#Rent remains relevant today yes

[popculture-etc]

Re-examining Rent the musical and the movie musical in the height of COVID 19

I write this entry as I listen to Will I and Finale B of the movie musical sound track on some sort of eternal loop, yes.

Let me open this entry with my favorite lines from Finale B:

“There’s only us, there’s only this. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way. No day but today.”

“Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?”

“There’s only now, there’s only here. Give in to love or live in fear. No other life (or is it ‘time’? haha), no other way. No day but today.”

It was some time between 2005 and 2006 when I stumbled upon Rent the movie musical on DVD when DVD rentals were still high in demand. At first, the cover got me into it---I have a weakness for pop art and the cover for this is very, well, pop art the likes of Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat. A very fitting cover for its just as colorful, free-spirited contents was what ended up in my thoughts when I finished watching it and later found out, like now, that I’d be just as up to revisiting this one as I had formed a momentary obsession of this way back when. If that makes any sense.

You see, as much as I appreciate classics, I get bored by them so easily. I’d studied some classical singing and the piano from some time late high school to early college. Music studies were my stress-reliever from everything to do with school and studying for the (my?) future. So after some musicals like Les Miserables, Miss Saigon---this was like, super hot and still is until now because it’s something about south east asia, which is a rarity in the western-dominated musical world---and a few others like Phantom of the Opera (I had a somewhat attachment to this one as well, way back), I’d finally found a musical that’s more me: Rent. It’s music is pop-rock, it’s message: very liberating, eye-opening, perspective-changing or broadening. LIFE-CHANGING.

So I was maybe in my late teens to early 20s when I got into Rent that’s a musical loosely based on...or to me, it’s more of a modern day, at the time this was conceived, American retelling of an opera titled La Boheme by Giacomo Puccini (1896). Its writer, Jonathan Larson had a knack for adapting literature and older forms of art into stage play much like his predecessor and role model, Stephen Sondheim (fun fact! La Vie Boheme, one of my favorite songs from this stage play mentions Sondheim :D). One thing I’m still sad about until now is Larson’s untimely passing in 1996, a little time before Rent opened and started its run on Broadway. We lost a brilliant man to health mismanaged. A health condition of his was overlooked, undetected and therefore left untreated. Had it been the case, had this condition been detected early on and he’d been given the right treatment, surgery, he’d still have been with us now. Instead, fans like me have to let his legacy and memory live in his works that’s primarily Rent and the kids’ show I grew up with, having watched a lot of its episodes on TV as a very young kindergartner, Sesame Street. Well, weirdly, until now, no one really knows which songs on Sesame street has the Jonathan Larson stamp. All I really know of it is I knew the whole opening theme of it starting from “Sunny day, sweeping the clouds away...” as a kid. lol. A would-have-been as GREAT as Sondheim figure in American musical theater lost so early, taken prematurely from us here in the land of the living. I’m still sad about it, yes.

One thing about Rent that helped it and Larson make its mark in American musical theater and film musicals is it dealing with very controversial, at that time, themes. AIDS cases were on an all time high during Rent’s conception, it’s on a decline now in the US (it’s, however, at quite a record high, but not as high as COVID 19 cases now, here in the Philippines, too, according to my doctor father). Of course we know it’s seat in the East Village of New York. It was a rough time there then? I guess, we could say that. And as much of La Vie Boheme puts it, well it was quite a fun, tad bit chaotic still time. This were the few years or so leading towards 1996, Rent’s official staging in Broadway in New York City. Conservatives are likely still put off by Rent and if I showed this to my bff who’s the same, she’d probably shoved it back at me and shun its existence. But I digress, it’s a VERY timely play and movie musical. Especially very significant now that we have COVID 19 raging in our midst still. 

A lot of the songs on Rent are very relatable still until now along with its characters. I love Mark Cohen, yes, but I love everyone else in the play and movie musical just as much and everything they stand for. Anyway, yes, very beautiful, and some quite haunting songs, this one has like this:

Will I only has 4 lines but it makes you think of what’s next after everything you’ve been through or are going through. It’s, well, a good song for the depressed like me and I’m admittedly a functionally depressed someone. Such a powerful song, yes. You can also relate it to the COVID 19-ravaged world’s circumstance now, especially those that are suffering from the said disease.

There’s never been any more proper time to revisit this stellar musical immortalized on film as a movie musical that’s Rent than NOW. I’m sure you’re into kdramas now or some other, I am too...mostly err...variety shows on TVN but I implore you, if you’ve seen Rent, do revisit it. Or you can revisit it’s music. Protip: just skip the most recent version of it of Fox’s called “Rent: Live”. Some of it’s censored parts is why I don’t recommend it like most people who love the original staging and the move musical. You can read more about what went wrong with it here: https://thoroughlymodernreviewer.com/2019/01/27/rent-live-review/. Another article I skimmed about it mentioned how some words were replaced with derogatory, belittling ones that aren’t at all appropriate for an American modern, timeless classic art work like Rent. This felt, to me, like a half-assed attempt to censor sensitive parts of Rent that’s a failure that’s led to messing up in the delivery of the message that it originally contains, to its intended audience. So yeah...NOPE. Not that one. And I say this as I’d liked Vanessa Ann Hudgens way back on High School Musical. Yes. Well, I’m definitely one of those not following Rent: Live by Fox.

I’ll try to find time to re-watch this favorite musical of mine sometime soon. Maybe I can get others, some friends to watch it with me too. Haha. Yes. One day soon. 

I’ll get around to watching some Sondheim too, after. West Side Story is definitely at the top of my list for this.

I’m not much of a theater-phile as of late nor have I ever been much of one but I thought I should pay tribute to Jonathan Larson and the very memorable and still timely Rent here at the height of COVID 19 today. So yeah, if you haven’t checked this one out, I very much encourage you to do so. :)

[rosesisupposes]

Objections, Your Honor

Two lawyers are across the aisle in open court once more. But today something is off, and no one is happy with the result.

read on ao3

characters: mainly Logan & Janus; background Virgil, Patton, Roman, Remus, Remy, and Emile

pairings: soulmate Loceit; QPP Analogical; QPP Moceit; romantic soulmate Royality; romantic soulmate Dukexiety; romantic soulmate Remile

content tags: non-traditional soulmate AU; courtroom drama; arophobia and acephobia; shameless self-pandering with legal arguments about the MCU; gushing about QPPs; couples therapy

reader tags: @royally-anxious @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse​ @thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty @max-is-tired @almostoveranalyzed @potestessemagishomosexualitatis  @mariniacipher @vintage-squid

word count: 10,386

⁂

The day it happened was no normal day for Logan. But not, of course, because of that.

He cared because it was a trial day. Months of motions back and forth, weeks and weeks of preparation, and today was oral arguments. He normally avoided open court, particularly against such an opponent, but nothing could be done.

His case files were impeccably arranged in his padfolio, his grocery list of arguments annotated in precise writing, blue ink dotting the page with emphases and connections, his notepad prepared at his left.

He glanced to his right out of the corner of his eye at his opposing counsel. He didn't want them to see him looking. But he sneered internally at the haphazard stacks of papers spreading across the table and the garish gold ink that looped and curved across sticky notes.

The judge finally came out, and Logan stood, crisply buttoning his tailored jacket as he did so. At the signal, he identified himself clearly. "Logan Finch for the appellant, Your Honor." 

And then, from his right: "Janus Alighieri for the appellee, Your Honor."

Logan rolled his eyes internally. Janus was, unfortunately, a very familiar foe at this point. But then, they were two of the most respected lawyers in their state, with opposing specialties and reputations for innovative tactics.

Logan was self-aware. He had another reputation, too: as a black-and-white thinker, unshakable, unalterable. He preferred to think of it as a particularly strong conviction. Versus "The Snake" against him, who coiled and twisted the facts of his cases to benefit his clients.

And of course, that was the issue today - Logan strove to show that his client had a straightforward, airtight argument that should clearly prevail, while Janus found miniscule details that he said should be enough to distinguish the case at hand and make it different from previous decisions, enough so to allow the case to be decided in his favor. He'd charmed the jury at trial, and now argued against Logan's appeal.

Logan prided himself on keeping a cool head, but listening to Janus' speech just got under his skin. His neat handwriting started to get messier and messier as he furiously scribbled notes of counterarguments and responses to his opponent's points. Then Janus turned slightly, just enough to see frustration's color burn in Logan's cheek, and he smirked.

Logan barely heard the gasp from the observers behind the bar, because he'd just snapped his pen in his grip.

He looked straight ahead, somewhere slightly to the left of the judge's head, but he saw very little, his furious thoughts too loud to allow any else to be processed. But the audience was murmuring and talking, far louder than any judge usually allowed - what was going on?

A clerk from behind him hurried up to the judge's dais and whispered urgently in her ear. Logan had yet to look around, but he was slowly coming back to himself, enough to be confused at this disruption in normal procedure. He refused to look over at Janus' probably-still-smirking face.

The judge cleared her throat. "Counselors, we will recess for the day. Please join me in my chambers now."

Logan frowned, but cleaned up the broken pen and gathered his file neatly back into his leather briefcase. He didn't look over, but he heard the flurry and crinkling of papers as Janus threw his notes into his own bag. Without glancing over, Logan followed the judge to the small office at the back of the courtroom.

"Mr. Finch, Mr. Alighieri. I do hope there's a good explanation for this breach in propriety, not to mention the code of conduct," she said sternly as they both stood before her heavy desk.

"Breach, Your Honor?" Janus asked. He sounded just as confused as Logan felt.

"As barred attorneys, you are expected to know the code as well as I," Judge Kasel said severely. "No soulmates may be involved in a trial together, except as co-counsel."

Logan's ears roared. "Your Honor, I apologize, I must have misheard. Soulmates? How is that relevant-"

"Mr. Finch, don't play dumb with me - the entire courtroom saw!"

"Saw what?" Janus asked. His voice was oddly distant and strained from its normal silky tones.

Judge Kasel stared at them in disbelief. "You mean to tell me you both managed to not see that? I'm quite certain the entire county saw the glow just now, through even the back of your suits!"

"Glow?" Logan asked. His chest was suddenly very, very empty, a vacuum of air or substance, and had he not been sitting he was sure he would have fainted.

"Yes, glow, both your marks on your shoulders. Given your mutual surprise, I will assume that this was indeed unknown, and will not declare this case a retroactive mistrial. But you will both need to send in replacements from your firms."

Janus spoke up, his voice tinny. "Replacements, Your Honor? I should think even in light of this- development, only one of us would need to withdraw-"

"Mr. Alighieri, while I appreciate your dedication, I will not delay this trial for the entirety of your bonding. I will give you both 3 days to propose counsel to take over, and scheduling will proceed with them."

Oh fuck. Bonding, Logan thought, unable to speak. That absolutely ridiculous expectation.

The clerk poked her head in. "If they need to speak privately, this side office is empty."

"Yes," Logan responded robotically. "Yes, I believe we need to speak."

They filed into the small room. The clerk closed the door behind her, whispering "Congratulations!" as she disappeared.

Janus sat in one of the chairs heavily. Logan remained standing, staring blankly at the bookshelves built into the wall.

"I can't believe this," Janus said finally. "We've known each other for years, how could we possibly be...?"

"Soulmarks frequently emit a barely visible glow from proximity alone, particularly when located on skin that is generally covered. Heightened emotion or situations with high levels of stress lead to brighter glows that were invisible or unnoticed previously," Logan recited dully.

"Oh yes, how could I forget, I'm talking to Encyclopedia Brown," Janus said, rolling his eyes. "Of course you've memorized that too." He unbuttoned his suit vest dexterously despite his trademark yellow gloves, slumping forward in his chair as he threw his vest over the arm carelessly.

"At least one of us actually has a factual basis for this event, rather than us both being in the dark," Logan snapped back.

"Yeah, your vast knowledge of facts really helped! Did your misguided quest to know everything somehow miss the detail of who's your fucking soulmate?" Janus said, nearly whisper-screaming.

Logan whirled to face him, a fiery reply already on his lips, when he suddenly saw a blue light showing through Janus' white shirt, bright enough to glint off the polished chair back and off the glass of the picture frames on the wall.

He closed his eyes, breathing out slowly. "Yes. That was a detail I had not learned. It felt trivial, unable to affect my work. But now that it has, we're better off resolving this."

Janus deflated too. "Yeah. We should. If we can just get through this part, at least we'll stop glowing like horny teenagers."

Logan focused on a tiny flag displayed on the desk as he spoke, not looking over. "I know of a very respectable landlord who rents bonding apartments in the city. Nothing overdone or kitschy, no 'honeymoon' suites, just furnished apartments for indefinite stays."

"Fine. Not like we can't afford it, whatever the price."

"I have some arrangements to make at home-" Logan began

"As do I, unless-"

"Unless what?"

Janus took a breath. "How would you feel about living with a snake?"

"I rather thought that was the entire idea," Logan replied coolly.

Janus shot him a withering glare. "I mean a python, you absolute cotton-headed ninnymuggin."

"Ah, my mistake," Logan said calmly. "That should be fine. A pet, I assume? Or your chosen co-counsel?"

"Let's get one thing straight, Finch," Janus said, rising to his full height, looking down at his infuriating opponent. "I don't like you. I don't expect or particularly want you to like me. We are going to be residing together up until, and only until, our illogical marks have decided in their weird cosmic energy to stop lighting up like neon signs whenever we experience strong emotion in each other's company. I fully expect to be pissed off the entire time, which will make figuring that out easier. But you do not get to speak to me that way, or I'll-"

Logan looked up to meet Janus' eyes. "Or you'll what, Alighieri?"

"I'll report you to the bar for breaking the code, and convince them you already knew," Janus replied smoothly. "And you of all people should know- I am very persuasive."

Logan's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Fine. And yes, you may bring your python. I'll be leaving my cat at home, however."

"Fine with me," Janus said curtly, deflating back into his normal slouch.

"I will send you the details of the landlord I mentioned. I can make the arrangements within the hour."

"Sure. Wait-"

"What?"

"How are you going to send me the details?"

Logan paused. Their only real contact over the years had been in person or by professional communications. He could hardly use a process server or subpoena to give Janus his key. "Ah. Right. Your contact information, then?" He pulled out his notepad.

Janus pulled out his gold pen and scribbled his phone number at an angle, entirely crossing the college-ruled lines. Logan cringed but took it.

"I will contact you shortly, then. And I will may sure to look for pet-friendly apartments."

Janus nodded. "Right."

"Right."

They both paused.

"Uh. See you soon, then," Janus said, and left the room abruptly.

⁂

Janus had to hand it to him - the apartment was all Logan had promised. Clean, sleek, and spacious. The landlord had even left a spare heat lamp, so Janus' sweet Monty would be comfortable.

Best of all, there were several separate rooms in the suite - two bed, two bath, and two offices.

The kitchen was also well-furnished, and came stocked with staple foods. Logan had arrived, however, with extra bags of groceries.

"I brought my own additions," he said. "The landlord is a friend, but he doesn't buy from the shops I prefer."

He proceeded to pull out several large jars of kimchi, what looked like at least a gallon of soy sauce, and various bright packages that Janus couldn't read.

