He picks a bucket of figs outside Inman, South Carolina with an ancient African American woman who embroidered the entire solar system into her jean jacket. She is an elm tree of a woman, engraved with all the wrinkles of ninety-two years. Then, he buys a bag of boiled peanuts and three honey-sticks from the ramshackle fuel station next to a railroad overgrown with kudzu. The attendant calls it a miracle that a customer has come ‘round. Then he tells Will that honeysuckle is free.

Southerners, he has noticed, toss around ‘miracles’ like they’re cheaper than cigarettes. He likes it.

Will crawls back to Virginia after a couple weeks spent on the road, where he wasted monsoon nights smoking his head away in the Everglades and keeping an eye on the unborn kid. He’s not an idiot; he knows it’s a high-risk pregnancy. If something goes wrong, he’ll know before Mulder and Dana do. He even knew it was a girl before they did, but he’s good at keeping his mouth shut.

He’ll be around for his sister, and they all know it. He’s attached to the kid, even if he tries to hide it. The baby is something untainted by his death count, his back-from-death count, his bloody miracles.

                                                       * * * * * * *

The second time Dana calls him a miracle, he lets it slide. Slip of the tongue, mumbled in between bites of croissant. He’s laughing for the first time in God knows how long, laughing his way through autumn.

Dana sits cross-legged in the grass, sipping tea. She sits in the grass a lot, he notices. Maybe it’s a side effect of being an ex-city-dweller, the way grass relaxes her and she shushes him to hear the cicadas. Will was always a trail-and-cliff kind of boy, raised in the shadow of Wyoming Rockies, but he can appreciate the rickety solitude of this home.

He pads barefoot through the dying lawn and sits down next to her. He’s been home for a week now, longer than last time. Tomorrow, he will shove two hoodies into a backpack and drive to the Appalachians. He will leave behind a companion to his adirondack and a bucket of pine-green paint. This time when he says ‘itch of the road,’ he means it. But for now, he holds up a paper bag from the bakery. “I brought croissants.”

Dana’s eyebrows shoot up; her face splits into a grin. “Thank you Will,” she says as he passes her the bag. The scent of melted chocolate wafts from its wrapping. She bites into the croissant with a contented sigh as he reaches into the bag for his own, butter and chocolate sticking to his fingers.

“You’re a miracle,” she says through a mouthful of buttery goodness.

Time stops.

Will doesn’t register it until he has swallowed. When he looks at her, she’s bright red, her eyes wide and all of a sudden younger than her face. He smiles as reassuringly as he can and lies back on the lawn. She didn’t mean it like that, and even if she did. It’s not her fault.

                                                         * * * * * * *

The third time doesn’t really count. Spring goes out with drums of thunder, and June bleeds into their lives. One morning, Dana cups a naked, watermelon-pink creature in the palm of her hand and stalks urgently across the patio.

“It’s a baby robin,” she informs him. It lies panting on a paper towel. Before he can protest, she slides it into his hands.

He must have startled at the sight of it, the intersection of hideous and adorable, because Dana apologizes for the lack of warning. Turns out it dropped from its nest, and she’s too short to reach the branch. He is pleasantly surprised by this side of her, the tender side that rescues birds and folds bandannas around her neck on sunny days.

Dana leads him to the birds’ nest, sitting seven feet up a tree and already brimming with hatchlings. An alarmed screech from a nearby tree alerts him to the mother robin. He cradles the baby bird in his hand, admiring it for a moment. But just before he lifts it to the nest, he hears—

thud-thud-thud-thud-thud, the newborn’s rapid heart rate strumming his eardrums. This again.

“Are you okay?” Dana watches him, her brows furrowed.

“Uh-huh,” he assures her. “Just got the bird’s heartbeat stuck in my head for a second.” He smacks his ear as if he’s caught water in it, and the sound fades.

“You can do that?” Amazement sparkles in her eyes. Also, he discerns, maternal pride.

“Yup.” He tries for nonchalant, ends up sheepish, scratching the back of his head and avoiding her eyes. Should he tell her? He studies her—tiny and wound up like a sharp violin, bearing an impressive collection of pantsuits and an even more impressive collection of scars. All taut muscle except where a small-for-now baby bump blossoms beneath her t-shirt.

“You know, I can hear the kid’s heartbeat too,” he says, gesturing to her stomach. He tries to ignore her quick intake of breath.

        She stands up straighter, gaging how much he wants to tell her. “What does it sound like?”

        “Like a metronome.” His short-term memory lobs Miami at him. He’s unsure why he tells her any of this, but he does. “When I was in Florida,” he muses, “I bought this shitty electric keyboard. The kind they have elementary school music classrooms, that takes like ten double A batteries and plays a bunch of out of tune instruments. I wanted a guitar but I didn’t know how to play one; plus, I thought it would be cute for the baby. Make a good first impression, y’know?”

        He doesn’t give Dana a chance to respond. “Anyway, I was camping out in the everglades. Just… stretching out and sleeping in the trunk of the car. At night if it wasn’t raining, I would open the sun roof and look at the sky. And I tried to check up on you guys, in here.” He taps his forehead. “Came up with the heartbeat instead. Sometimes I tried to play the keyboard in time to it. I could play some tunes from Pirates of the Caribbean but not much else.”

        A smile graces her lips. “You said you used to love those movies.”

“I did. That’s what the Everglades reminded me of,” he adds. Pirates, tropical marshes, the monsters that lurk in the deep. He remembers sitting on the roof, going through three different flavors of vape, scared to dangle his feet over the car because a gator had taken up residence beside it. He remembers watching the gator breathe, watching its slick, scaly back dry out in the heat, and its jaw hang wide open. He remembers finally climbing down the car and reaching out to touch it. His rational side was terrified it would snap, but he realized, somehow, that it wouldn’t. Not at him, at any rate. Maybe his alien blood is reptilian. Who knows. He’ll never forget what an alligator’s back feels like.

“What happened to the keyboard?”

“It broke. I tossed it before I came home.” He reaches into the bird’s nest and drops the little creature in. It mewls hungrily.

“Miracle of life from non-life,” says Dana. She gingerly touches his shoulder. He listens for the rhythmic creature unfolding in her womb. Life from non-life, skin from stones, cells from silence.

                                                           * * * * * * *

The fourth time Dana calls him a miracle, it is not Dana at all. Dana is inside, flipping three grilled cheese sandwiches while Mulder hoes a disheveled garden. A heat wave barreled violently into Virginia last week, and Dana won’t show her face outside at midday, especially since the baby made its presence clear.

