#HAS BEEN DECIMATED BENEATH MY OWN INCOMPETENCE

[dotheangstything]

DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE TO FUCKING START.

[themysteriouswriter675]

Empty Frustration

Hello world. Although I’m sure almost no one’s reading this. The handful of followers whose attention I might have captured have probably lost me in the tsunami knows as Tumblr. Today I’ll try to revive myself, bang open the nails from one of the countless coffins Tumblr’s algorithm puts its millions of inactive users in, if you may. I’m a changed person from when I previously used to write- no longer invested heavily in changing the world, but rather scrambling to hold together the broken pieces within. I guess as my younger self sought to change society, to change norms, to shatter systems, and break glass ceilings, it forgot to take a peek inside itself and see that......there was nothing. Nothing but a fiery ego fueled for years by undeserved praise, nothing but a lazy feaster who does nothing besides waiting for the food to come to the table, without moving an inch towards it. And it was possible before. One might as well have forgotten there was anything to contend on the inside to begin with. One of the biggest shams ever sold to young people, was that your life, down the road, would be guided by what happens on the outside- outside events, outside obligations, outside people- that you would drown in your surroundings so much, that you didn’t have to contend with anything in your homeland. Of course, that’s only a torn half of the full page- no one warns the innocent of the real Goliath they have to slay. The real war that no one stocks up for hits them when they least expect it. One day they wake up and look at the mirror, and see more than they ever expected to. The highlights of one’s face brings visions that cannot be penned down, but yet their mind seems to retain even the slightest detail of, the tiniest speck at the most remote corner.

I’ve clearly become a far less skilled writer. But I feel more satisfaction writing this down than I ever did writing even my most brilliant stories. I’ve learnt a lot over the years, and one of the things I’ve learnt is that a machine will rip a human off into shreds when it comes to writing the most accurate, to-the-point piece one can. The chronology of the bulletproof, immaculate paragraphs of an algorithm almost seem to have been constructed, if I may, by decimal-precise instruments whose sole job is to not miss a single detail. And if that is what people set to imitate, then these words become strings of letters- writing loses meaning. I know that now. My previous self would hate the fact that I’ve interrupted my initial musings to go on a completely unrelated tangent. But I don’t deal in paragraphs anymore. Language points and content synchronization is no longer the lens through which I view my writings. I now deal in thoughts. In emotions. In stories. In conversations with voices from the inside. This writing won’t win prizes. But I’m at least able to write messages to the second person that has grown inside me. This person listens. This person responds. This person looks at the world and guides me based on what it gathers. This person isn’t me. This person isn’t someone else either. But this person exists, and will even drive you to a gun, or a bottle of sleeping pills, if it is provoked to. As we grow, this person becomes us. And I’m writing this to pen down what this person thinks of me. 

Our days slowly morph, from the daily operations of an input-output algorithm, from a series of orders, from sports discussions, from childhood tiffin politics, from fretting over results, from mischievous giggles, from escaping relatives, from trying to fit ourselves into the grilles of our balcony, into something more morbid and harrowing. It turns into panic attacks, into anxiety, into stacks of unread books, into clinging onto friends who sometimes don’t cling back as much, into periods of time when the only two things you know are that you are looking at yourself and that tears are flowing out of your eyes, into week-long spans of running out of things to pat yourself on the back for. It is primarily that. The very idea that we can think for hours about what would happen if we die without flinching at the very idea in an instant amidst an unfaltering affection for reality should not be normal, but it is. 

There can only be moments of digging upwards, reaching topsoil, and devouring the trees and the air before the dirt beneath the ground slides apart like quicksand. How long those moments are depends on how hard one can whip themselves into pulling themselves up by the bootstraps. Crafting that whip takes an extraordinary amount of religious dedication towards self-positivity and optimism manufacturing. It requires us to rip the ends of our receptors into oblivion till we are blind to the suffering that pulls us back again, howling, whimpering. The heart becomes heavy, our movements become more erratic during sudden moments to voluminous regret and frustration flowing through our cursed veins. We expect texts from people who, ultimately, don’t text. We expect people to notice us, feel our absence. It is all a fairy-tale. No one cares enough. At least the people you want to do not. You feel like abandoning people. But people do not need you. You need them. It takes a moment to wrap our heads around it. But one day, we look at ourselves, and realize, that the only well that quenches our thirst is contaminated with cyanide. There is no escaping the poisoning, the pain, because the alternative is utter destruction. Sometimes, the cyanide is purely fictitious, a figment of the imagination. But it is all the same. You feel a burning rage towards your friends. You call them scum of the earth, even though all they are doing is failing to live up to the sky-high expectations that the person inside you set. 

But then again, all of this is before one opens the lid and look inside. All of these are simple iron pellets, shot at your body in preparation for the missile to come. You open yourself. Skin the flesh from the bone, rip the bone in half, and inside, there’s only Calcium. No feelings, no emotions, a person without a droplet of empathy. This is the body that you’ve been living inside for years. And imagine realizing that while you are alone, one day, when your life flashes by before your eyes, and the only thing you ever remember doing is hurting others. Hurting yourself. Thinking you are the best in the world. Building the lazy feaster whose body you would occupy one day. Imagine you distinctly remember the day it happened. Imagine that you cried for 4 hours straight. Imagine that the person you spent your whole life building is one that has personality dysphoria every night. A person that has developed the instinct to sit around and wait for things to happen. A person that cannot create order from the chaos he is given, and instead bathes in it, suffering in willingness, in complete submission to his self-annihilating nature. A person, who, in order to be forced to do something, has to be given the opportunity cost of severe physical or social penalties. One can only imagine it. Only those who have gone through it sit in front of a laptop at 1 a.m. and type it for the rest of the world to see. 