Janus resolved to take pictures and look up what these things were later. Not while Logan was standing here, glaring up and over as if daring him to comment.

"I've picked the smaller bedroom," Janus informed the shorter man calmly. "Monty is set up in there, so if you're weird about snakes, just avoid it. Actually, feel free to avoid it anyway. I've got a brief to write."

Logan made a noncommittal sound in response.

Hours later, Janus emerged from his office to eat something. His brief was finished, sent off to his senior partner. He hadn’t yet told the firm about the day’s events- only that the appeal would need to be handled by another partner with his associates’ help, he needed to take emergency leave, and he would let them know soon how long he expected to be unavailable. H

e found evidence in the kitchen that Logan had prepared, eaten, and cleaned up dinner for himself.  That was fine by him. He made his own food, grabbed a bag of candy, and retreated back to his room.

The next morning, he woke up at his normal late time, stretching in the sun. The kitchen once again showed evidence of Logan's presence- particularly the currently-soaking coffee pot.

When the sun started to descend once more and Janus had yet to see his new roommate, he grumbled. Guess he'd have to be the fucking practical one.

He blew Monty a kiss for good luck and stumped down to the rooms Logan had claimed. He rapped on the door. "Finch. We need to talk."

He waited. There was silence, then a slow drag of a chair. The doors cracked open.

"Yes? What about?"

"No. We need to talk. Or, fuck, I don't know. Be in the same room occasionally."

Logan sighed deeply, and opened the door more. "Fine."

Janus went to the living room and sat on one side of the couch. Logan followed him and settled on the chair facing him.

"So." Janus began.

"So what," Logan replied flatly.

"Sew buttons," Janus replied automatically.

"What?"

"Just something one of my friends says," Janus muttered.

"Ah. So what was it you want to discuss?"

"I don't know!" Janus snapped. "But I'd really like to get back to my life, eventually, and that can only happen if we bond." His lip curled.

Logan sighed heavily. "And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?”

Janus fell silent. He had very few ideas. Pop culture made it very clear that bonding was an extremely romantic event. First kisses. Proposals. Or, in the less sappy movies, it seemed to consist purely of falling into bed together. None of which appealed in the least, particularly not with Logan.

Logan stared expectantly. "Nothing? You just pulled me out with no ideas?"

"If you're the fucking brilliant one, you come up with one then!" Janus spat out the suggestion with a glare, but then he saw it - a soft gold glow shining through Logan's tee, reflected in the tasteful mirror behind him.

They both deflated again, glows reducing down to hidden beneath their clothes. 

Logan adjusted his glasses. "I. Ah. Apologize. I realize you are attempting to resolve this issue."

"But you're right. I have no idea how to," Janus admitted.

Logan took off his glasses to rub his eyes. "Unfortunately, neither do I. Perhaps just coexisting will be enough."

"How long will that take, though?"

"I haven't the foggiest."

They lapsed into silence.

Finally, Janus suggested, "Maybe we can do our work in the same room. Set up in the dining room with all our stuff. Coexist but in proximity."

Logan glanced over. "That seems relatively painless. Let us make an attempt, then."

⁂

Logan had not had any particular expectations for how well they could share a work space.

And yet, it was still far worse than he'd expected.

Janus talked to himself. As he read, as he wrote, as he researched. Not loud, but a constant stream of soft muttering, disjointed words and full sentences. 

It was the most distracting thing Logan had ever been suffered to experience.

"Will you please be quiet," he said tightly, after an hour passed with no signs of letup. 

"What do you mean?" Janus asked.

"That infernal whispering, please, could you stop?"

Janus looked at him quizzically.

"You're talking under your breath," Logan said. He felt a headache coming on. 

"Oh, am I?" Janus asked. "Sorry. I'll be quiet."

It lasted all of half an hour, and then the muttering started again. "SCOTUS said yes but that was a city sidewalk, 2nd says no but that was Lincoln Center, hm, decoration, use, separation, intent?" 

"You're doing it again!"

Janus looked slightly guilty. "It's barely conscious, it's how I process things. Could you just wear headphones?"

"I need silence."

"Noise-canceling, then?"

"Fine. Do you own a pair?"

But the headphones didn't help. The sensation was too odd, of being closed-in, and he kept bumping then as he went to lean against his hand. Finally, Logan stood. "I'm going back to my office. This experiment has failed."

Janus' eyes narrowed. "Well, thanks for deigning to sit in my presence for a full three hours before giving up."

"I'm not giving up, this is just not tenable!" Logan insisted. 

"Well, you asked for ideas, and I came up with one. If it's not working for you, you come up with a better one. Come find me when you're done thinking, I know it could take you a while."

He stood and grabbed an apartment key, and stalked out to walk off his frustration.

As he walked, he called his best friend.

"Hey Pat, it's me."

"Jan! Hi buddy, how are you?!"

He sighed heavily. "I want to go home."

"But you only just got there?"

"Yeah, and it's going shi- I mean, badly. Really badly."

"I'm sure you'll work it out," Patton said confidently. "You're a brilliant and wonderful human, and anyone smart enough to argue against you will be able to see that!"

"Thanks, hun," Janus said. "The fact remains that I also don't like him."

Patton hummed tunelessly. "It doesn't have to be instant, Jan. These things usually take time."

"Unlike you and Ro."

"Well, yes, but that's because we were meant to be!" Patton soft, his voice taking on that soft, besotted tone it always did when he talked about his soulmate.

"Isn't the whole point that all soulmates are meant to be?"

"Well, yes..." Patton faltered. "But it doesn't have to look like us, we're just hopeless romantics!"

"I know. How's wedding planning going?"

"We started watching movies for inspiration and got distracted with a Disney marathon," Patton said fondly. 

"But you had fun?"

"Absolutely!"

"Good," Janus said, meaning it. There were very few people, in his opinion, who deserved happiness the way Patton did.

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Pat- what if it was a mistake? What if we just have defective marks or something?"

"I'm sure that's not true!" Patton insisted.

"It just seems like - I mean, we're not even friends. Most people get to start from strangers at worst, but we've been antagonizing each other for years, what if, I don't know. Neither of us had a soulmate and so they glitched out?"

"You just need to find some common ground," Patton said confidently. "You can't both be so passionate about being lawyers without something more in common. I believe in you, buddy!"

Janus sighed. "Thanks, Pat. Say hi to Roman for me, tell him Monty misses him."

"Will do, nephew! Call any time you need, okay?"

"Love you, Pat."

"Love you tooooo!"

Janus realized he'd circled the block and was back at the apartment entrance. He steeled himself, then went back up. He repressed the petty urge to bang open the door to disturb Logan's quiet as much as possible.

Logan wasn't in the common spaces, but emerged not long after Janus returned.

"I feel I must apologize," he began. "It wasn't my intent to denigrate how you work. It is just clear that sharing a workspace is not going to be preferable for either of us."

"Yes, I'm aware I had a bad idea," Janus said, overly patient. "Kind of an odd apology, but I accept. Can I have lunch now?"

"Yes, of course. May I join you?" Logan asked.

Janus raised a distrusting brow.

"The idea of spending time in the same space was a good one. I thought we might try a context in which we don't need to focus."

"Fine."

They prepared food around each other, both managing to bite their tongues when they needed the same counter space or cooking implements, which Janus was proud of himself for. They ate in silence.

Janus heard Logan sigh in exasperation and braced himself for yet another snippy comment. Instead, he heard an unexpected question.

"Do you enjoy superheroes?"

"To eat? No, they upset my stomach," Janus replied drily.

"I mean to watch. Superhero movies and shows."

"Occasionally, yeah, why?"

"Perhaps we could watch one this evening. At the same time."

"Sure."

And they parted to continue working on their own.

⁂

Logan had been correct that, as far as superhero movies went, the MCU was a safe choice.

In retrospect, though, perhaps Civil War had been... less so.

It had started when Steve first objected to the Sokovia Accord plan- and Logan had scoffed.

Quick as a cat’s pounce, or an adder’s strike, Janus’ head whipped around. 

“You disagree?”

Logan glanced over briefly, screen light blinking off his glasses. “Well, of course. Didn’t New York and Sokovia show that some control is needed? Lawlessness leads to more civilian casualties.”

“And yet, if supers are controlled so much that risk of liability keeps them from acting at all, casualties would be just a tad higher, don’t you think?”

Tony and Steve’s voices raised on the screen as Logan replied, “What would the difference be of the villains and heroes if they all act with complete impunity?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did we lose mens rea when we switched over into Marvel-land?” Janus asked, voice clipped. “Isn’t the entire basis of our modern penal system based on culpability, not just the act or harm done?”

Logan looked down his nose. “Of course culpability matters. But you well know that one of the factors for absolute liability is when an act is inherently and extremely dangerous. Say, for instance, displays of superhuman force in a densely populated area.”

“So you don’t think there can be any space for personal judgment on the heroes’ behalf?” Janus asked incredulously.

“Look what that space did already! Does the name Ultron ring a bell?”

“So of course, the one who made a terrible call is the one who now wants to be restricted? That sounds like asking for the global government to save him from himself instead of taking responsibility.”

“Better that those with actual accountability be the ones bearing the responsibility!”

“Oh, yeah, and we can definitely trust this government’s judgment! A Hydra infestation was all part of the plan!” Janus’ voice was raising, far louder than the movie that still flickered on, ignored.

“There still needs to be rule of law! Steve wants to abandon it all for one person, and a war criminal at that-!”

“And that’s incomprehensible?”

“Of course!”

Janus fixed his supposed soulmate with a glare. “And you mean to tell me that there’s no one, no one, that you would be willing to burn the world down for?”

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but Janus continued quickly before he could. “No one who won’t fight for themselves, because they think they’re not worth it, but you know they’re so worth it that you would be willing to kill for them?”

Logan, about to spit out an impulsive reply, paused, momentarily speechless. As clearly as if they were sitting on the edge of the couch next to him, his best friend from childhood filled his mind. Virgil, who never believed their worth no matter how many times Logan and their soulmate Remus told them so.

Janus saw the pause and continued softly. “I’m not saying rule of law isn’t important. But the trouble with laws is they’re only as tailored as legislators make them. And they’re human, and therefore fallible. We need exceptions, for those situations that they didn’t imagine.”

Logan struggled for moment, then replied, just as quietly, “You’re right.”

Janus’ mouth fell open in shock, but just as he did, the tv’s faint blue glow throughout the room was washed over with two beacons in blue and gold, blazing from their backs.

At the sight, Logan’s face went from contemplative and open to stony. He stood abruptly and stalked off into his room. The door closed behind him with a decisive click, and Janus was left staring at the wood in confusion and anger.

⁂

“I just don’t get it!” Janus whisper-screamed into the phone. He was power walking through a nearby park, moving so fast he’d passed a skateboarder and a particularly leisurely biker. “Does he want to keep on glowing forever? What is his problem?!”

Patton made sympathetic noises in response, quite familiar with the sound of Janus in full rant mode. Roman was lying with his head in his lap, listening on speaker, so Patton was settled in to be as receptive to his friend’s complaints as he needed.

“I mean, we finally agreed on something, besides the fact that we want to get this fucking resolved, and then he just, what, shuts me out? Literally and figuratively? I literally can’t even catch him leaving to the kitchen for food now!”

Patton winced. “Not since? But it’s been two days!”

“Two and a half, yeah,” Janus replied. His voice suddenly sounded weary. “I can’t keep doing this. The trial’s going on without us anyway, I might as well just give it up and make sure I never have to argue against him again.”

At that, Roman sat bolt upright. “Janus, my dear esquire! You cannot abandon your quest! This is your soulmate!”

“Yeah, well. Maybe some soulmarks are broken. Or we just met at the wrong time. Maybe if we’d met in law school we would have been a team, but now it’s too late.”

Janus sounded contemptuous, but Patton could hear a distinct note of regret.

“Maybe...” he started, but trailed off, thinking.

“Maybe what, Pat?”

“Well, it’s just that I’ve heard of soulmates who, you know, take an abnormally long time to bond, or manage to un-bond after years together, but they can fix it. Do you remember my old roommate?”

Janus wrinkled his nose. “Patton, are you suggesting couple’s therapy? I’m fairly certain that only applies to couples.”

“Well, you’ve kinda been forced to be one, right? At least to figure out bonding? They could probably help, or at least let you know if it’s not worth the effort.”

Janus sighed. “No, you’re right, it’s a good idea. I just have no idea how I’ll get Finch to go along with it.”

“Might I make a suggestion?” Roman asked politely. 

“Sure.”

“Perhaps try calling him ‘Logan.’”

Janus rolled his eyes. “Worth a shot, I guess. Love you both.”

“Love you Jan!”

“Best of luck with the love of your soul!”

 Back in the apartment, Logan was pacing in precise squares in his bedroom. He half-expected the rug to be worn down by the repeated impact at this point. 

“L, I don’t know what to tell you, buddy,” the gravely voice on the phone said. “You really have only two options here: find a way to avoid him forever, which will probably involve having to turn down cases you’d like-“

“I bet he’d stay on them just to force me off,” Logan interrupted, growling. 

“That is a possibility,” Virgil replied, their voice overly patient. “The other option, though, is to work this out,” they continued. 

Logan scoffed.

“Lo, that doesn’t mean you’ve gotta turn into a Hallmark movie! But it’s clear this isn’t just going away, and it’s not like you’ve got nothing in common.”

Logan groaned. “Virge, I don’t-“

“I know, man. I know. But you can’t just hide in your room until he just decides to move out, which means you’re gonna have to talk to him at some point.”

Logan didn’t reply, just continued pacing. 

“You know I’m right, Lo,” Virgil said patiently. “You don’t have to say it, just promise me you’re not going to keep being a hermit, okay?”

Logan sighed. “I promise.”

“There we go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

About to hang up, Logan heard a voice in the background and Virgil asked him to wait.  Then, “Reme wants to say hi.”

Logan let out an exasperated sigh, but he was smiling. “Fine, I’ll allow it-“

“Loooogggyyyyy! How’s the soulmate boning going? Have you figured out that you’re a power bottom yet?”

“Hello, Remus. I take it you’re well.”

“Let’s just say I’m glad you’re my brother-in-law because I may have some need for a lawyer soon.”

Logan couldn’t conceal the grin from his voice as he replied, “As I know you know, I am not a defense attorney, nor would I ever be so unwise as to take you as a client.”

“Aww, you’re such a smart cookie! And by cookie I mean a snack, because mmmm-MMMm you’re a snacc!”

“Always glad to know I’m appreciated,” Logan replied drily. “Goodbye, Virgil. Goodbye, Remus.”

“See ya, L.”

“Byeeeeeeeeeee!”

⁂

When Janus returned, he was a bit taken aback to see Logan sitting in an armchair, reading. At the sound of the door, he looked up. 

“Ah, Alighieri. I- I wanted to apologize for my behavior.”

Janus paused. It was a good sign, but still so unexpected as to be unsettling.

Logan cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have left you in a lurch. You did not cause this situation anymore than did I, and you have not been unkind. I have a suggestion for how we might move forward.”