Will pulls into the driveway with three bags of fertilizer and a greenhouse worth of seeds. He tucks his ice coffee in his elbow and unloads the dirt from his trunk. Already decorated in roots and silver dandelions, Mulder empties them messily into the turned dirt.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he says with a grin. A month ago, he might have rejected the nickname, but he’s trying to befriend Mulder. Bridge the gaps he already has with Dana by virtue of telepathy. It’s hard to hide from a woman who can read your mind.

“No problem.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders over to the garden. “Anything I can do?”

“Can you blot out the sun?” Mulder chuckles, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Or, you know, work some human Miracle-Grow on these flowers?”

“Unfortunately,” Will says distractedly, “My talents don’t really extend to peaceable flower-growing. I don’t think that’s what the government had in mind when they cooked up my DNA.” He means it casually. He really does. The same way Mulder means ‘human Miracle-Grow,’ and he was going to let that one go.

Mulder stares at him with those regretful labrador eyes. Shit. One wrong step and he’s swimming in parental guilt. Dana knows why he took the first time. He wonders if she ever told Mulder, or if she let him believe it was wanderlust. Genetic, of course.

“It’s okay,” he assures Mulder. Will doesn’t want his parents’ teary remorse, but he accepts it. They’ve seen Hell, and that’s coming from the kid who’s blown up human heads. So he curbs his annoyance every time they hug him like he’s fine china and doubt him when he says he’ll stay.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says, “that was insensitive.”

“Naw, it’s fine.” Casually, callously, that’s the only way Will knows how to talk about what he’s been through.

Silence thick with pollen. Mulder shakes sunflower seeds over a haphazard row.

“You were a miracle, you know. Scully wanted you more than anything.”

He knows this. He reads it like newsprint off her brain. And yet—

“I was a weapon,” Will says bluntly. Another comic book cliché to tack onto the list. Not like he’s counting or anything.

“No.” Mulder shakes his head, shoves the hoe into a fresh groove. “They tried to weaponize you, but you wouldn’t have it. Will, you’ve got a choice that Scully and I don’t have—you don’t have to be their experiment. It’s too late in the game for us; we’re old, and we served twenty-five years in the X-files, prodding and being prodded. But those men are dead now, and while the scars may never heal, you don’t have to let them open another wound. You are human, and you’re allowed to have a life. You’re only their weapon if you believe it.”

He says it so forcefully Will almost believes him. Maybe one day he will. Not yet. “I did kill people,” he reminds his father solemnly. He has inherited Mulder’s ability to suck out his own soul.

“It’ll haunt you, and it’s never okay, but sometimes that’s what it comes to.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I killed people. So did Scully.” He was dead when Mulder shot the smoking bastard. He wishes he had seen it for more reasons than one. “Just…” Mulder trails off. “Give yourself a chance. Give Scully a chance. You won’t regret it.”

He wonders if he’ll ever love someone as much as Mulder loves Dana. He wonders if he wants to love someone that much, to bear the everyday risk of losing them. He empties two bags of poppy seeds into the garden.

Mulder has returned to the open car. He lifts a shopping bag out of the trunk and peeks inside. “What’s this?”

“I found it with the sunflower seeds. They were on clearance.” Will shrugs, acts like he didn’t buy it thoughtfully.

The wooden windchimes clink when Mulder examines them—sleeves of birch wood dangling like spiders on a thread. At the top, a cardinal opens its beak to the sky. “It’s beautiful. Your moth—Scully will love this.”

Wisely, neither of them discuss the Freudian slip.

                                                          * * * * * * *

The fifth time Dana says it, they are sitting in the Adirondack chairs, watching the overdue baby struggle against her confines. He comes to rest somewhere between amazed and utterly creeped out at the sight of it, and it probably shows on his face. Things have begun to show on his face recently. Since he pulled his hair into a ponytail and let himself relax, he no longer resembles the drunken guitarist of an out-of-line undergrad rock band. That was how Mulder described the scraggly shape of him when he was on the run. Mulder recognized it in himself, maybe—trying to scare off his enemies, winds up scaring off everybody else.

Scully cocks an eyebrow at him. “You look slightly perturbed.”

“It’s a little freaky looking,” Will concedes, eyeing the bow and flex of her abdomen. Kid’ll be here any day now—tomorrow, he predicts, maybe the day after. His sixth sense will go fucking haywire the second Dana goes into labor.

“It feels even stranger than it looks,” she replies.

He settles into the chair, leaning his head on his hands and stretching his gangly legs in front of him. He listens. Songbirds, wind chimes, the desperate buzz of insects having sex before they die… his sister’s heartbeat thumping frantically against the side of his head. He half smiles.

“It’s miraculous, you know,” she murmurs. “Even if it looks and feels discomfiting, it’s still a miracle.” A weighty pause. “You’re a miracle too.”

This time, the weight of the word ‘miracle’ doesn’t make him ill. His whole life, a catalogue of unexplained events and Sunday mornings in the Presbyterian church, people called him a miracle. On the playground, he healed scraped knees, and kids called him a wizard.

Dana and Mulder, though—they don’t see him as a miracle of Biblical proportion, or a miracle of science, immaculately crafted for a destiny. To them, he’s a miracle of love. His birth is a transcription of amor omnia vincit, and his return is a testament to it. He is a miracle because he was born and because he is a person Dana Scully created with Fox Mulder in a tatty DC apartment. Not because he’s a gritty reboot of a Christ allegory.

He is okay with being this kind of miracle.

He hears a quiet, “oh…” and opens his eyes. Dana scrunches her eyebrows together and squeezes the arm of her chair. “Braxton-Hicks,” she explains. He takes her at her word the way Mulder doesn’t. (Mulder, who suspects the baby is coming every time she so much as grunts; Mulder, who couldn’t be there the three times his son came to life.)

“If she sticks around much longer,” mutters Dana as she shifts in the chair, “she’ll say her first words in the womb.”

“Tomorrow,” he promises. Immediately he regrets telling her, but she looked so uncomfortable just there. She reminded him of his neighbors in Wyoming, a dusty-haired lesbian couple who wore nothing but khakis and hiking boots. Their son must be three or four by now, but he remembers how Lilian taught him to repair his mountain bike in her last month of pregnancy, woeing incessantly about how she couldn’t ride her own. ‘If the baby doesn’t come tomorrow I’m going to lose my goddamn mind,’ she’d told him every day for a week.