One would think this is saddening. It is not. There is a part inside. Like a mother that screams to her child that exams are in 10 days. That part sees the fire that is coming to burn the trees. It sees the eerie calm before the storm. But I have become numb to my sheer incompetence. It is a sort of expressionless torture. It is the stick you grab to beat yourself that you care you do not have the energy to put to use. It is the fire that you light to burn yourself to make yourself feel the weight to your wasted years that you do not even feel like jumping to. I would say I feel like a robot. But a robot is programmed to do what it is told. I don’t even do that either.   

The rotting mascot of a human being I made myself was stripped naked and put up on a humiliating exhibition. I decided that I can talk, and decided to open a page of my life that I want to burn with a lighter, rip slowly with my own fingers, as if to have the illusion that I’m causing it pain, drown it in cold, unforgiving water, and throw away in a lonely, isolated trash-bag. I decided to join debating. I don’t want to talk much about this part of my life(which still continues to this day though), because I know it way too well, and I feel like talking about it does no service to this exercise of self-therapy. 

I didn’t plan an end to this excerpt. This was a photograph of my journey to being the pathetic human I am. Happiness, purpose, drive, love, inclusion- I am tired of being told that these things will come to me. I am not that long-haired sweetheart with a stable relationship and a thousand-page manual on social dexterity. I am not that sweet, wholesome person that everyone ascribes a positive contribution to their lives onto. I am not a sailor with a map. I’m a warrior that does not know how to wield a sword. A “nerd” who doesn’t study. A debater who doesn’t practice. A person that has manufactured a personality that I’m forgetting how to keep up. I’m nothing. There is nothing inside. A defunct car that has been pitched as a speed beast by salesmen who do not know the inside. This isn’t a story. An excerpt. This is a diagnosis. A periscope view. Of my inside. A pathetic, void-consumed, meaningless inside. I thought I would feel better after writing this. Turns out my emptiness has just been replaced by more of it. 

[codynaomiswireart]

“Gauze in the Wound” - Part 10

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9

“Crying is all right in its way while it lasts.  But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you have to decide what to do.”

~ C. S. Lewis, The Silver Chair

“I cannot believe you fools!” the Commander shouted to the line of agents that stood at attention before him, most of them flinching back as he ranted on, and doing their best to keep their balance on the swaying deck beneath their feet as the ferry glided southward along Corona’s western coast.  “How!?  Tell me, HOW did some of Saporia’s top operatives manage to let a mere child slip right through their fingers!?  AND let themselves be bested by an old man!?”

“I’m right here you know,” Xavier muttered under his breath from where he sat chained to the mast, though no one around him took any notice of his comment.  Xavier tried to fight passed the cotton ball feeling inside of his mouth as he spoke, still feeling a bit heady from the sway of the ferry and the effects of the knockout formula he had been stung with shortly after the Separatists had cornered him in the alley behind the forge.  But even with these unpleasant sensations, Xavier couldn’t help but try to throw in a quip as he listened to the separatists quarrel amongst themselves.

“Well, maybe if someone thought to cover the back entrance instead of assuming the fences would’ve been enough to prevent any escape,” one of the lady agents snapped in the twins’ direction, “then maybe we would’ve gotten our prize!”

“Oh really!?” the lady spy hissed back through clenched teeth, her brother looking ready at any moment to restrain her from lunging at her accuser.  “Well, maybe if YOU hadn’t hesitated to knock out the old man when we first got into the forge, then maybe we would’ve had a chance to grab the kid before he even knew what was going down!”

Several more shouts and rebukes broke out amongst the line of agents, but were soon silenced as the Commander shouted, “ENOUGH!” and everyone’s mouths snapped shut as he rubbed and pinched the bridge of his nose in clear irritation.

“By the blades of our ancestors, I would be perfectly within my rights to throw the whole lot of you incompetent buffoons overboard right now!  This was supposed to be one of the most crucial missions ever pulled off in our lifetimes, and you all blew it!  Do you have any idea what this is going to cost our campaign now that our first real viable advantage over Corona is out of our reach!?”

“With respect sir,” the male spy now made to speak, not showing any fear as the Commander looked sternly back at him.  “Our mission was not a complete failure, and the Demanitus steel is not entirely out of our reach.  We did bring back one of the very blacksmiths who worked on the blade after all.”

“Aaaah yes.  Him.  Really!?  Do you really think he’ll actually be able to replicate the blade for us without the formula?”

“Oh he will,” the male spy continued, now eyeing Xavier with a sideways glance.  “That is, he will, if he wants to live.”

Xavier merely gave a knowing smile at this.  He had been expecting this kind of thing of course since his mind had cleared enough for him to realize where he was and what was happening.  “I’ll go ahead and make this easy for you right now,” Xavier said in reply, doing his best to sound assertive as all eyes turned to him and he swallowed to clear his throat, and shook his head to clear it a little more before speaking.  “You…you can do whatever you want to me, but…but I will n-never help you.  The steel and its formula belong to Corona, and I am the king’s man.  I would sooner die rather than help you.”

“Hmm…” the male spy hummed thoughtfully, now beginning to pace in front of Xavier as he laid a hand on the hilt of his sword.  “‘Tis very noble of you to say so master blacksmith.  I admire that, really.  It isn’t often that we are faced with such courage as yours.  However…”  Here the man drew his sword from its scabbard, pointing it at Xavier’s throat, but Xavier didn’t even flinch as he felt the tip of the cold steel touch his skin, and simply did his best to hold eye contact with the man as blinked away the salty sea air from his eyes.  “You may not be willing to help us if your life hangs in the balance.  But…what about if the boy’s was?”

Xavier raised his eyebrows at this, but did his best to not let his resolve falter as he asked, “And…what makes you think you can even threaten him now?  Varian is safe behind Corona’s walls.”

“Not as safe as you might think old man,” the male spy continued, pressing the sword a bit further to Xavier’s throat.  “We all know Corona’s security forces are stretched thin as it is, and Saporia has more than just a few spies and arsonists within her ranks.  Assassins, rogues, snipers, bounty hunters, mercenaries; we could easily employ someone to do the job to capture or take out a singular target like that.  If you refuse to cooperate.”

