#Miles: I want to be in the military in theory. in practice I want to do whatever I want forever

[clonerightsagenda]

LISTEN I understand that Miles is obsessed with joining the military because he was born into a military caste, he's constantly hearing about his parents' military exploits, and also everyone told him he couldn't, but he's incapable of following orders because as soon as someone tells him to do something he's like "what if I did something better though". He has absolutely no respect for the chain of command and is mostly loyal to the emperor because they're kind of bros. This kid does not belong in the military. Even spec ops is pushing it. Take the L before you get court martialed for real, buddy. Nepotism can only save you so many times.

[onesheeptwosheepandachicken]

There’s something that I just remembered about critics/rewrites that say that they find RWBY “disappointing”. And something that I don’t get is “how?” What exactly did ANY of them want in the first place that isn’t some vague, generic answer, like waning it to be just whatever constitutes as “good” in their eyes? Or try to say they wanted “Monty’s Vision” when they either A.) never met the guy or actually worked on the show themselves ever or B.) seemed to have hated the show when he was alive. What is your perspective on why RWBY has gotten the reputation and reception that it has gotten since day 1?

1. They don’t like that their “male” favorites aren’t worshipped. Adam , when shown in the black trailer? was “cool”...to where they completed ignored he was willing to blow up innocent passengers. They ignored him dismissing the death of his men in mount glenn. they dismissed his attacking unarmed civilians in v3...they only started complaining when he and blake first interact...never mind that he was evil and had no redeeming qualities...they only looked for what they wanted to imagine...because the real adam was a jerk, they were upset that their fantasy was not the same as canon. Qrow trying to give up alcoholism? oh no, he’s no longer “relatable”? Ironwood being authoritarian is bad? oh no, we cannot believe in our idea of executive power/privilege.

2. when I joined during volume 4, the qrow worship was at an all time high.the words of monty and the writers were considered to be liars if it got in the way of ships and theories...one woman used mental retardation insults towards anyone trying to debunk the qrow is rubys father theory....when miles debunked it? he was called a liar by so many. So now the desire to believe that the writers are lying for the sake of one’s ship or theory became an obsession to the qrow fanatics.  if you don’t like what happens in the show? just call the writers liars or scream retcon...doesn’t mean its true, but the people will swallow up a lie in favor of accepting reality.

3. RWBY up to the end of v3 took place in a school setting where people using jaune to promote their OC male protagonist fanfics could have.  the jaune-centric fanfic writers who loves making jaune the protagonist..or adam? when volume 4 started, the plot moved beyond school to become a worldbuilding series, encompassing the four kingdoms...so people could no longer have their school fantasy setting. So they had to adapt to the actual setting of the show.

4. With Monty’s death of course, if something did not go the way a “fan” wanted? Adam being evil or dead, Blacksun not happening, Taiyang being Ruby’s father, Raven being a deadbeat mom who’s leader of  a tribe of killers and thieves? No matter what Monty said in life...dead man cannot debunk lies...so using a dead man’s name to defend your accusations against a studio became another practice.

5. Vic Micnogna...despite funimation and conventions firing him...double standards led his fanbois and fangirls to blame RT...After Shane left, the idea of claming RT rules with an iron fist became another practice. So RWBY and Roosterteeth became subject to double standards...anything anime or studios do that get a pass? RT and RWBY become villified for. Example? RWBY has about 100 characters...most anime have over 300...yet RWBY is accused of having too many, while most anime get a complete and utter pass.

6. Military and authoritarian support....America, not FMA but America, is a country where there is a love of militarism and executive power...where one person holds all the power. RWBY is where four councils hold the power...and where Huntsmen are NOT soldiers...they are NOT the mlitary...freelance contractors with a noble cause...so they are NOT like “Shinobi” from naruto or “shinigami” from bleach where everyone is militarized and obeys a central authority figure... Ironwood who controls both the military and the huntsmen, and tries to merge both, shows that atlas fails miserably in terms of its military... and yet people love the idea of one individual holding power if he’s cool enough... for all the hatred and problems of capitalism? the hatred of robyn hill and her attempts to defend the downtrodden of atlas gets ignored in favor of defending anything the atlas military does. RWBY is anti-military and anti-capitalism....qrow and glynda both call out atlas and ironwood...

7. Ironwood...sigh...in volume 2 he brought a MILITARY ARMY to vale during a time of peace...that’s like nazi germany bringing an army to austria during the olympics....also in volume 2? he went behind ozpin’s back to tell the council to fire ozpin...what did ironwood say afterwards ? “you brought this upon yourself”...he demands trust from others, but refuses to show trust in others..glynda calls him out on this...volume 3, he conducts military projects, aka penny, refuses to reveal her identity to ozpin, and treats her as a machine, even telling her not to make friends...people say that volume 8 he “suddenly became a villain”...did everyone forget him literally abusing his two council seats in volume 4? Jacques schnee of all people telling him to get a grip? how many people have “good intentions” but are still tyrants? An Anti-villain

8. Raven....they wanted her to be an anti-hero....that she had a “good reason” a “morally justifiable” reason for abandoning yang and taiyang... but raven being scared of salem and wanting to save her own skin? the bandit tribe being killers and thieves? oh no, raven was actually a bad person? noo, their fantasy of what they wanted her to be was ruined by what she actually was....so again, rather than face reality, they scream bad writing..

10.money and clout...youtube algorithms benefit from hate...and people make money and popularity off hating the show and its writers...making money off trashing CRWBY has become popular...so has gaining fame of hating.

11...RWBY is a show about four female protagonists...and yet people are so obsessed with the men...next, they’re angry that the women do not conform to their wants/expectations...they get mad that their headcanons are not canon...they get mad that they cannot fantasize a woman being straight...there’s a hardcore qrowxsummer shipper whose a VA...while I commission malexmale and femalexfemale fanart and fancomcis, that dude commissions his self-insert being shipped with lesbians in legend of korra, she-ra, and rwby...gross, and sick... sigh...fanbois AND fangirls seem to get some sick twisted pleasure of hating on female characters and subjecting them AND lgbt to double standards...you need only look at the hatred of korrasami and the anti-lok vidoes to see how women protagonists in anime are subjected to double standards.

Well...hope that helps answer your question...

This is what I’ve come to believe about the hatedom, about rwde, about the “rewriters” and anyone who ditches constructive criticism in favor of “valid criticism”

oh yes! for anyone interested! I built a list of 121 pro-rwby youtuber channels! I hope this helps you all! https://canonseeker.tumblr.com/post/669777878220685312/111-rwby-youtube-channels-for-rwby-fans-to-enjoy

[wienerbarnes]

Witch Bitch

Pairing: Bucky x Witch!Reader

Word Count: 3,943

Warnings: witch stuff, burning at the stake 😳

A/N: this is heavily inspired by american horror story: coven bc i recently watched and ive been binging all of it lately but its not necessary to know anything about ahs lol i kinda just used their fancy magical terminology and concepts bc they were cool🤪 

MAIN MASTERLIST

The best time of the day was breakfast. It was the time when Bucky, Sam, and Sharon were most often together. Sometimes training overlapped and they missed lunch. Sometimes missions ran long or friends were in town and they missed dinner. But the morning? They were all early birds, all awake by seven. They took that shared characteristic and shared breakfast together whenever they could. Bucky usually took care of the coffee, Sam usually took care of the eggs and bacon, and Sharon usually took care of the bagels, toasting them to perfection before slathering on a layer of cream cheese.

It was a moment of peace in their day. Quiet before the noise of the gym or the conference room or the jets or the private trainings or the interviews with prospective agents or anything else they do on a daily basis. It was a time for three friends to just sit and eat and enjoy each other's company as though they are just that: three friends. Not super soldiers or captains or special agents. Just people being normal. Normal doesn’t last long, though. It never does for them.

Bucky’s on dish washing duty this morning while Sam and Sharon chat idly behind him, waiting for him to finish so they can all leave together. A soft voice interrupts them, though, making the three of them stop what they’re doing because no one has access to this floor except for the people that live here - meaning them three.

“Who’s in charge here?” You ask.

“Who the hell are you?! How did you get up here?!” Sharon asks, ignoring your question.

You were in a long, flowy black skirt, slit cut in the left side exposing your leg, and a long-sleeve black shirt, tucked beneath the waistband. Think black boots cover your feet and a black hat sits on your head to complete your look. Bucky almost doesn’t notice the folded black umbrella underneath your arm as his eyes trail down the multiple chains and necklaces around your neck, falling between your breasts.

“I’ve been trying to find someone to help me but the people in this building are not very helpful. I figured I’d find who’s in charge myself, something that you all don’t seem to want to help me with, either.” You explain.

“The only way to even enter this building is through strict appointment and background checks, and no one’s even allowed past the nineteenth floor.” Sam explains.

“Why are you entertaining this? I’m getting her out of here.” Sharon says, moving to walk towards you to take you out of the building herself.

As she nears closer and closer, you wave your hand lazily, without taking your eyes off Bucky, the only one who hasn’t said anything this whole time, and Sharon collapses on the floor soundlessly.

“Jesus!”

“What did you do!”

Both Bucky and Sam panic as they rush to Sharon’s body on the floor. They frantically run their hands over her body, looking for the point of injury that made her collapse the way she did, but they find nothing. No holes, no blood; she didn’t even make a sound.

“She’s not breathing and she doesn’t have a pulse, what the fuck did you do to her?!” Sam yells at you.

You roll your eyes, “Okay, you got me. I don’t need help finding who’s in charge, I already know it’s you. I still do need your help, though.”

You’re ignored as the two men hover over their friend, unsure of what to do or what even happened to her.

“Oh, alright, move.” You order them, stepping over Sharon’s body.

You stand before her, lifting your hands to hover over her body before closing your eyes and letting out a deep and long exhale. Bucky and Sam watch as it takes only about seven seconds for their friend to suddenly gasp for air, jumping back to life. The boys crowd her once more, checking her eyes, her pulse, everything to convince themselves that she’s actually alive like that, and if she was even dead in the first place.

Sam finally looks back up at you from the ground, as though he just remembered that you’re there, “What are you?”

You smirk in response, ready to finally get what you came here for.

…

“So, you’re a witch?” Sam asks, the four of them now occupying a private conference room for some privacy.

“A witch who killed me.” Sharon adds.

“And a witch that brought you right back.” You reply, leaning back on your chair, leg crossed over your knee, slit exposing your thigh. Bucky’s eye twitch to look at your bare skin for a second before returning to meet your eyes.

“So… what do you do?” Bucky asks.

You smile at his innocent curiosity, “All witches don’t have one universal power. Some are clairvoyant, some do voodoo, some dabble in pyrokinesis, divination, transmutation, descendum,” You glance over to Sharon, who’s still pouting at you, “Resurrection.”

“And can you do all of those?” Bucky asks.

“Almost all of them, but I’m not here to talk about me.”

“Why are you here?” Sharon asks.

“You guys hunt the Nazi’s, right?” You ask, aiming your question towards Sam, knowing he’s the Captain in charge.

“Hydra, yes.” He confirms.

“Well, your Nazi’s somehow got a hold of my magic. And they are playing with very dangerous fire,” You begin.

Bucky interrupts, “We’re all for taking down Hydra, but, don’t you think you’re a little more… powerful than us?” He asks.

“Bucky!” Sharon slaps his arm, as though she’s shocked that he would ever admit such a thing.

“I am. But I’m not that powerful, either. Not anymore, at least. A group of those Hydra invaded the coven my sisters and I were at. I was the only one that escaped.” You tell them.

“Did Hydra take them?” Sam asks.

“No, they killed them.” You respond, growing irritated as the subject grows touchier and touchier.

“Can’t you just bring them back like you did me?” Sharon inquires.

“No! I can’t. Like I said, I’m not that powerful anymore. Maybe I’d be able to bring back a house full of dead girls when it was me and twelve others but it’s just me now. I wouldn’t come all the way over here if I had other options.”

Silence grows over the group as they process what you’ve gone through. Surviving through the massacre of your fellow witches and not being powerful enough to find the people that did it on your own. You’re vulnerable.

“So what can we do?” Sam asks, ready to join forces with you.

“Help me locate the men who did this so I can handle the magic part.” You tell him.

“What magic do they have?”

“Although witches control most of the magic, sometimes it can be taken on in… physical forms. Specifically blood. The blood they retrieved was from a witch that was skilled in Vitali Vitalis.”

“The alive within the living.” Bucky translates.

“There are two worlds: the living and the dead,” You begin to explain, “Vitali Vitalis keeps the balance between these two things and it’s one of the most difficult powers for a witch to master. Oftentimes it’s used to give parts of your own life, health, and energy to someone who needs it. But it can also allow you to take life from someone and give it to yourself.”

“Like immortality?” Sam questions.

“Not quite. Any witch can be killed with a knife or bullet. This kind of magic keeps you from dying of age. I’ve only ever known one witch who mastered it.”

“What happened to her?”

“She used it for evil, like this. Took the souls of hundreds in order to allow herself to live for almost three centuries. Until she was killed, of course.” You finish, a small smile on your lips knowing that she got what she deserved.

“What, you burn her at the stake?” Sharon jokes.

“Yes, actually. We did.” You tell her matter-of-factly, becoming more and more irritated at the fact that she doesn’t seem to take this is as seriously as you are.

Bucky interrupts, sensing the rising tension between the two girls, “So when we find these guys, you’re going to burn them at the stake, too?” He asks.

“Yes,” You say, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “The consequence of using magic like this for evil is death by fire. I hope you all don’t think the rules will change on account of these men being Nazi’s?”

“Well, we just have a different way of doing things -” Sam begin to defend

“Yes, I’m aware. The countless destruction caused by you and other militaries, the millions of innocent lives lost yearly, not only in the constant war and irresponsible handling of your nuclear and alien weaponry, but by incorrect prosecution. Not to mention the billions of dollars spent on your ridiculous prison systems that don’t work when actual bad people escape and the death penalty practices in certain states. I just figured my way was easier. And cheaper.” You reply.

Silence crowds over the four of them once more as they think over all their options.

“I’m in.” Bucky speaks first.

“Me, too. Even if I don’t like you.” Sharon follows.

“Feeling’s mutual, dear.” You smile at her.

The three of them look to Sam, waiting for his commitment as well.

“Alright. Let’s get to work.”

Plans were made, theories of location were thought of, and plans to execute the mission were put into place, all of which included you. A temporary room was given to you when the information of your lack of a place to stay was brought to light. Only for the duration of this mission, is what Sam told you, but you can spot the amount of love and light in his heart from miles away.

It was later that night, and you’ve since cleansed the room, going as far as to place a protective spell on the entire floor. You’ve lost too much already, and you’re not about to risk anything.

A knock at the door sounds and the visitor you’d been expecting has finally arrived. You walk towards the door, still in your clothes from earlier but now you’ve removed your shoes, and open the door to reveal Bucky.

“I was waiting for you.” You tell him.

“How’d you know I’d come?” He asks, stepping through the door when you step aside, silently gesturing to him to enter.

“I can hear your thoughts. You've been debating whether or not to come see me for the past thirty minutes. Your mind is very loud.”

“Tell me about it.” He mumbles to himself, thinking about the countless nightmares, voices, and all the other reminders of just how loud his mind was.

“You can ask all your questions, you know. I won’t take any offence. You’re just curious.” You tell him, settling on your bed, hoping he’ll join you and stop hovering near the door.

Luckily he takes the hint and takes a seat across from you.

“I’ve never met a witch before. A real one, I mean. Like, someone born a witch. Like Salem witches -”

“I understand.” You chuckle lightly.

“You don’t seem… afraid of me. Or, hesitant, rather.” You tell him, thinking about how he’s received your presence here compared to his colleagues.

“I was wary when you killed my friend, but… you just need some help, is all. I’m sorry, by the way, I’m not sure if I said it before, but, I’m sorry for what happened to your friends.” He tells you.

He’s very polite. But you supposed that’s not abnormal considering he got his manners from the 1920’s. You like it, though. You give him an appreciative smile before giving him the okay to ask you whatever he wanted.

“So you said that witches can master multiple powers but have one specialty; is yours resurrection?”

“Yes; it was the first power I ever exhibited when I was a teenager. I was about fourteen or fifteen. My next mastered skill is descendum and then clairvoyance, where I was in my twenties, or so.” You tell him as he looks at you with pure fascination in his eyes.

“What is - what is descendum?”

You pause, “The power to descend your soul down into the afterlife - to hell. And return alive.”

His eyes widened, not even knowing that was something someone can do; not even knowing that hell existed in the first place, “So, you’ve been to hell?”

“Yes. I’ve also been able to retrieve people from hell, their soul. A variation of my power of resurrection, I suppose.” You explain, not being too fond of that power; descending to hell.

Bucky sits in silence for a few minutes, and you let him. You can hear the question lingering around in his head; what he’s thinking. But you let him build up his own courage to ask it. You know he’s only scared of the answer; the answer you know he’s not going to like.

“What is hell like?” He whispers.

“It doesn’t matter what my hell is like. Everyone has their own personal hell they experience when they die.” You tell him.

Confusion clouds his features as he registers your answer.

“Is there… Is there no heaven?”

You smirk, “It’s nice that you’ve remained religious after all this time.”

“Yes, there's heaven. But only for the purest and most innocent of souls. And rarely do people escape life without sin. Everyone has evil in them.” You tell him, knowing it’s a harsh truth that no one wants to hear.

The people Bucky’s killed, the crime he’s committed, the families he’s hurt; it all passes through his mind. Everyone has evil in them.

“What was your hell like?”

“I’m not telling you that.” You tell him quickly.

Bucky ponders what his own hell will be like, after seeing the way you’re clearly shaken up about your own. The fall from the train. The man in a lab coat sawing off the rest of his arm. The needles poking through his skin in the middle of some facility. The chair.

He doesn’t realize that he’s looked away from you until he snaps his thoughts back to the present and sees he’s looking down into his lap. He glances up to see your face, your soft features and kind eyes staring at him. He glances from your eyes to your lips and back up again before clearing his throat, not realizing how close he got to you during his time here sitting on your bed.

“You know, I, uh, I should go. Thank you for, uh, answering my questions, but we head out pretty - pretty early tomorrow, so,” He trails off, standing and patting down his shirt to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in a nervous habit.

He makes his way towards the door and his hand touches the knob when he hears your voice, “Hey, Bucky?” He turns slightly to face you again, a hum to indicate for you to continue.

“Thank you for coming to see me. And thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me. You’re a very good person.” You tell him sincerely.

He gives you a nod of you’re welcome before exiting.

He’s not sure if you told him that because you truly mean it, or if it’s because of the state of anxiety and existential crises you’ve put him in now that he’s going to be thinking about his personal hell, but he appreciates it, nonetheless.

He thinks you’re a pretty good person, yourself.

…

The mission goes off without a hitch. The combined skill of the Avengers’ stealth, spyware, and experience along with your magic and witchery makes for an easy capture of the men who killed your witch sisters and stole your magic.

It’s not long before the facility they were at was shut down and cleared out, arresting any officers and rescuing any prisoners or hostages, and the five men specifically responsible for the destruction of your coven are in separate custody. What’s left of the blood is returned to you, as well.

That’s where the group of you stand now, a decision to be made about the criminals you’ve captured. To be put in the maximum security prison floating in the ocean, or to be put to death by fire.

“I don’t believe in being the executioner of people.” Sam tries to convince.

You can’t help but let a laugh escape you, “Do you know who you work for?! Do you know who you are?!” You remind him.

“Those guys can’t escape the Raft.” He tries, referring to prison in the middle of the ocean you’ve heard about.

“You did.” You respond, knowing about when Steve Rogers took him out of that prison, along with other superheros.

You see Bucky and Sharon look between the two of you, torn between how these Hydra criminals should receive their fate. Staring into the hot depths of flames or rotting alone in a cell? Both seem to be too merciful, in Bucky’s opinion.

“This isn’t just running the facility or experiments, Sam. This is different. They were using dark magic to commit crimes. Maybe they should face the consequences of a dark-magic-punishment.” Sharon offers.

You don’t have time to be shocked at Sharon agreeing with you and picking your side before Bucky agrees and Sam is outnumbered. He stares at you and gives a single nod, allowing you to do this your way.

You smile, a silent thank you for giving you the closure and opportunity to serve justice to those who did you harm. “Off to Massachusetts, then.” You tell them, and Sam takes his seat in the pilot's chair, Bucky accompanying him in the front of the jet.

You take a seat, making yourself comfortable for the flight to Salem and you feel a body take the seat next to you. You glance up to see Sharon looking at you, but you notice she has something in her hand, offering it to you.

You look down to see a small plastic bag of fruit gummies. But not just any fruit gummies, you realize. Halloween themed fruit gummies. The pictures on the outside show the various options inside: witch’s hat, a broom stick, a melting pot, a vial, and a magic wand. Hilarious.

You take the gummies, though, accepting her attempt at a truce.

It’s not long before you and your temporary teammates find themselves standing before a large, empty field, multiple wooden stakes standing about fifteen feet tall scattered about with plenty of space in between.

You lead the walk to a group of them standing tall in line, so the men can be burned at the same time, as opposed to one by one. A group of large, burly agents lug the Hydra operatives along, behind you and the rest of the team.

Bucky hangs around your left, as to not be in the way of the black umbrella held in your right hand, and Sam and Sharon trail behind you. You can sense their uneasiness and tune out their worried thoughts. Everyone’s first burning is always an experience; they’ll get over it.

Bucky doesn’t seem worried, though. In fact, you can’t hear his thoughts this time around. But he still stands tall and straight, walking with confidence, so you make a safe assumption that he’s okay.

None of the men’s cuffs or shackles are removed, but thick rope is tied on top of it, around the wrist and looped around the waist, tying them to the stake. The cuffs are special grade - high tech Avengers vibranium - and they can be retrieved later once the fire burns out.