Now, Dana gazes at him with ocean-wide eyes. “You know?”

He shrugs self-consciously. “Yeah.”

“How?”

“I dunno. Same way I do all the other shit, I guess.” He wiggles his fingers. “Galaxy magic.”

This time she laughs, and a little bubble of pride wells in him. He can make her laugh through her discomfort, a clear, beautiful sound. He loves her, his mother. She doesn’t feel quite like his mother, but he catches love for her like he caught it for his unborn sister. Or maybe she is something like his mother—not his mom, the titles ‘Mom and Dad’ will forever be reserved for the parents he grieves, and he’s still shaking the nagging guilt that he is somehow replacing them by loving Dana and Mulder.

Maybe this is the kind of love you feel for your parents when you’re thirty, or maybe it’s the kind of love you feel for a step parent who isn’t your mom but who does her best, asks how your day is going and offers what advice she can. Whatever it is, it is keen and familiar, and he clings to it like a lifeline on days the earth swallows him.

Mulder finds them laughing their asses off at the most beautiful sunset in months. Dana glances up at him with an ear-to-ear grin, one hand on her belly and one hand on Will’s shoulder. Weeping tears of laughter, they forget what cracked them up in the first place.

                                                          * * * * * * *

In his eighteen years on this bitch of an Earth, Will has worked two legitimate miracles:

Jerry Abernathy from his eighth grade Algebra class had an allergic reaction to a peanut butter cookie. Somehow, he survived without a single shot of the epi pen he’d left at home that morning.

Alice Mulder-Scully enters the world screaming. The volume of blood on nurses’ uniforms belies the healthy baby. Relieved, haggard doctors struggle to explain the mother’s strong heartbeat. Nothing to see here, tells the look on Will’s face as strangers pass him in the waiting room. He wipes a trickle of blood from his nose and downs an energy drink to stay awake.

                                                          * * * * * * *      

The sixth time Dana calls him a miracle, he is sitting on the porch steps of the Virginia home. Alice’s baby feet kick his knees, and he grins as she struggles from his lap to crawl across the grass. Fireflies light up the gravel drive, flashing and dying, glowing with no particular pattern. They move like stars in space-time, as if he’s witnessing the lifespan of a galaxy in time lapse. Alice giggles as one blinks in front of her nose.

“Bug!” she screams happily.

“Yeah, kiddo, a lot of bugs.” A fox skittered across the property that morning, and Alice pointed at it and called it ‘Dada.’ Mulder was fake-insulted for hours.

Grinning down at her, he begins to rearrange the fireflies. To his behest, insects in mating season are shockingly tenacious, and it takes all his mental effort to control them. It’s worth it as they lazily swirl toward Alice, who bats at them and giggles uncontrollably.

“Bug! Bug!” she pops the word over and over again, snickering as one lands in her tufts of russet hair.

“I assume this is your doing?” Dana appears behind him, and he grins at her over his shoulder. The screen door smacks shut.

“She loves them.”

“More than her actual toys,” Dana snorts. She cocks her eyebrow at him, then lifts her phone and takes a picture. “I never liked fireflies.”

“Not even as a kid?”

“Well,” she chuckles, “maybe. But one of my first cases on the X files ruined them for me.”

“Seems like those files fucked you both over,” he replies.

“Someone had to do our job.” She sits down next to him and wraps her sweater tighter round her frame. “It took a lot from Mulder and I, but it brought us together. And when the ash settled, we gained two miracles.”

Watching Alice clumsily reach for glow worms, Dana wraps her arm around his shoulders. He lets her. Alice’s fireflies scatter and spiral into the stars.

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Word Count: 1519 Tags: @dolamrothianlady, @supermoonpanda, @kirkaholic123 @shewhorunswithfandoms @starmission @emmkolenn @sugarshai @outside-the-government @yourtropegirl @pinkamour1588 @dirajunara-archive @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @flirtswithdanger @southernbellestatues  @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr

Author’s Note: Start with this series of letters: Dear Jim. This is the conclusion!

The alarm sounded and you glanced up from the workstation you were seated at in the lab, wondering what was going on. The virus from the Federation colony you’d repatriated to the Pasteur had started to mutate, and was spreading rapidly through the medical crew attending them. For whatever reason, you weren’t being affected, and subsequently, you were sequestered in an isolation lab, running test after test on your own blood, trying to created both a vaccine and an antiviral.

“Y/L/N to bridge? Is there a reason for the alarm?” You tapped the comm absently, and continued watching the phagocytosis occurring on the microscope slide. There was no answer but dead air for the longest time, and then a distant moan. “Captain?”

Again, there was no response, but you finally were able to make out some incoherent mumbling, and then a whispered plea, “Save us.”

You were immediately on alert, over to the computer at the wall for an update, your research forgotten. “Computer, please monitor vitals on all crew.”

“There are 493 crew members aboard the Pasteur. 382 crew members have elevated temperature, tachycardia and tachypnea. 100 have similar symptoms, plus critically high blood pressure and low oxygen saturation. Ten are in early symptoms, with either tachycardia or decreased oxygen saturation. There is one crew member within acceptable limits for vital signs for the species, and that is you, Lieutenant Y/L/N. While the rest of the crew is incapacitated, you are in command.”

“Scan the most critically ill and estimate time to critical incident or death,” you breathed.

“Of the one hundred critically ill, there are twenty-six reaching critical stress points within the next three to six hours,” the computer replied.

“Broadcast emergency beacon on all channels,” you ordered, and dashed back to your station. You needed to synthesize a cure as quickly as possible. You’d been able to isolate the macrophages that would eat the virus and had been beginning to test their ability to attack samples of the virus that had come from a number of the crew who had been affected early on, but now your concern was the speed with which the virus was mutating, and how rapidly the crew had been overcome. You’d been in isolation to secure the crew, and now the tables were turned and you were the one being protected.

You were going to need to get the more radically mutated samples, but it meant exposing yourself to a virus that had the potential to be vastly different than the one you’d already determined you were immune to. You pulled an isolation suit from the safety cupboard and started suiting up after collecting all the tools you would need to collect blood samples from a variety of crew.

The corridors of the ship were eerily quiet, just the hum of the warp drive keeping you company. There were crew fallen in the halls, and with the assistance of the computer and your tricorder, you pulled samples from the most sick that were still living. As you made it to the bridge, you felt a wave of fatigue hit you, and wondered if you’d somehow been contaminated, or worse, had just been particularly slow to respond to the virus. You collected your samples quickly and made your way back to the lab with haste, doffing the safety suit in the negative pressure cubicle designed to keep germs outside the isolation rooms.