Xavier frowned at these words, trying hard to discern through his tired mind whether or not the man before him was exaggerating things.  Indeed, if Saporia had such skilled fighters at their beck and call, as the man seemed to suggest, then why hadn’t they taken out the king himself years ago and be done with things?  It didn’t make sense that the separatists would spend all this time skulking in the shadows en masse when a single skilled archer or infiltrator could’ve done the job years ago.

But the more Xavier thought about, the more complicated the situation actually was.  Saporia’s victory didn’t just depend on them taking out the king.  For indeed, though such an act would certainly be a hard blow to Corona, the position King Frederic left behind could simply be filled by Queen Arianna, or even by Rapunzel herself as the head of state if the worst should happen.  And the likelihood of carrying out three successful attempts on the lives of the royals (let alone one) would be virtually impossible, especially given the Captain’s own vigilance in keeping them all safe.  And what about the other nobles loyal to the king and his family?

No.  If Saporia was to win their underground war against Corona, they would have to ensure a total victory by a well-planned coup of the entire ruling government, or else a victory of conquest over her people by force.  It seemed that the remnants of Saporia’s fighting forces were actually considering the second option as a viable one, and having a whole battalion armed with Demanitus steel shields, armor and weapons would surely make this idea not so far-fetched as it may initially seem.

In short, so long as they could get the means by which to craft their own Demanitus steel weaponry – while also short-circuiting Corona’s ability to do so – the Separatists of Saporia stood a good chance of gaining an upper hand, and perhaps even eventually taking Corona by force.  This all depended then not only on the separatists having the formula for Demanitus steel, but also ensuring that those from Corona who knew how to make it were in their own charge…or else not able to craft it for Corona themselves.

“There’s still one problem,” Xavier now said, attempting to stifle the foreboding feeling growing in his chest as he thought about these things.  “What makes you think that I would still be willing to help you when Varian’s life – as well as all the others’ of Corona mind you – would be under threat still once you got a hold of this weaponry?  H-how much blood would have to be spilt in any event before you all are satisfied?”

“Do not insult us old man!” the man suddenly growled hard through clenched teeth as his eyes turned flinty.  But he also opted to draw away his sword and smartly slide it back into its sheath as he continued to speak.  “Contrary to popular Coronian beliefs master blacksmith, we Saporians are not savages!  We’re not out to decimate Corona’s population.  If they are willing to surrender quickly in light of whatever superior armament you craft for us, we of course will negotiate terms of peace with as little bloodshed as possible.  And once the royals are deposed, they may go on living in the dungeons or in exile.  But we refuse to stand by and let the already spilled blood of our ancestors be put to shame so long as Corona continues to exist.  Besides, it’s not like ol’ Fred has been that great of a king now, has he?  In fact, I seem to recall that it was due to his own negligence that Corona is currently in the straights that she’s in now.  What sort of a king would allow his kingdom to fall into such disarray before seeking out any solution, eh?”

Xavier was silent.  While he considered Frederic to be a good friend, he too honestly felt rather conflicted about how the king had handled the situation with the black rocks.  Especially after all the time he had spent with Varian and listening to him, Xavier knew that the king was certainly not blameless in all that transpired in the last several months.  To be sure, King Frederic could’ve done much better by his people, and even by Rapunzel herself when it came down to it.

But overthrowing King Frederic?  That was absurd!  Frederic had a lot to answer for, yes, and he wasn’t out of the woods yet by any means.  But after the Battle of Old Corona, he had been trying to rectify things to the best of his ability, had allowed Rapunzel to go on her quest to find a solution to the rocks that plagued the landscape (not only in Corona but also in lands beyond), and had also provided the financial and material means by which they made the successful Demanitus steel in the first place.  Despite his disappointments in him, Xavier knew that doing anything that would hurt King Frederic and his family like this was not the answer, whatever the separatists (or Varian himself) may have thought about it. 

“I can see you need some time to think this over,” the man towering over him finally said.  “You can give us your answer later on once we make landfall in Equis.  For now, perhaps it’s best for you to sleep on it.”

With that, the man gave a quick snap of his fingers, and Xavier felt a quick sting in the side of his neck once again before his world faded into a cloudy black.

Andrew glared daggers at the assembly before him as he was brought into the conference room for the emergency meeting being held by the king.  As the only known member of the Separatists of Saporia currently held captive in the castle, Andrew was of course brought in for interrogation concerning the attack on the capital earlier that night.  Not that he knew anything about it of course (as far as his brethren were concerned, he was as good for them for the time being as a captured pawn was on a grand chessboard), but his presence had been insisted upon nonetheless.

The meeting had yet to officially begin, so for the moment everyone present was abuzz talking to each other about all that had transpired that night, though Andrew did notice that the kid (in handcuffs like himself) who sat right beside him seemed to have been left out of the conversation.  Though in looking at the kid’s demeanor, it was probably for the best, or else the boy preferred it that way.  The kid sat with his elbows braced up on the table, his hands clasped together in front of him, and his forehead leaning against them with his eyes shut, as if in prayer and/or deep, worried thought.  Going by the flushed color of the boy’s cheeks, it looked as if he had just got done having a good cry or breakdown or something some minutes before, though he was still and silent now – taking deep breathes in and out, as the raccoon perched on his shoulders moved up and down slightly in tandem with the motion, occasionally nudging at the boy’s cheeks with his nose or one of his forepaws in comfort.  Andrew had of course heard by now of the emotionally unstable alchemist that had caused the king a whole lot of trouble a few months ago, and Andrew heard that he had been quite young, but he didn’t realize just how young.

“Tch!  What a cry baby,” Andrew couldn’t help but think to himself in disgust as he looked down the kid, who was oblivious to (or deliberately ignoring) any curious eyes that watched him.  “Why’s he here anyway?” Andrew wondered.  He knew the kid wasn’t on the best of terms with the royal family.  Could he have somehow been involved in the attack?  Perhaps if he was an ally, they could find a way to escape together!  Goodness knows being imprisoned here in Corona was dull beyond belief.