“Any last words?” You ask, more for tradition than whether or not you actually care.

They look scared, obviously not expecting their fate to look anything like this. You remember seeing Bucky tackle one of them in the facility, prying his mouth open to rip out a tooth, or what looked like a tooth, like a dog caught eating something it wasn’t supposed to. A cyanide pill.

Silence comes from them, except for one of them, “Hail Hydra!” He yells, as if that cowardly and pathetic phrase would change anything.

With a raise of your hand, seemingly with no effort, you wave it and the stakes all begin to rise up in flames. There’s nothing to spark, no twigs, no gasoline, nothing, and Bucky watches as the flames rise, growing stronger as they engulf the five men. They begin to scream, and Bucky looks over at you, as if to confirm you didn’t bring gasoline or something with you, and he sees a smile slowly grow on your lips.

They haven’t stopped screaming; they’re still alive when you turn and begin to walk back the way everyone came. Bucky follows, and eventually Sam and Sharon do, too, the other agents staying behind until the end to retrieve the cuffs and shackles that will survive the fire.

“So, now what?” Sharon asks, the air quieter as the screams have slowly stopped in the distance.

I can’t imagine what kind of paperwork follows this, “Back to the tower.” Sam responds.

“The coven’s only a short walk from here.” You say, not needing to elaborate much more. The men have been caught and brought to justice, but you still have a broken, battered, and beaten down coven to fix.

A friend of yours was meant to go by and retrieve the… bodies. Which you’re grateful for. But magic won’t help you fix the walls, the floors, mop the blood, or find other witches in need of an escape and a place to improve and master their powers. You have a lot of work to do.

As the view of the jet gets closer, you prepare to bid your goodbyes to the Avengers, your thank you’s as well. Regardless of your attitude towards them before, you couldn’t have done this without them.

A metal hand engulfs yours, pulling you back a bit as Sam and Sharon continue on.

“Do you need any help?” Bucky’s warm and gentle voice floods your ears, hand still in yours.

“You guys have been more than enough help, now, really.” You try to tell him, but he has none of it.

“You may be tough, but you can’t fix up that house by yourself,” He tells you, “I can be pretty handy, fixed up a few things back in my day.” A soft smile grows on his face.

You glance over his shoulder as Sam and Sharon wait by the entrance of the jet, “Don’t you have to go back?”

“They won’t miss me.” He tells you, not even looking back to confirm with his teammates, hand dropping to run it through his hair.

You giggle at him, before giving him a shy nod in answer to his offer to help you fix up your big house.

“I’m going to hang out here for a few days.” He yells over his shoulder.

“We figured.” Sam calls out, and Sharon throws you a wave as they board the jet, the opening close after them.

“Lead the way?” Bucky offers you, taking your hand once more, interlocking the fingers this time.

And so the two of you are off, one of your hands still clutching the umbrella, holding it above your head, and the other hand interlaced with the one of a handsome and kind super soldier. This wasn’t the way Bucky expected the last two days to transpire, but he’s glad they led to holding the hand of a very pretty witch.

[thisfairytalegonebad]

Granola Bars and Berry Tarts

Title: Granola Bars and Berry Tarts (click to read on AO3) Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Ship: Ignis Scientia/Ravus Nox Fleuret Rating: T Word Count: 7k Summary:  Two times Ignis makes food for Ravus, and one time Ravus makes food for Ignis. Written for Zibe Time Vol. 1, Dinner Date (download zine FOR FREE here)

Ravus didn’t complain, he never did, but Ignis could practically feel the disapproval radiating off his companion. Naturally, said disapproval wasn’t directed at him as much as at the state of the world, at their circumstances that made it so that an unspoilt tin of ravioli and some chunks of dry bread were the height of a culinary experience.

Ignis would’ve loved to grill him some meat and smoke the rest over their campfire to take with them on their travels, but hunting was nearly impossible these days. What little wildlife was still out there after years without sunlight was malnourished from the lack of proper food and ferocious due to starvation, making it more trouble to hunt than it was worth.

Instead, they had to make do with some sad tinned noodles swimming in tomato sauce that contained way too much sugar. Ignis wasn’t even sure there were any tomatoes in it. Either way, they couldn’t afford to be picky. Food was a luxury, now more than ever, and so he unceremoniously dumped the contents of the tin into two bowls and passed one to Ravus.

“Thank you,” Ravus said with poorly veiled distaste and began to eat.

Ravus would be used to sub-par meals, Ignis supposed, having been in the military for so long would’ve made sure of that. But the military at least made sure to feed their soldiers enough nutrients to keep them fit for fighting. These tinned noodles on the other hand… there were many words to describe them, but nutritious wasn’t one of them.

He dipped his spoon into his own bowl, grateful for the warmth the meal offered in the cold of their never-ending night.

In the distance, the daemons hissed and screeched, attacking each other out of sheer bloodlust, or perhaps simply out of boredom because there wasn’t any poor traveller for them to feast on. Hardly anyone came out in these lands anymore. It was dangerous to go that far, miles away from any outpost, from any source of light. The hunters had quickly learnt not to stray too far, the dangers by far outweighed the gains. There was nothing left out here.

Nothing, except for the ancient ruins, the very places Ignis and Ravus were seeking out. If there was any way to save Noct, the answer would be hidden away in those ruins, Ignis was sure of it. When he’d first shared his theories with Gladio and Prompto, they’d been sceptical, claimed it was too great a risk, at least for him to go alone. They’d wanted to join him, accompany him on this quest like they had accompanied each other for so long, but ultimately, they had other responsibilities. Gladio was needed with the hunters, and Prompto was irreplaceable in securing the distribution of goods along with Cindy. Ignis, on the other hand… at the moment, the best place for him to be was out here.

Besides, he’d told them, he wouldn’t be going alone. And, oh, how Gladio had thrown a fit over the revelation that Ravus of all people would be going with him. Ignis had put a stop to his childish behaviour very quickly, but ultimately it had been Ravus himself who had convinced Gladio that his intentions were pure. To this day, Ignis did not know what Ravus had told Gladio in their private conversation away from prying eyes and ears, but Gladio had spoken to and of Ravus with newfound respect after that.

“I believe we should be nearby. Tomorrow, we’ll reach the ruins, I’m sure,” Ignis said, idly stirring his noodles.

Ravus hummed in affirmation.  “Do you think we’ll find what we are looking for there?”

“I cannot be certain, but I do believe it looks more promising than the last one we’ve found.”

Ravus hummed again but said nothing.

Ignis did not like this silence. Ravus had been less hopeful than him from the very start, but he grew more discouraged with each royal tomb they searched without discovering much of use. Regardless, he tagged along, following Ignis from ruin to ruin no matter how dangerous the area, no matter how tiring the travels.

Ignis had wondered, more than once, what it was that caused Ravus to keep searching with him. He knew that Ravus had a tiny flicker of hope that they might find a way to not only save Noct, but to bring back Lady Lunafreya as well. And yet, deep down, Ravus knew there was nothing to be done, no way to bring back his beloved sister. So why? Why was he following Ignis to the deepest caves, the most wicked forests, to chase something that, in his eyes, was merely an illusion?

Ravus, of course, would not give him an answer. Ignis had asked him once but had only received a very cryptic reply of which he could make no sense. Perhaps, he thought, Ravus simply wanted to see Noct succeed.

Finished with the noodles, Ignis got up to collect Ravus’ empty bowl as well. He rinsed them and put them back into their pack, fishing out two granola bars instead.

“Here, dessert,” he said drily, tossing one to Ravus, who caught it with a wry smile.

“Ah. What a culinary delight.”

“Indeed. Truly the height of Lucian cuisine,” Ignis agreed with a small grin of his own.

“Considering the things you can make with only a minimum of available ingredients, I believe I would love to taste your food when you have a wider selection to choose from,” Ravus told him as he took the first bite of his granola bar. “I’ve heard good things about the Lucian cuisine, but I’ve never had an opportunity to try it.”

Ignis laughed, leaning forward in his chair towards his companion. “Ravus, once the sun returns, I shall cook for you and show you the wonders of Lucian dishes. Consider it a promise.”

Ravus lifted his granola bar like a wine glass for a toast. “I shall not forget it!”

----

Read the rest on AO3 here!

[theparanormalperiodical]

The Real Story Behind Insidious (2010) And The 5 WEIRDEST Stories Of Astral Projection You Need To Know About feat. The Cold War

It's one of those horror films that just gets it right.

Yes, it wears all the trademarks of overworked tropes, and sure, it has yet to shed its transphobic skin. But the beast that emerged from James Wan's mind and slithered onto the cinema screen recaptured timeless traditions with a new sense of terror.

And yet somehow the rosy cheeks of the Lipstick-Faced Demon gleaming in his various jump scares aren't the scariest thing about this film.

You see, most of the horror movies that manage to scar me for life are allegedly based on real stories - James Wan (who also directed The Conjuring franchise) is no stranger to fleshing out his dark ideas with even more twisted truths. So it was only recently when I discovered how accurate Insidious (2010) was to real paranormal phenomena that young Dalton's venture into the Further became far more terrifying.

And I need to tell someone about it. From the supernatural to the Soviet Union, Insidious is grounded in far more than rumours of a haunted house.

Insidious is based on real historic events and real experiences.

The first installment of one of horror’s most famous franchises, Insidious is already celebrating its 10th birthday. In fact, that’s how old Dalton was when he fell into a mysterious coma - and then stumbled into purgatory.

Instead of having anxiety dreams about not studying for the french exam like the rest of us, Dalton is falling asleep, separating his soul from his body, and having a gander ‘round an astral realm (like heaven or hell) called The Further. The Further is crammed full of dead people and they all want to possess the fresh young body that basically walked into the wrong room.

The first 2 films follow Dalton and his family as they navigate the all-American struggle of being followed by endless paranormal activity and various family members being stuck in purgatory.

After strange occurrences follow the family from house-to-house (which only seems to extend as far as hot-topic-goth-demons standing by the beds of Dalton and his younger siblings) a local psychic is summoned to figure out what in the f*ck is going on. Elise uses her spidey senses to determine that yep, there’s a demon and no, the house isn’t haunted.

It’s the boy, it’s Dalton.

It then turns out that this ability is hereditary (*piano wire flashback*) and comes from Dalton’s father. Josh actually worked with Elise when he was a kid after his astral projecting resulted in a ‘parasitic spirit’ of an old woman following him the afterlife. Elise therefore sends Daddy-O into The Further to fetch Dalton and bring him home.

Daddy-O does the job, and Dalton returns to his body safely and wakes up. But Daddy-O ain’t Daddy-O. Josh’s body has been possessed by the female spirit that stalks him and his soul is stuck back in The Further. The next film follows up on this plot twist and deepens our exploration into the capabilities of astral projection - namely the potential for time travel. But Insidious 2: Papa Don’t Preach mainly revolves around the backstory of the female spirit that possesses Josh.

[INSERT TRANSPHOBIA]

I’ve already dissected what Hollywood Horror gets wrong with transphobia. But I’ve yet to tumble into the world of astral projection - a world full of proof of the paranormal and political chaos, too. Dalton and his daddy issues are only the tip of the iceberg.

What Is Astral Projection?

Astral projection is an intentional out of body experience and is practised by those that follow esotericism (a religion which combines loads of different Western religious ideas) but it is present in many different belief systems. During projection the soul separates from the physical body.

The soul, or the astral body, is a body of light that links the rational soul to the physical body and is considered to be a silvery spine-like ‘cord’. The astral body travels to different astral planes which can be populated by all types of entities including angels, demons, and dead people. The Further represents one of these astral planes.

Each culture and each religion has a different take on projection, for example the Japanese believe those who are ill or comatose - like dear Dalton - are more prone to astral projection.

In Insidious we also see astral projection take a number of forms: there’s obviously the travel to different planes like The Further, but we see time travel, too. This chimes in with the different schools of thought regarding astral travel.

The history of this practice dates back to the Roman Empire, but only in the 18th century did discussion of astral projection take place when Emanuel Swedenborg wrote about his own out of body experiences. Interest in projection increased throughout the 20th century with many notable historic figures claiming they’ve ventured into other realms including noted American activist Helen Keller (she claimed she astral projected to Athens):

"I have been far away all this time, and I haven't left the room...It was clear to me that it was because I was a spirit that I had so vividly 'seen' and felt a place a thousand miles away. Space was nothing to spirit!"

Aside from being practised by historic figures, it took centre stage in a historic era, too. It was during the Cold War that the study and practice of projection took off and it became a political weapon. Beyond the cultural war, however, was a plethora of evidence suggesting the events we see in Insidious might be all too real.

The Soviet Union & The Supernatural

Unclassified CIA documents are a staple amongst paranormal enthusiasts, especially those who have a habit of following mysterious lights in the sky. A top secret memo from 1974, proposed an experiment where Patrick Price, a former police officer, would use astral projection to gain information regarding a Soviet installation in the Ural Mountains. They wanted entry and exit points, they wanted floor plans, and they wanted operations details. This was a covert operation that used paranormal capabilities already being tested and trialled by their communist rivals.

In the 1970s the Cold War took a different turn: thanks to Soviet research into ordinary people’s supernatural abilities including astral projection, American intelligence agencies sought to do the same. Just as the atomic bomb was being built, scientists Seymon and Valentina Kirlian were developing technology that could capture one’s aura in a photograph. They were investigating energy fields, trying to mentally influence animal behaviour, and practicing telepathic communication.

Yogis and masters of ancient magic were even brought in in an attempt to harness the potential of paranormal forces.

“the major impetus behind the Soviet drive to harness the possible capabilities of telepathic communication, telekinetics, and bionics is said to come from the Soviet military and the KGB”

A Defense Intelligence Agency report

Throughout the 1960s a surge in parapsychological research centres took place as ordered by a Kremlin edict. As per the Cold War, the US swiftly did the same.

But it was when the US caught wind experiments using bioplasma they grew concerned. Bioplasmic connectors to human beings echoed claims of the silver cord which - as mentioned previously - was a key part of astral projection.

A Soviet agent could travel across realms, eras, and countries in spirit-form and be going through American filing cabinets. The Americans needed to make astral projection a weapon of their own. Dr Eugene Bernard was one of the many doctors who would pioneer research into projection and sought people willing to travel to these distant realms.

Bernard was quickly caught up with the Soviet-supernatural-situ which included theories of an army of psychic spies.

Soon dozens of recruits would practice astral projection and recount their experiences including a woman called Beverly Chalker: she travelled in spirit from Dallas to a house in New Jersey and described in detail the things she saw. She saw a man asleep with a book on the floor, describing his pyjamas and the decor of the room. The team investigating her astral projection verified her claims.

She was right.

Similar stories soon leaked to the public and many ordinary Americans began to try their hand at exploring spiritual realms. Books, articles, and even a set of infamous tapes released in 1973 claimed to reveal how one could separate their soul from their body.

It used a rhythmic ticking noise to hypnotise those seeking new paranormal abilities - something we hear throughout Insidious. The tapes would be used by one Robert Antoszczyk, an infamous practitioner of projection who would mysteriously die in during a session. 6 weeks later, Patrick Price died, too. We will talk about Antoszczyk later.

Even security in the White House was allegedly amped up over reports the Russians were looking into giving their astral soldiers physical strength so they could become assassins. Interest in projection soon grew out of control, and by the 1980s the surge in serial killers was pinned on a vast number of them practicing it in prison.

(Many followed a range of extremist religious beliefs - practicing astral projection doesn’t make you a serial killer.)

Concerns also claimed some projectors could become ‘zombies’ if the soul got lost, just like Dalton was in Insidious. In fact, one practitioner demarcated several zones of astral travel with Zone C being the limbo where souls were trapped. According to some, The Further was real.

And Robert Antoszczyk was stuck there.

5 Craziest Stories & Accounts Of Astral Projection

#1 - Robert Antoszczyk

Antoszczyk was one of the many Americans swept by the incoming tide of astral projection. He had been taught the practice by a yogi whilst in India, but unlike many other Americans who tumbled into amateur projection, he delved in head-first.

He then began to have dreams about a beautiful woman. Her exotic looks and compelling voice was calling to him from a different realm and he wanted to follow it.

On the 1st of June 1975, he told his roommate not to disturb him. He went into his bedroom, locked the door, and followed the method of astral projection as explained by those tapes released in 1973.

3 days passed. His roommate grew concerned. He broke down the door to discover that Robert was dead. His seemingly healthy roommate was lying on his bed and smiling. There was no signs of a struggle or a seizure or any other cause of death.

Medical experts could offer no answer as to how he died. A local astrologer, however, claimed the answer was obvious: he simply decided not to return to his body. His death would be blamed on his astral projection and it would make headlines across the states.

But some alleged that he was not fully at fault - he was drawn in by a beautiful female entity that would call out to many others with her enticing voice. The descriptions of the woman all related to Ammut, an ancient Egyptian female demonness. And according to the Ancient Egyptians, she existed in astral planes and consumed souls of those she came across.

Laverne Landis heard the same voice. It might have killed her, too.

#2 - Laverne Landis

This mother of five was found dead in the woods in Minnesota by a construction worker in winter of 1982. She wasn’t a typical recruit for projection as a nurse working at a local hospital - but she had started hearing a voice.

The voice was from an astral spirit that promised her the power to heal the sick. So she quit her job, abandoned her children, and drove for 6 months with the voice of Ammut as her guide.

The voice grew stronger and she felt the voice vibrating in the wilderness around her. Her psychic group warned her against astral projection, claiming she might get stuck in limbo. She ignored them, and Landis and her boyfriend followed the voice to Loon Lake on a long trail road through the wilderness.

“We’ve got to stay here. They’re going to be in. I know it, I can feel it, they’re almost here.”

After Laverne passed away, probably from starvation or hypothermia, her boyfriend pulled himself through the snow and alerted a local.

Landis also reportedly was very interest in UFOs and was part of a UFO ‘cult’, and might have also gone to the woods to wait for a flying saucer to land. Either way, she was waiting for something out of this world.

#3 - Seton High School

In 1975 an entire class of students in a prep school in Cincinnati attempted astral projection. They were led in an experiment from which they would ‘travel’ home, report back what they saw, and phone calls home would prove travel via spirit was real.

(Unfortunately, this is all I can uncover on this case, but it is still creepy AF.)

#4 - Robert Monroe

Robert Monroe was obsessed with astral projection. He had often practiced it during the 1970s, even becoming angry seeing a man sleeping next to his wife in bed - before realising it was him. He subjected himself to examination at a local hospital by a psychiatrist.

They verified his astral projection put him into a comatose state rather than a sleeping state.

Monroe then spent a huge fortune on an institute in Virginia to specialise in research into projection featuring an isolation chamber to provide optimal circumstances for projection. And on one occasion he even felt a ‘trunk’ in his back during projection, something he believes was the silver cord.

The United States Army Intelligence and Security Command investigated his techniques and used his claims to inform their desire to create an army of astral projectors.

#5 - Cadell Jeansen Raja

What do Charles Manson, Herbert Mullin, and David Berkowitz have in common? Yes, they are some of America’s most infamous serial killers. But they also all studied astral projection with a desire to harness paranormal abilities they believed would provide new tools to accompany their horrific acts.

(I don’t often make mention of serial killers on this blog, but the perplexing and evil acts committed by Cadell Jeansen Raja should be mentioned.)

In 2017, Raja killed each member of his family over several days. He constantly changed the motive for murder to mislead the police, but later admitted he harboured anger against his successful family members and was obsessed by the occult.

He experimented with the separation of the soul from the body and was living in a ‘virtual world’. He then claimed his family members were killed during their own astral projection.

***

Would you dare venture into The Further?

Let me know in a comment below!

Make sure you also like and reblog this post and then hit follow to read a new article on the paranormal every weekend.

[psqqa]

What I Know About The Vorkosigan Saga From Watching My Sister Read It

i am about embark upon A Reading of the vorkosigan saga after having been convinced to do so by my sister’s obsession with it. before i do, however, my sister @umamidjezhda told me to do one of those ‘what you know about’ posts because, and i quote, “the like six other people in this fandom deserve more content”.

idk if this is the content you fine people deserve, but it’s the content you’re getting from me. 

A Complete List Of Things I Know About The Vorkosigan Saga From Having Been Somewhat In The Vicinity Of My Sister As She Read Them:

SPACE

Lois McMaster Bujold so it’s gonna be Great and make me realize just how much of my life has been wasted reading things written by men and deciding i don’t like certain tropes or stories or genres because i’ve only read them as written by men and it turns out that when written by a woman they are Good Actually.

like half a million books and some of them haven’t been in print since like 1992 and others are only available in collections but like different collections in different countries, etc. etc.

must plot out reading order using charts and one of those deeply obnoxious ‘THIS is the one true reading order for purists and REAL fans’ articles put together by some deeply obnoxious 20-something dude in between sci-fi forum wankfests.

amazingly hideous/hideously amazing 80s cover art

like half a million characters. many, but not all, of them Vorkosigans.

Miles. Cordelia.......yeah you know what I thought I had osmosised more names, but I haven’t. No wait. Mark.

well one of the books is apparently called ethan’s something, so i guess i can extrapolate from that fact that there is also an Ethan.

at any rate, half a million characters and yet only one (1) that i know any vague thing about: miles.

Not Hot in theory but Extremely Hot in practice

i get the feeling there are roughly six places in every book he appears in where he really probably should have died and yet somehow miraculously survives

okay there is also a Bel, but i don’t think they’re a Vorkosigan

i know about bel only because there is apparently a tragic dearth of bel/miles fic. which, really sister, i’m not wholly convinced they’re not all just chilling on an lj somewhere, or like an archived geocities page, or tbh one of those ancient web forums. what was it called? usenet? frankly i think you should check with that academic library that’s serving as an archive for print fandom material before giving up hope. there’s probably at least one zine.