Once you had the samples analysed, you started a molecular deconstruction in an attempt the find common pathogens. Eventually, you found a common strain in all the samples you’d collected, and set to work altering the most effective of the macrophages you’d found in your blood sample to attack the agent. You realized the best and quickest way to treat the crew would be to aerosolize it in the environmental control system and have it disperse through air vents throughout the ship, which meant another trek through the contamination zones. Once you’d synthesized a large enough antidote, you donned protective gear again and made your way down to engineering, holding a large flask of antidote as well as a number of hypos filled with it, so you could treat as many engineering crew as possible to help you disperse the medication.

It took a few minutes but the chief engineer soon roused enough to point out which systems needed to be altered in order to atomize the heavy fluid through the ducts of the ship. After a second dose by hypo, he roused enough to take over the task so you could make your way to the bridge and ensure the command crew was beginning to function.

You were in the midst of placing the hypo against the captain’s neck to administer a second dose of the antidote when the bridge was hailed. As the captain roused, you opened the communications screen, nearly collapsing in relief when you saw Jim’s face flash across the view screen.

“Captain, the Enterprise is here to aid with your emergency,” he started. The captain held up his hand.

“Captain Kirk, we are under a real emergency at this point, and will have to reschedule your disaster response until -”

“I had gathered as much when I could not hail anyone aboard, Captain,” Jim interrupted. “But you are clearly in need of assistance, and the Enterprise is here to render aid where needed. Tell us what you need, and you will have it.”

The captain turned to you and shook his head. “We can’t expose the Enterprise to this, Y/L/N.”

“I’ve synthesized an antidote. Let me forward the formula to the Enterprise, and once they have an away team inoculated, they can come assist,” you countered. You were beginning to sweat in the isolation suit, and wanted to pull it off, but were waiting until more crew had begun to show signs of relief from their symptoms before you did.

“Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Commander Y/L/N will be forwarding the formula for the cure to you. Once you have an away team vaccinated, you are welcome to come aboard and render aid.”

Jim’s furrowed brow relaxed just a little and he nodded. “That will be acceptable,” he nodded. “Have her send it immediately, please.”

The captain nodded at you and you saw the corners of Jim’s mouth pull up just a little. You approached the communications console, and noting the most of the bridge crew were starting to respond to their treatment, you tore the isolation suit off, drawing in a long breath. The aerosol in the air had a bitter flavour, but you didn’t care. You hated those isolation suits, and you’d rather breathe it than the humid air recirculating through your suit.

You accessed your files and sent the formula across to the Enterprise, turning back to the view screen and offering a small wave to Jim. You could see him smile, just slightly, in acknowledgement, and felt yourself smile broadly in response. And then, suddenly, everything went black and you fell to the floor, unconscious.

XXX

You wakened to the sound of monitoring, and slowly followed the rhythmic beeping of your heart rate back to consciousness, swimming up against the crushing weight of whatever drugs you’d been given to try to open your eyes.

Your hand was being held, and just below the chirps and tweets of the monitoring system, you could hear a quiet, soothing murmur. A thumb was stroking the back of your hand in time with the rise and fall of the voice. You squeezed the fingers in your grasp and again tried to open your eyes.

“Jim.” Your voice was dry and cracked on the single syllable. He smiled, and brushed the hair on your forehead away, leaning down to press a kiss against the cool skin. “What happened?”

“I’ll leave that for Bones to explain. But the short story is that I saw my girl being a hero, and then I saw her collapse,” Jim replied. “And my heart nearly stopped.”

“Exhaustion, kid, plain old exhaustion. Your electrolytes were all over the place. I suspect you weren’t eating and drinking properly while you were working on that antiviral,” Doctor McCoy explained as he pressed a hypo to your neck. “You should be right as rain in a few hours. Just in time for leave and reassignment.”

“Reassignment?” You asked.

“If you think for a minute I’m letting you stay on this tin can after the miracle you just pulled off, you’re out of your mind, sweetheart,” Doctor McCoy replied. “I’ve requested your immediate transfer to the Enterprise. Strangely, Jim didn’t even hesitate before he approved it.”

You looked at Jim, who was still holding your hand, looking tender, and vulnerable, and smiled.

“If it weren’t for the part where the entire crew was at risk of dying, I would almost think this was a set up, Jim,” you laughed softly. Jim pressed another kiss to your forehead and squeezed your hand again.

“Just lucky coincidence, Sunshine,” he laughed. “But I’m glad you’ll be where I can keep an eye on you.”

[bloggings-posts]

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[frejaultor]

So, uhhhh, I made an Overwatch OC.

I had an idea of what her intro video would look like, hence why this is in present tense which I really don’t like using. 

               The first blue light of dawn peeks through the blinds of a small apartment, illuminating a sparse set up. No couches or chairs of any kind to be found here. This might seem like a government agent’s squat while he’s on a mission, especially with the map covered in color-coded push pins—red, yellow, white spread out, with blue ones limited to a small area—but a few items show that to be a falsity. A gathering of pillows and blankets are pressed into a makeshift bowl against the wall, just big enough for a person to curl up, with indents of said person only just beginning to recede.

               A dresser under the map holds the most signs of life. An anime figurine given the tender care of a glass case. Books untouched by dust arranged with no obvious system in mind. A broken smoke detector with a since disabled listening device inside; ripped from the ceiling the looks of it. An enormous, event-themed, plush pachimari is returned to its dwelling of the nest, from the spot it rolled to in the middle of the night, with a kiss on the face and a pat on the head.

               Then, on the right-hand side of the dresser and pinned along the side of the board, are pictures. A girl and her father stand in formal attire with light smiles and arms linked. A photo booth reel of the same girl, now a woman, with a green-haired man, not much older than her, in a series of poses: kissy face, “gangster”, tongues out, silly, making a heart with opposing hands, and faces pressed together, smiling brightly. Another photo of the pair, this time with a man with the grudging expression of someone dragged into the shot but the genuine grin of a person glad he was. More photos of the trio ranging from formal, (with their parents present), to an arcade setting (with the woman triumphantly cuddling the plush, the men standing proudly behind her), cover the area.

               Fingers gingerly trail over the men’s faces in one of these, as they have many times before. The woman stands before the board, aviator goggles around her neck, appearing older—and more tired—in the eyes than her body. Gazing intently at the info tabs on the pins, she pulls a white one from its place and slips the tiny card in her pocket. Squaring her shoulders, she pops her neck, slides on a pair of reflective shades, and leaves her abode.