“So, some night, huh kid?” Andrew began, attempting to strike up a conversation to hopefully get some information from him, though also being conscientious of the guards that stood directly behind the two of them.  “Man though, it’s about time we had some excitement around here.  The dungeons were getting super dull I have to say.  Not like this meeting is going to be much better, but at least they had the decency to have refreshments on the table.  The name’s Andrew by the way!  And you are?”

But the boy didn’t move, and gave no indication that he even heard Andrew, though his raccoon puffed up a little in defense from where he stood balanced on his master’s shoulders.

“Hey!” Andrew tried again, a bit louder this time. “I asked you a question!”

“Hey, leave him alone!” the guard who Andrew recognized as Pete barked at him from where he stood behind the kid’s chair.  Still, the kid did not move, and now his raccoon gave a low growl at Andrew’s probing.  But Andrew didn’t pay any heed to that.  (“Why would they let the kid keep such a pesky animal around anyway?” he wondered, though he kept that much to himself.)

“Fine.  Don’t talk to me.  Whatever,” Andrew said tersely.  “Though didn’t your parents ever teach you that it’s impolite to ignore your elders?”

 Andrew couldn’t help but feel a small chill go through him as now he finally got a reaction.  It wasn’t a large reaction by any means, but it was very deliberate.  At these words, the boy turned to give him a sideways glare out of the shadow behind his long dark bands, and Andrew was sure that if looks could kill, he would’ve been a dead man where he sat as he saw the look in those icy blue, pink-rimmed eyes.  But the moment quickly passed as without a word the kid merely went back to his original posture, once again still and breathing steadily, his eyes closed. 

“Ugh, what I weirdo,” Andrew muttered under his breath, knowing Varian would’ve heard him, and getting another sharp word from Pete to be silent.

…But Varian didn’t care.  He didn’t have the energy to care, for shortly after getting the news about Xavier’s capture, Varian had been quickly escorted to one of the bathrooms, where he proceeded behind closed doors to completely fall apart.  It was embarrassing to him, in retrospect, but at the time so much had happened so fast that it seemed to be the only appropriate response.  Varian now swallowed hard, still tasting the last of the bile that lingered at the back of his throat, and tried his hardest to recollect himself as Xavier had taught him.

Xavier…

Finally, things started happening as the meeting was called to order, and Varian listened keenly to everything that was said, and was asked to give his testimony on what had happened at the forge.  Though he looked a tired mess, Varian was able to give his account in a relatively steady manner, and though his voiced hitched a bit when he talked about Xavier being left behind as he ran to get help at the castle, he was surprisingly unemotional as he gave the facts of what had happened.  As he sat back down after relating his side of what happened, Varian was startled as the strange prisoner beside him was then asked to answer the assembly’s questions on account of him being one of the Saporian separatists.

“All right then Hubert-” the Captain began.

“Please,” the man interrupted with a smug expression.  “I prefer Andrew if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, and we’re calling you Hubert,” the Captain retorted back, giving Varian the feeling that there was a bitterness between the two men that ran deeper than the usual hostility between the Captain and the other prisoners.  “Now, as we were saying, Hubert, your associates have taken one of our citizens captive, and they made off with him on one of the merchant ferries located at the docks-”

“One of my ferries!” Nazeem suddenly snapped from his place at the table.  “And if you don’t give us the information we need to get it back, so help me I’ll see to it that you pay for its loss!”

Varian frowned hard at this statement.  Of course the self-centered merchant would be more concerned with the loss of his property than the potential loss of life of one of Corona’s most beloved citizens.  So much for his apologies yesterday.

“Nazeem, please!” King Frederic said in response.  “We’ll get around to talking about the damages done during the attack, but we have other priorities to attend to first.  Please, continue Captain.”

The Captain nodded, turning again to Andrew.  “Now listen here Hubert, we need you to tell us where your associates have taken the captive in question.  As a separatist yourself, you must know where they’re headed with him.  Cooperate with us, and we may see about lessening your sentence here to the dungeons.”

Varian’s blood began to boil as Andrew merely shrugged in response to this question.  “What makes you think I must know where they’ve taken him?  I haven’t received any communication from my comrades since I’ve been incarcerated here.”

“But you must know where their base of operations is,” the Captain growled at him.

“Eh.  Sometimes it’s here.  Sometimes it’s there.  Would be pretty stupid for us to stay in one spot for very long now wouldn’t it?  And hey, if they’ve gone out to sea, you pretty much have no chance of tracking them once they’re out of Coronian waters.  Tch!  If you ask me, I’d say you’re guy’s as good as dea- Gaah!” 

Suddenly, at that moment, before anyone could register what was happening or do anything about it, Andrew felt himself get grabbed harshly by the front of the shirt, and came face to face with a very infuriated Varian.

“DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE!” Varian all but screamed in his face.  “TELL US WHERE THEY’VE TAKEN HIM RIGHT NOW YOU SCUMBAG OR I’LL-!”

But Varian too was interrupted as Pete and the other guards present pulled the two men apart, for by now Andrew had quickly recovered from his shock and would’ve taken a swing at Varian (and likely Varian would’ve retaliated) had the guards not intervened and dragged them both away from each other and away from the table, their respective chains clinking together noisily in the scuffle.

“EVERYONE, PLEASE!” King Frederic bellowed over the din, everyone going still, though both Varian and Andrew breathed hard as they glowered at one another from their corners of the room.

“Varian, we do not tolerate such violent outbursts in this court!”

Though still shaking with rage, Varian did look down at the floor, genuinely ashamed.  He had let his temper get the better of him again, and he knew Xavier wouldn’t have liked that.  So much for trying to be the “noble opponent.”

“Kid’s as crazy as Cassandra,” Varian heard Andrew hiss under his breath, earning a hard glare from the Captain in response.  Ah.  So that explained things a bit.