Janus winced internally, thinking of another disastrous attempt at a movie or workspace. “I actually had a thought on that as well, but um. What was yours?”

Logan cleared his throat again. “Well, since we have been... brought into this situation together, but as a pair are struggling to adjust, it seems logical to consult with an expert, much as we would in our work. Therefore, we should consult a professional on personal relationships.”

“Oh, thank god,” muttered Janus. “Yeah, I was gonna suggest a couples counselor too. I think that would make sense. And I actually have a personal reference to a very experienced therapist.”

That settled, they found the earliest possible appointment, only two days later. 

“I do need to warn you-“ Janus said as they walked up to the office. It was their first time out of the apartment together, and it had been a very quiet walk over. “The methods of this therapist are- unorthodox. But they are highly acclaimed in their field.”

“Oh, are they an enby?” Logan asked. 

“Yes and no,” Janus replied. “You see, there’s two of them.”

“Two?”

“Yeah, they’re a couple therapist that is also a couple.”

“I don’t- well- I mean, that’s odd, right?”

Janus grinned. “Yeah, odd is a common word to describe them. But they’re highly praised and like I said, they were recommended personally.”

“Right,” Logan said, squaring his shoulders. “An open mind is helpful for effective therapy, after all.”

“That’s the spirit! I think,” Janus replied, holding the door open.

A gothy receptionist showed them to a private room with a comfortably large couch. Logan looked around in trepidation and slight alarm at the decorations. There were countless Funko-Pops, posters, stuffed animals, and an alarmingly high number of travel mugs from what looked like every single cartoon that had ever existed.

Janus was slightly more prepared then Logan, but he still jumped out of his skin by the sudden singing coming around the door. A deep voice was booming, “Duhhh duh-duh-duh-duh-da-DUH!” in a building crescendo that went on and on, until both lawyers were staring in a mixture of confusion and irritation.

Then a tall, lanky man slid in the door and lowered his glasses to wink at them both. “Hey babes. Welcome to therapy.” 

The singer followed him through the door, their bright pink hair a sharp contrast to their warm brown skin. “And thank you as always for the intro, honey!”

They smiled, big and toothy. “Welcome indeed! I’m Dr. Emile Picani, pronouns they/them, and this tall drink of coffee is my partner, Dr. Remy Picani, pronouns he/him! And you are Janus and Logan, correct?”

Logan looked a bit stunned still, so Janus took the lead. “Yes, I’m Janus Alighieri and this is Logan Finch, pronouns he/him for both. And I was referred by Patton Corwan-Augustus.” 

Emile smiled even bigger, if that were possible. “Oh Patty! Best roommate ever, I still miss his brownies. It’s lovely to meet you both!”

“Best roommate? What am I, chopped liver?” Remy asked, hand pressed to his chest. 

“Best friend, best coffee-maker, best of men and best of husbands,” Emile replied, and said husband immediately blushed.

Logan coughed politely. “Have you been married long?”

Remy smiled, still pink around the edges. “We’ve actually been married almost 10 years. The minute we graduated university, actually, when we knew our parents had not a shred left of financial control. We went through our PhDs together, which is why, of course, we’re qualified to help out other couples, because let me tell you, would not recommend.”

“Which brings us, of course, to you two!” Emile said brightly. “What is your goal in coming to therapy?”

Janus and Logan both began speaking at once.

“Well, it started in court-“

“It was completely unexpected, we’ve known each other for years-“

“-dreadfully embarrassing, not to mention the professional ramifications-“

“-it just feels like something’s missing-“

“-really want to just sort this out-“

“-just want to figure out the disconnect-“

“-and we can forget about the whole thing.”

“-want to make this work.”

They looked at each other, shocked, as their words both sank in.

Emile was tapping their Powerpuff Girls pencil topper steadily against their lips, eyes wide behind their pink-framed glasses. 

Remy, at their side, leaned back and took a long, loud slurp of his iced coffee, rattling the ice around until the room’s attention was on him. Then he looked up and said, “Hoooo-wheee.”

“So I’m getting a lot of differing goals here,” Emile said delicately. “Let’s start with you, Janus. Can you expand, please?”

Janus tried to speak, but felt like his voice had dropped into the cold pit that was suddenly his stomach. “I, um,” he started with a shaky breath. He barely noticed when Remy pushed a cup of ice water into his hand, but a sip steadied him somewhat.

“You can look just at me, if that helps,” Emile said softly. “Or at my buddy Kaa here.” They gestured to the stuffed snake on the shelf behind them. 

He looked like a fuzzy little Monty. That would do. 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Janus said, acknowledging the water from Remy. “So. We’ve been rival lawyers for years, because we’re both the best at what we do. It was shocking, to suddenly be glowing in open court, but I thought we just needed to find common ground that’s not arguing. That’s why I’m here, at least.”

“And Logan?” Emile asked, still in that kind voice. Logan wouldn’t meet their eyes, though, or anyone’s.

“I thought- we both seemed so upset by the news. Or at least, I was, and perceived you to be as well.” He didn’t look up as he addressed Janus, but his eyes shifted over and took root on Janus’ polished loafers. “My plan was to spend whatever time was needed to stop glowing, then get back to our respective lives.”

“Do either of you have a question you’d like to ask of one another?” Remy asked. “It can be as large or small scale as you’d like, serious or frivolous.”

Both men looked up at the lanky therapist, who’d actually removed his dark glasses, revealing slightly foggy-looking irises. “Logan, it looks like you have one.”

“Oh- yes. So, Alighieri- I mean, Janus. To be clear- you were not upset by the news?”

Janus took a breath. “I mean, I was shocked, and upset to be removed in the middle of a case. But not about the soulmate thing, specifically. And I have a question too?” He looked to the therapists, who both nodded.

Janus looked over, and saw the Logan was watching him in his periphery. “When you say you were upset about the news- was it about the soulmate thing, or about me as your soulmate?”

Logan actually sat up, looking shocked. “Oh, goodness gracious. Absolutely about the concept of ‘soulmate’ in general, not personal in any way. Did I-?”

“Well, yeah, a bit,” Janus said.

“I am- I am so sorry. I would have absolutely have been equally upset, no matter who I found to be an accidental soulmate.”

Janus felt his stomach unclench just a bit.

“Logan, what about soulmates in general upsets you?” Emile asked.

Logan’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and he stayed silent for a moment, then two. Finally, he said curtly, “I never asked for one. And no one asked if I wanted one, either.”

“No one asked if I wanted to be trans, and yet here I am,” Emile said with a cheeky grin. “We don’t always get a say over the circumstances of our birth.”

“But Emmy, you’ve found self-acceptance and happiness deriving from coming out,” Remy put in. “Logan, were you content with life before this reveal?”

Logan nodded. 

“So there was no sense of dysphoria prior, or absence of a euphoria that was gained since.” 

Again, Logan nodded.

“Couldn’t-“ Janus began. His throat felt a bit stuck. “Couldn’t there be something to be gained, though?”

Logan picked up a small figurine of Dexter from the table next to the couch, and fiddled with it in his lap as he spoke. “It’s not impossible, there could certainly be gains from a better acquaintance with you. But that’s not what a soulmate is supposed to be, is it? They’re supposed to complete you,” he said, his voice dripping in disdain. “Because you were incomplete before. Because you weren’t enough, alone, you were just waiting for the One. And of course, you can’t be trusted to find them yourself, some cosmic force determines it for you.”

Remy rested his hand in his hand, elbow propped on his knee. “Spill it, sis.”

Logan stared in confusion. 

Remy smiled. “It means, approximately, ‘continue, you’ve got something good to say’. I’m getting a lot here- but a lot of the frustration seems to be with the idea that forces you can’t control are messing with your life, is that fair?”

Logan shifted. “Well, yeah, but that makes me sound like a control freak.”

“Not at all,” Janus interrupted. “Of course you don’t want something incomprehensible to make decisions for you. That’s not controlling, that’s perfectly understandable and human!”

Logan managed a small smile in response.

Emile beamed. “I couldn’t have said it better myself!”

“But I am def gonna poke some holes in your thought bubble,” Remy said cheerfully. “Starting with this: what do you mean when you say a soulmate is intended to be The One?”

Logan stared in disbelief. “Come on. Really? Look at, I don’t know, any piece of media ever. Or at you two. Or at my- friend and his husband. Or any other pair of soulmates!”

Janus added, “I mean, that’s what’s intended, right? With the whole ‘marked from birth’ thing?”

Emile looked at them both very seriously. “Did you know that Remy isn’t The One for me?”

“But he’s your soulmate?” Janus gasped out.

Emile nodded gravely. “He is my soulmate. But he is not my only soulmate.”

“I was designated female at birth to very traditional parents. They wanted me to marry my soulmate at 18, like they had, and they assumed he’d be a man. But my other soulmate was a girl, and I loved her with all my heart. And when I realized I wasn’t a girl, I thought my parents might accept us more. I was wrong.” They took a breath. “We were separated. I don’t know what happened to her. But it was enough to know that my parents didn’t care about my happiness, soulmate or no.”

“I’m so sorry,” Logan said quietly, and Janus nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. 

“I was lucky, though,” they continued. “I found Remy only two years later. And he accepted me as I am, both my gender and my other soulmate. And the cartoons, of course.”

“I never got to meet her,” Remy said. “So we will never know if she was my soulmate, too. I choose to believe she wasn’t. I think she could have been Emile’s one and only, had they been able to stay together. And that doesn’t make me feel any less lucky to be Emile’s husband, nor any less loved by them.”

“And not to shock you even more, but not all soulmates are romantic,” Emile said. “I know that’s the media portrayal- but well, the media is also pretty straight. And cis. And white. And neurotypical. And-”

“What they’re getting at,” Remy interrupted, “is that common portrayals miss a lot of the variety and complexity of humanity as a whole, let alone the complexity of relationships.”

Logan was sitting very still, and not speaking. Janus was trying to wrap his mind around this, and spoke with uncharacteristic uncertainty as he asked, “So- for instance, um, you could have soulmates who are, uh, queerplatonic partners?”

Logan’s head snapped up, staring at Janus with wide eyes.

Remy grinned. “Yes, of course! I was worried I was going to have to do a vocab lesson, but you both seem to know what that is.”

“But-“ Janus began, brows furrowing.

“But that means-“ Logan muttered to himself.

“Why isn’t he my soulmate?” Janus asked, at the same time Logan asked, “Why aren’t they my soulmate?”

Lit by the twin glows reflecting against the wall, the therapist couple exchanged a pregnant look. Emile reached out and took a hand of each patient. “I know this is a lot to process, but I really want you to keep something in mind: a soulmate is not the only way we can love someone. It’s not the ‘best’ way or only valid way to love someone. The same way the platonic love you clearly both hold for a significant person in your life is no less valid than romantic.”

Remy sat up straight. “I want you both to think about this when you go home. Your love for your QPPs is wonderful, and worth cherishing. And I know you are both lawyers, so here’s a question for you to brief. We cannot know the actual intent of whatever force gave you marks that respond to each other. So I want to you look for what evidence there might be, in each other, for your connection.”

Emile added on, “You have a link, and it’s worth exploring. It doesn’t have to ever be more important, more meaningful than another connection you have. But understanding it is critical to bonding successfully.”

“I think we should wrap there, for this week,” Remy added. “But you can talk about this, of course, without us.”

Janus and Logan nodded, and left. The walk home was as quiet as the walk there had been, but this time the air thrummed with thoughts and ponderings.

⁂

Janus and Logan made dinner with relatively little talk, only quiet asks to pass a spice or a cooking implement. It wasn't an uncomfortable quiet, but one where their minds were far too loud to vocalize just yet.

Janus quietly suggested putting on TV, and picked the game show network as a neutral, unobjectionable option.

They ate as they watched, still burdened with their own thoughts, but slowly started to murmur the correct questions under their breath before the Jeopardy contestants were able to.

Final Jeopardy, as luck would have it, was on Latin - but specifically, Latin as used in law. Both attorneys chuckled at the contestants' answers, some of which weren't even close to correct.

Janus directed a cautious smile in Logan's direction, and found it reciprocated. But as he saw that familiar glow start to reflect off the walls, he tensed, waiting for Logan flee once more.

For the first time, though, he didn't. His eyes widened as he took in the lights, but he didn't move to stand or leave.

"About today-" Logan began. "I don't know that I am quite ready to discuss it all, but I did want to once again apologize for my handling of this situation, and its emotional impact on you. It was entirely unintentional, but I regret causing you distress."

"Thank you," Janus replied softly. "And thank you for being willing and open to go to counseling. I learned a lot today, all of it important."

"I'd like to talk about it tomorrow, if you'd be willing," Logan added. "There are some additional details I need to share, but I don't think I'm able at the present moment."

"Sounds good," Janus nodded. "I'm going to turn in for the night. Sleep well."

"You as well."

But despite feeling tired, Janus found he wasn't at all sleepy. He ended up sitting up until the wee hours of the morning, stroking Monty gently and thinking a great deal.

⁂

The next morning, Janus woke up much earlier than his usual habit, but he needn't have worried - Logan was clearly waiting for him in the kitchen, sipping coffee and idly solving the entire Sunday crossword.

He looked up at the sound of Janus' door, and indicated the mostly-full coffee pot with a nod. Janus gratefully filled a mug for himself and lightened it thoroughly with cream, drinking deep as he stood angled so that he could offer critique and suggestions on the crossword.

"No, shush," Janus said, though Logan had not spoken. "It's gotta be White. Y'know, Betty? C'mon. Most-loved Gold? It's obvious."

Logan just smiled and penned in “White” in the horizontal boxes, immediately able to fill in the Down clues crossing them.

Once the puzzle was complete, Janus refilled his coffee and sat properly at the kitchen island. 

"So, if you're amenable-" Logan began. "I believe I'm prepared to discuss yesterday in more detail."

Janus nodded. "Did you want to start off?"

"Yes, I think I must. Because there was one detail that I wasn't quite prepared to share that I think will be quite helpful in securing a full understanding."

At Janus' encouraging nod, Logan closed his eyes to take a breath, and said, "The truth is, I'm an aromantic asexual. That's why the concept of a soulmate was so upsetting to me, particularly because up until this week I had assumed I didn't have one."

Janus looked down. "I'm ace, too, but not aro, and... yeah, same boat, mostly. I thought I wouldn't have one, but when we started to glow, I assumed it must be romantic. But that must not be the case."

Logan tented his fingers together. "So you're not aro, but you do have a QPP?"

"Yeah - I definitely can experience romantic attraction, but what I feel for Patton has always been stronger, and different."

"I'd like to hear about him, if you'd be willing," Logan said softly, and was rewarded by a smile that seemed about to glow as brightly as his soulmark on Janus' face.

"Oh, he's just the best," Janus gushed. "I met him at the perfect time in my life. I'd just been dumped by an asshole because he couldn't deal with the fact that the asexual part wasn't just me being a tease. I was feeling pretty low, post-college, all alone in a new apartment, and then this beam of sunshine turns out to be the kind of neighbor who brings cookies as a greeting. Even though I wasn't exactly receptive, he just kept coming back, even just to check up on me, and soon I found myself looking forward to it, and then inviting myself over in return."