Barrayar. this could mean literally anything i truly do not know. but it is a word. a Vorkosigan word. and it is a thing i know, so onto the list it goes.

a planet of gay men. tragically the planet of the gay men was conceived of in the 80s, which, as we all know, was before the invention of trans men, and so they are struggling with the whole procreation thing.

thankfully the marketing material is here to remind you that there is in this book An Woman and that she is Beauty Itself, so i’m sure that all works out fine and just as the 80s straight dudes who picked it up expected.

something something mirrors metaphysics identity crisis

PEW PEW SPACE BATTLES*

* a direct quote from one of my sister’s texts to me

50k fake married au (canon compliant)

tbh it sounds like at least one person is in some kind of space military

something something non-toxic masculinity passed down from father to son

a garden???!

Late Addition: Ivan [B???????]. miles’s cousin. my sister wants to name a husky after him. I don’t know what this means.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: 04 Mar 2020 (Brokered conventions, the Siege of Gondor, ICE risk-assessment whitebox, Chinese covid censorship, America's national immunocompromise)

Today's links

A brokered convention will produce a powerless presidency: Transformative change requires a movement, not a plan.

What the Siege of Gondor teaches us about medieval warfare: 40,000 riveting words from Roman military historian Bret Deveraux.

ICE's risk assessment algorithm only ever recommends detention: NYCLU suing to force them to admit what we've all figured out.

Probing China's Covid-19 censorship: Outstanding work from Citizen Lab.

America is uniquely at risk from coronavirus: 77 million un- and underinsured people.

This day in history:

Colophon: Recent publications, current writing projects, upcoming appearances, current reading

I'm coming to Kelowna, BC tomorrow! I'll be at the library from 6-8PM with my book Radicalized for the CBC's Canada Reads. It's free, but you need to RSVP (and most of the seats are gone, so act quick).

https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/cbc-radio-presents-in-conversation-with-cory-doctorow-tickets-96154415445

A brokered convention will produce a powerless presidency (permalink)

Hoping for a brokered convention is basically saying, "Hey, go fuck yourself" to every doorknocker and phone canvasser in your base. It says, "Let's not use votes to choose the candidate. You little people were for show. We choose our leaders by gathering the people who matter in smoke-filled rooms."

Any candidate hoping to enact a transformative program from the presidency is going to need a powerful, motivated base to whip establishment Dems into order: "I want to do it, now make me do it." Jettisoning the idea that your supporters get you nominated is the most demoralizing thing I can imagine, short of shutting off the server your organizers used to get you elected as soon as they succeed (looking at you, Barack Obama).

It's pure technocratic hubris, the kind of thing that turns promising wonks into figureheads who accomplish nothing. Saving America from plutocracy and white nationalism requires a movement, not a savior with a plan.

What the Siege of Gondor teaches us about medieval warfare (permalink)

Last spring, Roman military historian Bret Devereaux published over 40,000 words of analysis of the Siege of Gondor as depicted in Peter Jackson's Return of the King. It is by far the best use of fiction as a tool for teaching history that I've ever read.

It's in 6 parts, broken down by themes. By far my favorite section was the opener, on the logistics of sieges. I am a quartermaster by temperament, and the logistic of moving 200,000 orcs (plus trolls, elephants, siege engines, etc) is FASCINATING.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/10/collections-the-siege-of-gondor/

"The road the orcs are on allows them to march five abreast, meaning there are 40,000 such rows. Giving each orc four feet of space on the march, that would mean the army alone stretches 30 miles down a single road. At that length, the tail end of the army would not even be able to leave camp before the front of the army had finished marching for the day." (!!)

The section on the siege's opener, part II, is likewise fascinating and contains some great craft notes.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/17/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-ii-these-beacons-are-liiiiiiit/

"LOTR doesn't rely – as so much fiction does – on the 'good guys' making stupid mistake after stupid mistake in order to create tension. Instead, Gondor executes its plans admirably, and yet it is so outmatched in military might that it remains in peril."

Part III is more in the weeds on weapons and tactics. It gets into some really gnarly deep nerd stuff about the immediate preamble to a siege that I loved.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/24/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-iii-having-fun-storming-the-city/

"The paths the siege towers will take must be cleared and leveled (even a slight grade will tip them over). Earthwork cover for the approach on the gate should be set up, along with obstructions to prevent the army within the city from advancing at an inopportune moment. In assaulting a fortified city with a large army, the spade is often the most important weapon. Even building a ramp right up the enemy walls to enter the city was a common and successful tactic, if the assaulting army had enough labor to do it quickly enough."

My favorite part of the section on calvary charge was the notable absence of NCOs in the orc ranks, maintaining discipline.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/31/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-iv-the-cavalry-arrives/

"The orc general, Gothmog has to push through the ranks and reorder his infantry, while the orcs stare dumbfounded at the new threat. This is a task that should have been taken up by a hundred-hundred NCOs up and down the line, which speaks to problems of command structure."

By far the most intensely geeky section is in Part V, which deals with the math for calculating whether the trolls could possibly heft the hammers that deal the damage that we see.

https://acoup.blog/2019/06/07/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-v-just-flailing-about-flails/

"If a troll really is around 9 times as strong as a strong man, we might figure that a troll sledgehammer might be something like 81kg, and a troll warhammer only 5.76 – 13.59kg. Wildly short of the massive clubs and hammers the trolls wield in these scenes."

ICE's risk assessment algorithm only ever recommends detention (permalink)

The New York Civil Liberties Union and Bronx Defenders have filed suit against ICE, trying to force it to respond to a FOIA request about risk assessment algorithm that has put people in detention 97% of the time.

https://theintercept.com/2020/03/02/ice-algorithm-bias-detention-aclu-lawsuit/

The algorithm was tweaked after the 2016 election (prior to then, it only recommended detention for 53% of cases), and by classifying virtually everyone it evaluates as a public safety risk, it violates the law's requirement of "individualized determinations" for detentions.

People in immigration detention have yet to see a judge or be found guilty. They can be locked up for weeks or months, and detention can cost them their jobs — or even their children. The Trump administration has exponentially increased the number of immigration arrests; coupled with automatic detention-by-algorithm, this has put thousands of New Yorkers in harm's way.

Investigative journalists and activists have previously shown that the algorithm was changed to eliminate all possible outcomes (bond, release, etc), so that it could only recommend detention. So the problem here isn't the usual one of not knowing how the black-box works. We know exactly how it works. You ask it, "Should this person be detained?" and it says "Yes."

"The no-release policy is particularly tough on people with disabilities or health problems. 'This practice of widespread detention is both cruel and needless.'"

Probing China's Covid-19 censorship (permalink)

Citizen Lab's new report on Chinese coronavirus censorship is outstanding. By decompiling the YY client (which stores blacklist words on the client-side) and probing Wechat (which uses server-side blacklisting), they build up a detailed picture of Chinese epidemiological censorship.

https://citizenlab.ca/2020/03/censored-contagion-how-information-on-the-coronavirus-is-managed-on-chinese-social-media/

Most importantly, they demonstrate how the Cyberspace Administration of China's threat of "thematic inspections" of platforms to ensure coronavirus censorship led to indiscriminate blocking of vital public health information.

It's "authoritarian blindness" in the making, "where people too scared to tell the autocrat the hard truths makes it impossible for the autocrat to set policy that reflects reality"

https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/24/pluralist-your-daily-link-dose-24-feb-2020/#thatswhatxisaid

"Censorship of COVID-19 content started at early stages of the outbreak and continued to expand blocking a wide range of speech, from criticism of the government to officially sanctioned facts and information."

By contrast, the sheer volume of "sarcastic homonyms or word play related to COVID-19" that appear on the blacklist are really a testament to the ingenuity and spirit of Chinese netizens.

"A number of these keyword combinations are critical (e.g., "亲自 [+] 皇上," by someone + emperor), criticizing the central leadership's inability or inaction in dealing with COVID-19 ("习近平 [+] 形式主义 [+] 防疫," Xi Jinping + formalism + epidemic prevention). Many of them refer to leadership in a neutral way (e.g., "肺炎 [+] 李克强 [+] 武汉 [+] 总理 [+] 北京," Pneumonia + Li Keqiang + Wuhan + Premier + Beijing)."

America is uniquely at risk from coronavirus (permalink)

Among rich countries, the USA is uniquely vulnerable to coronavirus. Thanks to its title to "by far the worst system among rich countries, it is much worse than that of many poorer countries when it comes to confronting a fast-moving epidemic."

https://theweek.com/articles-amp/899359/why-america-vulnerable-coronavirus

The US has 77m un/underinsured people. "and the vicious, right-wing ideology of the Republican Party has wrecked the government's ability to manage crises of any kind, " with "unqualified cronies" running important agencies.

"Now they are resorting to the only thing they know how to do really well — lying, concocting conspiracy theories and blaming Democrats and the media for any bad news. It does not bode well."

This day in history (permalink)

#15yrsago EFF is hiring a new IP lawyer https://web.archive.org/web/20050307005314/http://www.corante.com/copyfight/archives/2005/03/04/ip_attorneys_eff_wants_you.php (the ad that led to the hiring of Corynne McSherry!)

#10yrsago Guardian column on LibDem proposal to block web-lockers https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2010/mar/04/web-lockers-digital-economy-liberal-democrats-wrong

#1yrago Fox News was always partisan, but now it is rudderless and "anti-democratic" https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/03/11/the-making-of-the-fox-news-white-house

#1yrago Leaked memo suggests that Google has not really canceled its censored, spying Chinese search tool https://theintercept.com/2019/03/04/google-ongoing-project-dragonfly/

#1yrago Terra Nullius: Grifters, settler colonialism and "intellectual property" https://locusmag.com/2019/03/cory-doctorow-terra-nullius/

#1yrago Tim Maughan's Infinite Detail: a debut sf novel about counterculture, resistance, and the post-internet apocalypse https://boingboing.net/2019/03/04/gnu-slash-apocalypse.html

#1yrago Financialization is wearing out its welcome https://www.ft.com/content/a9f13afc-3c3d-11e9-b856-5404d3811663

#1yrago How the patent office's lax standards gave Elizabeth Holmes the BS patents she needed to defraud investors and patients https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2019/03/theranos-how-a-broken-patent-system-sustained-its-decade-long-deception/

Colophon (permalink)

Today's top sources: Naked Capitalism (https://nakedcapitalism.com/), Slashdot (https://slashdot.org/) and Kottke (Kottke).

Hugo nominators! My story "Unauthorized Bread" is eligible in the Novella category and you can read it free on Ars Technica: https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

Upcoming appearances:

Canada Reads Kelowna: March 5, 6PM, Kelowna Library, 1380 Ellis Street, with CBC's Sarah Penton https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/cbc-radio-presents-in-conversation-with-cory-doctorow-tickets-96154415445

Currently writing: I just finished a short story, "The Canadian Miracle," for MIT Tech Review. It's a story set in the world of my next novel, "The Lost Cause," a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation. I'm getting geared up to start work on the novel now, though the timing is going to depend on another pending commission (I've been solicited by an NGO) to write a short story set in the world's prehistory.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes's forthcoming Afterland: it's Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it's amazeballs. Last month, I finished Andrea Bernstein's "American Oligarchs"; it's a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I'm getting really into Anna Weiner's memoir about tech, "Uncanny Valley." I just loaded Matt Stoller's "Goliath" onto my underwater MP3 player and I'm listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: Disasters Don't Have to End in Dystopias: https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/01/disasters-dont-have-to-end-in-dystopias/

Upcoming books: "Poesy the Monster Slayer" (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we're having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

"Attack Surface": The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020.

"Little Brother/Homeland": A reissue omnibus edition with a very special, s00per s33kr1t intro.

[the--sad--hatter]

Frozen Heart (Prologue)

FANDOM - MARVEL MCU, DEADPOOL & X-MEN

WARNINGS - ALL OF THEM, SMUT, VIOLENCE ANGST

DESCRIPTION -  

When Nick Fury finally catches Ex-Shield Agent ‘Black Ice’, The Thief with a Frozen Heart he puts her where she belongs. With The Avengers.

You’re not happy about that decision but you’re the only one who’s kicking up a fuss.

Natasha and Clint are happy to have you back in their lives, Sam Wilson is a big fan, Tony Stark just wants you to keep your hands off his stuff and Steve finds out that not only do you have a connection but you were there for him when nobody else was. 

Bucky Barnes is one of the few people who doesn’t have a connection with you but he’d really really like one. 

                                         CHAPTER ONE

THE KALAHARI DESERT

The Kalahari desert was in Southern Africa so it was quite obviously hot. In fact it was 930 thousands square km of arid, sandy, scorching hell. Or at least it was supposed to be. Nick Fury used his one good eye to take in the perplexing scene in front of him. Smack bang in the middle of the sand dunes was a military style base which according to their intel belonged to a black arms dealer and known human trafficker known as "The Scorpion".

Bad guys having secret bases was hardly unusual however, what was unusual was the fact that this base was covered in at least three inches of ice. Mercenaries who worked for The Scorpion were scattered around, guns raised and alarm on their faces. Fury paid them little attention, they weren't a threat seeing as they were frozen solid like creepy gun wielding statues.

His attention was focused on the battered remains of a tent in the very center of the icy carnage. The tent was barely erect, the front panel frozen in place and giving him a clear view inside to the young woman lying on the frozen ground, two of his medical personnel checking her for signs of life.

They found what they were looking for and related the news to Fury with a sharp nod of affirmation. She was alive. Fury had known she would eventually make a mistake and now she had, he finally had her.

6 HOURS EARLIER

Your head felt full and heavy, your eyes burned and the air around you was so hot you were suffocating. You forced yourself to drag your eyes open, taking in the scene around you. Sand? Tents? You knew what these things were but why they were here was confusing and you couldn’t seem to get your brain to work properly.

Something moved and you looked up, seeing it was a person coming towards you. You knew them, your brain was telling you they were familiar. Your brain was also screaming something else at you, something important but you couldn’t grasp it.

There was a deep gnawing sense in your gut, not a good feeling. You shifted in the seat and tried to move and that was when you realized you couldn’t.

You couldn’t move.

You felt something on your wrists, binding them together. Raw panic started to claw its way through you and you reacted instinctively, reaching down deep inside yourself for the part of you that you’d locked away. You needed to be free, bad things happened when you couldn’t move.

You remembered the blood and you didn’t want to remember that.

You let the primal power inside yourself out and froze the ropes binding you but it all went horribly wrong. You couldn’t reign it in, you couldn’t control it. The last thing you remembered was screaming.

9 DAYS LATER – Avengers Compound, Up-state New York

You had a habit of waking up in unfamiliar places so you weren't too worried at first. It wasn't until you registered the steady beeping of a heart monitor that your brow furrowed in confusion. Your eyes flew open and you tried to sit up, immediately regretting it as the cuffs on either wrist snapped against the metal bed-frame, pulling you back down with a wince of pain.

Panic rippled through you but then a deep chuckle to your right had you turning to face your company, and a growl of displeasure ripped out of your throat as soon as you did. Still, the sight of him calmed your fears and you knew, even if you were cuffed you were safe.

"What the fuck Clint?" You spat out, your voice hoarse from disuse, your hands automatically twisting in the cuffs.

The blonde man sitting on a chair next to the hospital bed you were currently cuffed to smirked at you, unfolding himself ungracefully from the uncomfortable looking plastic chair and leaning over to offer you a cup of water.

You glared at him as he raised it to your lips, tilting it to allow the cool liquid to pour down your throat. The sensation was most welcome, you had no idea how you’d become so thirsty.

Then it hit you, you had no idea how you’d ended up in hospital at all. A quick glance around the room offered no answers. It looked like a standard, albeit well-funded hospital room. The blinds were closed, there were no glass panels on the door to look out of and you and Clint were the only ones in the room.

Panic and uncertainty started to claw at your gut and you looked up at Clint, your expression blank and controlled but he saw the fear and vulnerability in your eyes. He could always see right through you.

“What happened to me?” To anyone else it would have sounded like a demand but Clint knew you well enough to see the plea on your face.

You pulled at the cuffs again and huffed in annoyance. Clint smirked and tapped his ear to let you know he could hear you, you didn’t have to sign.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” He asked you gently.

You frowned, trying to pull up your memories and Clint watched the emotions flit across your face, confusion, pain and then horror.

“Motherfucker.” You whispered.

“That about sums it up... Miss Daniels this time are we?” A deep voice spoke and the door sprung open as Nick Fury walked into the room.

Your expression hardened instantly and Clint's turned apologetic. Fury noted that, the way he noted everything. He glared down at you, trying to intimidate you.

“You froze a 2 mile radius in the desert, killing everyone there instantly. When we found you, you were nearly dead yourself. Lucky for you, we patched you back up and covered up your little mess.” Fury stated.

There was a long pause as he waited for you to say something but you didn’t.

“What, you’re not even going to say thank you?” Fury enquired sarcastically.

“Saying thank you could be taken as an admission of guilt, so no.” You rebutted.

Fury turned to look at Clint who sighed heavily.

“It’s over, you were found in the middle of the scene. We know you’re responsible.” Clint told you.

“We even have a good idea as to why you did it.” Fury informed you and he didn’t miss the way your jaw clenched in response.

“One of the bodies we found on site was First Lieutenant Charles Braxton, your commanding officer. The man who trained you for the past two years and fast tracked you to his special black ops task force. Decorated war hero, husband, father and best friend to Senator Jim Grant. Oh and he was also the criminal known as The Scorpion.” Fury said.

You took in a deep shuddering breath before you spoke, keeping your voice as even as possible.

“If you already know what happened, why bother asking me? What’s your play here Fury?”

“I’m asking because I don’t know what happened but I’ll tell you my theory. You found out Braxton was The Scorpion and he drugged you, kidnapped you and took you to his base. He probably thought he could turn you to his side. He had no idea who you really were though because you would never trust anybody enough to tell them what you were capable of. So when you woke up tied to a chair in the middle of the desert, having just been betrayed and attacked by your supposed mentor and friend you reacting instinctively and tried to freeze the ropes binding you enough to snap them and free yourself. You didn’t account for the drugs in your system or the adrenaline or the emotional turmoil you were facing though because you have always hidden your abilities away rather than learn to use them and instead of freeing yourself you lost control and created a cold snap in the Kalahari that killed everyone around you. How’d I do Miss Daniels?”

“That’s not a theory, that’s exactly what happened and you know it. But you’ve got a second theory lined up where I’m the villain right? Either you rescued a powerful asset or you took down a threat.” You laughed but there was no humour in it.

You knew what was going on. Fury had told you this day was coming and deep down you had always known he was right.

“You’re damn right I do. You killed a lot of people and even if I wanted to I can’t ignore that. I can bring you into the fold and protect you or I can lock you up and throw away the key. Those are the only two choices here. Now I made no secret about wanting you to re-join Shield but last time I asked you told me in no uncertain terms where I could shove that offer. I’m hoping you’ll be smarter this time now that SHIELD isn’t around. So what’s it going to be Miss Daniels, are you finally ready to become an Avenger or are you going to spend the rest of your life in a 4×4 cell?” Fury asked.

You whistled lowly.

“Alright Shaft, I’ll admit it. I was not expecting that.” You said, eyebrows practically disappearing into your hairline.

It was worded like a choice but all three of you knew it wasn’t, not really.

Clint knew you were stubborn and liked to dig your heels in but even you wouldn’t choose life imprisonment just to be spiteful. Fury knew it as well. You looked up at Clint and he braced himself for the anger about to be hurled his way but it never came.

You wanted to be angry at him but you knew it wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done this to you, you had done it to yourself. You had locked your abilities away, pretending you were nothing more than human and it had led to you losing control.

Now you had backed yourself into a corner and the only way out was through Fury, whether it be as an Avenger or a prisoner.

“IF I agree to this ridiculous proposal, I want my record wiped. My real record.” You told him.

“You’re in an awfully precarious position to be making demands. You don’t want to go to prison, If I don’t agree to your terms are you really going to refuse to join The Avengers?” Fury asked you.

You met his eyes and he saw it, you didn’t believe he was going to pass up the opportunity to recruit you but if he called your bluff there was no way you would back down.

He couldn’t comprehend why you were so stubborn but he didn’t have to, he just had to accept it. He nodded his assent and you and Clint both let out a small sigh of relief.

“Welcome to Shield Miss Daniels, Agent Barton here will explain the situation to you regarding the events in the Kalahari Desert and as soon as you’re medically cleared you’ll be introduced to the team who will oversee your official training.” Fury spoke in a crisp and authoritative tone before making his way to the door.

He had gotten what he came for, he wasn’t going to stick around any longer but you spoke up before he could make his exit.

“20 bucks says you regret this before we even reach the end of the month.” You called challengingly.

“I’ll take that bet.” He said without even looking back, letting the door close behind him.

Clint shook his head at you.

“It’s impressive how well he can glare at you with just one eye. Wonder how scary he was when he had both.” You snarked.

“It’s the one eye that makes the glare so effective. And you’ve been unconscious for nine days. The end of the month is tomorrow.” He dead-panned.

You swore and tried to sit up, forgetting about the cuffs and swore again as you were yanked back down. Clint made a strangled noise as he tried not to laugh. He reached over and pushed down on the cuffs, they were pressure locked and didn’t need a key so they popped open quickly and you held your wrists to your chest and rubbed them.

“Nine days?” You asked, confused.

“You were extremely dehydrated and had mild hypothermia. Add that to the drugs Braxton used on you and well… you weren’t in great shape when we found you.” He explained.

There was an edge to his voice, he was holding something back and whatever it was was bothering him. You reached your hand out, palm to the ceiling and waited. He sighed and put his hand in yours

“You get yourself into some stupid shit kid, and she’s not happy about it.” He whispered with an apologetic look on his face.

You shot up in the bed, alarm on your face.