“Captain,” the king now said as Queen Arianna looked up at him with concern from where she had remained seated, “I think it would be best of Varian returned to his chambers for the evening.  We can discuss more about his actions later after we’re done here.”

“I agree your majesty,” the Captain concurred.  “Pete, if you would please?”

“Right away sir,” Pete replied with a brief salute, and took Varian firmly by the upper arm as he made to bring him back to his room, and the two of them and Ruddiger could here Andrew’s interrogation resume behind them as they left the meeting hall.

There was a long, awkward silence as Pete escorted Varian back through the hallways of the castle towards his room.  Through the windows they passed by, Varian could see the first traces of the sky turning lighter after such a long, hard, and dark night.  Definitely one of the worst of his life. 

Andrew couldn’t be right.  He couldn’t be!  There had to be some way to get Xavier back!  But Varian knew they were running out of time, and judging by the destruction and sabotage that had occurred around the city, on the docks, and on the other sizeable sailing vessels, it would be quite a while before Corona would be able to spare and muster any sort of viable fighting force to go and get him back.  Especially with so many of their troops divided between the capital and Old Corona…though Varian fought to not think about that too much.  That couldn’t be helped now.

So, what were they to do?  Once again, Varian was left with a horrible feeling of helplessness, and of being alone.  Given all that had happened, it was most likely that the city would go into lockdown for the next several days (or perhaps even the next week), and all energy would be spent aiding the local townsfolk, securing the city, and making repairs on everything that had been damaged.  All right and practical of course, but was there nothing Varian himself could do now?  Wasn’t there anything he could possibly-?

Suddenly, Varian’s eyes went wide as he remembered something.

When he had been brought back into the castle earlier that night, the guards had taken the sword and the formula packet from him to be put in the Captain’s office…but they hadn’t bothered to frisk his pockets.

As casually as he could, Varian laid a few fingers on the outside of one of his pockets, wondering if he was remembering things correctly.  But as he felt the slight bulge in his right hand pocket, he knew he was indeed recalling correctly.

His hachimaki was still tucked away in his pocket!

[“I know it’s only a little thing, but perhaps it may be of some help to you in the days ahead.”]

“…Well…I do know one thing I could do with it,” Varian thought to himself, though cringing slightly at the idea that began to form in his head (and knowing it probably wasn’t what Xavier had in mind when he said those words to Varian).  But if Xavier was to have any chance of being returned to them, Varian had to take action, and soon.

It was going to have to be now, or never.

“Hey, listen Varian,” Pete finally said as they came to the door of Varian’s room and he proceeded to unlock it.  “I…I just want you to know that…we’re all really sorry.  Really.  I mean, Xavier’s always been a good friend to all of us, and…well, if we could go after him right away we would, but…you see-”

“It’s ok Pete,” Varian replied, earning a look of utter surprise from the guard at his reply (and for hearing Varian speak his name for the very first time).

“Uh…what?” Pete asked again as he and Varian both went in to the room, and Varian waited patiently with his hands held out in fists before him as Pete unlocked the cuffs from around Varian’s wrists. 

“It’s ok,” Varian repeated.  “I…I know you all have your responsibilities and reasons for doing what you do, and…it’s ok.”

Pete blinked down at Varian, thoroughly confused by how well Varian suddenly seemed to be taken things, especially after such an enraged outburst only moments ago, but he also detected a genuine sincerity in the alchemists words and expression.

“Oh…uh, well, I-I’m glad you…well, I’m glad you understand Varian.  Though believe me when, none of us want…I mean, we all want to-”

“And I also have mine,” Varian suddenly said, and before Pete could so much as let out a yelp of alarm, Varian had opened up his clasped fists, revealing the hachimaki he had been holding taught between them.  In a series of movements so calculated that Pete could barely register what was happening, Varian had wrapped one of the guard’s wrists up in the strip of cloth, gave it a strong and harsh tug, and the world suddenly turned head over heels as Pete found himself rolling helplessly over Varian’s crouched form, and then found himself gasping for breath as Varian had decked him, leaving the poor guard winded on the floor for a good few seconds. 

(Apparently, the guards’ previous concerns about Varian getting just a bit too strong for their comfort were not so unsound after all...) 

As Pete scrambled to get back up, Varian quickly swiped the keys from where Pete had dropped them on the floor, and scooping up Ruddiger in his arms.  Varian then quickly darted out of the room and shut the door behind him, locking Pete inside behind him.

“H-hey!” Pete said between coughs and gasps for air, and banging his fists on the door.  “What-what’re you doing Varian!?  Y-you can’t-!”

“I’m sorry Pete,” Varian said hastily through the thick wood of the door as he unlocked the chained leash from around Ruddigers neck, and then proceeded to run back down the castle’s empty corridor, tying the hachimaki tightly around his forehead as Ruddiger ran close at his heels.

“…But I can’t lose anyone else.”

[bmthrive2018-blog]

CON - GO ?

The Democratic Republic of Congo is potentially one of the richest countries on earth, but colonialism, slavery and corruption have turned it into one of the poorest. Bloodiest conflict since World War II is still rumbling on today. It is a war in which more than five million people have died, millions more have been driven to the brink by starvation and disease and several million women and girls have been raped.

The Great War of Africa, a conflagration that has sucked in soldiers and civilians from nine nations and countless armed rebel groups, has been fought almost entirely inside the borders of one unfortunate country - The Democratic Republic of Congo.

Many of the country's mining operations are connected to the waters of the mighty Congo River. It is a place seemingly blessed with every type of mineral, yet consistently rated lowest on the UN Human Development Index, where even the more fortunate live in grinding poverty. 

“I went to the Congo this summer to find out what it was about the country's past that had delivered it into the hands of unimaginable violence and anarchy.The journey that I went on, through the Congo's abusive history, while travelling across its war-torn present, was the most disturbing experience of my career. I met rape victims, rebels, bloated politicians and haunted citizens of a country that has ceased to function - people who struggle to survive in a place cursed by a past that defies description, a history that will not release them from its death-like grip. The Congo's apocalyptic present is a direct product of decisions and actions taken over the past five centuries.” - As stated by an author.