               She makes her way through crowded streets and even more populated squares, finally reaching the civilian airstrip. A pilot waves to her with a grin that widens upon payment. The jet soon rockets over the city, the surrounding landscape, and eventually, the sea. Staring out the window, she absentmindedly plays with her necklace; a delicately crafted piece of jade, depicting two dragons intertwined. Shadows cast by the sun shift and a clock on the control panel fades in and out of focus, displaying hours have passed.

“Just about there, Miss Eld,” the pilot informs her through the headset.

               “Has Chuck checked in yet?”

               “Yes, ma’am. He says the boats are ready whenever you are.”

               She nods mostly to herself. With a breath to collect herself, she removes her glasses and headset, unfastens her harness and stands by the hatch door towards the back. Once she has her goggles in place, she yells to the pilot, “READY.”

               A few flicks of switches and presses of buttons and the door opens. “Good luck!” the pilot shouts over the howl of the wind, but the recipient is no longer there to hear.

               Wings of flame spread to catch the gusts, and with a shriek not entirely of this world, she blasts above the water at a speed the tiny jet could only dream of achieving. It doesn’t take long for her prey to come into view. Large boats with no colors and speckled with guards cradling guns.

               Pirates.

               Blazing sun beginning its descent directly behind her, she remains undetected. Sharp eyes begin a headcount of those on deck from a couple miles away. Lowering her flight with the gaseous orb, she dives beneath the waves, using her momentum and residual heat to propel herself towards the closest ship. The darkening waters keep her form near invisible to the eyes above while she gulps in air.

               The tiring day watch fails to notice a borrowed translocator soaring over the railing. How humiliating it must be to have one’s own gun whacked into the windpipe and the head. After emptying the gun’s magazine over the side, Eld removes a comm from her pocket.

               “Get the wagons ready, Chuck.”

               A voice crackles through, “On the way.”

               Everything is going smoothly. More guards lie unconscious than stand at the ready. Three out of five ships’ decks have been cleared and the other two are small fry in comparison. Blood pumping, adrenaline running, the predator laughs softly, thoroughly enjoying the rush of the hunt. She lands deftly on the next target, the surrounding air simmering in her presence. Limbs tremble slightly in exhilaration that the mission is almost complete.

               Wait.

               Too easy.

               Now everything is taut. Eld calms her breathing so she can hear over the sound of her heart pounding. No alarms have been raised but something is wrong. A trap? She chides herself under her breath for not checking the shipping containers on the first vessel.

               CRACK.

               Just in time she lets the flames consume her and incinerate the bullet that would have hit her side. A cry in an unfamiliar language springs up but its meaning isn’t necessary. The time for stealth is done. Now the horns blare on all the ships as armed people swarm to her, not bothering to aim as they pull their triggers. Flipping two metal batons into her palms, she lets out a battle cry of her own.

               Squishy flesh bags of mostly water are hardly a match for fire, especially when quite a bit of it is friendly. Her batons bounce off the ship’s body to slam into faces, knees, and ribs, return to her hand by the call of a strong magnet only to be sent out to wreak more havoc. The pirates’ pleased smirks vanish completely when all the wounds they’ve managed to inflict disappear as the woman’s flames flare brighter and farther.

               Another cry goes up as more boats appear, cutting off any escape route. It’s Eld’s turn to smile as she leaps high in the air. Flinging her arms wide, the blaze around her shifts into the symbol human and omnic traffickers have learned to fear. An enormous bird’s body flares with the woman at the center. An earsplitting screech is the last thing the pirates hear before the phoenix’s wings flash-fry them. The creature swoops over each vessel and lets its flames seek out each and every pirate, no matter where they might hide.

               Landing with a great huff, Eld shivers as the fire beast recedes back inside her. Hurrying to the nearest shipping container, she melts the locks quickly and scrapes the door open. Inside, at least fifty young or metal faces look at her from the other end where they are huddled together in one trembling mass. Gratitude, relief, and shame all move across Eld’s face at the revelation this wasn’t a trap.

               Slowly, she enters with hands raised in placation. “I’m not here to hurt you,” she tells them in English and a few other languages she’s learned these key phrases in. “I’m here to help. I can get you out but I ask you to be patient while I get the others. Do you understand?”

               Several of them nod with clear relief in their expressions, while some speak in languages she doesn’t know to others until their faces also brighten. Eld backs out as slowly as she entered and the huddled mass begins to carefully shuffle out onto the deck. The smaller boats have positioned themselves alongside each of the larger ones, ready to receive those in need of rescue. She directs those who understand her to help lead the others across the walkways being placed. Getting all the victims loaded takes more time than Eld’s infiltration.

               Finally, the smoking husks of the pirates’ vessels fade into the distance. Blankets and food are passed out while personal info—name, home town, names and contact of family members that can be contacted—is taken to help everyone get back where they belong with as little stress as possible. Medical attention is given to those who need it and counselors do their best to speak with each person. Eld watches over all of them from her perch on the top deck with a happy, tired look. A man climbs up to join her.

               “Avis, you gotta stop doing this. We don’t make nearly enough money to cover the expenses of relocating these people, especially those who don’t have homes to go back to.”

               She sighs through her nose before reminding him, “It’s not your money being spent. The funds come from the traffickers’ profits. We are basically buying these people their freedom with their own blood money. No, it doesn’t make them feel better, but other people looking to exploit the weak will think twice about whether the risk is really worth it.”

               Chuck crosses his arms and shakes his head. “It’s all about supply and demand with these people. Sick bastards have a demand, and there are equally sick people willing to fill it with them,” he gestures to those below. “Not all of them have money, so how are we going to afford housing, shelter, food for all of them? We don’t get paid enough to take care of them ourselves.”

               Avis’s face loses all softness and a glint that had not entered her eyes even while fighting fills them now. “Take care, Charles,” she says softly, “you’re beginning to sound greedy.” He scoffs and tries to reply but her expression and biting tone cut him off. “If you have a problem with the financial structure of this organization, do feel free to find another place of employment. I have no patience for those who look at people and see dollar signs.”

               “You need me,” he states with the arrogance that says he doesn’t believe otherwise.

               She turns to face him fully, sharp eyes boring into him. “There are a number of people who would be more than happy to have your position so they could feel they were doing something in the world. Perhaps even be willing to do it for free.” His jaw clenches as that peg hits home and she turns back. “You might not have enough to buy a third yacht, but I will make sure you have more than enough to get by, as I always have.”