“No no no no no, tell me she doesn’t know!” You begged.

Clint swallowed thickly.

“Fury said he’d tell her when you woke up.” Clint said, getting off the bed and backing into the corner of the room furthest from the door.

You went pale as you glanced franticly around the room like a deer caught in a trap but there was nowhere to hide and you knew it.

“Traitor!” you hissed at Clint as the door swung open and you swallowed heavily before turning to face your fear.

Clint winced under his breath at the expression on Natasha’s face and you felt like you’d been kicked in the chest as you laid eyes on her for the first time in years.

There was nothing you could say in that moment, no way to ask for forgiveness so you just reached out you hand to her, silently begging for something you didn’t deserve. She didn’t hesitate to take it, squeezing your hand reassuringly. And then continuing to squeeze.

“Ow, ow, ow. UNCLE!” You shrieked.

“As soon as your better, we’re playing 60 seconds.” Natasha said with a wicked glint in her eye.

“If you’re so mad, why are you here?” You sighed.

“I came to check on Clint. I would have come to check on you as well but we both know you can take care of yourself can’t you? You don’t need me.” She responded cooly.

Clint could feel the rising tension and he didn’t want a repeat of last time you and Natasha had been in the same room.

“You need rest, you start training as soon as you’re upright and we still need to take an official statement regarding the situation in the Kalahari.” He spoke over whatever biting remark you’d been about to shoot off at Natasha.

Natasha turned her annoyed look onto him, though it was legions softer than what she had directed at you.

“I have to convince the team to actually take her. Just because it’s what Fury wants, doesn’t mean Cap or Tony will be on board.” Natasha said, releasing your hand.

“What are you going to tell them about me?” You asked her.

“For once, the truth.” She informed you.

Clint nodded at her and she turned to leave while you studiously kept your face turned away from the door. Neither you or Natasha could see each other expressions but from his position at your bedside he could see it all, the brief moment of regret and longing you both had before you schooled your expressions expressions.

Clint sighed heavily and wondered what he’d done in a past life that was so bad he deserved to be connected to two such stubborn people. It was only when the door clicked closed you allowed yourself to drop the anger and look at him.

“How bad is it going to be?” You asked nervously and Clint chuckled at your reaction.

“They’re going to eat you alive.” He reassured you.

Tomorrow he would break the news to you that officially Agent Daniels had died in the Kalahari. But that could damn well wait because Clint had missed you, only to get you back in a near death state.  

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Stark, didn’t you get hit by that ice thief a few years ago?” Natasha asked as she walked into the meeting room.

“Four years ago, she broke into the tower and stole an Iron Suit Prototype and left an ice sculpture replica in it’s place.” Tony said with a sour look on his face.

“Yeah, but didn’t she put the suit back the next day? It was on the news.” Sam pointed out.

“Not the point Wilson. She did it to piss me off.” Tony snapped.

“I think it worked.” Wanda coughed.

“Why are you bringing up old wounds Romanov? Nobody’s seen Black Ice for years.” Tony asked exasperatedly.

“Nobody ever saw her, that’s why they called her Black Ice...” Sam added.

“She’s in your medbay.” Natasha said with a smirk.

There was silence.

“The new recruit Fury dropped on my doorstep is the thief who taunted me? And I saved her life?” Tony shrieked.

“Cho saved her life, you just paid Cho to do it.” Sam sniggered, sending Wanda devolving into a fit of giggles.

“Well I’m going to be the one to kill her!” Tony insisted.

“Barton might be a little upset if you do that.” Natasha informed him.

Tony squinted suspiciously at her.

“Why?” Steve was the one to ask.

“Black Ice is a former Shield Agent and yes Tony... Fury, Barton and I knew it was her who stole your suit. She dropped off the radar three years ago, faked her own death after an incident in Moscow. Clint just got her back, he might be annoyed if you go and kill her.”

“You knew?!” Tony was incensed.

“You’re friends with Black Ice?”Wanda asked excitedly.

“Who do you think gave her the name?” Natasha asked her.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

The next morning you were all but tossed out of the hospital bed by Clint who flung a change of clothes at you and told you the bad news.

You didn’t have any close friends, actually any friends at all to mourn your “death” but you still allowed yourself a moment of sadness for the life you were leaving behind. You were shaken out of your moment by a knock on the door and you looked up to see a Natasha stood in front of you.

There was no readable emotion on her face, no indication as to whether she was here to hug you or to kill you. Though that question was quickly answered as with an almost unnoticeable flick of her wrist Natasha sent a knife flying straight at your face.

You whipped your head back just in time, though you were still a fraction of a second too slow and the blade left a slight nick across your left cheek before embedding itself in the wall behind where your head had previously been.

“Reaction time is a little slow but not terrible. You haven't been keeping up with your training. Keep the knife, consider it gift” Natasha told you with a smirk.

You glared at Natasha with wide eyes as she turned and sauntered away.

“Oh and welcome back to the land of the living сестренка.” Natasha called over her shoulder.

You scowled as you signed the medical discharge papers, almost signing Daniels out of habit. It would take some getting used to being a Barton again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

So this is going to be my next fic series after Name Calling IF you guys like it. If not, I can scrap it and work on something else. It’s kinda up to you lovely people, and I won’t be offended if this isn’t a hit. 

[hardluminarybarbarian8]

A Psychoanalytic Interpretation of Macfarlane’s Chapter “Ice”

Lecture notes: study questions for specific passages

Macfarlane’s chapter “Ice”: Lecture Outline

The Peter Pan fixation is the desire to remain forever young.  In the chapter “Ice”, Macfarlane uses this term from psychoanalysis to suggest that the mountaineers (himself included) who want to ascend the summit of Minya Konka are willing to risk death in order to accomplish something great while they are still youthful.  In the lecture, I drew a connection between fixation and the unconscious; and so those aspects of ourselves that we repress.   The mountain and its ascent is the fixation (or holy sacred object), whereas what is repressed is the possibility of death.  Ironically, after it is frozen, a death by which the body is preserved in a sort of ideal form.  Therefore, the desire to remain forever young, in connection with risk-taking, might suggest that the death-drive (or a willingness and even eagerness to meet death) is a motivation repressed by those who attempt extremes (like those involved in mountaineering).  

p. 261 - first paragraph

“Of the many sacred mountains of Buddhism, the Holiest is Mount Kailash in Western Tibet, where the Ganges, the Brahmaputra, the Indus and the Sutlej all have their source, and around whose base pilgrims have been walking circuits of notorious arduousness for thousands of years.  The most extreme form of this kora—the Tibetan—Buddhist term for the pilgrimage in which the walker circumambulates, clockwise, the holy site—involves the pilgrim making body—length prostrations over the entire length of the circumambulation: bend, kneel, lie face down, mark the earth with the fingers, rise, pray, shuffle forwards to the finger-marks, bend, kneel … for thirty-two miles of rough path, over the 18,000 foot Drolma pass.”

Circumambulation (from Latin circum around and ambulātus to walk) is the act of moving around a sacred object or idol.

a.   Question: what is the purpose of circumambulation?

Can you think of comparable examples?  Other religions?  

Possible answers: circumambulation of temples or deity images is an integral part of Hindu and Buddhist devotional practice (known in Sanskrit as pradakśina or pradakshinaṇā).  It is also present in other religions, including Christianity, Judaism, Sikhism and Islam.

Argument: circumambulation is comparable to a practice that most students are familiar with called rote-memorization.  

Rote learning is a memorization technique based on repetition.  The idea is that one will be able to quickly recall the meaning of the material the more one repeats it.

From ancient times, in the Hindu religious tradition, rote memorization was practiced by the priests (called Brahmins) who recited or chanted sacred scripture.  They were instructed according to the Vedas or knowledge texts (scripture originating in the ancient Indian subcontinent).  These texts are composed in Vedic Sanskrit and as such constitute the oldest layer of Sanskrit literature and the oldest scriptures in Hinduism.        

Vedic chants were passed on from one generation to another through rote learning.  The Brahmins, when reciting sacred scripture “focus not only on the received text, but also on the language of that text - - in particular on the analysis of that language.  This involves not only the analysis of its phonological shape, but also the analysis of semantic features, as well as syntactic and morphological features.” (Thompson, Mnemonics in Ancient India).

Practice of language and religious ritual                

sacred scripture                                                            sacred ground

received text (Vedas)                                                         site of spirituality

meaning/signs/text                             icons/idols (i.e., lingam and yoni), temples                                            

recitation and learning                  circumambulation *ritual commemoration

                                              (to do something in order to remind people of                                                      the significance of an event or personage)

p. 262 – first paragraph (beginning at the 6th line)

       Others come just to see the mountain.  ‘The power of such mountains,’ the Buddhist scholar Lama Govinda wrote of the peaks of Himalayan Buddhism:

is so great [that] people are drawn to them from near and far, as if by the force of some invisible magnet; and they will undergo untold hardships and privations in their inexplicable urge to approach… the centre of this sacred power.  This worshipful … attitude is not impressed by scientific facts, like figures of altitude, which are foremost in the mind of modern man, nor is it motivated by an urge to ‘conquer’ the mountain.

b.  Question: what impression does a natural landscapes make on you and for what reason? Are people drawn to impressive, formidable mountains, merely like a moth drawn to a flame? Or is there something more to it?  

Religious vs Scientific Observer

Notes: do you approach or witness natural architecture (such as an impressive mountain) as a scientist, artist, tourist, journalist?  What are the differences?  Do you have the same experience when you approach a tall skyscraper?  {Consider the recent film The Walk (2015).}  

p. 262-263 - last paragraph.

“These two kinds of mountain-worshipper stand in strong contrast to one another.”  Macfarlane comments (near the bottom of the page) “There’s a humility to the act of the kora, which stands as a corrective to the self-exaltation of the mountaineer’s hunger for an utmost point.  Circle and circuit, potentially endless, stand against the symbolic finality of the summit.  The pilgrim on the kora contents himself always with looking up and inwards to mystery, where the mountaineer longs to look down and outwards onto knowledge.”

c.  Question: is Macfarlane self-critiquing?  Or do you think he contradicts the claim he makes in the Author’s Note, that the book is a ‘reconnoiter inwards’?  

Sample body paragraph with block quotation

Macfarlane may be self-critiquing when he says:

There’s a humility to the act of the kora which stands as a corrective to the self-exaltation of the mountaineer’s hunger for an utmost point.  Circle and circuit, potentially endless, stand against the symbolic finality of the summit.  The pilgrim on the kora contents himself always with looking up and inwards to mystery, where the mountaineer longs to look down and outwards onto knowledge. (262).  

Especially, since in the “Author’s Note” Macfarlane claims that The Old Ways is a book representing a “reconnoiter inwards”, instead of suggesting that he writes a sort of military survey of the landscape, he wants to say that the book is a spiritual survey or self-analysis.  Therefore, as Macfarlane is a mountaineer who also comes from a long line of expeditioners, he may be critiquing a desire (his own desire too) to conquer the mountain.

p. 266 - 3rd paragraph

“So many mountaineers and explorers have Peter Pan fixations, a desire never to age, and a dark fulfilment of those desires can come when death occurs in high altitudes or high latitudes.  Extreme cold slows the process of decay and confers a cryogenic immortality on the body—” (266).

Notes: these comments suggest Macfarlane’s preoccupation with Metaphysics (the idea suggested by Plato’s theory of ideal forms) that modern and ancient religions are concerned with the everlasting or indestructability of the soul.  Of course, the direct correlative to this is the experience of a frozen body that defies the natural progression of time.  Throughout human experience such events must have taken place, producing a fantasy perhaps that time can be stopped as the preserved bodies in ice sort of prove.

Macfarlane puts the term Peter-pan fixation in context.

Fixation:   1) an obsessive interest in or feeling about someone or something              2) the action of making something firm or stable

Question: how can a mountain be a fixation for the religious worshipper or the mountaineer?  How is such fixation different or similar in either case?

Thanatos– god of death.  German todestrieb is the drive toward death and self-destruction.

pp. 267-268

“His game theory logic of driving, when questioned on the matter by Jon, was that he hadn’t yet died and this was proof of his ability behind the wheel […] I took to looking backwards, out over the hump of the spare wheel.  There was never any trouble to be seen out of the rear window.” (Macfarlane 267-68).

d.  Question: what does Macfarlane’s reaction to Karim’s driving suggest about the Peter Pan fixation and about reading and writing?

Notes/further remarks: does Karim suffer from Peter Pan fixation?  What about Macfarlane’s decision to look backwards to avoid seeing potential oncoming dangers?  Is this evocative of the memory and the imagination?  Is he having reservations about his role as a modern adventurer who is out to prove his youth by risking life and limb in the process?

p. 268-269 – 4th paragraph

Pointing out stray images, Macfarlane describes what he sees:

A pig hung by its ankles from a tree branch while a man drew a knife down its belly and yards of blue intestines slithered over his arm.  A woman moved through a rare shaft of sunlight, a baby slung on her front […] and there was Minya Konka, roaring white on the horizon, far higher than I had imagined.  Karim pulled to a halt on the verge, and we got out.  A plume of ice crystals and cloud unfurled from the summit like a silk blessing-scarf. (268-69)

e.  Question: what do these images mean to you?  Is it ordinary life versus the fantastic?  Consider how such images have an effect on Macfarlane.  What does the language suggest?  

       Imagism/metaphoric language

-yards of blue intestines -a rare shaft of sunlight, a baby slung on her front -Minya Konka, roaring white on the horizon -A plume of ice crystals and cloud unfurled from the summit like a silk    blessing scarf

Sample body paragraph/argumentation

Looking back through the rear-view window of the car driven fearlessly and dangerously by Karim, Macfarlane comments on his surroundings in a very writerly or observant way.  Rather than unconscious of the death-drive (Thanatos), his turning around to look at what is already passed by represents the retrospective gaze opposed to the daredevil’s gallop while wearing blinders. The scenes Macfarlane then illustrates could almost be characterized as cinematographic…

p. 269 – 2nd paragraph

“‘There’s a Sanskrit word, darshan,’ Jon said as we gazed up at Konka.  ‘It suggests a face-to-face encounter with the sacred on earth; with a physical manifestation of the holy …” (269).

Sample body paragraph/argumentation

Macfarlane explains the meaning of the word Darshan.  It represents his growing sense of a spiritual connection to place.  After all, as Macfarlane finally looks up at the impressive peak of Minya Konka he substitutes his customary exclamation “Wow!” for “Darshan!”.  

f.  Question: what is a “face-to-face encounter with the sacred on earth”?  What makes a religious object or place a religious site?  Is it their qualities or history?

p. 272 (last paragraph)

Sample body paragraph/argumentation

As Macfarlane looks up at Minya Konka he returns to the theme of children and their impressions: “Seen from the West, from that pass, Minya Konka resembles a child’s sketch of a mountain” (272).  What this suggests is the idealization of the mountain, since “Pyramidal mountains fulfill a Platonic vision of a mountain, a dream of what one should resemble” (273).  In other words, these mountains can represent a fixation upon ultimate reality or an idea of purity and perfection.    

g.  Question: how does Macfarlane contrast the ideas presented to us in fables with his relation of events at the base of Minya Konka?

Further points/evidence

p. 280

“A man and a woman plodded towards us … There was no pride or self-acclaim apparent in his explanation, just a calm recording of a fact and an air of weary gladness.” (280)

p. 279

“Circumambulation came to replace summit-fever for Shepard” (279)

p. 282

“not returned from the grave but returned by it.” (282)

Wiki — Death Drive

In classical Freudian psychoanalytic theory, the death drive (German: Todestrieb) is the drive toward death and self-destruction. It was originally proposed by Sabina Spielrein in her paper “Destruction as the cause of coming into being” in 1912, which was taken up by Sigmund Freud in 1920 Beyond the Pleasure Principle. This concept has been translated as “opposition between the ego or death instincts and the sexual life of the instincts”.  In Pleasure Principle, Freud uses the plural “death drives” (Todestriebe) much more frequently than in the singular.  

       The death drive opposes Eros, the tendency toward survival, propagation, sex, and other life-producing drives.

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 32: Tampered (Transcript) - 18th April, 2016

tw: none

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

I grew up watching a television show called MacGyver. If you’ve never had that chance to watch this icon of the 80s, do yourself a favour and give it a try. Sure, the clothes are outdated and the hair… oh my gosh, the hair. But aside from all the bits that didn’t age well, MacMullet and his trusty pocket knife managed to capture my imagination forever. Part of it was the adventure, part of it was the character of the man himself – I mean, the guy was essentially a spy who hated guns, played hockey and lived on a houseboat. But hovering above all those elements was the true core of the show. This man could make anything if his life depended on it. As humans, we have this innate drive inside ourselves to make things. This is how we managed to create things like the wheel, or stone tools and weapons. Our tendency towards technology pulled our ancient ancestors out of the Stone Age and into a more civilised world. Maybe for some of us, MacGyver represented what we wanted to achieve: complete mastery of our own world. But life is rarely that simple, and however hard we try to get our minds and hands around this world we want to rule, some things just slip through the cracks. Accidents happen. Ideas and concepts still allude our limited minds. We’re human, after all, not gods. So, when things go wrong, when our plans fall apart or our expectations fail to be met, we have this sense of pride that often refuses to admit defeat. So, we blame others, and when that doesn’t work, we look elsewhere for answers, and no realm holds more explanation for the unexplainable than folklore. 400 years ago, when women refused to follow the rules of society, they were labelled a witch. When Irish children failed to thrive it was because, of course, because they were a changeling. We’re good at excuses. So, when our ancestors found something broken or out of place, there was a very simple explanation – someone, or something, had tampered with it. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

The idea of meddlesome creatures isn’t new to us. All around the world, we can find centuries-old folklore that speaks of creatures with a habit of getting in the way and making life difficult for humans. It’s an idea that seems to transcend borders and background, language and time. Some would say that it’s far too coincidental for all these stories of mischief-causing creatures to emerge in places separated by thousands of miles and vast oceans. The púca of Ireland and the ebu gogo of Indonesia are great examples of this – legends that seem to have no reason for their eerie similarities. Both legends speak of small, humanoid creatures that steal food and children, both recommend not making them angry, and both describe their creatures as intrusive pranksters. To many, the evidence is just too indisputable to ignore. Others would say it’s not coincidence at all, merely a product of human nature. We want to believe there’s something out there causing the problems we experience every day. So, of course, nearly every culture in the world has invented a scapegoat. This scapegoat would have to be small to avoid discovery, and they need respect because we’re afraid of what they can do. To a cultural anthropologist, it’s nothing more than logical evolution. Many European folktales include this universal archetype in the form of nature spirits, and much of it can be traced back to the idea of the daemon.

It’s an old word and concept, coming to us from the Greeks. In essence, a daemon is an otherworldly spirit that causes trouble. The root word, daomai, literally means to cut or divide. In many ways, it’s an ancient version of an excuse. If your horse was spooked while you were out for a ride, you’d probably blame it on a daemon. Ancient Minoans believed in them, and in the day of the Greek poet Homer, people would blame their illnesses on them. The daemon, in many ways, was fate. If it happened to you, there was a reason, and it was probably one of these little things that caused it. But over time, the daemon took on more and more names. Arab folklore has the djinn, Romans spoke of a personal companion known as the genius, in Japan, they tell tales of the kami, and Germanic cultures mention fylgja. The stories and names might be unique to each culture, but the core of them all is the same. There’s something interfering with humanity, and we don’t like it.

For the majority of the English-speaking world, the most common creature of this type in folklore, hands down, is the goblin. It’s not an ancient word, most likely originating from the middle ages, but it’s the one that’s front and centre in most of our minds, and from the start it’s been a creature associated with bad behaviour. A legend from the 10th century tells of how the first Catholic bishop of Évreux in France faced a daemon known to the locals there as Gobelinus. Why that name, though, is hard to trace. The best theory goes something like this: there’s a Greek myth about a creature named kobalos, who loved to trick and frighten people. That story influenced other cultures across Europe prior to Christianity’s spread, creating the notion of the kobold in ancient Germany. That word was most likely to root of the word goblin. Kobold, gobold, gobolin – you can practically hear it evolve. The root word of kobold is kobe, which literally means “beneath the earth”, or “cavity in a rock”. We get the English word “cove” from the same root, and so naturally kobolds and their English counterparts, the goblins, are said to live in caves underground, and if that reminds you of dwarves from fantasy literature, you’re closer than you think. The physical appearance of goblins in folklore vary greatly, but the common description is that they are dwarf-like creatures. They cause trouble, are known to steal, and they have tendency to break things and make life difficult. Because of this, people in Europe would put carvings of goblins in their homes to ward off the real thing. In fact, here’s something really crazy. Medieval door-knockers were often carved to resemble the faces of daemons or goblins, and it’s most likely purely coincidental, but in Welsh folklore, goblins are called coblyn, or more commonly, knockers. My point is this: for thousands of years, people have suspected that all of their misfortune could be blamed on small, meddlesome creatures. They feared them, told stories about them, and tried their best to protect their homes from them. But for all that time, they seemed like nothing more than story. In the early 20th century, though, people started to report actual sightings, and not just anyone. These sightings were documented by trained, respected military heroes. Pilots.