Logan paused. "Wait, your ex broke up with you because you were ace? Was it a surprise?"

Janus rolled his eyes. "No, not in the least. I'd told him, and reminded him, and he'd just been assuming I would 'get over it,' the fucker. Right after the breakup, there were times I wondered if he was right, if I should have just powered through my repulsion to make him happy. But Patton was amazing about that, too. When he heard what happened - oh my goodness, he was so angry on my behalf, he looked like he was going to Hulk out. And then he made it his mission to make sure I was being validated in my identity and knew that I was eminently lovable both in spite of and because of my aceness."

Logan smiled. "That's wonderful. I can see why you love him so much."

Janus sighed happily. "And it hasn't changed even though he's met his allo soulmate. Roman knows that our bond isn't and will never be a threat to theirs, and he makes Pat so happy. They're planning their wedding right now, but they've already signed all the papers and it'll just be a party where they gush about each other in public."

Janus sat for a moment, basking in the glow of his affection for Patton, before he turned to Logan and asked, “You have a QPP too, right?”

“I do,” Logan said, a smile stretching across his face unconsciously. “Their name is Virgil. And they’re also married to their soulmate.”

“Tell me about them,” Janus said, when Logan fell silent. 

“They’re- they are just amazing. They’re my best friend, have been since about fourth grade. ” Logan’s eyes went a bit misty as he considered his childhood. “We bonded over being surrounded by idiots, after a debate simulation where we were on opposing sides.”

Janus smirked. “You mean I’m not your first? I’m heartbroken.”

Logan shot him a glare, but it had none of true anger’s heat.

“I guess we always had the feeling that we weren’t quite like everyone else. Besides the introverted tendencies, it wasn’t really a shock when they came out as nonbinary. They’d been online, discovering new terms, and in learning about their identity I ran into the aro and ace labels. I felt seen, do you know what I mean? And then Virgil just compounded that feeling by immediately understanding and accepting me. They call me a brother, just to explain that our relationship isn’t “just” friends.”

“What was it like when they met their soulmate?” Janus asked. 

“It wasn’t nearly as smooth as your experience seems to have been,” Logan admitted.

“Their husband is... unique. Prone to rather odd fixations and interests. But he’s also demisexual, and like us, had thought he wouldn’t have a soulmate. And part of his defense mechanism against that kind of rejection was, well. Embracing his off-putting side. Being disgusting for the sake of it. Grossing out others before they could judge him for his orientation.”

Janus grimaced. “I know that feeling, all too well. Donning a mask, so that a rejection won’t be of you, just your persona.”

“Exactly,” Logan said, nodding. “I don’t think it helped that both Virgil’s and Remus’ soulmarks were in their hair. They’d both dyed their hair many times over the years, but it wasn’t enough to hide it. And once they had shown up- there was no more pretending.”

“Was it hard for them?” Janus asked. 

“Accepting it was. But then they started actually talking and then it just- clicked. All those macabre interests that overlapped, the mutual obsession with MCR. They fell in love the minute they both let their walls down. And like you said- it never really changed what I had with Virge. They didn’t meet Reme until college, and didn’t get married until last year. So Virge told Reme that I was here to stay, and part of their life, and he accepted it without a blink. He’s a forensic archeologist now, to Virge’s forensic detective, so they’ve actually both been helpful in cases, too.”

“That’s... kind of adorable, in a weird way,” Janus said, scrunching his nose. 

Logan chuckled. “‘Adorable in a weird way’ is the best possible description for their relationship.”

Janus tapped his finger on the island. “That sounds so familiar, though, and I can’t quite place it.” He closed his eyes, murmuring under his breath. “Wait! Is Virgil’s husband an Augustus?”

“That was his surname, yes, though now it’s Angelico-“

“Oh my god!” Janus burst out. “That’s Patton’s brother-in-law!”

“What?”

“Roman Augustus! That’s his soulmate’s name! And he had a twin, but they had a falling out and haven’t been in contact for a couple of years. But he said he’d been in forensics!”

Logan blinked. “Well, it is certainly a small world. Not that Remus has ever talked about his brother, but I knew he had one.”

“That’s kind of crazy. What are the chances?” Janus asked, laughing. 

Logan looked pointedly over. “Do you really want to know? I could calculate them-“

“Thanks, calculator watch, but I’m good.”

They both chuckled quietly, sitting side by side at the kitchen island. 

“Hey, uh- thank you for trusting me, with the other day, and with this,” Janus said softly. 

“I owe you thanks as well,” Logan replied. “I don’t frequently have the opportunity to talk about Virgil in detail and it’s- it’s nice.”

Janus just beamed, returning the sentiment without words. 

In that moment, the sunlight of the room was tinged with colored light, gold and blue overlapping into rich emerald.

Logan hesitated, seeing it, but after a moment lifted his arm. Janus smiled and leaned in, accepting the offered side-hug.

“Hey Finch- I mean, Logan?”

“Yes Janus?”

“I may not be sure yet why we’re soulmates, but I’m definitely not disappointed that we are.”

A beat.

Then a soft murmur replied, “Neither am I.”

⁂

Later that afternoon, Logan returned from stocking up on more food to find Janus lying upside-down on the couch, lanky legs dangling over the back. His face was red enough to show that he’d been sitting there for a while as the blood rushed downward.

“I cannot imagine that is at all comfortable,” Logan commented drily, neatly putting away the packets of noodles and snacks he’d purchased.

“It helps me think,” Janus replied. “Especially when I’m trying to see something from another perspective.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “This better not have been a set-up just to make that terrible pun.”

Janus looked over, grinning. “It actually started that way, not gonna lie. I’d been venting to Patton about an oral argument simulation in law school and he suggested this as a joke. And then it actually helped.”

Logan huffed in what sounded suspiciously like a muffled laugh and came to sit more normally in a chair next to the couch. “So what is it that you’re trying to change your perception of so literally?”

“Our case, actually - Gomex.” At Logan’s quizzical look, he replied, “The partners aren’t letting me onto new cases until they know I’ll be back in person. I’m getting bored. So I thought, you know. Why not figure out what I was missing in this one.” He shrugged, an odd contortion for an inverted torso.

“You were missing something? But you won at trial.”

“And I was caught off-guard by your appeal - or at least, the part where it survived my motion to dismiss.”

Logan allowed himself a satisfied smirk. “Surprised you with my impeccable research, did I? All my rock-solid precedent pointing out the clear error in the original jury instruction?”

Janus’ legs kicked idly in the air. “Your research is always impeccable. Of course you were able to find precedent on-point for the general issue, you’re good at this. But the facts of the case are just so different that how could any of those past rulings be definitive?”

Logan leaned back in his chair, tapping the arm pensively. “Wait, so you really believe that? It wasn’t just a tactic to make Gomex feel like they’re getting their money’s worth for your legal fees?”

Janus finally righted himself, sitting upright with a leg balancing on the coffee table. “Well, yeah , of course I do. I don’t take the time and effort to go to trial for bullshit unless the client can’t be talked down from combat mode. Racking up charges for unnecessary trial prep is only fun when they don’t take my advice.” He looked quizzically at Logan. “So you really didn’t see the difference between Gomex and, what, Sourgoutsis?”

“No material difference, no. It’s in the right circuit, it’s recent and binding, and it established a test that clearly applies here.”

“But the test requires knowledge!”

“Knowing includes reckless disregard for the truth, and Gomex had that.”

“Oh, you can hardly say it’s reckless when all the claims were paid without issue for a decade!”

Logan leaned forward, counting off points on his fingers. “The guidance is updated each year. The commentary points out the changes. Gomex has to certify as a company that they accept all current guidance and direction. If they didn’t actually know they were submitting false claims, they should have known, and had a duty to know.”

Janus’ eyes were flashing, but more with excitement than anger. “But even the commentary didn’t clarify that these specific claims would no longer be accepted in the future. Doesn’t the agency have a duty to be clear about changes in accepted policy when the code is so vast and companies used past claims as standards for future approval?”

“But the companies are the experts in their own industries. They should know that these kind of differences are significant and material.”

Janus sat up fully straight, pointing enthusiastically. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“I figured it out! It is a matter of perspective. But not the perspective of side versus side, like I was thinking. It’s time.”

Logan leaned in, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Expand, please.”

Janus nodded, mirroring Logan’s pose even as his hands remained free to gesture. “So you’re looking at this as: company knows their procedures best, they’re the ones making profit off it, so their duty to know details is higher than the public agency. Right?”

Logan nodded.

“Here’s where I’m coming from - it’s not a question of if this company knew or should have known this distinction, or even if this industry has the expertise that the agency lacks. It’s about what this case would do to the Sourgoutsis test for cases in the future. If the agency doesn’t have to clarify a policy change now, why would it ever? If it’s not enough that companies rely on a long history of approval here, when will it ever be? Do you follow, Logan?”

Logan linked his fingers, tapping the tips of his forefingers gently. “So your concern is about using a history of compliance as evidence of good faith?”

“Exactly, yes.”

“But Gomex knew that the change meant the compliant history was no longer relevant.”

“Only because they had insider knowledge of the change process. Not from the public information.”

“Wait, so you agree that Gomex knew?”

Janus grinned sheepishly, baring all his teeth. “Well, we’re both off the case now, so- yeah. They knew or should have known their claims would get rejected and banked on the agency not noticing for just long enough.”

Logan gasped. “But you still went into court and got the jury to agree with you that they didn’t!?”

Janus shrugged pragmatically. “It’s not about Gomex, it’s about the precedent this will set. I’d rather one bad actor get away with it now than have who-knows-how-many claims get screwed in the future for a good-faith misunderstanding.”

“Especially if that bad actor is paying you millions to help them get away with it?” Logan asked with an eyebrow raised.

Janus raised one of his own. “So you’d rather let a bad test become binding because the agency is paying you millions to get it set in stone?”

Logan, about to respond hotly, paused. “I suppose that’s a fair assessment. I didn’t think it was that bad a test until now - I assumed the insider knowledge would be baked into the standard.”

“You gotta think cynically, Mr. Finch,” Janus said with a chuckle. “Picture the worst-faith application and work backwards from there, cause you know it’ll end up happening.”

“Hmm,” Logan said with a quiet laugh. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

Janus fluttered his lashes. “The great Logan Finch thinks I’m right about something. My life’s goal is achieved.”

“Hey, I think you’re correct quite a lot!” Logan objected. “Infuriatingly precise and pedantic, sure, but ultimately right. There’s a reason my firm sends me against you - no one else wants to fight what’ll be a losing battle half the time.”

“Only half?”

“Even you must admit I’ve been correct on more than one occasion,” Logan said with a smile.

“That is true,” Janus admitted. “Knowing that you’re going to be the opposing counsel always makes me up my game.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Logan said wryly. “I’d never admit it to the other partners, but you make me a better lawyer, Janus.”

The flattered glow of Janus’ grin was immediately dwarfed by two other, brighter bursts of light. Gold and blue pulsed from their backs in a flash, then settled into steady light. The colors lit the stylish room, blending to emerald as they pulsed in time with each man’s heartbeat. Logan looked at the glow reflected on the white couch cushions with wonder as he realized that Janus’ back  was no longer shining blue, but green. He caught his eyes and realized his own glow must have changed colors as well.

The lights pulsed more and more gently until they dimmed and went out, leaving Janus and Logan sitting across from one another just as the last of the sunlight fell below the horizon and the room went dark. 

The silence stretched for several moments, until Janus finally broke it with a bemused, “Huh.”

“So that was-”

“I think so.

“So now we’re-”

“Bonded, yeah. I think.”

“That would be a logical assumption.”

The silence returned, each man lost in his own thoughts. When they spoke again, it was at once.

“Maybe we should-”

“Perhaps we could still-”

“-make sure it’s permanent?

“-take a few days more?”

They shared a grin.

“A couple more days couldn’t hurt,” Janus said. “After all, it could be a fluke. We wouldn’t want to set a standard from a mere fluke.”

“Oh, of course not,” Logan responded with the same tone of amusement. “We want to confirm the integrity of the test.”

Janus stood to flick on a light, then turned as a thought occurred. 

“Wait, Logan - even once we go back, we won’t be able to be opposing counsel anymore. The soulmate code will still be applied, even though we’re not romantic or QP soulmates.”

Logan’s face fell for a moment, then lit up once more as he stood. “Well, we’ve got a couple days at least. I think the two best lawyers in the state might be able to argue that every precedent has an exception, don’t you, Mr. Alighieri?”

Janus’ smile mirrored Logan’s own as he replied, “Why yes, Mr. Finch, I think we might.”

[goose-books]

whoa, it sure is about time around here for a post, huh!

today i offer you 1.7k words about cressida and rory simply being soft. that’s all. this is the happiest thing i’ve ever written in the darkling canon and making this moodboard reminded me that it’s because these two are the only kind and friendly people in the entire book.

more details about cressida and rory’s home WIP, darkling, can be found here! (short version: it’s a speculative fiction king lear; there’s magic but it’s weird about being magic; half the characters are gay trans and neurodivergent because i said so.) this takes place about a year before the story starts; the two of them have just turned sixteen and seventeen, respectively!

also, i wrote all of this while listening to “kentucky” by hippo campus on repeat. the lyrics aren’t quite as relevant as the vibe. if you catch me yearning on main mind your own business /j

Lorelai Rory Flowers is afraid of thunder.

This is a bit of an embarrassing thing to admit, as they’re seventeen (“at least seventeen,” they like to tell people, “maybe two hundred, who’s to say?”) and generally wise beyond their years, or whatever it is that adults say about kids with too much psychological baggage. Being afraid of thunder is not a very wise-beyond-one’s-years trait. And yet the state of affairs remains: loud noises make Rory want to melt into the earth. Back when they still went to school, even the fire alarm sent them scuttling under their desk to hide.

Right now, in the elevator, all they can do is shrink into their sweater.

They haven’t let go of Cressida’s hand yet.

Beside them, Cressida is soaked, long golden hair and long white dress dripping. Rory rocks up onto their toes and back down, anxiety worming along the back of their neck like an itchy coat. This was not the plan. The plan was not “get caught in the rain and run through a storm for two blocks.” The plan was for the two of them to go walk by the river and - who knows, talk about Joan of Arc or the Kennedy assassination or something. Swap special interests. Maybe swap spit. Probably not, though. It’s not a date. It’s not not a date - but, like, Rory still does work for Cressida’s dad, so who knows how awkward things could get. Plus Cressida’s hard to read. She doesn’t really make facial expressions, and that’s usually fine, because Rory can’t really read facial expressions so it’s about the same to them, but in this particular situation -

“I trust you,” Cressida says, squeezing their hand, “but where are we going?”

The rain’s left Rory’s glasses fogged up enough to render them effectively blind. They take their glasses off and squint at the elevator buttons. They are still effectively blind.

“Is that a five or a six?” they say, pointing.

Cressida peers over their shoulder. “Which one do you want?”

“Five.”

Cressida presses the five button with her free hand. The elevator, which is about the size of a broom closet, jerks into unsteady, fitful motion.