               He nods and leaves her to her post, watching the ships and sweeping the horizon for pirates and government transports. It’s been a long day, but she needs to keep all of them safe until they reach safe harbors.

                 Home once again; Avis Eld replaces the white pin she had taken out with a red one. There are still far too many pins on the board for her liking, and even more traders she doesn’t know about. Maybe it’s like Chuck said, and there will always be demand, or maybe tonight has sent ripples of fear so one less person is ripped from their home. Either way, the Firebird would be there to help them however they need her to.

               Placing her goggles down on the dresser, she gazes fondly on the friendly faces of her past. “One more day,” she whispers to them, herself, and the spirit inside.

               She collapses in her nest, wrapping herself in a ball around the tightly cuddled plush, and pulls a blanket around her shoulders. Almost immediately, she is asleep. There is life in this quiet place despite the Spartan decoration. Life and love that flow out from the pictures, even ones as seemingly cold as the newspaper clipping that reads, “Shimada to Sign Contracts with von Brandt.” Several family members fill the photo with names listed underneath. The woman is tagged as Celandine von Brandt.

[ezhilmozhi]

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COMMENTARY HEALTH

Uncritical support for Modi paved the way for India’s COVID-19 crisis

VIDYA KRISHNAN

28 April 2021



A man wearing personal protective equipment runs past burning funeral pyres during a mass cremation of COVID-19 casualties at a crematorium in Delhi, on 26 April 2021. The next day, India recorded 3,286 deaths, its highest number of COVID-19 fatalities so far, taking the total number of deaths in the country since the start of the pandemic to 201,187. 

ADNAN ABIDI / REUTERS



India is a veritable chamber of horrors right now. Every day appears to mark a new record-highest number of daily cases, with the country witnessing 3,52,991 new COVID-19 cases and 2,812 deaths on 25 April. Patients are dying due to a lack of oxygen in hospitals—at least 24 patients died in a hospital in Nashik, in Maharashtra, on 21 April, and another 25 died in Delhi, the national capital, two days later. The next day, on 24 April, the solicitor general Tushar Mehta lied to the Supreme Court that the central government had “ensured that nobody in the country was left without oxygen.” Meanwhile, oxygen tankers are being blocked by state governments, and people have resorted to looting cylinders. This medical horror unfolding in the country was inevitable, given the leaders and the ideologies that India chose for herself.

It is also an experience of déjà vu. In August 2017, over 60 new-born babies, with chests the size of an adult human’s palm, died in less a week in a district hospital in Gorakhpur, Uttar Pradesh. The Bharatiya Janata Party government in the state, led by the chief minister Ajay Singh Bisht—more commonly known as Adityanath—denied that the deaths were a result of a shortage of oxygen, and maintains this narrative till date. A paediatrician at the hospital, Kafeel Khan, had accused the state government of not paying the hospital’s oxygen supplier, which led to the shortage and the deaths.

The state then arrested Khan and led a farcical investigation against him, as evidenced in the order releasing him on bail and the departmental inquiry absolving him of negligence. But the state did not conduct post-mortem examinations of the infants, did not hand over their medical records to their families, and sought to erase its negligence. As if the injustice did not matter until it was provable on paper. This greed and cruelty normalised under the BJP leadership is cancerous, and the scale at which it has infected the country is on display during this ongoing second wave of the coronavirus pandemic.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Hindu-nationalist government has taken the difficult task of organising a pandemic response in a poor country like India and made it impossible. In April last year, after the pandemic hit India, the Modi administration extended a brutal lockdown without consulting the nation’s top scientists, adding an economic as well as humanitarian crisis to the medical emergency. As I reported for The Caravan earlier this month, the prime minister did not consult the national taskforce of India’s leading scientists in February and March this year either, despite the surge in cases.

After imposing the lockdown, Modi then invoked a draconian colonial-era law, the Epidemics Act of 1897—enacted during the bubonic plague of 1896—that focuses not on controlling the disease, but on cracking down on its subjects and suspending civil liberties. The Modi administration, of course, presented a narrative that it was using the law only in instances where healthcare workers had been targeted. As noted previously in The Caravan, the centre did not, however, enact several better legislations introduced the previous year that sought to protect healthcare workers.

Current Issue

April 2021



The lockdown, Indians were told, was to flatten the curve. Lav Agarwal, the joint secretary in the union health ministry, had stated shortly after that a Rs 15,000-crore package by the centre would be used for, among other things, “building resilient national and state health systems for future disease outbreaks.” But tenders for oxygen plants were not released till October 2020—eight months into the pandemic. That month, the centre issued tenders for 150 oxygen plants. As of April 2021, only 33 of them have been set up.

As India suffered its most devastating COVID-19 surge, its political parties and leaders—including Modi and his top lieutenant, the home minister Amit Shah—spent the last month focussed on an ongoing, eight-phased, gruelling blood sport of an election in West Bengal. The prime minister boasted of the large rallies he commanded—and gleefully catcalled the state’ incumbent chief minister Mamata Banerjee during one of them—with no apparent concern about the pandemic still ravaging the country. The polling in West Bengal began on 27 March. Within two weeks, the state recorded its highest-ever single-day spike with 5,892 new cases recorded on 14 April. Eleven days later, the state recorded 15,889 cases, and its capital city of Kolkata reported a positivity rate of approximately 50 percent.



On 21 March, amid the rising second wave, India's national dailies saw full-page ads in which Prime Minister Narendra Modi invited people to attend the Maha Kumbh in Uttarakhand.

Modi’s apparent lack of concern about the pandemic did not stop at electioneering. On 21 March, India’s national dailies showed a front-page full-size advertisement showing Modi and the Uttarakhand chief minister Tirath Singh Rawat welcoming devotees to the Maha Kumbh, a weeks-long Hindu religious festival. The previous day, Rawat had proclaimed, “Nobody will be stopped in the name of Covid-19 as we are sure the faith in God will overcome the fear of the virus.” Devotees attended in the millions, and soon began testing positive by the thousands. On 1 April, the day the super-spreader event began, the state recorded a total of 1,863 cases. On 26 April, it recorded 35,864 cases.