When the Wright brothers took their first controlled flight in December of 1903, it seemed like a revelation. It’s hard to imagine it today, but there was a time when flight wasn’t assumed as a method of travel. So, when Wilbur spent three full seconds in the air that day, he and his brother, Orville, did something else: they changed the way we think about our world. And however long it took humans to create and perfect the art of controllable, mechanical flight, once the cat was out of the bag, it bolted into the future without ever looking back. Within just nine years, someone had managed to mount a machine gun onto one of these primitive aeroplanes. Because of that, when the First World War broke out just two years later, military combat had a new element. Of course, guns weren’t the only weapon a plane could utilise, though. The very first aeroplane brought down in combat was an Austrian plane, which was literally rammed by a Russian pilot. Both pilots died after the wreckage plummeted to the ground below. It wasn’t the most efficient method of air combat, but it was a start. Clearly, we’ve spent the many decades since getting very, very good at it. Unfortunately, though, there have been more reasons for combat disasters than machine gun bullets and suicidal pilots, and one of the most unique and mysterious of those causes first appeared in British newspapers. In an article from the early 1900s, it was said that, and I quote, “the newly constituted royal air force in 1918 appears to have detected the existence of a hoard of mysterious and malicious sprites, whose sole purpose in life was to bring about as many as possible of the inexplicable mishaps which, in those days as now, trouble an airman’s life.” The description didn’t feature a name, but that was soon to follow. Some experts think that we can find roots of it in the old English word gremian, which means “to vex” or “to annoy”. It fits the behaviour of the creatures to the letter, and because of that they have been known from the beginning as gremlins.

Now, before we move forward, it might be helpful to take care of your memories of the 1984 classic film by the same name. I grew up in the 80s, and Gremlins was a fantastic bit of eye candy for my young, horror-loving mind, but the truth of the legend has little resemblance to the version that you and I witnessed on the big screen. The gremlins of folklore, at least the stories that came out of the early 20th century that is, describe the ancient stereotypical daemon, but with a twist. Yes, they were said to be small, ranging anywhere from six inches to three feet in height, and yes, they could appear and disappear at will, causing mischief and trouble wherever they went. But in addition, these modern versions of the legendary goblin seem to possess a supernatural grasp of human technology. In 1923, a British pilot was flying over open water when his engine stalled. He miraculously survived the crash into the sea and was rescued shortly after that. When he was safely aboard the rescue vessel, the pilot was quick to explain what had happened. Tiny creatures, he claimed, had appeared on the plane. Whether they appeared out of nowhere or smuggled themselves aboard prior to take-off, the pilot wasn’t sure. However they got there, he said that they proceeded to tamper with the plane’s engine and flight controls, and without power or control, he was left to drop helplessly into the sea.

These reports were infrequent in the 1920s, but as the world moved into the Second World War and the number of planes in the sky began to grow exponentially, more and more stories seemed to follow – small, troublesome creatures who had an almost supernatural ability to hold on to moving aircraft, and while they were there, to do damage and to cause accidents. In some cases, they were even cited inside planes, among the crew and cargo. Stories, as we’ve seen so many times before, have a tendency to spread like disease. Oftentimes, that’s because of fear, but sometimes it’s because of truth, and the trouble is in figuring out where to draw that line, and that line kept moving as the sightings were reported outside the British ranks. Pilots on the German side also reported seeing creatures during flights, as did some in India, Malta and the Middle East. Some might chalk these stories up to hallucinations, or a bit of pre-flight drinking. There are certainly a lot of stories of World War Two pilots climbing into the cockpit after a night of romancing the bottle – and who can blame them? In many cases, these pilots were going to their death, with a 20% chance of never coming back from a mission alive. But there are far too many reports to blame it all on drunkenness or delirium. Something unusual was happening to planes all throughout the Second World War, and with folklore as a lens, some of the reports are downright eerie. In 2014, a 92-year-old World War Two veteran from Jonesborough, Arkansas came forward to tell a story he had kept to himself for seven decades. He’d been a B-17 pilot during the war, one of the legendary flying fortresses that helped allied air forces carry out successful missions over Nazi territory, and it was on one of those missions that this man experienced something that, until recently, he had kept to himself. The pilot, who chose to identify himself with the initials L.W., spoke of how he was a 22-year-old flight commander on the B-17, when something very unusual happened on a combat mission in 1944. He described how, as he brought the aircraft to a higher altitude, the plane began to make strange noises. That wasn’t completely unusual, as the B-17 is an absolutely enormous plane and sometimes turbulence can rattle the structure, but he checked his instrument panel out of habit. According to his story, the instruments seemed broken and confused.

Looking for an answer to the mystery, he glanced out the right-side window, and then froze. There, outside the glass of the cockpit window, was the face of a small creature. The pilot described it as about three feet tall with red eyes and sharp teeth. The ears, he said, were almost owl-like, and its skin was grey and hairless. He looked back toward the front and noticed a second creature, this one moving along the nose of the aircraft. He said it was dancing and hammering away at the metal body of the plane. He immediately assumed he was hallucinating. I can picture him rubbing his eyes and blinking repeatedly like some old Loony Toons film. But according to him, he was as sharp and alert as ever. Whatever it was that he witnessed outside the body of the plane, he said that he managed to shake them off with a bit of “fancy flying”, and that’s his term, not mine. But while the creatures themselves might have vanished, the memory of them would haunt him for the rest of his life. He told only one person afterwards, a gunner on another B-17, but rather than laugh at him his friend acknowledged that he, too, had seen similar creatures on a flight just the day before.

Years prior, in the summer of 1939, an earlier encounter was reported, this time in the Pacific. According to the account, a transport plane took off from the airbase in San Diego in the middle of the afternoon and headed toward Hawaii. Onboard were 13 marines, some of whom were crew of the plane and others were passengers – it was a transport, after all. About halfway through the flight, whilst still over the vast expanse of the blue Pacific, the transport issued a distress signal. After that, the signal stopped, as did all other forms of communication. It was as if the plane had simply gone silent and then vanished, which made it all the more surprising when it reappeared later, outside the San Diego airfield and prepared for landing. But the landing didn’t seem right. The plane came in too fast, it bounced on the runway in rough, haphazard ways, and then finally came to a dramatic emergency stop. Crew on the runway immediately understood why, too – the exterior of the aircraft was extensively damaged, some said it looked like bombs had ripped apart the metal skin of the transport. It was a miracle, they said, that the thing even landed at all. When no one exited the plane to greet them, they opened it up themselves and stepped inside, only to be met with a scene of horror and chaos.

Inside, they discovered the bodies of 12 of the 13 passengers and crew. Each seemed to have died from the same types of wounds, large, vicious cuts and injuries that almost seemed to have originated from a wild animal. Added to that, the interior of the transport smelled horribly of sulphur and the acrid odour of blood. To complicate matters, empty shell casings were found scattered about the interior of the cockpit. The pistols responsible, belonging to the pilot and co-pilot, were found on the floor near their feet, completely spent. 12 men were found, but there was a thirteenth. The co-pilot had managed to stay conscious despite his extensive injuries, just long enough to land the transport at the base. He was alive but unresponsive when they found him, and quickly removed him for emergency medical care. Sadly, the man died a short while later. He never had the chance to report what happened.

Stories of the gremlins have stuck around in the decades since, but they live mostly in the past. Today they are mentioned more like a personified Murphy’s Law, muttered as a humorous superstition by modern pilots. I get the feeling that the persistence of the folklore is due more to its place as a cultural habit than anything else. We can ponder why, I suppose. Why would sightings stop after World War II? Some think it’s because of advancements in aeroplane technology: stronger structures, faster flight speeds, and higher altitudes. The assumption is that, sure, gremlins could hold on to our planes, but maybe we’ve gotten so fast that even that’s become impossible for them. The other answer could just be that the world has left those childhood tales of little creatures behind. We’ve moved beyond belief now. We’ve outgrown it. We know a lot more than we used to, after all, and to our thoroughly modern minds these stories of gremlins sound like just so much fantasy. Whatever reason you subscribe to, it’s important to remember that many people have believed with all their being that gremlins are real, factual creatures, people we would respect and believe.

In 1927, a pilot was over the Atlantic in a plane that, by today’s standards, would be considered primitive. He was alone, and he had been in the air for a very long time but was startled to discover that there were creatures in the cockpit with him. He described them as small, vaporous beings with a strange, otherworldly appearance. The pilot claimed that these creatures spoke to him and kept him alert in a moment when he was overly tired and passed the edge of exhaustion. They helped with the navigation for his journey and even adjusted some of his equipment. This was a rare account of gremlins who were benevolent rather than meddlesome or hostile. Even still, this pilot was so worried about what the public might think of his experience that he kept the details to himself for over 25 years. In 1953, this pilot included the experience in a memoir of his flight. It was a historic journey, after all, and recording it properly required honesty and transparency. The book, you see, was called The Spirit of St. Louis, and the man was more than just a pilot. He was a military officer, an explore, an inventor, and on top of all of that he was also a national hero because of his successful flight from New York to Paris – the first man to do so, in fact. This man, of course, was Charles Lindbergh.

[Closing Statements]

[writing-royza]

Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul: Chapter Twenty-three - Just a Name on the List

A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone! I hope you all enjoyed last week's big reveal. A big shoutout to Fanfiction.net reader fallenangel7583, who was posting her theories in the reviews, and managed to figure it out a few months ago! Congratulations, honey, I'm super proud of you! Clearly I need to make things more difficult ;) Enjoy this week's chapter, folks!

I do not own FMA.

Chapter Twenty-three - Just a Name on the List

UNINHABITED ZONE, CITY OF JADAD, ISHVAL

0322 HOURS, APRIL 24TH

She moved carefully in the deepest of the shadows, approaching the inhabited areas of the city for the second time that night. Kimblee was some four hundred metres away to her right, on his own hunt, and she would rather he not know she had followed him. He had wanted to hunt, and while Riza did not particularly care if he did or did not feed on the unsuspecting population… she also knew that his usual method of attack mean the prey never got back up again.

And if similar murders to those in Central and East City happened here, the military was bound to get themselves involved. More people watching, more people combing the city for her and Kimblee… more chances of being caught.

So she trailed him from a great enough distance, keeping a tight leash on her thoughts so that he wouldn't clue in to the fact she had not, in fact, stayed at the inn hideaway. She would know from the uptick in his own openly broadcasted thoughts when or if he found prey, and would hurry to stop him from killing outright, if she could. It was all about sustainability: sustainable food sourcing and sustainable secrecy.

Coming to the edge of the inhabited area, she took to the roofs once again, traversing them with the same light, carefree footing as a cat. The augmented strength in her legs allowed her to jump from one to the next in leaps that thrilled her heart, her brain growing giddy on the adrenaline —

No. Focus. She checked Kimblee's mental state, found him already in the quiet, anticipatory mental space that signalled he was stalking prey. Gritting her teeth, Riza turned her steps in that direction, weaving between stone chimneys and traversing the traditionally flat-topped roofs with quickening speed. She clamped down harder on her own mental broadcasting, imagining her thoughts kept hidden under a camouflaged dome as she picked up her pace ever farther.

The stucco, brick, and stone under her bare feet held no vestiges of warmth from the day's sun, though she barely felt the nighttime chill as she ran. Sand and grit whirled in her wake, kicked up by her passage.

She came upon him in an alley so dark that it was nearly pitch-black, just as he was dragging the stunned body of a young woman from the revealing torchlight in the street. She struggled feebly, small distressed noises issuing from her throat despite the hand clamped across her mouth.

Riza let her mental walls drop, evidencing her anger and distaste for what Kimblee was up to. He froze instantly, his head jerking up, but it was too late. Her feet hit the ground in front of the would-be victim, the two of them glaring at each other over the prostrate body between them.

"Lieutenant, do you mind?" he asked in vague annoyance. "I'm in the middle of dinner, and it's rather rude to interrupt someone at mealtime."

"I'm not stopping you," she pointed out, drawing herself up to her full height. "I'm supervising. I'd like to make sure she goes home when you're done, instead of adding another murder charge to the ones you've accumulated already."

His teeth glittered against the dark backdrop behind him as he grinned. "Is that all? You wouldn't perhaps like to… share? One drink, two straws, so to speak?"

The look she gave him was pure disdain. "I'm perfectly capable of hunting for myself, thank you. Without creating more competition or leaving bodies lying around afterward."

Kimblee scowled. "Competition? What are you talking about?"

Riza's smile was practically acidic. No teeth showed, but her eyes glared daggers as she spoke. "The bite of a vampire is what starts the transformation, although it's very slow. The morning after you bit me for the first time, I began noticing changes, although I passed it off as still recovering from my wounds on the Promised Day."

She slid forward a few steps, standing over the girl on the ground. Her eyes were open, still slightly glassy-looking — no doubt from Kimblee's mental influence — but more coherent than they had been a moment ago. Riza spared her one glance, but no more. "Every other person you've hunted, you've killed when you fed on them. That's lucky, since if you had just bit and sucked the blood, leaving them alive, they would have slowly been turned until they were — after several weeks, I'm guessing — a fully-fledged vampire. Or as close as you can get without drinking your blood in return."

"Creating competition," he said slowly, her point dawning on him. "For food sources, for territory…." His eyes quickly traced her form, but not quickly enough to escape her notice. "For mates…. And how do you suggest we prevent this then? How do we feed without biting?" His quick smile returned, his eyes flicking slyly to the woman at their feet. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a new sister?"

"Very sure," she shot back, crouching low over the woman's hips. "As for not biting… I can show you."

The woman began to struggle again as Riza's hand fisted in the front of her dress, pulling her partially into a sitting position. Riza smiled sweetly, her free hand gently stroking the other's cheek as she sent forward soothing thoughts, willing the fear away. She exuded reassurance, like a parent calming a child after a nightmare… and watched as the terror leached out of the woman's eyes, her tense muscles relaxing.

The soft strokes moved from her cheek to trail down her neck… and when the woman didn't react, Riza pressed her thumbnail into the skin, drawing down to open a cut. The only reaction was a soft gasp that quickly subsided until Riza's mental touch, and blood pooled quickly on the skin.

She looked up. "And there you have it. With our strength, puncturing the skin with just a fingernail is no great feat, and as long as you don't start licking like a dog, she'll remain fully human. Perhaps it's not quite as dramatic as what you were intending, but it's better than creating a whole passel of other vampires to contend with."

Settled cross-legged on the ground, Kimblee pulled the body of the bleeding woman toward him. "Very innovative. And how many have you hunted this way?"

The hunger twisted in her stomach at the sight and smell of the blood, and she averted her eyes in the pretense of looking out for witnesses. "None. I've been a little busy since I turned fully, and haven't exactly had time to hunt."

He tsked, lifting his mouth from the still-oozing cut. "That's not healthy, my dear, you need to keep up your strength. Skipping meals is never a good idea, whether human or vampire." He shook his head in reproach. "Honestly, you'll make yourself ill if you don't eat properly."

Annoyed, she pushed to her feet, turning toward the alley exit. "I make myself ill just being around you," she fired back. "Make sure you don't kill her; we'd have the population down on our heads faster than we could blink, and even we can't fight back if the numbers are overwhelming."

She didn't hear his response as she turned the corner onto the deserted street and bolted off into the night. Her teeth gritted. Of all the men to be turned into a vampire and fixate on me… it had to be him. She had never liked Kimblee even before it was made abundantly obvious that he was mentally unstable. He was arrogant, he was rude, he was utterly deaf to the feelings of those around him—

Her stomach twisted again, hurting a little this time with hunger pangs, and Riza grimaced. Unfortunately for her, this time, he was also right. She needed to find some form of sustenance.

What little information Scar and Miles had managed to impart to them on the day's travel between the welcoming party's interception and arriving in Jadad had said that the inhabited parts of the city were divided according to family demographic. Families in one area, single women in another, single men in yet another…. Now if she could simply remember where each section was….

The market where she had stolen her abaya was more or less in the centre of the three housing districts, and she would have passed over the family dwellings to get to it. From there… if she remembered correctly, the single women were placed in homes to the north, and single men were placed to the south. Travelling west as she was, she turned to her left, angling off through the streets and allowing the shadows to swallow her.

INHABITED ZONE, CITY OF JADAD, ISHVAL

0413 HOURS, APRIL 24TH

He was mildly surprised that he had managed to any sleep at all, and that the five hours he had gotten hadn't been fitful or interrupted by dreams. Roy supposed he ought to feel grateful for that much… but right now, he couldn't bring himself to feel much more than just tired.

The small single-family house he had been directed to for the duration of the trip was dark and quiet as he moved from his bedroom to the small bathroom. It was quiet outside as well; it was even too early for the city's merchants, bakers, and craftspeople to be up and preparing for their day.

Two minutes later, standing at the sink, Roy watched the water flow over his hands and debated the usefulness of trying to go back to bed. He doubted he would sleep more; his mind was already too hard at work. And if he wouldn't sleep, he was liable just to lie there and worry about Riza.

He dried his hands, and returned to the bedroom, but it was to turn on the light and reach for his clothes. If he were awake anyway, he might as well do something useful and try to get some work done. There wasn't much else he could do, he reasoned, pulling the tunic over his head and belting it at the waist with the traditional Ishvalan sash.

Riza was out of his reach, at least for now. Miles and Scar wouldn't be up and about for a couple of hours yet, along with the rest of the city. He was on his own for the time being, but that didn't mean he had to be idle.

The sound of the kettle beginning to boil in the kitchen as he leaned against the counter next to a waiting mug was welcome and familiar. Something that hearkened to early mornings on better days. He smiled, picturing Riza leafing briefly through the East City Times as she waited for the water to heat for her morning tea. Her hair falling around her face in a sleek blonde curtain, his shirt covering her to her hips, her bare feet padding across the floorboards to the stove….

He shook his head to clear the images, dragging himself back to the present to the strident whistle of the kettle. He lifted it from the burner and switched it off, before pouring the hot liquid into the mug, watching the teabag bob to the surface.

He had never been much for tea before Riza started as his assistant. After that, he had seen her drink a cup of the stuff every morning until he had finally been curious enough to explore the drink himself. She had taught him to like it, and in the six-month separation before the Promised Day, he had almost given up coffee in favour of it, to feel even slightly closer to her.

Now, she was gone again and he was here, drinking tea without her.

He opened the front door of the little house into the cool, predawn darkness, thinking that it might be relaxing just to sit outside and watched city wake up. Before he was two steps out, however, his stomach gurgled insistently. Apparently, breakfast was on the agenda as well.

Setting the mug of tea on a small bench to one side of the door, Roy returned inside. He retrieved a pair of flat, rectangular biscuits from a box Miles had pointed out to him on the counter. The Ishvalan label was indecipherable to him, but the Major had said they were some kind of breakfast treat – mildly sweet, some kind of oat, dried fruit, and honey mixture that most Ishvalans went crazy for. Either way, it was likely they went well with tea.

When he returned outside, however, the mug of tea was gone.

Roy stood very still, staring at the spot where he was positive he had left the cup. It wasn't on the ground, he hadn't taken it with him back inside, so where….

"Oh dammit, it's you."

His head snapped back as he looked to the roof, eyes widening. Sitting perched on the edge, the mug of tea cradled in both hands, was Riza. Her face was set in a mixture of mild surprise and strong annoyance, glaring at him over the rim of the cup. "I thought," she said frostily, "that you were some early-rising dad coming outside to avoid waking the kiddos and your wife…. Easy prey, and not very common at this hour. But I suppose I was wrong."

It's all right; she can't attack you as long as you have — A cold chill gripped his spine as he realized that he had left the protective charm pouch in his bedroom. Unused to wearing it, he had forgotten about it completely… and was now wide open. Forcing himself to keep his cool, he broke a piece from one biscuit and bit into it. "Sorry to disappoint you. Out for breakfast, are you?"

"More like dinnertime for me," she corrected, almost languidly. "And no…If I were hunting now, it would qualify more like dessert. I've already had my main course, so to speak."

Roy felt the colour drain out of his face. "I see. Would you mind telling me where, so that some innocent civilian doesn't stumble across the crime scene and scare themselves half to death?"

She laughed, a genuinely merry sound that still managed to raise hairs on the back of his neck. "You're thinking of K —" She seemed to stop herself, losing her humour almost instantly. "…of my sire's method of hunting," she continued after a brief hesitation. "Personally, I try not to kill my victims, or to spread vampirism around by biting indiscriminately. And I've made sure that he is willing to do the same."

"That's a bit like closing the barn door once the horse escapes, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it benefits us as well as you." She took an appreciative sip from the mug. "Mmm. Very nice. Really cleanses the palate. Anyway, as long as we don't create new vampires and don't go about murdering people for their blood, I really think we can learn to coexist. Maybe a couple people get snacked on each night, but I would think most people would rather that than an all-out murder spree, don't you?"

He gritted his teeth at the insolence in her tone. "Somehow, I don't think everyone will be dancing in the streets at that proposition."

"Well, no, of course not. But it's got to be better than the alternative. That's my whole point."

They were both quiet for a moment, listening to the lack of city sound all around them, before Roy swallowed his latest bite of breakfast biscuit. "Sounded like you almost gave a name to your… your 'sire,' you said? Why the anonymity?"

She looked down at him from her perch for a moment before taking a nonchalant last sip from the cup. "Because I figure that if he wants you to know who he is, he'll reveal himself to you in time. It's not really my place to do so." She tossed her hair back over one shoulder. "Suffice it to say that he's no friend of yours: never has been, probably never will. And maybe that's for the best."

She dropped to the ground, setting the empty cup on the bench. "Thanks for the drink. See you around, fire boy."

"Hold on a second." Just as passed him, Roy reached out and caught her by the arm. The fabric of the sleeve was cool under his palm, her muscles shifting minutely as she tensed and turned to glare at him. "What really brought you here? Were you looking for me specifically?"

The glare softened somewhat, though she threw a distrustful glance at his hand on her arm. "No, what I told you was true. I was on my way back to my little hideaway, saw a lone man out by himself and thought he might be easy prey for a light snack. You're just lucky enough it was you." She tugged gently. "You can let go of me now."

"…I see." His eyes went to the white linen as he let go and she took a step back. "Nice dress."

Riza beamed, purple eyes smiling up at him from under blonde lashes. "You think so? I needed something a little more me than that plain brown thing, so I thought I'd treat myself. Not a bad choice, as it turns out." Her smile turned sly, showing teeth. "But I bet you'd still like what's under it even more."