The thing is that the apartment building is kind of - well, not a dump. It’s not horrible. There aren’t cockroaches. But Cressida lives in a manor, literally. Stayer Manor. Capital S, capital M. And there was never any sort of plan for today, even in the wildest of circumstances, that involved Rory bringing the city’s golden girl to a building the size of a shoebox. But then it was raining, and Cressida kept saying she didn’t mind the rain despite clearly minding because if she ruins her dress her dad will go rabid-dog on her, and Rory’s cognitive wheels were spinning like they were powered by a well-greased hamster, and none of the restaurants close enough to duck into were appropriate places for them to safely freak out about the thunder, and their apartment was only two blocks away.

So.

Here they are.

“Sorry,” Cressida says. “Where are we going?”

Rory attempts to dry their glasses on their soaked-through sweater, to little avail. “We are going,” they announce, “to a world of pure imagination.”

Outside, thunder cracks the sky. They know Cressida sees them flinch, because she squeezes their hand again.

The apartment is 505. Cressida waits as Rory digs around in their jacket pocket, shuffling past loose coins and two pairs of headphones and four melted Starbursts and way too many scraps of paper until they finally unearth their key. Their lock sticks - their lock always sticks - so once they’ve turned it, they have to drop Cressida’s hand and plant one wet Doc Marten on the wall and yank. The door swings open.

“Voila,” Rory says, performing jazz hands. “Willy Wonka wants what I have.”

Their apartment is purple. Not startlingly purple. Gently purple. Purple like it creeps up on you. Purple like you don’t realize exactly how purple it is until you realize everything - walls, gauzy flower-patterned curtains, plushy armchair, compass-rose-shaped clock, old-fashioned record player on the table - is the same shade of soft lavender.

There is at least one nail sticking up out of the hard-wood floor. Rory snags a sock on it every time they dance around with their headphones in.

Two people have been inside since Rory started renting the place a year ago. And that’s them and the landlord. This is their place, their safe haven, their nook, and it’s the size of Cressida’s bathroom, and rich pretty Cressida Stayer is standing, dripping, in the threshold.

“Don’t touch anything,” Rory says. Cressida draws her hands in like the walls might electrocute her. “That was a joke. You can touch things.”

“This is your apartment,” Cressida says.

“Indeed.”

“You live here.”

“That succeeds the first!” They give her an encouraging smile. “Subsequent statements! How cogently lucid of you!”

Cressida looks down. The hem of her dress is dripping onto the floor. “I don’t suppose you have a vent I could sit on…?”

“In fact I do!” Rory directs her, aircraft-marshall-style, to the heating vent on the floor. They’re jittering. They’re using way too much arm movement. They can’t get their heart to stop skidding around, because normally! They do not! Let people in here!

They stand and drip. Cressida sits and drips. She gazes around, and Rory gazes with her, trying to see it through her eyes.

“Where’s your bed?” she says.

Rory skips over to the closet and pulls the door open, with the grand gestures of a magician presenting a trick. The inside of the tiny closet is lined with a thick downy comforter; there are sheets and pillows scattered around atop it, and there are glow-in-the-dark stars stuck up all over the walls and ceiling.

Cressida gazes at it. “On purpose, right? Not because -”

“On purpose. Yes. I could have bought a bed. I just think it’s cozy.” Oh, Rory is going to lose it right here. Their foot is tapping the floor at about a million miles an hour. Granted, being in their apartment helps the overstimulation a little - just being where it’s safe and everything’s always the same and they control their space. That always helps. But it’s not like they can just curl up in their closet with their headphones in and the door shut, because Cressida is here -

Cressida, for her part, looks a little impressed.

“It’s nice,” she says, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You just live here? By yourself?”

Rory shrugs. “I’m emancipated,” they say, which isn’t strictly true, but they work for the most powerful man in the city, who has their back if anyone actually looks into their files, so it’s as true as it really needs to be - and then thunder roars outside again and Rory skitters sideways and falls over their armchair.

“Oh! Oh my God -” Cressida jumps to her feet.

Rory scrambles up from where they’ve tumbled to the floor. “Sorry sorry sorry!” they say, except really they yell it because they have their shaking hands over their ears. “Sorrysorrysorry, I - I really don’t like loud - I d-don’t -”

“Can I -” All of a sudden Cressida’s in front of them. Rory doesn’t move away, just stands there, chest heaving, and Cressida slides her still-damp hands very gently up both of their arms, and she very gently pulls their hands off their ears.

The thunder, again. Like a cannon blast. This time Rory yelps a little. Cressida pulls them in close to her and sits both of them down on the vent, which, at the very least, is warm and also on the floor, so Rory can’t really trip over anything when they flinch.

“You don’t like loud,” Cressida repeats. She’s a good deal taller than they are - Rory’s exactly five-foot in their Docs - and so it makes logical sense for her to settle down with her chin on their head, probably.

“I don’t. I don’t. I really don’t.” They’ve started fluttering their hands a little; their voice is getting that shaky tilt it gets when they’re in sensory overload. “Fun story, back in high school we went on a field trip to this play where they used gunfire blanks for sound effects and I had a full-on crying-and-screaming public meltdown. I like to tell fun stories from high school like it wasn’t actual purgatory, because I cope through humor!”

“I know,” Cressida says simply, and she wraps her arms around them so they can lean back into her chest. The next thunder crash comes, and she tightens her grip. “Is this helping?”

“Yeah. Uh-huh. A lot. Like a weighted blanket.” Rory tilts their head back to give her a shaky upside-down grin.

They don’t like making eye contact, so they don’t, but they are aware that Cressida’s gaze is resting pretty solidly on their face, which is - fine, and normal behavior for friends, and the fact that they’re cuddling on a vent and they can feel her heart beating against their spine is, like, normal also, probably -

“Rory,” Cressida says tentatively, “can I…”

Rory tilts their head. “Can you what?”

Cressida hesitates; then she leans in. It is a very very gentle kiss, almost hesitant; she pulls away after a second or so, to find Rory staring at her dumbfounded.

“Whoa,” they say, face assembling itself into what they’re fully aware is a stupid doofy grin. “Whoa. Hi. Hey. I - yeah! You can do that!”

They both cling to each other’s hands for a second; they both let out a breath that is, Rory thinks, equal parts relief and euphoria.

Then Rory leans in and kisses Cressida again, and this time neither of them pull away, and when the thunder crashes overhead Rory thinks they’ve never felt safer than they do right now.

[ddagent]

FAKE DATING ROOMMATES YES I WANT THAT PLEASE

THE MASHUP WEEKEND CONTINUES! Hope you enjoy.

(Also available to read at AO3)

Brienne Tarth was standing on the veranda of their penthouse apartment, sifting through yesterday’s post, when she came across a letter from their landlord. She glanced at the contents, eyes widening. “JAIME!”

“WHAT?”

She strode back inside to what they’d affectionally labelled the tourney ground: a second-floor space that led onto the veranda, with enough room for a couple of bookshelves, a well-used pool table, and two antique broadswords that hung upon the wall. Her flatmate, Jaime Lannister, was stretched out across the table; leaning over to sink a crimson ball in the far pocket. Brienne kept her gaze fixed upon the far wall rather than stare at her best friend’s toned arse. 

“Jaime, did you open this letter?” 

He sunk the ball. “If it’s open and you didn’t, then probably.” 

Brienne swatted him with the envelope. “It’s from the landlord, Jaime. They’re giving us notice for an inspection. For this morning.” Brienne checked her watch. “In half an hour, actually. And if you don’t want to go back to living in Flea Bottom, you’ll help me get this place ready.”

Jaime immediately dropped the pool cue. “I’ll get the wedding rings; you get the pictures.”

Leaving their pleasant morning quickly behind, Jaime and Brienne jumped into action. Their penthouse in the Quiet Isle apartment complex was beautiful: two spacious bedrooms, two bathrooms (each with a shower and tub), a well-lit kitchen and a living area overlooking King’s Landing. To say nothing of the second-floor veranda and the on-site gym and pool. After a string of miserable and often disgusting viewings, this had finally felt like home. And the price was well within a secondary school teacher and an assistant curator’s budget. 

The catch? They had to be married to rent the apartment. 

So, Jaime and Brienne had pretended to be married. They’d got Jaime’s brother to dummy up a marriage certificate, bought a set of rings at a local pawn shop, and paid Brienne’s friend Margaery to take some photographs of them as a couple. It was, perhaps, a little overboard, but you either won the property game, or you were left in a one-bedroom with a black mould and loud neighbours. 

“Got the rings!” Jaime called out from the kitchen. He shoved the golden band onto his finger before producing a matching one and an engagement ring inset with a small sapphire. “Brienne, will you—”

“—we don’t have time,” she huffed, taking the rings from Jaime’s outstretched hand and slipping them on. “We wouldn’t have been rushing had you actually told me about this.”

“It slipped my mind, alright? I was busy marking all last week, and every essay just kept making me angry.” He tucked the boxes back inside a kitchen drawer. “I mean, what fifteen-year-old doesn’t know why Goldenhand killed the Mad King?” 

Brienne sighed. “I can’t have this conversation again.”

“You never listen to me, Brienne. I don’t know why I married you!”

Jaime was grinning when she threw a cushion at his head, and she squealed when his hands tried to grab at her waist. But, sadly, there would be no pillow sparring today; time was running out, and there was still so much to do. Brienne subsequently brought out all their fake photographs: a wedding photograph of her and Jaime; a string of casual pictures on the university campus and the museum; one even of Jaime proposing. Although they’d been friends for five years, and had a multitude of polaroids and discarded lock screens between them, they had needed something that said couple. 

On the other side of the flat, Jaime was clearing out all relevant personal items from his – officially the spare – room. A few clothes; the two photographs Jaime kept by his bed. The stuffed lion his nephew Tommen had given Jaime to keep him safe when his twin’s family moved back to the Westerlands. “I think that’s everything.”

Brienne scrambled over and poked her head into Jaime’s room. “What if she asks why your clothes are in here?”

“I need a lot of cupboard space,” he fired back, carrying his things into Brienne’s bedroom. “She won’t ask, Brienne. I doubt she’ll even notice.” 

Brienne frowned, wishing she shared Jaime’s optimism. But she remembered Mrs Roelle from when they’d signed the lease; the looks she had given the pair of them, and the litany of questions as if they were on trial for murder rather than renting an apartment. “Flea Bottom, Jaime. Better to be safe than sorry.” 

“Fine.” He waved around the boxers he slept in. “Which side does your husband sleep on, Mrs Lannister?”

Brienne faltered; cheeks flushing. “Mrs Lannister sleeps on the–um–the left. So Mr Tarth should sleep on the right.” 

“Good to know.” Jaime shoved his crimson boxers underneath the pillow. Ser Pounce, Tommen’s stuffed lion, sat on top. “I’ll need books for my side. Some marking as well.”

She nodded. “I’ll put an extra towel out in the bathroom. Or would his–and–her bathrooms be better?” Brienne wrung her hands. “Definitely his–and–hers. You have so many products it’d take us twenty minutes just to move them.”

“Hey!” Jaime then huffed, inclining his head. “Alright. I’ll give you that.”

They made the last few alterations to Brienne’s – to their – bedroom until it actually looked like Jaime slept beside her. As the dreaded hour arrived, Brienne moved to wait by the front door. But then she caught Jaime digging through her bedside cabinet and the box that had remained unopened since they’d moved into their first flat together. 

“Aha!” Jaime brandished a condom as he would a sword. “Perfect.”

“What are you—”

“—just toss that there,” he said to himself, throwing the torn wrapper into the bin and stuffing the unused condom in his jeans pocket. Jaime then turned to her, grinning, before closing the distance between them. He placed his hands on her hips and drew her close. “I’m just playing the part. We’re a young, married couple, Brienne Lannister. We have loud, enthusiastic sex regularly.” 

Her eyes briefly glanced towards the bed with Jaime’s sleepwear stuffed underneath one pillow, his scent lingering in the air, and was accosted by images of her best friend atop her; fingers buried between her open thighs and his mouth on her breast. The warmth of Jaime’s hands on her skin did little to help the jump in her pulse, and the reemerging of thoughts she had long thought gone since the early days of their deception. 

Just then, there were two curt raps upon the door. “I should get that.”

“We should get that,” Jaime said, his hand sliding into the back pocket of her jeans. “Now, remember, you’re madly in love with me.” 

If only she could forget. 

[ihatetaxes99]

THE YAKUZA AND THE PHOENIX - A BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA FANFICTION

"See, the problem with people like you," Commented the cool, sanitised yet utterly terrifying voice of Kai Chisaki as he kneeled down just in the very corner of the hero's peripheral vision. "Is that you relied far too much on that disgusting disease that plagues every last vein in your Godforsaken body. Maybe if you had just thought ahead a little… Has this illness robbed you of your senses, too? Left you as useless as a newborn? Not that it matters. It's far too late by now for any part of you to begin thinking about what could have been. I mean, just take a look around." He raised one hand to adjust his mask, while using the other to gesture to the scene around the two, one filled with flame and destruction. "If you had thought to bring police, tried to corner me with rifles, well you might have had some sort of success. I'm not stupid enough to resist against live bullets. But no. Your sickening Quirk has left you with such delusions that you thought you could stand to take me on alone."

The young woman's eyes filled with nothing but pure steel as she looked up at him. There was no fear to be found in the glare she delivered the man known as Overhaul, in spite of the terror bubbling in the pits of her stomach, constantly threatening to rise to the top. But she would not let it. Not in front of this Chisaki bastard, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he had won.

"No words?" The man sighed, poking her lightly in the head as if to provoke a reaction. "Like a kid who doesn't get their way. Stubborn to the end. What a pain you are. The worst kinds of people are the ones who don't realize they're infected. They have no true redemption in their future. It's kind of weird when you think about it. What a shame… Not that it's any of my concern. I'm more interested in just why you and your ridiculous headgear have been following me around all day. Do you have an answer for that?" He grabbed her by the back of the hair, and pulled her face up to look at his. "I'd prefer an answer as soon as possible, so I can minimise the amount of contact made with your disgusting body."

There was only one way the woman knew she could respond to this and that way landed directly on the suspected Yakuza's forehead. "Why would I tell you anything, asshole? You won't get anything out of the Phoenix."

The man actually audibly growled, like a feral wolf, as he slammed her head into the asphalt. She felt her nose break as blood streamed from it onto the road. It was probably one of the lesser injuries she had incurred that day. Chisaki got to his feet and produced a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his face of the hero's saliva. "How childish." His voice was full of pure, deep contempt. "How filthy. Were you never taught manners? Are you mentally deficient? Hmph. Not that I should expect any more from a hero who calls themselves the Phoenix. How cliché." With that, he returned to his kneeling position over her limp body, she practically felt his shadow drop over her as the smell of burning embers filled her nose. Were those sirens she heard? They were faint, but what else could they be? Were they coming in her direction? One ear was completely busted up, so she couldn't tell. Looking up to the man who supposedly went by Overhaul, her peripheral vision severely limited by her complete and total lack of a right eye, she found her mind drifting away to the beginning of the day. When things had seemed oh so simple. When she still had all her limbs and when life had generally been more preferable when contrasted against her current predicament.