In the late 15th Century an empire known as the Kingdom of Kongo dominated the western portion of the Congo, and bits of other modern states such as Angola. It was sophisticated, had its own aristocracy and an impressive civil service.

When Portuguese traders arrived from Europe in the 1480s, they realized they had stumbled upon a land of vast natural wealth, rich in resources - particularly human flesh. The Congo was home to a seemingly inexhaustible supply of strong, disease-resistant slaves. The Portuguese quickly found this supply would be easier to tap if the interior of the continent was in a state of anarchy. They did their utmost to destroy any indigenous political force capable of curtailing their slaving or trading interests. Money and modern weapons were sent to rebels, Kongolese armies were defeated, kings were murdered, elites slaughtered and secession was encouraged.

By the 1600s, the once-mighty kingdom had disintegrated into a leaderless, anarchy of mini- states locked in endemic civil war. Slaves, victims of this fighting, flowed to the coast and were carried to the Americas. About four million people were forcibly embarked at the mouth of the Congo River. English ships were at the heart of the trade. British cities and merchants grew rich on the back of Congolese resources they would never see.

This first engagement with Europeans set the tone for the rest of the Congo's history. Development has been stifled, government has been weak and the rule of law non-existent. This was not through any innate fault of the Congolese, but because it has been in the interests of the powerful to destroy, suppress and prevent any strong, stable, legitimate government. That would interfere - as the Kongolese had threatened to interfere before - with the easy extraction of the nation's resources. The Congo has been utterly cursed by its natural wealth. The Congo is a massive country, the size of Western Europe.

Stanley's expeditions opened up the Congo for exploitation by King Leopold

Limitless water, from the world's second-largest river, the Congo, a benign climate and rich soil make it fertile, beneath the soil abundant deposits of copper, gold, diamonds, cobalt, uranium, coltan and oil are just some of the minerals that should make it one of the world's richest countries. Instead it is the world's most hopeless.

The interior of the Congo was opened up in the late 19th Century by the British-born explorer Henry Morton Stanley, his dreams of free trading associations with communities he met were shattered by the infamous King of the Belgians, Leopold, who hacked out a vast private empire. Congo rubber was in high demand after the pneumatic tyre appeared on the market in 1888 The world's largest supply of rubber was found at a time when bicycle and automobile tyres, and electrical insulation, had made it a vital commodity in the West. The late Victorian bicycle craze was enabled by Congolese rubber collected by slave labourers. To tap it, Congolese men were rounded up by a brutal Belgian-officered security force, their wives were interned to ensure compliance and were brutalised during their captivity. The men were then forced to go into the jungle and harvest the rubber. Disobedience or resistance was met by immediate punishment - flogging, severing of hands, and death. Millions perished.

Tribal leaders capable of resisting were murdered, indigenous society decimated, proper education denied. A culture of rapacious, barbaric rule by a Belgian elite who had absolutely no interest in developing the country or population was created, and it has endured. In a move supposed to end the brutality, Belgium eventually annexed the Congo outright, but the problems in its former colony remained. Mining boomed, workers suffered in appalling conditions, producing the materials that fired industrial production in Europe and America.

Uranium used to construct the atomic bomb was sourced from Congo In World War I men on the Western Front and elsewhere did the dying, but it was Congo's minerals that did the killing. The brass casings of allied shells fired at Passchendaele and the Somme were 75% Congolese copper. In World War II, the uranium for the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki came from a mine in south-east Congo. Western freedoms were defended with Congo's resources while black Congolese were denied the right to vote, or form unions and political associations. They were denied anything beyond the most basic of educations.

They were kept at an infantile level of development that suited the rulers and mine owners but made sure that when independence came there was no home-grown elite who could run the country.

In 1997 an alliance of neighboring African states, led by Rwanda - which was furious Mobutu's Congo was sheltering many of those responsible for the 1994 genocide - invaded, after deciding to get rid of Mobutu. A Congolese exile, Laurent Kabila, was dredged up in East Africa to act as a figurehead. Mobutu's cash-starved army imploded, its leaders, incompetent cronies of the president, abandoning their men in a mad dash to escape.

Mobutu took off one last time from his jungle Versailles, his aircraft packed with valuables, his own unpaid soldiers firing at the plane as it lumbered into the air. The country has collapsed, roads no longer link the main cities, healthcare depends on aid and charity

Rwanda had effectively conquered its titanic neighbour with spectacular ease. Once installed however, Kabila, Rwanda's puppet, refused to do as he was told. Again Rwanda invaded, but this time they were just halted by her erstwhile African allies who now turned on each other and plunged Congo into a terrible war. Foreign armies clashed deep inside the Congo as the paper-thin state collapsed totally and anarchy spread. Hundreds of armed groups carried out atrocities, millions died.

Ethnic and linguistic differences fanned the ferocity of the violence, while control of Congo's stunning natural wealth added a terrible urgency to the fighting. Forcibly conscripted child soldiers corralled armies of slaves to dig for minerals such as coltan, a key component in mobile phones, the latest obsession in the developed world, while annihilating enemy communities, raping women and driving survivors into the jungle to die of starvation and disease.

The Congo is a land far away, yet our histories are so closely linked. We have thrived from a lopsided relationship, yet we are utterly blind to it. The price of that myopia has been human suffering on an unimaginable scale.

Task in Hand:

Component I: You are required to form a party of our own and run the election campaign for the democratic republic of Congo.

Deliverables:

1. A report of not more than 15 pages with the following :

Party Name, Logo and Taglines.

President and Cabinet Profile.

Goals and Objectives of your party.

Strategy to take down the current government.