Not much made Roy Mustang blush, but the look of pure lasciviousness in those strange purple eyes certainly did. He took a step back, distancing himself, careful to keep his tone cool and unaffected. "The face is right, but the mind isn't," he shot back. "Call me when it's the real Riza at the reins, not you."

She stood hipshot, her arms folded as she watched him with an amused expression. "Oh, come on. You're really that much of a purist that you can't even allow yourself one little indulgence? Do you think it'd be cheating, somehow?" Her grin broadened. "Same body, same hair, same lips, same… everything. Well, maybe except the eyes, but that's straying toward semantics." She shrugged, trailing a step toward him. "But other than that, aside from acting a little differently… can't you just accept that this is still essentially the pretty little lady that gets you all hot and bothered?"

"The body is only part of it," he answered, trying to ignore the heat gathering on the back of his neck at the sound of her voice, the lithe movements, the teasing lift of those familiar lips…. "The rest is a person's soul and spirit, and yours isn't Riza. You told me yourself that you're suppressing hers."

The strange creature with Riza's face drew another step closer, and when he went to retreat, he found himself literally backed against the wall of the house. Long, cool fingers stroked his cheek, her index coming to rest on his lips. "Don't be silly," she chided gently, drawing close to press lightly against him. "You're putting far too much thought into this. It's just sex, fire boy, nothing terribly new to you." Her free hand trailed low, over the front of the loose desert pants; her teeth showed at what she found there. "You can't tell me you're not at least a little bit interested."

If blushing was rare, physical violence toward a woman was unheard of… yet it didn't stop him from planting a hand on either of her shoulders and shoving hard. The vampiress, caught off-guard, staggered backward several steps and was lucky enough not to trip on the hem of her white dress.

"Seems to me that there's one of your own kind you could get that kind of attention from," he pointed out, though he hated the words the moment he said them. He knew it wasn't Riza, but to encourage the thing in her body to go after another man… well, not a man exactly, but another male….

"He and I don't exactly see eye to eye," she scoffed. "Riza never liked him, and strong dislike like that tends to bleed through the barrier between personalities… and the only reason he wants her is to hurt you." She paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Although… perhaps it would be a fitting punishment for turning me down. Maybe I will let him have a little fun."

That same cold chill returned, this time grasping his stomach in icy fingers. What had he just done. "Wait a minute… you said that this guy… none of us ever liked each other, and yet he's using her to hurt me." Those amethyst eyes turned unreadable, and he had the sense she felt she had given too much away. "You almost said his name before, but cut yourself off after one letter. You won't tell me, but what if I guess?"

She shrugged, the motion too nonchalant to be genuine uncaring. "So what if you do?"

Roy gritted his teeth. "King Bradley?"

For a long moment, she was very still, still watching him closely. "That's a nice little bit of deduction," she commented at last.

"Only if I'm right. Am I?"

Another shrug. "Maybe you are and maybe you aren't," she answered cryptically. Glancing skyward, she turned to head north along the deserted street. "We may have to continue this another time. The sun will be coming up before long, and I'd like to be safely indoors by then." She tossed a finger-wave over her shoulder. "Have a nice day, Colonel."

"Hey, hang on a —"

But the words were left echoing around the street as she bolted at terrific speed off into the shadows, veering sharply down a sidestreet and out of sight. Roy sank to a seat on the little bench against the wall, dropping his head into one hand as belated nervous shivers ran the length of his spine and back again.

She wasn't alone anymore. And her new partner in crime — whether it was Bradley or not — was every bit as deadly as she was.

RECONSTRUCTION OUTPOST OFFICE

0523 HOURS, APRIL 24TH

Roy had to pound on the locked door of the outpost office for nearly three minutes before Miles finally opened. The usually put-together Major was, for once, disheveled by sleep and still blinking the last vestiges of it from his eyes. Belting a robe around his waist and shaking his long, loose white hair back behind his shoulders, he frowned at the tense man on the doorstep.

"Colonel? What —"

"Don't ask questions, just let me in." The tone of his voice left no room for argument. Miles stepped back immediately, his soldier's training temporarily overriding his fatigue. Once through the door, Roy nudged him aside, turning to firmly shut and re-bolt it.

Any trace of tiredness was rapidly vanishing. "Sir, I know you said no questions, but what the he** is going on?"

"I had a visit from our mutual friend. Less than an hour ago." He turned, running a hand back through his hair in agitation. "It might be a bit early, but have you got any of that liquor from the other night?" His grin was lopsided but strengthless. "I need something to take the shake out of my legs."

"Sure." Starting for the stairs, Miles pointed to the paper-littered desk. "The bottle is in there. I'm going to grab some clothes, and send someone to get Scar. He'll want to hear about this as well."

Roy had the desk drawer open by the time Miles' footsteps reach the second floor. The bottle was just over halfway full, the clear liquid sloshing up the sides and making a tinkling sound where it hit the cap. Roy settled his fingers on it to open it… and froze. He could hear Riza's voice — her actual voice, not the sultry, dangerous tones of the thing in her body — admonishing him.

Really, sir? Don't you think that an alcohol chaser for breakfast sends the wrong message? His conscience yet again, in reality, not just as her own joke.

He lowered the bottle, watching the room's dim lighting reflecting off the shifting liquor. He had thought that he had left this particular urge behind during the long lead-up to the Promised Day: the urge to try and quite literally drown his sorrows. Oddly enough, it had been his own mother, his regular supplier of professionally served alcohol, that had pointed out the flaw in that logic.

Alcohol kills your brain cells, boy. And if you're going to figure your way out of this situation, you haven't got many you can lose. That grim stare and red-painted lips hovered in his memory, along with the wagging finger of reproach.

"’If there's a drink in your glass, you'd better pray it's water,’" he muttered to himself as footsteps sounded again from the stairs. A young warrior priest — one of the guards from the yantir, Roy recognized — bolted down two steps at a time and out the front door in seconds, Miles returning only a moment later, still tying the sash of his tunic. Red eyes glanced at the bottle still in Roy's hand.

"Feeling better, sir?"

"Actually, I think I'll take a raincheck on that drink. Save it for celebration when we get the upper hand in this whole mess." He dropped the bottle back into the drawer and shut it firmly. "That was your messenger?"

Miles nodded. "The two of us — you and I — have each been assigned a guard until we sort this all out. Yours was told to remain as unobtrusive as possible, so he was staying in the vacant house behind yours." He frowned. "Though I wonder how it was that he missed the Lieutenant's so-called visit."

"We would have been on the opposite side of the house, and probably out of his view," Roy answered. "How long until Scar gets here, do you think?"

"It shouldn't be long. Ten minutes, maybe."

True to his word, when the door opened ten minutes later, it was Scar who entered followed by the guard-messenger. He dismissed the younger man with a nod, moving to the small dining area where Roy and Miles waited at the typically low Ishvalan-style table. Each held a fresh cup of tea, with a third waiting for the large man.

"I was of the opinion that most Amestrians, even soldiers, don't generally start the day until at least six," he commented dryly, setting himself at his place.

"Personally, it's usually five or five-thirty for me, though there's not a lot I wouldn't give for six." The wry humour helped to ease Roy's tension somewhat, but a good percentage of it still remained, nestled in a knot between his shoulder blades. "I appreciate you coming so quickly."

"There was very good reason." Lifting his cup, Scar watched him over the rim. "What happened?"

Taking a deep breath, Roy wrapped both hands around his own cup, welcoming the warmth. "I couldn't sleep, so I got up, thinking I would take my breakfast outside, in the fresh air, where I could try to relax and think about the kind of work that has to be done here. Both with the Hawkeye situation and the reconstruction. I went back inside for something and when I came back out, she was waiting for me."

Miles frowned. "Was she… well, did she try to…." Clearly not sure what words to use, he simply pointed to his neck.

"No… though she mentioned she had already been out… the term she used was hunting. From the sounds of it, she'd… fed."

Scar lowered his cup, outwardly calm but the instant alertness showing in his eyes. "Meaning that somewhere out there is another victim. Like the others in Central and East City?"

Roy shook his head quickly. "No, no, I had the same thought, believe me. She assured me that she has no interest in hunting the way the killer does, that she had found a way to… to make it less destructive for the victim. To even keep them from being turned as she was." He raised his hands as both men opened their mouths at the same time. "Don't ask me how; she didn't go that far into specifics.

She also confirmed that the vampire who turned her — she called him a 'sire' — arrived last night, and that she thought she had probably convinced him to stop ripping his victims apart in favour of her method." He grimaced. "That's the good news. The bad news is that he is indeed here and we now have him to contend with as well."

Taking a contemplative sip, Miles spoke up. "I don't suppose she gave this sire a name? Whether or not it's the same as he had in life, it would at least give us something to call him."

"Well… yes and no." Roy began slowly spinning the cup on the table, watching the way the movement rippled the liquid inside. "She started to say his name, and then thought better of it. All I got was a letter that sounded like 'kuh.' Like a K or a hard C." He gave each of them a significant look. "She also told me that this guy knows us, has never liked us, and we've never liked them." A shrug. "I've made my fair share of enemies, but very few of them have names that start with a sound like that."

"Did you venture a guess?" Scar asked, his face and voice deceptively calm.

"Yeah. King Bradley." He shook his head. "She wouldn't confirm or deny, though. She had already said too much."

"Hmm." The big man was silent a moment, contemplating, then said, "It may not be Bradley."

They waited, but he did not elaborate, merely alternating between sipping at his tea and staring into the depths of the cup. Finally, Miles pressed, "And why do you say that?"

"The Colonel asked Lieutenant Hawkeye if this new persona was that of a Homonculus," Scar pointed out. "She was insulted by the idea; called them 'freaks.'" The broad shoulders lifted and fell in an expressive shrug. "If her sire were King Bradley, he would not harbour the same hatred. Hatred that it is fair to assume she inherited from her sire."

Roy nodded slowly as it sank in. "If Bradley were the sire, he would have pride in this new form, but no animosity for what he was before. Same for if it were any other Homonculus, which means we're looking in a completely different direction."

Miles gave a half-felt smile. "Just how long is that list of enemies, Colonel?"

"A month ago? Too long. Now, the majority of them are gone, thanks to the Promised Day." Roy sat back, bracing himself on both hands. "The Homonculi, their Father, the Command Council, that doctor that was working for them —" He stopped, one thought occurring with a weight that settled, heavy and dark, in his chest.

"…Somebody that knows Hawkeye and myself," he repeated slowly. "Somebody that never liked either of us, somebody that we never liked… somebody that would be just fine with using her to get to me…."

He saw the light of recognition dawn in both their faces at the same time. A man they both knew as well; a man they had every reason to hate just as much as he did. It was Miles that voiced the name.

"Fucking Kimblee."

[the-firebird69]

The Pentagon

The Pentagon

(703) 697-1776

And this is more telltale sign of what it means and you have the opening facing south and it's kind of like saying the military or better when travelers like bja and his and they're saying that the enemy most likely four is come from the south and would penetrate into the house is right at Jason today and it is saying that's what it is and that is what's happening globally by the way it happens to the warlock and then they get right next to the Max and get information so it's kind of a weird morning cuz it's kind of happening and they warn people in the song says I'm hot cuz you're not cuz I'm fly and it seems like his referencing airplanes but really his referencing the fact that he's going around doing things it was supposedly not too and with foreigners and such and he's wearing the outfit in the desguise. There's more to it but that's the biggest and then the 9/11 that's where the police force the entrance because people are tired of getting killed off and that actually happened but it doesn't explain the shape it doesn't explain that those who are thought of as being good people can see it it's the theory and it doesn't explain the correlation very well and it doesn't tell them or suggest what these shape is not much. It does say this and suggest that the entrance might be in the south in Tunisia that they are to try and get in there and not make it in.

The biggest reason is the humongous diamond below but really the amount of power coming from there as a laser would be quite enough to do the job on practically anything the beam would be about 30 miles wide but if I'm correctly Galactus would be family wounded by it and if aimed at him there's a few problems with that you would have to stop the Earth's gravity for being the same and son says the gravity would stay the same the rotation shouldn't affect it too much and it's true stationary and still have gravity the problem really is physics and how you're going to actually do that and her son says with these tunnels I would say oh cuz it's true you take a tunnel and you can see it straight it's going to be factoring a certain way and another effects of the other way and then up through where cities were to keep your position right so that's an aggressive plan but it involves a diamond that I our son is sitting on. And it's my son's plan and he revealed his hand tons of people try it I know to succeeds and there's nothing down there now they fight so hard over it but we are so it's another question

Right now tons of people are being drawn towards Florida due to this announcement and huge numbers to DC and Tunisia and the Mediterranean is a huge huge War that's developing it seems that they know about this stuff and they know a lot more than the same they have the kid repeat something they say

We're probably now and we're watching them have a fight but it's really forgieners though, no. The blockade is up it's the morlock and they want to take over DC to put our son on trial. They're very rude people they're very ignorant crass and men are they annoying but they get right up in your face and start saying stuff and they're mean I just saw their performance at Walmart, what a bozo and he's the terrorist the max did a good job finally so he's actual terrorist so screw you trying to remember you got arrested keep trying it more of and you bring the boat it's domestic terrorism the place charges on you too at the Pentagon and now you mentioning the Pentagon and we wanted to mention the Pentagon cuz it has to do with our stuff and when you're sitting around and what you're ignoring all the time because you forget about it is your very stupid that's why you forget. You can't be left alone or counted on to do anything correctly and we know it when you're going down the tubes and it's on purpose by the max and then you start taking us on so you're going on purpose by Us say that you say we're going to use on you and you're saying dumb things and we're going to put a hit on you now it seems to understand that one a little it's a lot of money our son has enough money to kill you permanently and you can get people money this doesn't want to do that because he can do it without doing that that's why this uses your money it's typically what we do and he does we know where it is we know where stashes are here we know where casters are and thanks and your accounts hey just direct people to it then we say we know it a lot more is and they hit you only help orchestra anything else dirtbag? Lol

Thor Freya

[renaroo]

Sweet Home (3/4)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence, PTSD and past trauma, Mentions of wartime Rating: T Synopsis: [Modern AU] In the aftermath of war, Wash is left with little direction in his own life. On his own, he takes up an ad for a roommate and suddenly finds himself wrapped up in the perplexing life of Doctor Emily Grey.

A/N: Long time, little see, and I’m truly sorry about that <3 For those who don’t know, as of January this year I have taken on quite a few more jobs than what we had before. I am a graduate student but on top of that I began teaching classes for the university on my own and I have been working very hard on my research project which is picking up steam now that the mating season for wolf spiders has begun! So busy busy here though I do hope everyone has had a good few months themselves and that this story is still worth the wait for those who come back to it <3 I appreciate you all more than you know

A special shout out to @secretlystephaniebrown, @splendiferousblog, @freelancerfeels, @ziggyzagzag, Yin, om3g4, and Zed Said from AO3, ffn, and tumblr for the feedback and support! You guys really help to make this experience that much more rewarding!

Drawing Lines

It has been a very long week and, despite knowing that the town is less than a few miles wide at best, Washington hasn’t brought himself to do much more than accompany Emily Grey to the store and back in order to carry groceries.

As he lays in his bed that still doesn’t feel very much like his, it really and truly hits him how small the world seems after the war. He left for it with this idea that the universe is large and vast, that he is truly fighting for things to be better and for home to be stronger and more taken care of than it ever had been before.

But the world is small and knowing it intimately only proves to show Washington the worst of its cracks and pitfalls.

He fought for this town, he fought for a place like Sweet Home to live up to its name. But the streets are cracked, the roads have holes, and most of the properties have grass reaching for higher standards than the owners.

Sometimes, laying in his bed outside of his supposedly only two hours of consistent sleep, Washington finds himself staring at the proverbial and literal wall, holding his breath and counting to ten.

He’s waiting for an answer. He’s waiting to be told what it is that he sacrificed everything that once made him human for.

He’s waiting for things to make sense again. But without reveille or shouts or marching orders, it just doesn’t.

And the world just gets even smaller around him.

For every morning that Wash woke up to a full course meal and a half naked housemate, there is a morning where he wakes up to absolute silence and solitude.

Asking questions, even if normal and social, feels invasive and uncomfortable, even in concept, for Wash so he opts instead to rely on powers of observations and checking for patterns. The most easily noticed of these being the way the stacks of books all over the house change by the day, and especially how much they change — or how much they grow — on the days that Emily is absent in the mornings and not back until the late nights.

It is then that Wash puts together that his housemate, the already-doctor, is actually still a student. That is why so many younger college age people are coming in and out of Sweet Home.

It’s as questionable as the anomaly that is Emily Grey herself, but again, the anxiety of actually phrasing a proper question that isn’t intrusive, rude, bigoted, sexist, out of touch, judgmental, arrogant, condescending, or just plain vague is too much and Washington fumbles it even in theory.

So he sticks to counting book stacks and making himself cereal on lonely mornings.

Not lonely. Solitary.

Lonely implies that Washington doesn’t prefer it and, well, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t unprefer it either.

And that’s the rub of it.

For all the draining exhaustion that proximity to Emily’s rotation of guests brought him, Washington finds himself not doing much with his solitary time either. Just checking the news, getting the mail, and digging through his own thoughts with all the caution and malaise afforded to a gravedigger.

He’s in the middle of just that one particularly solitary morning, a cereal bowl still in his grasps, when the back door next to the stove opens up with a loud BANG. It’s as if a tornado was trying to rip the door from its hinges, and Washington can’t even process it before the solitary space he has masked himself in becomes occupied by a bounding creature with fur and teeth and an odor similar to tarmac.

There’s a moment, after the sharp paws are buried into Wash’s chest but before the back of his chair is going to find itself addressing the floor, that Washington thinks a bomb has gone off — one that bends reality and warps the quiet he strangles himself with optionally is transported back to scorching heat and screams and the worst that people can do to one another.

It’s a hysterical notion, one that would possibly rival the sort of genuine psychosis that seems to get his housemate all riled up about his sleeping habits, but it’s the only thing Washington can think before he’s dazed on the ground with a literal dog standing on his pajama covered chest, rotating around like it’s looking for the next challenger in a game of King of the Hill.

“Freckles!”

Washington takes in the moment once again. He’s not dying. He’s not shot. There’s not a war in the kitchen, only whatever intrusion Emily Grey has brought upon his life again. And he doesn’t even get in a count to three for his anger exercises before the fury erupts from him like a volcano.

“What the hell is going on!?” he gets out, only to have the dog’s attention whip right back to him.

The dog is a sharp looking, large chested doberman. Chocolate colored where Wash’s senses tell him it should be black, tan where it should be brown on its nose and wrapped around its feet like socks. The eyes are yellow, intimidating, and it has ears pinned high from cropping. Washington hadn’t even realized it was a practice with animals anymore, but he supposes on reflection that inhumanity isn’t restrained to what people do to each other.

What is just as shocking is the man who the voice belongs to.

He comes around the kitchen island with a curious, wide eyed look on his face, lips drawn together in a surprised oh as he examines the situation he brought upon Sweet Home.

The man is large and bulking. Wash’s instincts are to think it’s fitting of his extremely large dog but, somehow, the man is even too large and thick even for that to be a complete fit. He’s not chiseled so much as he’s built large, and his head is weighed down by a mess of spiky, unkempt hair that stands end on end in a way that tells Washington the man’s less familiar with a brush than even Wash is. His skin is tanned hide but not wrinkled or old, just worn and not as well taken care of as he could use.

He’s wearing a blue hoodie and khaki pants that have not a single wrinkle, and those are the strangest things in Wash’s mind because the man is also wearing with them standard issue military boots.

“Hello!” the man says loudly.

“Is this your dog!?” Washington demands just as loudly. There’s a low stage of panic beginning to set in as the dog looks less happy to have Washington talking and Washington’s chest is feeling less happy to have a dog standing on it.

For a moment, the man seems more surprised than Wash, and he glances toward the dog as if there is some other dog that Washington would be addressing. And a big, goofy smile crosses his face as he looks back down to Wash.

“Oh! Yes. This is Freckles. He is a very good boy. Aren’t you, Freckles? Aren’t you a very good boy?” the man coos toward the dog.

Taking his gaze off of Wash, the dog turns around and looks at the man, nub of a tail wagging so hard his entire butt is moving with it. The dog’s front paws pick up and ram down many times excitedly on Wash’s chest. Then it barks loud and keening.

“Get him off of me!” Wash demands in a hiss between gasps of breath.

Blinking again, the man glances down at Washington, then looks around the house in confusion. “Oh, no. I don’t know you. I thought this is the Sugar House. Oh no. This is very bad. I do not want trouble again. I only want the nice lady doctor in the Sugar House—“

The man sounds panicked, and the more he panics, the more the dog reacts. First with a whining bark, then with finally leaping from Wash’s chest toward the man. It prances around its human before pressing the flat of its head into the palm of the man’s hand.

And, suddenly, Wash begins making sense of things. The solitary doesn’t come back, but he’s not gone into chaos anymore.

Not any more than usual, by any means.

“Do you mean Sweet Home?” Wash asks as he raises up to a sitting position, holding onto his no doubt bruised ribs.

“Yes!” the man calls out excitedly. “Oh! Oh! Do you know where it is? I am very lost. Which is strange. Because Sheila told me where to go and I did not believe I was lost so now it is me being confused where I thought I was not. You see?”

Washington feels himself slipping into the chaotic one more time but he fights it, instead clearing his throat and repositioning himself into a more confident stance. “I don’t know who Sheila is, but yes. You are at Sweet Home. You aren’t confused. Well. You’re not anymore confused right now than I am. Uh. I live here now. With Doctor Grey. Emily. Doctor…lady. Am I making sense? I don’t think I am.”

However, the confused posturing seemed to be speaking to the man’s language because his grin only grows and grows the further the conversation goes down the rabbit hole.

“I am at the Sugar House?” he asks. “And you’re the new friend at Sugar House?”