When had it all gone so wrong?

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

"So, all I have to do is follow the bugger?" Twenty-three year old Misa Kawajiri enquired into her phone as she took small, meticulous sips from her large Coke, sitting atop a rooftop in the very heart of the city, occasionally reaching into the bag next to her to dig out a fry or two and jam them into her mouth. This was the life, no doubt about it. The young woman, who went by the heroic moniker of the Phoenix, was elated whenever she was sent on surveillance patrols by her agency. Most other pro heroes would consider such work to be beneath them, it mostly consisted of hounding tax evaders, low-rent rank-and-file grunts and conmen, there was almost certainly never a tang of excitement to be found. This was the reason most heroes preferred more interesting work and it was the reason why Kawajiri adored such jobs. For her, it was a chance to slow down, chill out and enjoy life at a bit of a slower pace than usual. She definitely was not above having time to unwind and take things at a more reasonable pace. Of course, today's surveillance was already beginning to sound more interesting. It had started out with monitoring some basement-dwelling Otaku who shared anti-hero sentiments on internet forums, so not exactly a thrill ride there, as evidenced by the fact that Misa had left halfway through to get herself a McDonald's. But her new target, as assigned to her by her employers at the agency…

"His name's Kai Chisaki." Rang the cool, clerical voice of Phoenix's supervisor. "Mid to late twenties, germaphobe. He isn't often seen out and about, instead residing largely in the Shie Hassaikai's compound."

"Hassaiaki?" The hero of the sky's ears perked up at that. "He's Yakuza?"

"As far as we know, yes. We can't trace back any records of a family, except for Kazama Chisaki, his uncle, who was also associated with the organization before his death, although not as a full member."

"Interesting…" The girl pondered. "So, why are we following him, then? The Hassaikai have a good reputation, right?" Her words were slightly muffled as she jammed more fries in her mouth at that moment than was probably reasonable.

"That they do, Phoenix. They're underground. There have been search warrants on the premises before, but nothing suspicious was turned up. They're a Yakuza group in name only right now, nothing worth worrying about. But Chisaki? He's different. You're going to be following him for reasons unrelated to his activity within the clan."

"Oh?" Misa cupped her free ear with her hand so that she could better hear the man on the other end of the phone.

"In short, we have reasons to believe he's been peddling Trigger behind the backs of his bosses. Obviously, I don't need to tell you about that."

She nodded, although that was a tad redundant, considering the voice on the other end could not see her. The experimental drug known for its Quirk-bolstering properties was nothing to trifle with, and it had only grown more popular in recent time. "Why do you think he's doing so?"

"Money, probably. Who knows with these criminal types? The point remains that we have reason to believe he's out and about today. I've sent you an image of him on your phone. Follow him, see what he's up to. When a hermit like him comes out of the woodwork, it can never be good. Not for anybody." And with that, her superior hung up, leaving Misa to her own thoughts. In being left this way, she dug her knees up tucked under her chin and sulked for a bit, confident that nobody could see her act in such a childish manner, taking the odd glance at the image. He was a shockingly handsome young fellow, with sharp yellow eyes, ruffled brown hair and a suit, he looked the part of any well-meaning businessman. The only weird aspect was the steampunk-esque plague doctor mask clamped around his mouth. She shrugged it off as probably having something to do with his Quirk, whatever that was.

"This sucks." She groaned as she reached for her helmet, which mostly served as a fancy shell to hold the visor that shielded her eyes from the wind. "I don't wanna have to pursue Yakuza drug dealers, it's just no good. Give me a fat, tinfoil hat loser ranting about conspiracies any day. Surveillance is supposed to be a break from the hard stuff. But nooo, it just has to be more of it, doesn't it?" She sighed, the air whistling over her lips, as she tossed aside her empty bag. Stretching upwards, allowing her skintight suit to hug her body, she felt her wings extend from her body. It was always a glorious sensation to be felt, the pure rush of it all. She adored it beyond belief, the best part of the job. With a cheeky grin, the young hero spread her arms…

… And let herself fall from the building's roof.

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

Filthy. The very lot of them, surrounded by filth and dirt and all manner of unpleasantries. It was enough to break young Kai Chisaki out in hives, it truly was. Absolutely repulsive. How horrendous to have to walk amongst the common people, all of them no doubt inflicted with that despicable illness. As he made his way down the crowded high street, bumping into the occasional commuter, he felt the irresistible urge to lift up the sleeve of his green coat and scratch at the lumps on his arm. Urgh. The very lot of them, disgusting. He was rapidly remembering why he vastly preferred to remain indoors. And yet, he had to do this. He couldn't entrust mere goons with carrying out the mission, not even the Eight Precepts of Death. This had to be done by him and him alone. He felt the cold metal rub against his stomach from the inside pocket of his coat. What depraved things that guns were. Alas, they were a necessary evil, and still far better than Quirks. As he walked, he had no clue of the eyes following him as he did so. Misa Kawajiri worked fast and had found him in mere minutes. Was he aware of this, he would almost have applauded her.

Key word: Almost.

"He's carrying some sort of briefcase..." The girl noted to herself as she watched him. Luckily, his mask made him very distinctive for anyone who may be looking for him, so she had not had much trouble. "Is that relevant to whatever he's up to?" The questions were racing through her head in spite of her better judgement. She couldn't help but wonder about the good-looking, well-dressed young fellow with Yakuza ties. It was all so odd to her, and new. She didn't often run into anything so… exciting, was probably the word. And normally, Phoenix abhorred exciting. But something about it just seemed alluring. Maybe it was more the man than the danger, who really knew? Certainly not her.

…

DAMN.

Wrapped up in her own little thoughts, Kawajiri had lost Chisaki. He had seeped into the crowd. That wasn't good, not good at all. Not even wasting a second, Misa once again extended her wings and took off into the air, in search of the fellow she was shadowing. Stupid Misa, she cursed herself. How had she been so stupid? She really needed to focus more. Her eyes scanned the surroundings as she flew over an alleyway that served as a gap between two buildings.

And in that very alleyway, Kai Chisaki now stood, facing a triage. They were common street thugs, Overhaul had done his research. Nothing big, they were unheard of, just worthless druggies with not a thing to their names and a whole heap of desperation for power, power that they had no clue what to do with. In other words, the perfect suckers to lure in.

"Gentlemen." The distinguished Yakuza bowed. The goons showed no such respect in return. Was it really so hard to show the baseline politeness required of a person? These kinds of people pissed him off the most. Fortunately, the mask obstructed his grimace as he set the silver case on the ground and entered in a combination. A few seconds passed and then it clicked open. "Here's your bloody Trigger. Ten vials, enough to give the three of you a bolster in your path- In your Quirks for up to forty-eight hours. If you have any questions, I would advise you ask now."

The thugs all shared looks with one another. They appeared satisfied at the very least, yet the one in the middle, a big guy with muscles to rival All Might- Well, the former All Might- seemed incredulous to some degree. 

"So, what yer tellin' us, Chisaki-"

"I would prefer if you called me Overhaul."

"-Right. Sorry." His accent was just thick enough to get under the Yakuza's skin. "Yer sayin' that we don' hafta pay for any of this?"

To this, Kai shrugged. "Consider it a first-time buyer's guarantee. If you want more later down the line, that's when you'll have to start paying me. Otherwise, take it." He kicked the briefcase, sending it sliding towards the men. "It's all yours." For a moment, it seemed like the huge guy was about to protest, but at looking at the vials, his greed got the better of him, and he allowed a wide grin to overcome his face, no doubt imagining what his improved Quirk would be like. Disgusting animal.

"Pleasure doin' business with ya, Mr. Overhaul." He gloated as he picked up the case, his cronies hovering around him as they sneaked looks at the drug. Now was probably the best time to strike, while they were blinded by their own pathetic delusions of grandeur.

"Likewise." Chisaki responded, reaching into his coat, as if trying to find a cigarette. "Say, you three, have you ever wondered what society would be like without Quirks? How far we could have advanced by now if we hadn't had to restart everything to accommodate the idea of superpowers?" The men stared at him like he was mad, which was to be expected. "It's just something I've been thinking about." He admitted as he pulled the gun from his coat and aimed it squarely at the large man's head. "Let's test it out. You'll survive, of course."

"What the fuck?" The scumbag growled as he dropped the case in shock. "You pullin' a gun on us? Guess what, you skinny prick? It's three on one. Shoulda thought about that before pullin' a betrayal!"

"Probably." Kai noted nonchalantly as he took aim and fired.

The bullet ricocheted up against a wall in the alley as the metallic weapon was knocked from his hand by a kick. And not a kick from one of the steroided-up goons. No, one aimed from above.

"Looks like I caught you boys in the act." Phoenix grinned as she stood, legs firmly apart, eying up Kai. "Trying to betray the dudes you're selling drugs to really isn't a great idea, I must add." 

…

Filthy…

Sickening….

"WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE??!!" Kai Chisaki screamed, his voice carrying high up into the sky as he stared down the hero, his pupils small and mad in their sockets. "HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME??!! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU??!!" He was completely enraged, sweat pouring from his forehead as he grasped at his hair. "DISGUSTING, DISGUSTING, DISGUSTING!!" He appeared to be on the receiving end of a full-on breakdown. All this over being kicked in the hand? No, it couldn't just be that. Already, the receivers of the Trigger had fled, stolen briefcase in hand. It really had been their lucky day.

"Woah, calm down, Chisaki-"

"Who gave you the right to call me that?!" He demanded, his voice slightly softer now. "And do you have any idea how difficult those bullets were to manufacture? I simply cannot afford to waste them!" Turning his back on Kawajiri, he picked up the gun, examining it for damages, and then wiped it clean with his white surgical gloves.

"Hey, creep! Stay right where you are!" Misa was petrified. She truly was. Something about this guy just was not right at all. She had been told he was a major germaphobe, but was it this bad? Enough to push him into insanity at a moment's touch? "You're under arrest for possession distribution of illegal narcotics." She was basically reading off the rulebook, saying what she was supposed to say in such situations. But nothing about this felt normal. Why was he so focused on the gun? "Stand down and await for police transport."

"You think I would heed such commands from a filthy piece of scum like yourself?" Suddenly, Kai was cool, clinical, yet again as he calmly pointed the gun in her direction. Phoenix nearly felt her heart stop. "Maybe you'll make a better test subject." His finger tightened on the trigger of the handgun. Misa had no time to think, no time to plan.

She simply ran forwards, charging the villain as he steadied his aim. Another loud bang echoed from the gun. She felt it tear her suit as it whizzed past her, but she managed to just barely evade it. Now, she was too full of adrenaline to stop, as she ploughed towards Chisaki. As she drew closer, she reached out, grabbing for his arm… She had to restrain him and fast.

"DON'T LAY YOUR FILTH-ENCRUSTED FINGERS ON ME FOR EVEN A SECOND!!" Overhaul yelled, back to unconcealed rage, as he slammed his hand down onto the ground. From nowhere, burst large columns of rock from beneath the concrete, sending the heroine flying back a few inches and separating the two. 

"Woah..." Was this his Quirk? She hadn't seen anything like it before. The rock wall stretched all the way up, totally shielding the Yakuza from her. It twisted up into the blue sky, as far as the eye could see. And then, she heard his voice, once again calm, from the other side.

"You made me use my Quirk." The man stated. "I hate this thing, but you left me with no other option. For that, I truly do feel some sort of hatred for you. So, I suppose I really feel no guilt in using you as my little guinea pig." Then, he fell silent again, as Phoenix paced around, trying to look for some sort of opening in the wall. Suddenly, she heard a rush of wind behind her and snapped around her head just fast enough to see Overhaul rushing at her. Now, Kawajiri had no clue just what his Quirk did yet, but she figured letting him touch her was a bad idea, so she took off into the air, hovering out of his reach.

"So, a flight Quirk, eh?" Chisaki sighed. His hair was ruffled, the purple fur on his coat torn in places and his bleach white tie flicking wildly with the motion from his rapid movements. "I must admit, I've never been great with moving targets." Once again, the pistol was out, pointed at her. No, she shouldn't panic. Judging from earlier, whatever bullets he loaded the thing with were very precious and so, he wouldn't waste them unless he knew there was a guaranteed chance of hitting her. She was safe for now.

She realized she had been foolish to think that even as the spiked column of rock dug itself up from the ground and impaled her right through the stomach, sending her back, right out of the alley and into the streets outside. She heard a scream as she slammed into a car, feeling the metal crunch behind her. Her vision was hazy, like that of a drunk, but she could still make out the suited villain walking slowly towards her as civilians fled the area. Well, all except for one man, who clearly realized that Kai was up to no good and tried to charge him. Without even looking in his direction, his gaze fixed on Misa, Overhaul's arm made contact with the brave man's chest and he exploded into nothingness.

"What the hell?!" Phoenix yelled. She felt like throwing up at the man's remains splattered the asphalt So this Quirk… It could erect pillars of rock, reduce humans to nothing, what was it exactly? She couldn't even think straight in her current state to try to decipher the answer.

"Isn't it kind of weird how people always try to act the hero? I've noticed that. I swear, this world has been poisoned beyond belief. Can I even cure it? Is that possible?" She felt cold metal as the bastard jammed the gun into her gaping mouth. "All I know is that I can try my very best. Starting here. You'll be my first patient, my girl. The first to be cured."

"Bite me." She hissed as she aimed a kick at his side, which somehow connected, winding the Yakuza just long enough for Misa to stagger to her feet. It felt like she had multiple broken ribs. Those could wait. "I think I get your shtick now. You think Quirks are disgusting or something, right? Yeah, just like any of those Creature Rejection Clan nutjobs. But you think you can bring an end to them, right?" She coughed up some blood onto her fist as she held Chisaki's gaze. "Well, think again, dickwad. You really think that you're some great saviour. I dunno what you have planned, but it sure as hell won't be anything that won't see you crushed like the pathetic little man you are!" And with that, she took flight again, aiming a kick at his head.

Before she even knew it, another column had travelled right through her left eye with a fleshy squealtch, blood coating the rock as she hurtled backwards, her fall stopped by a large vehicle that the rock pinned her to.

"Jesus… That it?" She spat, as Kai approached her yet again, his eyebrows raised in amusement. Then, he stepped backwards. Then again. Then, he spun around and started walking away. Misa was completely taken aback. "What?! You just leaving, you limp-dicked bastard? That ain't how a saviour acts, is it? Running away from a fight?" Her attempts at provocation did nothing to stop him and when the young woman tilted her head just a little, she saw why.

"Ah-" She started, before the oil tanker she had been pinned to exploded. The shockwave could be felt for blocks to come, glass shattered from the skyscrapers above as the world was thrown upside down. Everything went white for Misa Kawajiri, then black.

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

Damn. That really had escalated quickly. And now, the pro hero lay, amongst the rubble, with one eye, a busted ear, no legs and a stump of an arm. The Yakuza stood above her. 