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The pervasive grief felt by Indian citizens is only matched by the knowledge that they are on their own. On 20 April, in his first national broadcast after the onset of the second COVID-19 wave in the country, the prime minister appeared to confirm this knowledge without any sense of irony. “I request young colleagues to create small committees in their societies, localities and apartments and help others in following the COVID discipline,” Modi said. “If we do this, then governments will not need to create containment zones, impose curfew or lockdown.” The prime minister did little to explain or reassure the citizens about what his government was doing to help them.

As Modi noted in his address, without acknowledging his own failure, Indian citizens have come together to save themselves. All across social-media platforms and WhatsApp groups, users are inundated with desperate requests and leads to find their own oxygen cylinders, medications, tele-consult with doctors, and find a hospital bed. To the best of their availabilities, they respond with leads, noting the date and time that the information was verified. But as citizens discover with alarming regularity, there are no beds, no medicines, and no hospitals. There are no hearse vans to carry the dead to the graveyards. There is no wood to burn the pyres.

India's failed pandemic response is an inevitable consequence of the blind support, over two elections, to the anti-intellectual government led by Modi and the BJP.  As I recently argued in The Atlantic, this is the greatest moral failure of our generation. It is India’s collective moral failure before it is the BJP’s political failure.

 The blame for this cannot stop at one man, no matter how unfit for office he may be. It lies just as much at the feet of people who voted for this incompetence twice thinking it will never affect them, assuming their bubbles of concrete will keep them safe from the chaos being inflicted on others. The structure and actions of the Modi administration has stood in mockery of the citizens who ever placed their faith in it. And yet, the leaders of this administration have been rewarded with blind hero-worship, and that was the last blow to Indian democracy.

Since 2002, I’ve seen Modi rise to power with a dropped jaw. His career is a monument to treachery, to the power of majoritarianism in India, and to the horrors forgiven by the country to protect those who champion such majoritarianism. He has spent people’s lives as pocket change as he failed his way upwards, into the highest office in the land.

Throughout his career, Modi has shown an insatiable appetite to jail and threaten his own citizens, and let them die on his watch without accepting any responsibility. His two terms have been an era of derangement, through which he has asked us, the people of India, to turn a blind eye to the bloodletting in Kashmir, rampant gang-rapes of women, lynchings of Muslim minorities, caste atrocities against Dalits, and the spectre of detention camps in Assam. As if all of this was not bad enough, in this process, we have also made a Faustian bargain in signing up to hate our own neighbours, friends, and colleagues.

Today, as graveyards run out of space, we cannot pin it on Modi without a critical self-inventory of the role BJP voters played in this tragic story. It is a difficult conversation to have in a country filled with strife but it can no longer be avoided. Neither can the link between morals and politics be evaded.

The BJP secured 37.4 percent of the votes in the 2019 Lok Sabha elections—the highest ever received by the party in its history. A nation gets the government it deserves and, in small and big ways, every one of BJP’s voters who could make their peace with poor people dying in the name of economic prosperity contributed to this tragedy, particularly the upper castes, upper class and middle class.

The kind of people who quote scriptures from the Bhagavad Gita and discuss theories on free-market capitalism as they short-change their oppressed-caste domestic workers whom they refuse to give weekly offs. The kind who do not see the inhumanity of children begging at their BMW’s window as they drive to work, where they will not speak up against systemic corruption. The kind who find women “angry” when they bring up the sexual violence and turn a blind eye to the rampant practice of manual scavenging prevalent in the country.

Most of all, with their hearts full of cynicism and indifference, and theirs sleeves stained in blood, they award certificates of nationalism based on religion, gender and caste. They preferred WhatsApps that repeated convenient falsehoods over factual news reports that showcased the unpleasant realities. Their collective will and wilful apathy—towards the poor, the sick, the minorities—is the cement that holds this government together. They valourise greed, demonise the fight for social justice, and advise us to remain calm, after handing over power to a party that has no interest, and no skill, in the art of  governance. 

They handed power to the BJP, and now they chastise those who did not for bringing politics into everyday conversations, and without irony want us keep things positive instead of focussing on the viral apocalypse we are in. By aiding, abetting or ignoring one injustice at a time, they helped Modi subvert democracy in favour of authoritarian regimes. Through their fogged lens of good intentions and morally neutral positions, they are directly responsible for degrading out institution—courts, police stations, and hospitals. 

The rich and middle-class citizen  was entirely alright watching children choke to death in Gorakhpur, assuming that would never happen to him. Once the pandemic levelled the system, and the privileged found themselves without privilege for the first time, they fled, with no regard to the medical apartheid unfolding in hospitals created for the poor. They now act shocked when confronted with the fragility of their bubbles.

The cynical political decisions taken in the past seven years have come back to haunt us this last month. We have, as people, been wilfully unaware of the state of our health infrastructure for so long because it was claiming lives that did not matter to us. That bubble has now burst.   

Our small and big moral failures have added up to design India’s pandemic response. On 27 April, India recorded 3,286 deaths, its highest number of COVID-19 fatalities so far, taking the total number of deaths since the start of the pandemic to 201,187. We created this veritable chamber of horrors

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The collateral damage of South Africa’s police leadership feud sees civilians vulnerable while crime spirals By Marianne Thamm• 22 March 2021

On 10 March, Mthokozisi Ntumba, a 35-year-old husband and father of one, was shot dead by police after leaving a clinic in Braamfontein in central Johannesburg and stepping out into a student protest.

He joins a growing list of civilians killed by police during protest action. There was Andries Tatane, Nathaniel Julies, the mine workers of Marikana. The list is long and depressing.

According to the Independent Police Investigative Directorate’s annual report, SAPS members killed 538 people in 2017/18 and 440 in 2018/19.

Entire commissions have been established – the 2014 Khayelitsha Commission of Inquiry, and the 2015 report of the Marikana Commission of Inquiry – to highlight and deal with deficiencies in the SAPS and responses to combating crime and violence.

And still the SAPS is unable to deal with protests adequately, as evidenced by the tragedy in Braamfontein when a young man died needlessly at the hands of the state.

“Someone just went crazy,” Police Minister Bheki Cele told the press gathered outside Ntumba’s home during a visit on 11 March.

Meanwhile, 77 SAPS officers were killed in 2019/20 and 29 have been murdered since April 2020.

This, according to then deputy commissioner Bonang Mgwenya, who spoke at the October 2020 funeral of the assassinated Anti-Gang Unit section leader, Lieutenant-Colonel Charl Kinnear.

Kinnear was killed in a hit outside his home in September 2020. He had been investigating fellow officers.

It has since also come to light that the SAPS may have “lost” eight million pieces of evidence, including DNA samples, as a result of a long-running legal stand-off involving Forensic Data Analysts (FDA), a private company that sold and installed SAPS’ track and trace systems.