Attack and Defense Strategies (Political not military)

Marketing Strategies for your party

PR Strategies

Proposed Alliances for trade and supply chain for the same

Detailed Financials

2. A PPT of not more than 7 slides

3. Two Print Ads

Component II: You have now won the election and have pledged to make Congo great. Your task as the prime minister of the country is to devise policies to make the country that it should be.

Deliverables:

A presidential speech of 3 minutes which must cover the following:

Government Goals and Objectives.

Government Policies.

Priorities set by the government.

Measures to deal with corruption.

New Laws Formed.

Future Prospects.

Deadline: 

The deadline for submission of the report is 1:00 PM tomorrow, Hard copies only. 

A PPT of not more than 5 slides must made for the presidential speech.

[grimmseye]

After The Fact

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou

Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Fat Gum (Brief)

Other Tags: Set immediately after the current arc, Hurt Kirishima (Physical and Emotional), Bakugou Doesn’t Know How To Handle Emotions, Hurt/Comfort

(A note: You know, the adults in this world are incredibly irresponsible. Letting fifteen year old newbie heroes-in-training participate in this kind of rescue, resulting in at least one of them getting beaten within an inch of his life...)

Read on Ao3 here

— — — —

They come back late at night. 

Two days. They’d been gone for two days: Uraraka, Tsuyu, Deku. A couple of upper classmen, too. Aizawa-sensei. 

Kirishima. 

The class did not know the details beyond this: their classmates were helping the pro heroes. They would not be updated any further. It was a murmur of excitement, some jealousy — “Man,” Kaminari laments, “Kirishima’s been getting all the fame, huh?” So much for having a weak, style-less quirk. Kirishima didn’t need flashy: he was strong as hell on his own. 

So was, apparently, Deku. Enough that they, fucking freshmen heroes in training, were chosen to go on a mission with pros. That should have been Bakugou. The upperclassmen make sense. Aizawa, too, and hell he can even respect Uraraka and Kirishima and Tsuyu being there cause, yeah, they’re pretty damn good at what they do.

But Deku. 

He doesn’t know what to think about Deku any longer. There’s this knee-jerk disgust and need to snarl and bite and tear into him and reduce him to bloody shreds because how the fuck is Deku there but not Bakugou. 

But that’s not what matters right now. 

A quarter before one in the morning, Bakugou gets out of bed. He knows that the teachers are alerted when the doors open past curfew, but hell if he’s going to let that stop him. Those fuckers are back — he knows because he saw them clambering out of a truck together, and he can recognize Deku’s obnoxious fucking hair from a mile away. 

No one comes to stop him, anyway. They must be too damn busy giving a hero’s welcome to bother with some kid sneaking out late at night. Bakugou sneers. He’d going to find out what’s going on if he has to beat it out of Kirishima. The asshole had his lips sealed tight up until he fucked off for the last two days. Didn’t even say a god damn word. 

Outside, it’s cold. The air is still. He should have brought a jacket, but it’s too late now, so Bakugou trudges onwards in nothing but his shoes and pajamas towards the front of the school. There are voices, low, impossible to make out their words, but enough to tell him the majority of the faculty is up. Something big had happened. 

His eyes find Deku first. He looks somehow more pathetic than usual, small and beaten, though not physically. He’s sitting beside that piece of shit that decimated the entire freshman class: lemon million or some other bullshit name like that, Bakugou doesn’t really care. 

He drags his eyes away from Deku before he starts to feel sick. There are Uraraka and Tsuyu. The upperclassman that stuttered worse than Deku. Aizawa. 

Where was... 

He didn’t see him immediately, because Kirishima was bright and loud and colorful in Bakugou’s mind. It was hard to take that image of him and place it into what he was seeing. But, it was absolutely Kirishima. Hair down, and sitting in a wheelchair. A man Bakugou didn’t recognize was holding onto his chair, tall and twiggy. A build like All Might’s, but with actual muscle on his bones. 

His heart stuttered before Bakugou stormed forward. Uraraka was the first to notice him, gasping and going, “Hey—!”

“Not now,” he growled, clipping her with his shoulder as she tried to stop him. She didn’t really try, actually. She was smarter than to get in the way of Bakugou’s warpath. 

The teachers took notice of him next, a collective babble of his name and scolding and “What’s he doing?” “Someone get him out of here.” 

“It’s fine.” Aizawa’s weary voice broke out over them all. “He’s here for his friend, let him be.”

It was a sensation Bakugou had never felt towards a teacher. Something warm and pleasant, yet at the same time it left him feeling he couldn’t breathe. To be fair, gratitude wasn’t something he felt much at all. He’d stomp it down later.

“Hey,” he barked, catching the tall-skinny-muscled guy’s attention. His body looked weird, like there were gaps where there shouldn’t be. Stretch marks, too, visible even in the low light. Bakugou ignored him. “Shitty-hair.” 

Kirishima raised his head, lethargically slow. He looked a wreck: his skin was discolored, scratched and scuffed. There were faint lines that suggested Recovery Girl or someone with a similar quirk had already gotten to him. The fact that he was still in a fucking wheelchair didn’t spell anything good. “B-Bakugou?” He asked. Even his voice came out slow.

“Easy there, Riot.” The skinny fucker set a hand on his shoulder. He gave Bakugou a look that was as curious as critical. “He needs t’ rest, kid. You his friend?”

“I’m —” Bakugou grimaced, eyes flickering to Kirishima. “Yes, whatever. The fuck happened?”

Kirishima gave a shaky laugh. “I got my ass handed to me,” he said, a hint of shame in his voice that Bakugou despised. 

“What he means,” skinny fucker cut in, teeth stretching into a grin, “‘s that he saved my ass. Took a beating that was blowing right through my armor and lasted long enough to turn the tides.”

Kirishima mumbled, ducking his head in what Bakugou knew to be bashfulness. “That sounds more like it,” he snorted. “I’ll take the fucker. He needs to get to the med bay.”

“Right you are.” The man’s face shifted, regarding Bakugou with approval. “What’s yer name, kid?”