"I'll be willing to overlook your blatant lack of manners." Overhaul growled as he resumed his kneeling position. "In fact, I'll let you be saved. I'll be the one to save you. Isn't that something? A sickening power-infected freak like you, given a second chance by a humble Yakuza. And after everything you've done to me. You have been one hell of an annoyance. But, I guess you'll have started to make it up to me if Eri's little bullets end up working." The girl felt metal press into her side. Why was he so eager to shoot her? It must have something to do with whatever he was planning. The last thing Misa Kawajiri heard was the crack of a gunshot, the last thing she felt was the pain of the bullet entering her body, and then, she fell still. A second or two passed before Kai hovered his hand over her head.

"All going well, you have been deprived of your filthy Quirk." He noted, more to himself as the hero was now deeply unconscious. "Now, just to fix you up." He pushed his hand down on her and the woman's body blew apart in a spectacular show of blood and gore. Just a few seconds later, it reassembled, all limbs, eyes and anything else re-attached. With a satisfied nod, the man got to his feet.

"You'll live peacefully for the rest of your days." He told her, turning his back on her and walking away from the destruction that lay sprawled out like the play area of a particularly deranged and angry child, as if it had just been another day at the office, adjusting his tie. "No Quirk, no heroics, no excitement. I hope you're cut out for a desk job, Phoenix. It's all you have in your future. You're welcome."

[theoiljoint]

Testimony

{Follows Lady}

           Weeks passed.

           Trayvon stopped by with a sealed envelope and a smile. “Keep these safe,” he had said quietly, handing over the envelope while some curious patrons stared at the lone human in their midst. “If something happens to them, we can get replacements, but it’s a hassle. Congratulations, Ms. Tonic.”

           That night she had stared at the papers he had delivered, reading them over several times but mostly just… staring. She was now, in the eyes of the law, a self-governing automaton. A free ‘bot. A citizen, if only a second-class one.

           And she felt… nothing.

           I’ve always been my own, she finally thought. Even under Daugherty, even when Jacob was here. This is just an overdue formality.

           She wanted to think that her non-reaction was simple impartiality. But she knew that this was just step one of her bid for freedom. She still needed to save the bar, and the idea that her testimony could make or break it was crushing her.

           Tipsy didn’t speak to anyone about the coming trial. As much as she was a collector of gossip, she didn’t like rumors about herself getting out, and something like this would definitely get people talking. She didn’t want them to talk about her; she didn’t want them to look down on her for getting in this mess. So when the day for her testimony came, she left Elijah with instructions to turn away any early patrons—they would open when she got back—and she went alone.

           The case had been named after the lead plaintiff, Robichaud vs The City of Plifterston. There were so many people testifying in the class action, all with allegations that city hall had taken their “rent” money under the table, that the proceedings had to be broken up across several days. Some had businesses; most were families. And a few, just two besides herself, were automata. But she saw neither of them as Trayvon guided her into the courtroom and to her seat.

           “They’re working off a script,” he had said before they entered. “They’ll ask you your name and some personal details. They’ll ask if you’re self-governing. Say ‘yes;’ you don’t have to tell them when you got your papers unless they ask. They’ll ask you when you first started paying the extortion money. Be as precise as you can. Are you alright?”

           Tipsy was shaking, wringing her handkerchief between her hands. “I’m scared, Mr. Rider. I could lose everything. Without m-my bar I’m—” The cloth tore slightly, and she bowed her head. Then she felt two hands gently settle on her upper shoulders.

           “It’s ok,” Tray said quietly. “You’re helping yourself so much by agreeing to do this. Hornester’s people have to either own up to circumventing the law or deny doing so, and if they deny it, or we win the case, you—all of you—can claim adverse possession. And you have a whole community to back you up on that.”

          Tipsy looked up sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’m being foolish. I’ll do it, I-I’ll—”

          “You’re not foolish,” Tray said firmly. “This isn’t easy. And I won’t pretend we’re guaranteed to win. But we’re going to do everything we can, and today, that’s answering their questions.” He paused, and before he could speak again, Tipsy gave a small, soft laugh.

          “I’m not the first client you’ve given this pep talk to this week, am I?”

          Trayvon grinned. “I’ve asked a hard thing of a great many people, so, maybe a few times.”

          “Okay.” Tipsy straightened, and her eyes flashed determinedly. “I’m ready.”

           “All rise,” the bailiff said as the side door of the courtroom open. The women who swept in had stately grey hair and a mouth set in a stern thin line. Tipsy struggled to stand up quickly, Trayvon taking her arm to help her balance, and she noticed the slightest glance from the judge in her direction.

           Be strong, Tipsy told herself. You’ve stood through worse than this. And she had; she’d put ‘bots three times her size back in their seats. She’d been called every sort of name and ducked her own glassware being thrown back at her. She could handle a few humans looking down their noses at her. She could. She had to.

           “Your Honor,” the defending lawyer said, standing and walking to the center of the room. Tipsy thought his name was Nomikos. “I would like to continue where we left off in the list of witnesses.”

           The judge nodded.

           “I call,” Nomikos began, looking at a sheet of paper in his hand and pausing for the briefest second. “’Ms. Tipsy Tonic’ to the stand,” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe that was her name.

           Tray helped her up again, squeezing her arm for reassurance. He walked her to the stand; there was no ramp up into the box and she had to pull herself up with an undignified little hop. There wasn’t room for her to sit down, not with her unwieldy ‘skirt,’ so she remained standing, folding her hands on the edge of the stand’s wall. A fresh handkerchief was clasped beneath them.

           The bailiff lifted a Bible to her, but Tipsy held up a hand, waving it away.

           “Please raise your right hand.” She considered for a second, then raised her upper right hand. “Do you affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

           “I affirm.”

           “What is your name?” Nomikos asked.

           “Tipsy Tonic.”

           “When were you constructed?”

           “1920.” She blinked, then remembering the paperwork Tray had given her, amended, “June 17th.” Her earliest memory came from that day. Being asked to turn on her radio for the ball game.

           “Who was your inventor?”

           “Orrin Fletcher.”

           “How long have you lived in Plifterston?”

           “All my life.”

           “How long have you lived at 1708 Nantucket Blvd?”

           “All my life.”

           “Is 1708 your residence or place of business?”

           “Both.”

           “What business do you do?”

           “I run a bar for automatons.”

           Nomikos’ lips twitched, but he continued.

           “Who is your current engineer?”

           “Shi Carlton.”

           The lawyer turned to the next stapled page in his hand.

           “You too allege that the local government, under direction of Patrick Hornester, has been extorting you for money?”

           “Yes.”

           “When did this begin?”

           “February 11th, 1987.”

           “How were you approached?”

           “A man named ‘Steward’ came to my b—building that night.”

           “What did he say to you?”

           “He told me that Jacob—Jacob Begay, my engineer at the time—had reneged on his payments to them. Jake—Jacob—had been living with me. He took care of setting things up, but then he—” A sudden stab of pain went through her. It was an old hurt, but one that still stung. “—He left without telling me, about a month before Steward showed up.”

           “What else?”

           “Steward laid out the terms of the arrangement—that I would pay a monthly lump sum to city hall, and in doing so avoid taxes and the need to obtain official ownership records.”

           “Jacob Begay didn’t leave a deed with you?”

           “I… don’t believe he had one,” Tipsy said with a glance at Trayvon. He nodded slightly. “Steward made it sound like he had had the same arrangement with them, but he had never told me about it and I didn’t recognize Steward.”

           “How many times did you see Steward?”

           “Only three. After that they sent—someone else.”

           “Who?”

           Tipsy hesitated. Again, Trayvon nodded, slower this time. “A robot named Abacus.”

          Someone else sitting at the defendant’s table wrote that down, and Tipsy winced internally. “Can you tell me what you paid that first month?” The lawyer continued.

           “$370.”

           Nomikos paused. “Do you remember or have records of all the payments you’ve made since then?”

           “Yes.”

           “Your Honor,” the lawyer said, turning to the judge. “I would like to request the production of evidence relating to this matter.” Trayvon’s brow furrowed and he leaned forward, frowning. Tipsy’s hands tightened.

           “How so?” the judge asked. Tipsy realized she hadn’t been listening when her name was announced.

           “I would like to obtain the mem.dat from Tipsy Tonic’s processor to validate her story.”

           “What!” Trayvon barked, jerking upright. “Objection, Your Honor!”

           “Overruled, Mr. Rider,” the judge said dismissively. “Mr. Nomikos, can you provide a justification for such a production?”

           “Any and all evidence that is relevant should be considered,” Nomikos said, almost innocently. “And automatons are in an uniquely advantageous position of being able to provide—”

           “I won’t do it.”

           There was a pause in the courtroom, then a soft buzz of chatter after Tipsy’s statement. Nomikos slowly turned back to look at the ‘bot on the stand, eyeing her pointedly.

           “I’m not letting anybody poke around in my processor. Not again.”

           “Ms. Tonic,” the judge said, sitting forward and looking down at her. “If the court requests evidence that you possess, you are obligated to produce it.”

           “Your Honor, this is not a fair request.” Trayvon stood, trying to keep the heat out of his voice. “Ms. Tonic is under oath, just as every human witness has been. Requiring mem.dat would be a violation—”

           “It’s the best proof—” Nomikos started to interrupt him, then Tonic repeated:

           “I will not—"

           “Order!” the judge snapped, another silence clamping down on the court. “Ms. Tonic, I want to hear why you are so adamantly against providing us this information.”

           Trayvon stewed furiously; Tonic could get no reassurance from him. Instead, she looked down, thinking very carefully about how to phrase her response. “I had my skullcap welded in place in 1983,” she said slowly. One thin hand reached up and touched her ‘hair.’ “This cannot be removed without risking destroying parts of my processor. Just having it installed caused some minor but irreparable damage.”

           Silence retook the courtroom.

           “Why did you have your skullcap welded shut?” Nomikos asked.

           “Objection,” Trayvon hissed. “Irrelevant to the proceedings.”

           Tipsy looked up at the judge, who had begun to lean back in her chair ponderously. She tapped her fingers on her desk. “Sustained,” she finally said, sitting forward. “I will not force a witness to physically harm themselves to provide evidence. Mr. Rider, you have other automaton witnesses, correct?”

           “Yes, Your Honor,” Trayvon said, standing. “And I humbly request that they be excused from similar productions of mem.dat.”

           “The issue will be reconsidered at the time they provide testimony,” the judge said. Trayvon grimaced slightly. “However, at this time I do not see a reason to require this particular form of evidence when an alternative can be provided.”

           Nomikos was quiet for a moment, then he turned back to Tipsy, who regarded him with an icy stare. “Ms. Tonic, can you provide us with alternate evidence of your payments and interactions?”

           “I’ve kept all my ledgers,” Tipsy said coldly. “If those will suffice.”

           “Please provide them to Mr. Rider at your earliest convenience. No further questions.”

           “Your Honor, may I request a quick recess so that I may speak to my client?” Trayvon asked, standing looking at Tipsy. She was not shaking, but neither was she taking her optics off Nomikos.

           “A very short one, Mr. Rider. We will reconvene in ten minutes.”

           “I’m so sorry,” Tray said quietly as they exited the courtroom. They pulled into a crevice in the hallway to speak. “I should have expected Nomikos would do something like that. This whole week, and—the other two haven’t testified yet—I wasn’t thinking—”

           “Excuse me.”

           Tipsy and Trayvon both looked up sharply. A blonde woman had walked up to them, wearing a red suit jacket and holding a pen and pad. She tapped the pen thoughtfully to her chin, just under her red lips, the same shade as her coat. Tipsy had seen her sitting in the back of the courtroom. “My name’s Melissa Etterson. I’m from the Plifterston Cockcrow and I would love to get a statement from you, Ms. Tonic.”

           “Hello, Melissa,” Trayvon said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure you would, but if you don’t mind, my client and I are having a private conversation. This is not a good time.”

           Melissa’s smile widened, and she effortlessly switched the pen out for a business card. She held this out to Tonic, eyes twinkling. “Well! If you can contact me later, it would be a pleasure to hear more about your story. You can call me anytime. Thank you so much.” Melissa spun on her heel and strode off, back toward the courtroom. Trayvon huffed, glaring after her.

           “Don’t call that number,” he said, turning back to Tipsy. “She’s a shark, and she’s brilliant at spinning words.”

           “I wasn’t planning to,” Tipsy said, looking around for a trash can. Not seeing one, she dropped the card into her purse for later disposal. “You two act like you have history.”

           Trayvon was silent for a moment. “She’s my ex,” he grumbled at last. “Anyway, we were talking, I, uh—”

           “You were about to head back in there,” Tipsy said, stopping him. “And make sure your other clients are prepared for their testimonies.” He looked at her strangely, and she nodded. “I don’t want to talk about this, not right now. I need to go home and open my bar; I need work more than anything.”

           Tray nodded. “I can get you excused. Don’t leave until I get back, just in case. I just—I’m sorry, Ms.—”

           “Go,” she said, and he did.

           It was only then that she realized that the handkerchief in her hands was soaked in the oil from her fingers. She lifted one hand to her face and watched the trembling start again. You’ll be home soon, she thought, clenching her fingers into a fist. The hard part is over now.

[ruminativerabbi]

Game-Changers

Everybody knows the old French saw about how the more things appear to change, the more they actually stay the same. And mostly it’s true—we can surely all think of a dozen innovations touted in their day as societal game-changers that turned out merely to be variations on the theme they were supposed not merely to revise slightly but totally to uproot and replace. You can make scrambled eggs in your microwave slightly more quicky than in a frying pan, but you still end up with a plate of scrambled eggs. And your wireless printer does exactly the same thing as your non-wireless printer did, just without the wire. It’s nice to have fewer wires under your desk, of course. But was the world—or even just your world—really changed by the advent of wireless printers?

But then, every so often, something comes along that actually does change everything. It generally takes a while for people to understand the implications of that innovation, however. Gutenberg’s printing press is a good example: it’s hard to think of a day that more totally changed the world—and for the better—than that fateful day in 1452 on which Gutenberg produced his first printed Bible, thus opening the path for printed books to supplant hand-written manuscripts by making it possible to create hundreds, or even thousands, of  copies of a book in the time a scribe would have earlier on needed to create a single volume. And, yes, things got off to a strong start: by 1500, there were a cool 30,000 books in print across Europe. But even so it took almost a century and a half before it dawned on someone that Gutenberg’s invention could be used to publish a daily printed newspaper. (That first effort was the rather infelicitously named Relation aller Fürnemmen und gedenckwürdigen Historien, a German-language newspaper that Johann Carolus began publishing in Strasbourg in 1605.)

Some of these game-changing moments seem less momentous as time passes: I can remember the teenaged me thinking that nothing would ever be the same again after Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon in 1969, only later on to realize that it was a come-and-go moment that, practically speaking, changed nothing at all in terms of the way we live our lives down here on earth. Others seem only in retrospect to have  been crucial turning points, but went totally unnoticed at the time: surely the invention of email counts as an innovation that permanently altered the way society functions, but I myself can’t say with certainly who invented it or when exactly. (I can now—I just looked it up and so can you: click here. But why V.A. Shiva Ayyadurai is basically unknown, while Neil Armstrong’s name is known even to young children—that would be an interesting issue to think through. Perhaps I’ll return to that one of these days and see what I can come up with.)