The feud between the SAPS, the State Information Technology Agency (Sita) and the FDA led to the SAPS withholding payment to the FDA. The FDA, in turn, “switched off” its systems. This, too, has crippled the SAPS’ crime-fighting capacity.

Keith Keating, director of the FDA, has offered the entire system to the SAPS for R560-million, an offer that National Commissioner Khehla Sitole in March 2020 accepted in a letter to Vhonani Mufamadi, the chair of the FDA board. The FDA has, over the years, earned billions from doing business with the state.

Keating has been accused of giving kickbacks to former acting national commissioner Khomotso Phahlane.

When the Hawks raided Keating’s premises in 2017 (a move Keating challenged), Colonel Kobus Roelofse told the court the warrants were related to a 2016 R45-million police forensics contract that had been recommended and paid in one day, in favour of Keating’s FDA. A further R7-million, unaccounted for in the tender, was allegedly also paid to Keating’s company, rounding off the total to R52-million.

This legal tussle between the SAPS, Sita and the FDA behind the scenes has led to a serious backlog in the testing of DNA samples, including those for gender-based violence and rape cases.

It is this travesty that prompted Police Committee chair, Tina Joemat-Pettersson, on 10 March to lash out at SAPS leadership, Cele and all parties concerned. She issued what amounted to a decree for all roleplayers to resolve the matter.

Joemat-Pettersson paid scant regard to the separation of powers as committee chair and ordered Sitole and Cele to “halt all court battles and for all systems to be immediately switched on”.

She threatened to write to the speaker to request an investigation and said she would, if she had to, take legal advice “on how to solve this matter.”

“The police cannot investigate the police,” she said.

“I am the chair, I will be held accountable if there is any commission of inquiry like the Zondo Commission, I will be called, my memory will be tested and this is why I keep meticulous minutes,” she said.

She warned the SAPS leadership and the minister that she would be monitoring them all and wanted the backlog in the processing of DNA attended to.

Joemat-Pettersson said she spoke as a mother and for  “every rape victim” and expressed her alarm at how everyone involved in the dispute with the FDA had “run around in circles”.

While the elephants like Sitole, Cele and Joemat-Pettersson fight, on the field, citizens and SAPS members themselves are being trampled on.

Police and Prisons Civil Rights Union (Popcru) spokesperson Richard Mamabolo, speaking during a mediated discussion with journalist Stephen Grootes on SAFM, reminded listeners that only one South African police commissioner had served their full term since 1996 and that was George Fivaz.

From Jackie Selebi through to Bheki Cele himself, Riah Phiyega and more recently Phahlane, none have left office with their heads held high.

For now, Mamabolo added, “we see a thin line between operational and ministerial. Who plays which role? This needs to be clarified.”

Peter Ntsime, acting deputy general secretary of the South African Police Union (Sapu) said that “politics kills the police”. “We need to know what is the responsibility of the police commissioner and the minister.”

Cele had been seen to be interfering in operations, said Ntsime, which is the exclusive domain of the national commissioner.

“We have members being killed while they fight over the grabber and money. Members do not get a danger allowance, they are not getting increases,” said Ntsime.

He added that South Africa was “a country at war” and that focus was being lost by the sideshow of whatever was playing itself out between the national commissioner and the minister.

Eldred de Klerk, director of the African Centre for Security and Intelligence Praxis, said it was problematic putting a “personality” before the office, and when a distinction could not be made between public service and the state apparatus.

Cele, said De Klerk, needed to stay out of the terrain that was the responsibility of the national commissioner, who is appointed by the president, as is Cele, on contract.

The national commissioner needed to receive strategic and policy direction and acted on behalf of the citizens of the country.

“They don’t really have to get along [Cele and Sitole]. Their roles are tied up in their offices,” said De Klerk.

Cele is prone to public spectacle and is quick to rush to the scene of high-profile crimes to promise that something will be done. It was Cele who during lockdown ordered SAPS members in Cape Town to take action against a film crew on a beach. Cele is not empowered in any way to issue orders to SAPS members.

This is an operational matter that falls under the national commissioner.

However, Cele has called for an inquiry into Sitole’s fitness to hold office in light of a recent court finding that the commissioner had breached his duties.

This very public face-off between Sitole and Cele was causing, said De Klerk, “great insecurity and distraction”.

Political interference in law enforcement occurred in all democracies but policy and regulatory prescripts clearly set out the role of each player.

The position of the national commissioner was essentially the equivalent of that of a director-general, he said.

“He signs a contract, there are performance agreements. And even if the motivation of the national commissioner or the minister are party political, the question is whether they have broken any of the policy regulatory prescripts or were not performing in terms of their contracts.”

An inquiry now into Sitole, said De Klerk, would bring instability. The SAPS would continue to function, however, as there were clear lines of reporting from national to provincial, down to station commissioners.

How do we stop a repeat of appointing commissioners who later turn out to have less than what it requires to perform the massive job, managing a service of 187,358 members?

Writing for the Institute of Security Studies in February this year, Johan Burger and Stuart Mbanyele noted that the “government’s denial of the crisis may be caused by the fact that it is rooted in the long-standing and persistent problem of poor leadership in the South African Police Service”.

South Africa’s political leaders had not recognised that policing was an important profession that required high levels of skill and integrity, they said.

While the SAPS has less than 200,000 members, the private security industry registered more than two million officers, according to the Private Security Industry Regulatory Authority’s 2019/20 annual report.

SAPS salaries, Parliament was informed by Cele in 2019, would reach R87.2-billion by 2021/2022, reflecting an increase of 52% since 2015/16, when the budget was R57.4-billion. Expenditure on SAPS salaries made up more than 78% of the total budget for 2019/2020.

Meanwhile billions have been lost to fraud and corruption, which has seen the arrest of more than 40 SAPS members in the past 12 months.

“The loss of public trust and confidence,” said De Klerk, was a key issue with regards to the SAPS and law enforcement.

A 2012 National Victims of Crime Survey revealed back then that police corruption was the second most prevalent form of public sector corruption as reported by victims.

Burger and Mbanyele noted that “far-reaching interventions” were needed in the SAPS, including reviewing current systems of recruitment, training, promotion, discipline “and equipping police officers – all of which generally seem to be failing”.

“This is all possible in a relatively short period if there is a strong, ethical and highly skilled top management team in place,” concluded Burger and Mbanyele. DM168

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