“I’m… what?” Wash asks, the chaos threatening to swirl out of control.

Without clarifying, the man pulls out a large smartphone from his pocket and holds it flat close to his chin. It looks a little awkward from Washington’s angle, like the finer motor movements are lacking refinement.

“Sheila!” the man shouts across the surface of the phone, causing the screen to light up with a familiar app — the service assistant. “Thank you! I’m here!”

“I am happy for you, Private!” the smartphone cheerfully responds.

And, again, Wash pieces it all together.

After all, the service assistant had been offered to him, just like every other veteran from the War. The high tech phone app was a personal assistant for recovering servicemen and women. It was a bit of an insult to be offered one, even though almost no human soldier left the terrain without it being beneficial to have one.

The stigma had been enough to keep Washington away from accepting the service assistant at the time, and as a result he unwittingly had refuted future medical and mental health claims he could take from his service. It seems that pride was a good way to keep those who gave almost everything to their country from actually receiving anything in return.

While judgments flared up in Washington’s mind, driven into his instincts from basic, he also wondered if the man before him is actually a secret genius.

“What branch did you serve in?” Washington finds himself asking.

The main blinks at him, stroking the dog’s head as he fumbles his phone back into his pockets.

“I was marines,” Washington offers again.

“Yeah, I was with Church and Tucker,” the man says happily. “Did you know them?”

Wash feels his brows knit together in concern. “I… no?”

“Oh, okay. They were with me. I never remember being in a tree,” he states with a shrug of his large shoulders.

“Okay,” Wash says. “Well, my name is Washington.”

“That’s a funny name,” the man says with no tact. “I am Michael J. Caboose.”

“That’s a funny name,” Wash says sardonically before he can even catch himself.

Almost as if he understands, the dog pins his ears back against his head and lets out a low string of growls in Washington’s direction. He doesn’t seem to appreciate Wash’s sarcasm. But his master doesn’t seem to mind.

“It is funny. We both have funny names. I’ve never met a General Washington. I bet you’ve never met a Caboose. Or maybe you did. Have you met any of my sisters? I have many of them. It wouldn’t surprise me,” Caboose says breathlessly.

“Who knows in this town,” Wash says with a soft laugh of his own. “And believe me, I’m no general. Kind of glad I’m not… except for the retirement benefits.” He tries to laugh again but sees only blankness in return from Caboose. Wash coughs to clear the air and then tries to move things along in a way that may not hint to the other man that Washington has absolutely no idea how to handle social situations. At all. “I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you. Emily didn’t mention anything about someone coming in today. Not… that she ever mentions it… But she’s never gone for too long if you want to sit in and wait.”

“Oh, no, thank you, no. I cannot stay. I cannot stay because I have to go. Sheila has told me many times already that I have to go. She has been reminding me everyday that today is the day that I have to go.” Caboose explains without any semblance of explanation. He then looks like an idea has just crossed his mind and he fumbles in his pockets again to repeat the move with his phone. “Sheila!”

“Yes, Caboose?” the service assistant says, lighting up.

“Tell Mister Washington how I have to go!” he says with the excitement of a kid at Christmas.

“Private Michael J. Caboose must be at the platform in forty-five minutes in order to depart on the 343 train to—“

“See, I told you,” Caboose interrupts, shoving his phone back without even bothering to tell the app to turn off. Wash can’t help but stare at the way it glows through the man’s khaki pants in the worst way imaginable. “I cannot stay for the doctor. I have to leave. I have a train.”

“Oh, okay,” Wash says. “I’ll…uh… tell Emily you came by then. I’m sure she’ll be sorry that she missed you.”

Caboose’s smile is brilliant, but sort of in a way that Wash isn’t sure what he’s smiling about. “Oh, she’ll know.” He then turns to face his dog and gets down on one knee to be level with him. The dog, almost knowingly, begins whining like a puppy. “Be a good boy! Be a good boy! I’ll be home soon, yes be a good boy!”

Processing the moment takes Washington a second longer than he should and, as suddenly as his morning was interrupted by Caboose, it is being uninterrupted by the man stepping out the door.

“Wait what,” Washington finally manages to utter just before Caboose grabs the handle of the back door.

The large man waves emphatically. “Thank you, General! I will see you and the good doctor lady soon! But I have to get to my train!”

“Private Michael J. Caboose’s train is departing in forty-two minutes—“

“Wait! I don’t know—“ Washington tries to shout but the door is slammed shut with tremendous force, enough to make one of Emily’s piles of books nearby tip over and go scattering across the floor.

Washington and Freckles both stare at the books for a few disquieting seconds.

Then Washington gives the dog a wary look. “I can’t escape the nonsense can I?”

The dog snarls in return before huffing. It then walks — with confidence and ownership of the house that Washington dreams of building up to at some point before his fifties — through the short hall from the  kitchen and into the living room where it promptly takes the seat that Washington has been using for the last week.

“God damn it Emily,” Wash curses at the air, nose curling.

When Grey returns home it is with the flourish that Washington has com to expect.

It’s almost like nothing in the world and changed and everything is good and there’s nothing but perfect innocence exuding from Emily’s every pour. And that doesn’t change even slightly as she trounces on through the door and looks down to meet Wash’s gaze.

For his part, Washington’s sitting on the floor with his back against three stacks of books. The one in his hand has been occupying the space he had been staring at prior to Emily’s entrance.

A funny expression came over Emily’s perpetually peasant face as she locks eyes with Wash and she puts her hands on her hips, flouncy skirt bobbing in a wave. “Why, Washington! What are you doing on the floor, silly?”

There’s some sort of crack in Wash’s forced smile like his teeth are too sharp to be contained. “I’ll give you three guesses,” he offers.

Then, there’s a ferocious bark from the living room that draws Emily’s eyes away from him.

“The first two guesses don’t count,” Wash declares as the dog’s head pokes out from around the corner.

“Freckles!” Emily calls out in utter delight.

With a complete change in character, Freckles loosens up the ramrod straightness of his body and begins bounding through the hall, heftily landing two paws on Wash’s lap without warning. By the time the dog is at Emily, he’s nothing but an overgrown puppy with a wagging tail and playful keening barks.

She happily catches the dog’s front paws and meets his nose.

It would be an adorable image if Washington wasn’t already sick to death of everything surrounding it.

“That all we got to say?” he demands soothingly.

Emily looks up from the dog, a curious smile, but a smile all the same, looking back on him. “What now?” she acts coyly.

“This has to stop!” Wash snaps, finally getting to his feet, slamming the book in his hands onto the top of one of piles of books as he does so.

Of course, the world never wants things to work out simply for Washington and in mere moments after his tantrum, the line of books begins to topple as a result. And soon, like dominos, the books around the house begin to fall, one into another, all around them.

Freckles is unhappy at the development and bravely gets between Wash and Emily, growling with his haunches raised.

Emily Grey is looking around in complete shock.

Washington feels like an asshole. “Goddammit! I mean. I’m sorry. Here,” he mutters, beginning to get on one knee to pick up the stray books. But he stops himself, after only grabbing two, he gets back to his feet and shakes his head. “No. No! Okay. Goddammit. I have to… I have to say something before it makes me explode!”

“Like defacing hundreds of dollars of property belonging to a roommate?” Grey offers.

“Fucking— yes,” Washington grits his teeth angrily. “This is not going to work if I don’t say anything, and you know what? I actually want this to work. I want to live here. I want to be… I don’t know. I want to be here with you. In this house. Stupid. Confectionary. Sugared-ice-tea house.”

“Sweet Home,” Emily answers, like it’s vital to the conversation. “Why do you want to be here, Mister Washington?”

Wash stares at her, beginning to wonder if she’s listened to anything he’s ever said but, suddenly, looking into her eyes, he realizes for the first time that she is being frightfully serious.

She wants to know. Which, is to say, she doesn’t understand.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Wash answers pathetically.

“Neither do I,” she agrees.

“Yes, but it’s still your house at the end of the day,” Wash says. “I can leave, even if there’s nowhere to go. Because this house isn’t mine. Because there are no parts of it — no lines in it — that are mine and only mine. I need. I need…”

“Boundaries?” she tries to guess again.

Wash scowls at her. “Respect,” he corrects her. “And I’m…. I’m just not going to receive it as long as you continue to be inconsiderate of our differences.”

It isn’t quite knocking down every book in a maze of a house, it isn’t quite a fiery explosion, but it’s every bit of Washington’s guts and brains spewed out all the same. Words he hasn’t even put together fully formed in his own mind yet are suddenly there, bared open for them both.

For the first time since they met, Emily Grey is speechless.

Until she isn’t.

“So you are a cat person?”

Washington takes off up the stairs, fuming all over again and not sure when he’s going to blow.

[anothergracekellyblog]

“MINIATURE MONACO” | National Geographic, April 1963

Article and photographs by Gilbert M. and Donna Kerkam Grosvenor

Portrait of THS Prince Rainier and Princess Grace by Bates Littlehales

SOURCE: My scans @ Google Photos | *Full issue* | *Article only*

SOURCE: Bates Littlehales at Getty Images

SOURCE: Gilbert M. Grosvenor at Getty Images

MINIATURE MONACO

All winter long my wife Donna and I had thought about visiting Monaco. We would swim in the blue Mediterranean, bask in Europe's finest climate, royalty in glamorous Monte Carlo, and savor life in one of the world's smallest and strangest countries.

Besides, Monaco was making news by arguing with its powerful neighbor, France, 368,125 times its size. After seven centuries of self-rule, this toy Riviera principality was teetering on the edge of political disaster

By treaty, Monaco agreed to conform with French political, military, and economic interests. Now France wanted Monaco to impose taxes on businesses based in the principality. If foreign as well as French firms were to be taxed, carefree little country, with its air of musical-comedy charm, might never be the same again.

22,000 Residents, 2,000,000 Visitors a Year

Coming by car from Italy, we first sighted Monaco from one of the world's most beautiful mountain drives, La Grande Corniche. From our high vantage point we beheld the entire principality, cupped between the foothills of the French Alps and the sea.

We could take it all in at a single glance, for 370-acre Monaco is less than half the size of Central Park in New York City. It reaches only three miles along the Mediterranean shore and 200 to 1,200 yards inland.

Monaco’s permanent population consists of 3,400 native Monegasques and 18,600 foreigners with residential privileges. Yet to this tiny principality, pressed on three sides by France, come two million pleasure-seeking visitors each year.

Directly below us spread Monte Carlo, most famous of Monaco's three districts. The huge baroque casino stood out among pastel-hued hotels and apartment houses crowded against the sea.

Fronting the pocket-size harbor lies Monaco’s next district, La Condamine, a residential and business section. Here international firms operate happily, sheltered by Monaco's liberal tax laws, and wealthy or retired people clip their coupons with never a worry about Monegasque income tax.

Beyond the square stone-jettied harbor, atop a headland, sits the third district and capital, Monaco-Ville - the Rock - crowned by the fortress palace of Prince Rainier III. Monaco's renowned Oceanographic Museum, a temple of the sea, is built into the Rock's sheer cliff.

Farthest west lies Fontvieille, an industrial section, not an official district. It turns out such varied products as pharmaceuticals, plastics, tobacco, precision instruments, ceramics, glass, and cosmetics.

Conqueror Comes in Friar's Garb

Donna pointed to the Rock. "That's where it all started," she said, “Do you remember the story of how the early Grimaldis took that fortress in the 13th century?"

It was quite a coup. On a night in 1297, drowsy soldiers inside the fortress on the Rock were shaken awake by a knock on the gate and a friar's plea for a night's lodging. Once admitted, the intruder drew a sword and slew the guards. He hailed companions, and they captured the Rock. The bold adventurer was François (the Spiteful) Grimaldi, scion of aristocratic seafarers from Genoa.

Now, more than six and a half centuries later, a Grimaldi, Prince Rainier III, still ruled the Rock and the principality lying below us.

Like a giant amphitheater facing the sea, Monaco's crowded, sun-splashed buildings rose above the harbor, a stage where luxurious yachts rode side by side.

The magnetism of the setting reached out to us. We descended to the sea.

The glistening yachts, like competing starlets, vied for top billing. Multicolored standards waving from their sterns reminded me of the parade of flags fronting the United Nations headquarters in New York. Donna counted the flags of 12 nations.

On board, professional crews polished brass or varnished brightwork. Although hailing from scattered ports, the crews sported identical blue-denim trousers and white T-shirts their yacht's name emblazoned in blue across the front. The uniform, I learned later, is adopted by virtually all boats visiting Monte Carlo.

At the quay’s end I looked up and across to the Rock and Monaco-Ville clinging to it. Atop the palace flagstaff fluttered a white standard bearing the crest of Grimaldi. It signified the Prince was in residence.

It seemed incredible to me that one family could control the principality so long. How could the Grimaldis hold off the Spanish, the Genoese, Venetians, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and survive two World Wars?

Donna had a theory that seemed likely: The Grimaldis had cleverly kept pace with their times; they never let tradition interfere with progress.

In the 14th century, the wealthy Grimaldis ruled the waters off Monaco and increased their fortunes by levying a droit de mer, or sea tribute, on all goods carried by vessels passing within sight of the Rock.

For the next three centuries, even though outgunned by larger fleets, the Grimaldis held on to their tiny fief by negotiating protective treaties with both France and Spain, and by marrying their offspring into the wealthy and influential families of Europe.

In the 1860's when Monaco's treasury ran low, Prince Charles III - Prince Rainier's ancestor - sold the rights to his country's struggling casino. A shrewd businessman named François Blanc (White) obtained a 50-year operating concession. He guaranteed Monaco a substantial share of profits from the casino.

François Blanc transformed the pumpkin-sized principality into a Riviera playground. Grand dukes arrived in special trains to try their luck. Monegasque fishermen beached their boats, exchanged fish for chips, and became nimble-fingered croupiers.

Blanc's casino profits ran high; the saying still lives that "whether you bet red or black, White will win." The House of Grimaldi won, too. In 1869, Prince Charles III abolished taxes in Monaco.

Albert I Founded Museum of the Sea

Science, ballet, and international conclaves were introduced to Monaco by Charles's son, Prince Albert I. He inherited the early Grimaldis' love for the sea and was fascinated by marine biology, making 30 scientific voyages. In 1910 he opened the Oceanographic Museum to exhibit his astounding collection of specimens. Jacques-Yves Cousteau, renowned undersea explorer, now directs the museum, which last year attracted more than 850,000 visitors and scientists.

Prince Albert, noting that Monaco's climate suited subtropical plants, also started the Exotic Garden. Today it ranks with the finest cactus gardens in the world.

The present Prince, Rainier III, has his ancestors' business sense as well as their flair. He has sparked a fantastic economic boom and a $200 million dollar, five-year expansion project, which includes adding 100 acres of land to Monaco. And he has given his principality a beautiful Princess, the former Grace Kelly of Philadelphia and Hollywood.

Wedding Crowds Jam Monaco

As the days passed into weeks, we explored the principality on foot. Most charming to us was the antique district of Monaco-Ville, which remains unblemished by 20th-century architecture. Its buildings run together like a jigsaw puzzle and the narrow crooked streets, forbidden to automobiles, lead to secluded garden restaurants crammed into small courtyards.

In stark contrast is Monaco-Ville's main square, which bursts with tourist buses and foreign-licensed autos. A good part of the palace's 100-man, whistle-blowing guard - the carabiniers - struggle frantically in the square for control.

At a sidewalk cafe I asked the proprietor what caused the tremendous crowds that day.

"The big wedding,' he replied simply.

"What wedding?" Donna inquired.

"Madame, Prince Rainier's wedding, of course," he answered, annoyed.

"But that was in 1956,” I protested. 

"Quite true, and ever since we've had the crowds,” he retorted.

Not many days later, Monaco exploded with excitement. It was Grand Prix week. Europeans jammed the principality in early June for one of several Grand Prix races to determine world auto-racing supremacy.

Monaco's Grand Prix is the most famous auto race through city streets. Stands line the course. Spectators hang from apartment and hotel balconies.

"We reserve race-view rooms years in advance," a hotel manager told me.

Yachts flock to the harbor and anchor close to the breakwater. The owners are hoisted to the masthead in bosun chairs for a bird's-eye view, helicopters churn overhead; light planes circle endlessly.

At race time the loudspeaker crackles, "Ladies and gentlemen, Their Serene Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Monaco."

In his red Porsche, Prince Rainier speeds through the traditional ouverture du circuit. Beside him sits the Princess in a Kelly green dress and white turban.

The racers line up for the start. The red and white flag dips, drivers clutch out, the machines scream, shudder, then leap forward trailing streaks of burned rubber and dense exhaust clouds.

I stand atop protective hay bales at the first turn. Donna remains behind a wall near the track on the Avenue de Monte-Carlo.

Red, green, blue, and metallic blurs of machines and drivers merge into a maelstrom of color as the cars roar toward me at 60 miles an hour. Squinting through the telephoto lens, I sense a dangerous squeezing pattern forming in the heavy traffic.

Suddenly one car nudges another, triggering a chain reaction. Three entangled cars fishtail badly, practically into my lap. A viciously spinning wheel shears loose from its axle. In my rangefinder, I see it coming.

The wheel bounces, gathers momentum, and sails directly at me. Forgetting pictures, I flip backward, cameras flying, and hit the pavement flat out.

An elderly Monegasque track official, standing but three feet away, remains frozen, and the wheel plows into him like a steamroller. He is knocked unconscious. An alert Red Cross stretcher team speeds him away to Monaco Hospital. My enthusiasm for close-up pictures vanishes.

After 82 minutes the lead cars have toured 50 laps - the halfway mark. The field narrows as drivers and machines fail - the three-car crack-up, broken fuel pumps, sheared drive shafts, fractured gearboxes.

At 94 laps a New Zealander, Bruce McLaren, leads the Ferrari team's Phil Hill, an American, by 30 seconds; at 98 laps the lead narrows to 12 seconds; the checkered flag drops as McLaren finishes a scant two seconds ahead of Hill, 1961 world champion.

High Fashions Bring High Prices

After Le Grand Prix, the Monte Carlo summer season shifts into high gear. The small, fashionable dress shops display the newest creations from Paris, Milan, and Rome. Leotard-like outfits of stretch silk by Pucci, the rage of the Riviera, sell for S100 and up, and matching silk shoes and purse for another $50. Antique shops are willing to sacrifice authentic Louis XIV chairs for only a few thousand dollars each.

Monte Carlo's hotels begin to fill up. Of them all, only the Hotel de Paris is really plush. Moreover, it is really expensive - three-room suites can cost $120 a day.

As one Monegasque put it, "If the Hotel de Paris were cheaper, the status seekers would avoid it."

At our hotel, the furniture was only almost antique. Our bathroom was twice the size of our bedroom, and wooden steps led up to the tub - four feet above the concrete floor.

One morning I ordered orange juice for breakfast, and the incident provided an amusing sidelight on Monegasque hotel thinking. The menu listed the beverage for sixty cents, and so when the bill exceeded three dollars, I inquired about this small mistake.

The manager apologized profusely and telephoned the chef. After a lengthy conversation, he reported, "No mistake, monsieur. The oranges were very small today. It took more than usual to fill your glass."

We were learning how Monaco keeps its economy in the black. Tourists and the commerce they generate provide some 40 percent of the Monegasque income.

Anything bought in Monaco carries a sales tax of about 3 percent. All services - hotels, restaurants, entertainment - are taxed 9 percent. The principality also runs a tobacco monopoly and operates highly profitable radio and television stations, among the most powerful in Europe.

In 1885 Monaco issued its first stamp, and unwittingly struck another rich vein of national revenue. No one could have predicted the 20th-century popularity of philately, or that Monaco's stamps would eventually contribute 8 percent of its budget.

Strangely, while it is still Monte Carlo with its casino and glamorous life that draws visitors, gambling profits now bring in only about half as much as Monaco's stamps.

Home of 600 "Presidents”

So successful is this Monegasque economy that the country levies no personal income tax and no property tax; corporate taxes are modest. Yet it is probably the only country left in the world with no national debt.

This economic lure has helped spark the prosperity. Foreign firms need pay only a moderate fee to incorporate in Monaco, but their activities must be real. Holding companies and letter-drop corporations are not allowed.

Monaco presently has 600 corporations. Directeurs (presidents) outnumber croupiers - although the croupiers' tips alone exceed the average annual 'fee' of 10,000 French francs ($2,046) paid the directeurs.

Ironically, Monaco's very success had threatened to bring about her downfall. Her tax inducements figured in the rift between President de Gaulle of France and Prince Rainier.

Paris argued that it was unfair for French businessmen to incorporate in Monaco and thus avoid paying taxes to France.

However, Monegasques countered that France must approve all applications from both French and foreign firms desiring to transfer their activities to Monaco. If France did not wish her citizens to set up business there, she could deny them incorporation.

"Surely, the true source of the French-Monegasque dispute must be obscured,” a Monegasque told me. “Taxation would help France so little, but hurt Monaco so much."

An Italian businessman put it more bluntly: "If the French clamp down, I'll move my offices to Geneva within the month."

We were eager to interview Prince Rainier about his plans, as well as to photograph the princely family. Finally, approval came from Georges Lukomski, palace photographer and assistant press attaché.

Arriving early, we asked Georges to show us around the Palace of Monaco. We started in the inner courtyard which separates the offices, formal reception rooms, and visiting royalty suites from the private living quarters.

"We'll take the back way; it's quicker," Georges announced as we mounted a dark, musty stairway - little changed since the 15th century.

The ornate rooms we passed through were predictably antique, richly leafed in gold and dressed in velvets. Although George Washington never slept there, Georges assured us that numerous popes, cardinals, emperors, and kings had.

Through the labyrinth of halls and stairways, we twisted, glimpsing paintings and relics of the early Grimaldis. Back on the ground floor, we passed what appeared to be a naval torpedo with a seat and controls to guide it.