“Does it fucking matter?” He shouldered his way in to grab the handles of Kirishima’s wheelchair. “Bakugou.”

“Ooooh yer that kid. Shoulda guessed Riot would hang with the wild types.” The man gave a quiet, fond laugh. “I’m Fat Gum, by the way. I know it’s hard ta believe right now, but gimme a week ‘r two and I’ll be back at full health. An’ take care a’ Riot for me. I’ll be back to visit you as soon as I’m done with this mess, ‘kay, hero?” His voice softened, the last words directed at Kirishima.

He got a mumbled, “Mmmmkay,” before Bakugou decided he’d had enough with the sappy bullshit and wheeled him away. 

“So ‘m I being interrogated?” Kirishima yawned.

Bakugou looked down at him. When he passed the doors, the fluorescent lights filtering over them from above, he could really get a look at how beat up Kirishima was. His chest was a mottling of bruises. His arms were bandaged from the wrists up to the shoulders. It looked like all he’d received was a step above emergency first aid after the healing quirk took effect. “Later,” he grumbled at last. “You look too braindead to answer shit.”

“Sssounds good.” His head lolled, but he didn’t seem to be going to sleep. 

When they reached the med bay, Bakugou wheeled him right up to a bed. His first attempt to lift Kirishima left him gasping, recoiling from Bakugou’s touch. Bakugou jerked his hands away. “Fuck! Jesus christ, Shitty-Hair!”

“Sorry!” He breathed out, lowering his arms from the protective cross over his torso. “There’s just. A lot of damage.”

“God just fucking tell me before I — shit.” He clenched his jaw. “Does it not hurt anywhere?”

Kirishima thought on it for a moment. “Um. No?”

Perfect. 

“Okay, well I need to get you up in the fucking bed so just grit your goddamn teeth.” He didn’t know how to get someone into a bed without hurting him. That wasn’t his fucking job. Where the hell was Recovery Girl — had the idiots outside not thought to wake her up? 

It was an awkward sort of shuffling, but Bakugou managed to get one arm under Kirishima’s legs and the other beneath his arms. Kirishima hissed and whimpered and Bakugou’s stomach twisted but he got him into the bed. The instant he let go, Kirishima was curling in on himself, trembling.

“God, this is pathetic,” Kirishima groaned out, voice shaking. “Not manly at all.”

“Your entire body is bruised,” Bakugou snapped back. “Shut the fuck up, it’s going to hurt, don’t act like you’re supposed to be tougher than that or some bullshit.”

Kirishima blinked at him. His eyes were a bit glassy. “You’re, um. Giving me some mixed signals here."

Bakugou grumbled. He searched the area of the bed, looking for the — there. He jabbed the ‘Call Nurse’ button a couple dozen times and hoped it would get someone up off their incompetent ass. He was gonna track them down and blow them to kingdom come otherwise — after they gave Kirishima some painkillers. 

He set about thieving the pillows from other beds to shove beneath Kirishima’s head. Then pushed another bed right up against Kirishima’s and hopped in cause fuck if he was just gonna sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair while the doctors took their sweet ass time. 

“So you got beat to a fucking pulp,” Bakugou stated. 

Kirishima wilted. “Yeah. I wasn’t. I broke. I mean, my quirk did, it wasn’t strong enough. I had to keep layering on more and more just to withstand it all.”

He gave the redhead a furious look, snapping, “So? That sounds pretty fucking tenacious to me. ‘My skin fucking shattered so I just hardened the next layer so that could shatter too’ do you even fucking listen to yourself? Like anyone else would have the fucking guts to stay on their feet pulling that.” He crossed his arms. Kirishima was so incredibly fucking stupid. It was an insult to himself and to Bakugou for god’s sake.

“I guess that’s... another way of putting it.” Kirishima’s voice was soft. His fingers were clenching and unclenching. “I kept thinking of you, you know. About what you’ve said in the past, about my quirk, about what makes a hero strong.”

“In the middle of a fight?” 

Kirishima gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Like, I could hear your voice, telling me to push harder. I guess that sounds weird, doesn’t it. Hearing voices and stuff...” 

In, out. His fingers curled and released, trembling with the strain. Bakugou growled under his breath and snatched his hand. “Quit that,” he huffed. “It hurts, doesn’t it? And quit worrying about useless shit in general, like if you heard my voice telling you to get off your ass then congratu-fucking-lations. It worked, didn’t it?”

It was a little pleasing, too. Kirishima latching onto his words, remembering them in the middle of a fight. He at least had the intelligence to understand Bakugou’s words for what they meant. 

Kirishima’s hand was limp in his own. When Bakugou went to pull away, he made a quiet noise, fingers twitching until he stopped. 

Even his breaths were raspy. Whatever beating he’d taken was enough to crack his armor — who knew what it had broken underneath? 

“We were saving a little girl.”

Kirishima’s rasp trickled into the silence. Bakugou looked up at him again, but his eyes were distant. “Her dad was using her blood to make that quirk-elimination drug. He would force her to do it. And if she didn’t listen, he’d hurt her. It didn’t matter how far he went cause he can put bodies back together.” His jaw started to tremble. “Isn’t that disgusting? How could — how could a parent — how could anyone —” 

His voice broke. Bakugou didn’t know what to do. There were tears sliding down his face, hitching, aborted breaths in his chest. 

“You saved her, didn’t you?” Bakugou said more than asked. 

"We did.” Kirishima choked out the words. “But — but how —”

“That’s why you’re a god damn hero, isn’t it?” Bakugou held his hand the way one would a baby bird. A squeeze too tight and...

It was so strange to think of Kirishima as something delicate. But god, he was. His body, in this moment. But it was his heart more than anything, exposed no matter how tough his armor, always too ready to feel and to love and to hurt. He was going to destroy himself this way, but Bakugou didn’t know how to make him stop, so he just kept Kirishima’s hand in his own. Maybe it would keep him from crumbling into pieces. Maybe it would be enough.