"That's the Prince's skin-diving submarine,” Georges said casually. "He uses it sometimes when he collects specimens for the Oceanographic Museum.”

We emerged into a sunlit garden where children's swings and sandboxes shared space with the flowers, balls, tricycles, and toy trucks lined the gravel path. An inflated swan, plastic raft, and two tiny paddles drifted in a blue-tiled swimming pool.

Prince Rainier and Princess Grace entered the garden, Prince Albert, then four, and Princess Caroline, five, skipped behind them.

They were so informal that Donna momentarily forgot her much-practiced curtsy.

"Welcome to Monaco," the Prince said.

The fresh, natural beauty of the Princess surpassed her familiar photographic image. But it was the Prince who surprised me. His portraits fail to express fully his youthful exuberance and dynamic personality.

"Does your GEOGRAPHIC article include all the Riviera?" Princess Grace inquired.

"No, your Highness," I replied. "We're photographing only the Principality of Monaco."

"That's wonderful!” the Prince exclaimed in flawless English. He studied in British schools and served as a French liaison officer with a Texas division in World War II.

"I trust you're interested in seeing more than just the casino," the Prince commented.

"We're exploring all the principality this summer," I assured him, "even the blueprints for land expansion."

The Prince lit up. "Good. Then you know of the new land we're gaining both from the railroad and from the sea.”

"Next time you visit Monaco,” he said, "the trains will run underground - not along the waterfront as they do today." (I could vouch for the latter: Our hotel room overlooked not only the harbor but the more than 50 trains a day that rumbled through the principality.)

"You know, don't you," the Prince asked, "that we're using the rock from the rail tunnel to create new land along the shore? We badly need the new industrial sites in Fontvieille and space for new hotels, offices, and apartments in Monte Carlo."

Although the Prince did not mention it, Monaco's growing acres come from an additional source: French soil bought as earth-fill from the owners of nearby hillsides.

"Don't forget to visit our industries in Fontvieille," the Prince said, bidding us farewell.

Welcome to a Woman's Kingdom

So, next day, Donna and I called on the flourishing Lancaster Beauty Products factory. It further emphasized the puzzling relationship between France and Monaco.

Monsieur Georges Würz, the owner, welcomed us into his "woman's kingdom".

"Our lipsticks, facial creams, and extracts for problem skin are sold mostly to the Common Market countries," he told us. "In order to meet the demand for our products, we employ workers from the French towns of Beausoleil and Menton."

"And what would happen if France blocks her roads leading into Monaco?" I asked, recalling newspaper speculation.

"The workers would be jobless, and I would be bankrupt," M. Würz replied.

He opened a door, stepped across the threshold, and announced, "I am now in France. The frontier divides my factory. Under French law I can only store goods here; but where you stand, in Monaco, I produce our produits de beauté!"

This brought to mind the Monte Carlo apartment building where tenants in the front reside in Monaco and pay no taxes, while those in back live in France-among them a French tax collector.

The noon whistle blew, and people scurried from their offices. We left the factory to join throngs headed beachward for a two-hour lunch in the sun.

At the popular Calypso restaurant, on the water, we sat amid bikini-clad patrons who ate pizza and salade niçoise or did the twist to a blaring jukebox.

It was here we observed a most remarkable feat of legerdemain, which revealed, among other things, why Monegasque working girls carry bulky handbags. Each bag contains at least a lunch, beach towel, bathing cap, and bikini. Magician-like, out in the open, the girls shed dresses and underclothes and skillfully don bikinis with a minimum loss of motion or modesty. The execution was brilliant, if devious.

Donna confessed that her admiration failed to spark the necessary courage for emulation. "This is no place for a novice," she said.

Syndicate Controls the Casino

We left until last a visit to the casino that brought reigning royalty to Monaco for a century, We had already been briefed by Monsieur A. G. Bernard, the casino's public relations manager.

While few non-Monegasques know this clever, philosophical gentleman, everyone knows the syndicate he represents: Société des Bains de Mer et du Cercle des Etrangers de Monaco – the Monaco Sea Bathing Society and Foreigners Club.

SBM controls the Casino of Monte Carlo, the Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo Beach, the high-stakes Casino d'Eté, modern bowling alleys, and even a jet-helicopter passenger service. A fabulously wealthy Greek shipowner, Aristotle Socrates Onassis, is a large stockholder in SBM. He lives aboard his luxurious Monaco-based yacht, the Christina.

As the short, wiry M. Bernard ushered us into his office, I immediately asked, "How can I expect to win at your casino?"

"Ah! Winning depends upon how you play," he responded. "But winning is not really the primary motivation of our patrons. For some, it is relaxation or release from worry or loneliness; for the system players, it is a study in mathematics; for the tourists, the casino is a novelty; and for a few, gambling is a disease, as destructive as any on medical record."

I asked permission to photograph the casino.

"This is possible, but only if you bring your own models, We must respect the privacy of our patrons who may wish to remain without names or faces - you understand?"

With that, he handed me a pass, "To eliminate temptation for madame, I have issued you a joint card for the casino, monsieur." He smiled, "She cannot go without you."

"That's fine,' I said, “but you still haven't told me how I should play to win."

"Ah, yes, there is one foolproof way," M. Bernard began. "You pass through the salons ordinaires into the salons privés. Select a heavy bettor, station yourself behind his chair, keep your hands in your pockets... ," he paused ever so slightly, "and watch. If you gamble in this way, you will always win."

With that advice, we entered another world, another era. Nothing had been spared in creating this dazzling monument to French baroque architecture and design. Gold-faced moldings, pastel frescoes, and muraled ceilings arc interrupted only by crystals dripping from huge chandeliers suspended above the array of green-felt tables.

We followed M. Bernard's instructions and walked through the salons ordinaires. The attendant bowed as we stepped from wooden floors onto plush, piled carpet and into the hushed salons privés. These are private only in that an extra payment is required, and guests must be properly attired for the privilege of wagering higher stakes.

Voices intermingled with the crisp clicking of chips, the metallic tick of spinning balls in roulette wheels, and the tinkle of the jewel-encrusted wrists reaching to place bets.

At the center table, a small group gathered around a tall, slender Italian, his deep suntan accentuating graying sideburns. Only his eyes hinted of nervousness as he tossed out four-thousand-dollar plaques. In fifteen minutes he won 125,000 francs, more than $25,000. Then he turned and scooped up his winnings. Dropping a $100 tip on the table for the croupiers, he strode briskly away.

This was a night we would not soon forget. Thanks to M. Bernard's foolproof method, we had won a vicarious fortune.

Happy Land of Make-believe

We have come to know Monaco as many things. She is well ruled by one of the oldest and shrewdest dynasties in Europe. She enjoys a booming economy. Since our visit the tiny fief and France have worked out a settlement of their fraternal spat. In the future, French businessmen who settle in Monaco must pay taxes, For those who have already acquired residency, however, the favorable economic climate remains unmarred.

But Monaco emerges, ultimately, as a land of make-believe. She suits the fairy tale, even to the handsome Prince who marries the beautiful Princess and lives in a palace overlooking the sea, hopefully, happily ever after.

As long as enough people want to believe in fairy tales come true, there will always be a Monaco somewhere.

THE END

[vinayv224]

Vox Sentences: 3 days of hearings and one notepad

Drew Angerer/Getty Images

Impeachment on the airwaves; Congo faces multiple deadly disease outbreaks.

Vox Sentences is your daily digest for what’s happening in the world. Sign up for the Vox Sentences newsletter, delivered straight to your inbox Monday through Friday, or view the Vox Sentences archive for past editions.

The biggest impeachment week yet

The last scheduled public impeachment hearing wrapped up Thursday. Now Democrats and Republicans are fighting about whether the evidence presented is enough to impeach President Trump. Both sides complain that partisan opposition is holding up important evidence. [NBC News / Jonathan Allen]

Here are the basics on how we got here — and what could happen next — from Vox’s big impeachment explainer. [Vox / Matthew Yglesias and Andrew Prokop]

Tuesday, Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman testified about his concern with Trump’s conduct on the call with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky. [New Yorker / John Cassidy]

On Wednesday, the biggest day of testimony, US Ambassador to the European Union Gordon Sondland said that, yes, there was a quid pro quo. [CBS News / Caroline Cournoyer, Grace Segers, and Stefan Becket]

And on Thursday, when former National Security Council Russia expert Fiona Hill and State Department official David Holmes came to answer questions, Holmes backed up Sondland’s assertion of a quid pro quo and Hill rebutted conspiracy theories about Ukraine election meddling. [Washington Post / Aaron Blake]

“I WANT NOTHING”: Trump prepared to dismiss testimony with some very strange notes. [Vox / Hannah Brown]

Here are the four arguments conservatives are using to defend Trump. [Vox / Jane Coaston]

There are also plenty of people who haven’t testified: former National Security Adviser John Bolton, the anonymous whistleblower, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, and the president himself. [New York Times / Peter Baker]

So when’s the next step? Here are a few possibilities. [Vox / Ella Nilsen]

Thousands dead in the DRC

Children are bearing the brunt of the world’s worst current measles outbreak, which has struck the Democratic Republic of Congo. [The Guardian / Rebecca Ratcliffe]

Nearly 5,000 people have died, with about 90 percent of the deceased under the age of 5. More than 230,000 report contracting measles in the DRC, according to the World Health Organization. [IFLScience]

Health professionals are attempting to fight the disease with vaccination campaigns with limited success. That same WHO report notes that while 44 percent of the country is in the epidemic phase of the disease, many affected areas are inaccessible to medical professionals due to ongoing conflict. [Outbreak News Today]

The DRC is also suffering from an Ebola outbreak, with half the number of those perishing from measles dying from Ebola over the last 15 months. [BBC]

Miscellaneous

Trump won’t commit to the bipartisan bill to stand with Hong Kong protesters, claiming it might hurt his chances to make a trade deal with China. [CNN / Kevin Liptak and Betsy Klein]

While Russian troops have moved into Syrian domain that the US used to hold, they are facing problems they didn’t anticipate. [Al Monitor / Kirill Semenov]

Isolation rooms are a common practice in Illinois public schools. Here’s why Gov. Pritzker finds the practice “appalling,” and wants to end them. [Chicago Tribune / Jennifer Smith Richards, Jodi S. Cohen and Lakeidra Chavis]

A young man’s insurance resisted covering drug rehab near his home. Months later, he overdosed after bad treatment — thousands of miles away. Now his mother is suing the insurer. [Vox / German Lopez]

A look into how to be, and stay, resilient. [Quartz]

Verbatim

“Nowadays, you see a dead body with two shots to the chest and one in the groin. That’s how military members shoot. So you have to ask yourself, who’s teaching them to shoot or who is doing the shooting.” [US Marine Corps veteran Daniel Torres speaks on the grim fate for some deported veterans: joining drug cartels]

Watch this: How a murder changed the fate of the Amazon

How the battle for Amazon’s most valuable trees cost Chico Mendes his life. [YouTube / Ana Terra Athayde, Sam Ellis, and Christina Thornell]

Read more

“Are you sure?” Trump’s Ukraine conspiracy theory was a bit much even for Fox & Friends

How the Washington Post’s TikTok became an unofficial 2020 campaign stop

Watching The Report through Muslim eyes

Why Elsa from Frozen is a queer icon — and why Disney won’t embrace that idea

Adults are finding new (and brutal) ways to enjoy Pokémon

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/2KNBMam from Blogger https://ift.tt/37pdKwh via IFTTT

[bitchboyparker]

Lolita, Part 1 (Starker)

Peter Parker, the love of my life, my reason to be. My incriminator, my crime, my motive. A name I’d never forget. 

Peter was a mess of wild curls and blushed cheeks. He was waking up at noon and staying up ‘till sunrise. He was too much syrup. He was running late for events. He was poorly tailored suits and bruised knees. He was sticky-sweet kisses. He was freshly picked roses. He was an annoyance at the worst of times and endearing at the best. He got under the skin, invaded every part of me. Peter was the blood flowing through my veins. He was the conscience in my brain, the very breath of my soul. He was intoxicating. He quickly became an obsession rather than an expendable prize to be won at the end of a lust-driven game of pursuit. 

There was nothing before and nothing after my Peter. Any predecessors were quickly forgotten. Nobody could match my boy, my ragnetto, he was incomparable. 

See these shackles. Bear witness to my crown of thorns. I am not innocent, nor am I worthy of an unbiased jury, but allow me to say that my crime was victimless. I was not the witch who cast a spell, but the prince with true love’s kiss. My princess pricked her finger due to her own curiosity. She had a taste of the wine and longed for something sweeter. I felt inclined to give her what she wanted. I believe that you would all do the same.

                                                            . . .

Anthony Stark was born in Manhattan on May 29th, 1970 to Howard and Maria Stark.

Tony’s father was cold, demanding, and unforgiving. Howard inherited Stark Industries and all its wealth from his father, Isaac Stark. When both of Tony’s parents died in a car crash, the business fell directly into Tony’s unprepared and fairly irresponsible hands. Not only did he have a business to run, but he was miles away (in heart and body) from his home. He found that grief increases with distance and degree of emotional abandonment. Tony maintained a lot of regret for moving away the second he could be emancipated. He eventually took it upon himself to overlook the business’s main functions from abroad from sheer pressure and guilt. It wasn’t a difficult task as the employees on base were generally unproblematic, uninteresting, and got the job done. The business was extremely successful, so Tony didn’t have a reason to make any big changes. Stark Industries ran as smoothly as it did before Howard’s death. That was until Tony witnessed his own weaponry in action and experienced the horrors of war firsthand. 

When Tony returned and publicly announced the immediate termination of military artillery production at Stark Industries, extreme changes needed to be made to just about every aspect of the company. He was able to manage a lot from home, but the workload just got heavier and more complicated. Therefore, Tony moved back to New York from Paris. That was just about the time that Tony Stark officially became Iron Man.

Manhattan was absolutely dreadful compared to Paris. The smog, the traffic, the grey skyscrapers. Paris held a certain sort of romantic air about it. Manhattan was boring and chaotic. It was a town of businessmen and moguls, of salesmen and junkies. A borough for dreamers and failures. Tony’s hopes were slashed with every glance at the foggy, dull skyline. Each day blended into the next. He longed for change and excitement. 

In attempts to cheer Tony up, his snarky, red-headed assistant, Pepper Potts, accepted an invitation for him to judge a local elementary school’s science fair. He received such invitations from schools across the country regularly, but he declined them all without a second thought. When Pepper emailed Tony his plans for the following day, he was understandably outraged. Pepper replied with an overused speech about publicity. Tony didn’t give a fuck. 

And yet, the very next day, Tony was forced into a car, driven by Happy, headed to a primary school in the heart of Queens. He had never heard of the school before. It hadn’t produced any of his employees, nor had it produced any other people of significance (he had researched the school the night prior). He had no idea why Pepper picked this school in particular. Perhaps the timing of their request was in perfect alignment with the onset of Tony’s sullen mood. Perhaps the new batch of attendees looked promising. Whatever the reason, Tony continued to feel withdrawn and a bit annoyed with the whole affair. The company could function without him for a bit, but he could be dedicating his time to things far more valuable than judging a kiddie science fair at 11 a.m. on a Saturday. Besides, his demographic wasn’t necessarily child-friendly. 

Upon his arrival, Tony was met with hoards of press. He ignored them- other than a few stiff smiles and waves- and blindly climbed the steep stairs to the front doors of the brick building. Inside the building, the clamor wasn’t any calmer. Children rushed past him with beakers and model planets and Crayola markers. They all seemed to bounce off the walls with excitement. Several rows of tables filled the crowded gym. Atop each table was a mess of displays and poster boards, each varying sizes and themes. Tony’s security stood silently behind him, unphased by the calamity. He realized they probably all had children at home. This environment was only new to him.

A woman in a phony lab coat and an oversized pair of glasses approached him. She was the simple kind of pretty. She extended her hand and Tony returned the favour. Her grip was strong and confident.

“Hi, I’m May Parker.”

“Hello, May. I’m-”

“Tony Stark. I know.” Her voice begins to bubble with enthusiasm. “We were thrilled to receive a reply from you. We did not expect it at all. Farley told me it would be a long shot, but… You’re here. Thank you, really.”

“Not a problem. I, uh, I saw a lot of potential in these kids. You are doing something right.” Tony knew he was laying it on thick, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to shoot his shot. 

His half-assed charm did the trick. May flushed bright red and her smile softened. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.” They spent a moment sharing awkward glances before she cleared her throat and pulled herself together. “Now, if you’d follow me. We have a clipboard with all the contestants and their projects. They’re ordered alphabetically by last name. We’ll start with this row and work our way back.” She gestured to forty-sum tables. Tony flipped to the last page on his clipboard. There were 247 participants. 247 ordinary children. 247 ordinary projects. 247 future New York failures. Success was so rare in such a big city. He almost felt sorry for them. They spend so much time hoping, dreaming, only for them to become nothing. He was desperate to discover something- anything- in these kids.

Tony took off his sunglasses and put them in his coat pocket. “Will anybody else be joining us?’

May nodded. “Oh, of course.” She gestured to three other people in tacky labcoats. “Mr. Ferguson, Mrs. Julie, and Miss Ronk. You guys, Tony Stark.”

The three thanked him profusely and welcomed him to their meek little school. They all swore he’d be impressed by their students, just as any teachers would do. Tony would like to be the judge of that himself.

The fair began and the bustling about came to a stop. The children still chattered amongst themselves and presented their projects to parents and companions, but there was a nervous buzz in the air. 

The first presentation was from a girl named Mary Jane. She had a matted tangle of frizzy hair atop bug eyes and chicken legs. He immediately noticed that she had an attitude.

“Hello, Mary Jane. What do we have here?”

The girl squinted at Tony and promptly replied, “Call me MJ. And my project is on conspiracy theories.” She shrugged. “Mostly aliens.” Tony actually laughed. MJ took this as her cue to begin. The girl attempted to provide evidence for aliens as well as various famous landmarks as alien bases. She went into depth about how the eiffel tower is “the perfect UFO shape” and how aliens are inevitable in “the very big galaxy.” Tony found himself accepting her points. 

While her topic was more of a pseudoscience than anything, Tony thought MJ’s low quality photos of aliens and her confidence contributed to her grade. She made a good impression on him. B+ for now. 

Tony didn’t come across another good presentation until he had begrudgingly sat through 82 childish ramblings and 15 baking soda volcanoes. This presentation was also related to spaceships, but of the Star Wars genre.

“Hello. I am Ned Leeds,” he recited mechanically as if he had practiced this a hundred times. “My project is about the scientific inaccuracies in Star Wars. I accept constructive criticism. I hope you enjoy this presentation.” 

The kid was clearly nervous. Tony tried his best to laugh at all the right places and nod reassuringly, but Ned stayed just as sweaty from the moment he started talking to the very end. 

“Thank you, Ned. That was wonderful. I know how much time you put into this project.” May smoothed his hair and the kid lit up like a glowstick. After walking away, she explained, “He’s my nephew’s best friend. Most of that project was completed in my living room.” 

“Nephew,” Tony questioned. She nodded. “Is he participating in the fair?”

“Yes! In fact, he’s the next presentation. Here.” They rounded the third row of tables and came upon a small boy who was adjusting the elemental models in front of his poster. “This is my nephew, Peter Parker.”

Peter jumped at the sound of his own name and a bright red blush colored his cheeks and ran down his neck. The boy stared wordlessly at Tony. His first thought was that the boy was stunningly beautiful.

“Hey, kid. I’m Tony.”

“Hi, Tony. I’m Peter.”

“So I’ve heard. What do we have here?”

Peter looked to his aunt who nodded for him to start. He cleared his throat and balled his sweater into his fists. “For my project, I researched the differences between vibranium and adamantium.” He said the words slowly and carefully as to not stumble over them.

Tony was genuinely surprised. “Wow. You do this yourself?”

“Well, Aunt May helped me research some things.”

May looked incredibly proud. “I have no idea what any of this is. It’s all Peter, I promise.”

Tony looked him over approvingly and allowed him to continue his speech. Peter explained in simple terms how each material is made and the little differences in the chemical process. He included little fun facts here and there, including why each chemical was created or how it was discovered. Tony knew all of this himself, but he hung on to every word. He noticed a few childish mistakes, but who gives a fuck? The kid knew more about these materials than most adults. He was beyond words. 

The rest of the presentations went in one ear and out the other. That incredible little boy left a mark on Tony. He couldn’t shake Peter from his brain. He already knew without a doubt that he’d award him first place, but he felt the kid deserved so much more. The boy was extremely intelligent and his future looked bright. Tony wanted to ensure that for him. 

When it came time to pick first place, Tony immediately said, “Peter. One-hundred percent. That kid waxed scientific poetry. No other kid here today could even come close to the complexity of his project.”

May beamed. “I know I sound biased, but I have to agree.”

The other teachers looked like they wanted to disagree or pose an argument for the other students, but they were hesitant to challenge Tony. It was unanimous. Peter Parker won his very first science fair. 

. . .

Later that night, Tony exchanged emails with May Parker. She thanked him a million times over for attending the fair and for making Peter’s day. She sent him pictures of Peter with his blue ribbon. The boy looked ecstatic. Tony was thrilled that he did that, even if Peter was unaware of his contribution. 

Tony sat back from the computer and looked at his suit in the center of the room. It sparked an idea. 

“To: maypark3r@gmail.com

 RE: Science Fair

How would Peter like to visit sometime?”

“To: anthonystark@gmail.com

RE: Science Fair

Wow. Are you sure? 

He’d be thrilled, Tony. That would be amazing.

When?”

“To: maypark3r@gmail.com

RE: Science Fair

Tomorrow?”

“To: anthonystark@gmail.com

RE: Science Fair

Yes!”