But I write about all this today because I noted in the paper something a few weeks ago that feels to me as though it might well be—at least in retrospect—a true game-changer moment. It surely went unnoticed by most. In the end, it may end up to have been a fancy parlor-trick that only felt momentous at the moment. Or it may be an innovation that possesses the potential to address the scourge of homelessness.

As recently as ten years ago, it was estimated that there were as many as 100 million people in the world living without roofs over their heads. Nor is this a Third World problem per se: in 2018 it was estimated by the government that there were about 553,000 homeless individuals in the United States, 65% of whom were temporarily being housed in shelters and 35% of whom were fending for themselves on our nations’ streets. Just this spring, the New York Times reported that there were about 114,000 school-age children who were or will be either permanently or temporarily homeless during the current school year. (To read more about that almost unbelievable statistic, click here.)

The roots of homelessness are complicated and vary from context to context, but the cost of owning a home is surely part of the problem. Maybe it’s the advent of Pesach that has made me especially sensitive to the whole issue: the holiday is formally about freedom from slavery, but the famous image of the Israelites yearning for home while spending forty years living in flimsy, roofless sukkot that provided no real protection from the elements, no meaningful security, and hardly any privacy at all—all those themes came together to draw my attention to an article in the New York Post last week that announced something that struck me as the kind of innovation that could conceivably take its place next to Gutenberg’s press one of these days. And it too had something to do with printing.

Or at least with a printer.

The article, by Mary K. Jacob, reported that 70-year-old Tim Shea, formerly a homeless soul living on the streets in Austin, Texas, now resides in a 400-square-foot home that was created with a 3-D printer and which is part of a community of such structures created especially to house 180 people like himself in homes they rent for $300 a month. (The community also provides work opportunities for the residents, so all who live there can earn their rent and remain permanently in place. To read the New York Post article, click here.) The cost of creating such a home, using machines called “large concrete 3-D printers” is about $10,000. But the price is expected to drop as the technology becomes more advanced and one essay I found projected the eventual cost of using such a machine to create an inhabitable home to be about $3500. Also relevant is that such a building can be constructed by four workers in less than twenty-four hours. (For a more detailed account by Adele Peters of how this unbelievable technology works, click here.) Each printer—obviously something akin to the printer on your desk but also quite different from it—costs about $100,000 and is expected to be able to produce about 1,000 homes. So that would add about $100 to the cost of each home, a more than bearable addition. The homes are made of concrete and mortar, both substances readily available in most Third World countries. The roofs are not 3-D printed.

As noted above, lots of innovations present themselves to the world as game-changers but only very few actually do alter the course of human society. The invention of the printing press certainly deserves its place on the list. So do the introduction of the personal computer and the invention of the Internet. But the thought that society could address the problems of homelessness and the extreme poverty and lack of resources that brings people to live on the street by constructing homes so inexpensively that even people with the most modest incomes could afford the rent…and then by constructing communities for such people that also provide the employment opportunities necessary to earn that rent and to survive with dignity in a secure and safe environment—that seems to me a development truly with the potential to change the world.

One of the Torah’s most chilling lines is in the fifteenth chapter of Deuteronomy. The text enjoins the Israelite to be generous and kind when it comes to charitable giving, and never to begrudge the poor their alms, “for it was precisely to grant you the ability to show such solicitude to the poor that God blessed you with whatever wealth you possess in the first place.” And then Scripture goes on to note wistfully that this shall be a permanent obligation, “for surely the poor will never vanish entirely from the land.” Ramban says to take this more as a dour observation than as an actual prophetic oracle—and thus specifically not to conclude that the eradication of poverty is something that could never actually be achieved—and I’d like to think that that is exactly correct. (Ramban, also called Nachmanides, died in 1270 and is still considered one of the greatest Torah commentators.) And that is why I responded so emotionally to that story in the paper the other day: the thought that it could be possible to address the world-wide problem of homelessness by building habitable homes for less than the cost of a car and then by constructing communities that present future residents with the kind of work-opportunities that will make residence in such homes affordable for all—that really does seem to me like a game-changer. If I had to bequeath to my lovely granddaughters a world in which no human being had ever walked on the moon, I could live with that. But to think that the possibility exists to offer them a world in which all human beings can live in dignified, secure housing—that seems to me like the kind of innovative change that really would be a game-changer in terms of the way we live in the world.

[taeguboi]

The Very Hopeful And I: BTS Soulmate!AU [01]

Oh, look at that! I’ve finally written the first chapter for my BTS Soulmate!AU which I headcanoned here like 3 - 4 months ago hahahaha I’m so bad at this writing thing... I’m sorry it’s badly written too, I’m more of a plot person haha

PROLOGUE: MINDFUL // PROLOGUE: YOUTHFUL // PROLOGUE: HOPEFUL

^Read the prologues here^ first and guess which BTS members I’ve decided to feature! [as in, whose POVs do you think are being expressed?]

If you’re still not quite sure which members are being involved with this soulmate!au, perhaps this chapter might give you some insight... [but only some as I’m still not revealing everything just yet!] As each prologue has 3 respective POVs, this contains all 3 in one section.

The Very Hopeful, And I - 01

The middle of the week was always extra daunting and dragging… but hey, I’m living the dream, right?

“Right, Jack, we need you to catch the next flight to cover this story; extreme weather has had massive impact on this area, a typhoon in Busan to be precise.”

“On it” I reply, leaving my office desk and hastily readying myself to leave the building.

It might seem strange that I am referred to as ‘Jack’, being a native Korean and all, but I felt it necessary to go under a new name since becoming more public as a journalist and reporter. My aim is to make a difference in the world with my deliveries of news stories, and those extra years I can get without maturing are precious to me.

One might say that I can’t make much difference through simply reporting natural tragedies such as the one you caught a glimpse of, but it’s still a part of my job that I take seriously. Though my main ambition is to make a difference and help make changes for the better, I find it just as important to stay in tune with the world around me. See this reporting opportunity that I’m catching the next flight to Busan for as something to fill the hours while I think about politics, ethics, the economy, relevant things that affect the modern person.

I suppose I could have gone into law to fight for justices, but there’s only so much someone in that area of work can do in the long term. Yes, they can put criminals behind bars, cutting them off from society, but that isn’t always what people truly pay attention to. As a reporter and journalist, I want to use my words to get through to people before anything too serious or damaging can happen.

I have several causes. I work for charities to help prevent and improve the state of poverty, but I also seek to help citizens of a first world country like ours. I want to improve the treatment of today’s youth, encourage employability, improve mental health, and give people a passion to fulfil in their lives by delivering news; if my voice about, say, the country’s health service is being reported to the nation and a viewer feels engaged and compassionate, then perhaps they will start their own cause.

Which reminds me… I need to grab my laptop from home on the way down there so I can look further into that new vacancy and its applicants. I’m flattered and so pleased that I’ve been handed this responsibility. I can confidently and hopefully pick out someone as enthusiastic as myself in this industry.

***

I can't stop thinking. Thinking about that call, I feel all kinds of things. I'm excited, I'm skeptical, I'm anxious, I'm giddy… This is it! I finally get to meet Y/n, but what if it's coincidence and this person just so happens to have the same name? I've had notice, but what if I set a bad impression and make a fool of myself? Nah, stop fretting Hoseok, it'll be fine, she'll just think you're goofy and cute if you trip over the table leg… again. She'll love you; it's written in the stars. Or rather, my arm.

I feel dizzy… As though I'm drunk, and I have a sore feeling in my throat. It literally feels like I've downed a swig of Jack Daniels. I've never wanted 4 days to pass by so fast; I just need to know. Have I found this person? Do I need to make new plans? Will I have to stick to my original plan?

I'm definitely not thinking straight; I need to clean this place up, give it a good once over. I can't believe that hasn't crossed my mind since finishing that phone call a day ago. Not that I’ve had much time since hanging up the phone yesterday evening up to this evening, what, with work and all that.

Come on Hoseok, there's no rush anyway; stop beating yourself up about it. You have a whole 4 days to pull yourself together. 4 more days to pick up a couple of extra shifts in fact… I guess I should pay since she’ll be helping me out in the long term with rent. But she must know what this meeting means, right? What if she thinks I’m trying too hard?

Damn, I certainly didn't expect to hear her voice before properly meeting her. I've essentially been given a 5 day warning, if this is the very same girl, that is.

I still just can't seem to shake this dizzy feeling...

***

It was hardly coincidence; his name is written on my wrist after all. There, since birth. I simply read through the ads in the paper to get a place and there it was and the end of one: “Contact Jung Hoseok at…”

I found myself dialling before my brain could decide if it was a good idea. Monday! I finally get to meet him this Monday… I guess there's that possibility of coincidence, but I guess at least it'll make a good story even if my name isn't on his wrist.

As I pour myself a little nightcap, I think how at this point in my life though, it would be nice to meet the remaining names. My mark age is almost 23 and I’ve only stumbled across one of my names in over two decades of living. School became lonely for me, having only met my enemy without my soulmate or ally to support me.

My enemy became particularly relentless upon the observation that I essentially had no one to truly connect with. Honestly, I barely dated or thought about acquiring a school soulmate; I found my studies much more important and getting too emotionally involved with people might have hindered my progress. What other option did I have when my confidence in my ability dropped to an all time low? I had a whole other language to learn with little support; I had my youth to become a fluent speaker for my soulmate, whoever that may turn out to be. Of course this resulted in myself becoming labelled as “nerd”, “dork”, and all the rest generally, but the enemy would always go that extra mile.

Whilst some would simply tell me I'm lame for opting to study over a house party and leave it at that, the enemy would really dig into me how I was a sad loner who tries too hard and would never achieve anything in life. Yes, I had to have therapy for the depression they elicited.

“Wow, do you ever get your nose out of the books?”

“Hey guys! If y/n is in a math class and the teacher offers to give extra help, calculate with of the following y/n’s nose is the furthest in or up: a) the text book, b) the kid sat next to her, or c) the teacher’s ass!”

“What is this trash anyway that you're reading? Why are you learning gibberish?”

“How does y/n even get by without at least a basic make up kit? It’s like she doesn't even wanna get laid…”

“Have you ever seen anything more pathetic?”

“Move over bitch and sit by the trash can where you belong.”

The enemy even ran for student council just to get one over me… Of course, they won, but in hindsight it was down to popularity over actual standards and policies.

I'm sure there's a reason that neither my soulmate nor ally were around to cushion each fall. It was never a shock either though that they remained strangers to me, given that my top two names are in Korean characters called Hangul and I was born and raised in an English speaking country. Transfer students came and went in the high school years, but never any under the names on my wrist. I guess I held some anticipation on, I counted, four occasions on which a Korean student moved over for their studies, but I was always strong enough to handle any disappointment I felt upon learning their names as they stood nervously in front of their new class.

I did however acquire a good friendship with one of the four students, Kim Namjoon, something of a prodigy and already being able to speak fluent English at a young age and having learned mostly through just watching movies and series’. That one year was probably the highlight year of my not so spectacular high school years. We communicated in either language and I could freely express my discomfort without anyone around me knowing what I was saying about them. I guess although his name has never been printed into my skin, I did regard him as an ally; a school ally, I could call it.

Let's hope that my greatest ally can follow in Namjoon’s footsteps and help me out a little.

“I look forward to meeting you for coffee, Jung Hoseok.”

[sp4c3-0ddity]

Ink on a Page

an Inkheart AU (sort of)

Category:  Gen Word count:  ~3200 Chapters:  2/?

Summary:

Pidge has lived a normal - if unstable - life with her mother for the last fourteen of her sixteen years, but even the fantastical books she reads never could’ve prepared her for the wild twist it takes when an ‘old friend’ of her mother’s appears unannounced at their door.

Chapter Two Summary:

Pidge and Colleen pack up and move cross country.

Read Chapter Two on ao3

Or read from the beginning

Or below the cut:

Chapter Two:

Colleen woke Pidge up early the next day, but when she complained, her mother retorted that it was already nine.

“But it’s Saturday,” Pidge whined, pulling her covers back up over her head. “I don’t have school, and I have all day to finish my homework.”

Colleen tugged the covers away from her face, staring down at her with hands resting on her hips. “I’ve got a new assignment now.”

That shocked her awake, and she shoved her blankets back and sat up. “We’ve only been here for three months,” she pointed out. “How can you have a new one already?”

Colleen sat at the edge of the bed, patting her knee comfortingly though she wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I finished this one quicker than I expected,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, love, but it’s time to go. You can transfer to a new school—”

“This one is still new,” Pidge grumbled.

“—and you’ll pick right back up where you left off.”

“Can’t I be homeschooled instead?” Pidge wondered. “I looked into it already, and you don’t even have to do anything except make sure I’m following the curriculum, and—”

“School is good for you, love,” Colleen said, finally looking her in the eye. “You need to see people, sometimes; you can’t be a shut-in.”

“I’m not a shut-in,” Pidge said, pulling her knees up to her face and wrapping her arms around her legs.

Colleen only hummed in response – which was better than contradicting her, but Pidge knew she wanted to.

“Is it because of Allura?” Pidge dared to ask.

Her mother visibly stiffened, her lips pinched together, but she said, “No.”

Pidge could tell when she lied, but she also knew when she would refuse to alter her answer.

Then Colleen, changing the subject, said, “It won’t be so bad this time, I think. We’ll be close to a place that might interest you.”

Pidge perked up at that. “Where are we going?”

“D.C.”

Pidge grinned. “Really? Can we go to the Air and Space Museum?”

Her mother smiled. “Yes, of course we can,” she said. “I’ll take you there next weekend, if you want, but today we have to pack.”

For once excited about the prospect of picking up and moving – the reason they didn’t have many belongings, aside from electronics and books – Pidge jumped out of bed and across the hall into the bathroom, ready to start the day. And after brushing her teeth and changing her clothes, she returned to her room and began throwing clothes out of her closet and neatly arranging books into old cardboard boxes.

Colleen frequently bemoaned Pidge’s uncanny ability to accumulate clutter despite how often they moved, everything from blank notebooks with pretty bindings to computer parts whenever she tried to build her own (she had yet to succeed without the hardware catching fire). Along with a suitcase stuffed with all her clothes and shoes and a few boxes of just books, Pidge also dropped assorted knickknacks into another box, pens and electronic parts and souvenirs from the places she and her mother lived in, for however little time.

At least they only ever rented furnished apartments, so only the blankets, pillows, and bedspreads were stuffed into the tiny backseat of Colleen’s pickup truck, boxes and suitcases stored in the covered bed. Pidge sorted everything into place while Colleen settled their lease with the landlord, and by Sunday morning they were on their way east to Washington, D.C., a book in Pidge’s lap while she entertained herself on the long drive.

“Why don’t you watch the scenery outside, love?” Colleen wondered as they drove on a winding parkway through trees thick with autumn leaves.

Pidge turned a page and didn’t look up. “There are trees everywhere.”

“You’ll get carsick,” her mother warned.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Besides, I’m almost done with the first chapter.”

Colleen sighed, and when she slowed the car through a curve, Pidge felt the motion in her stomach, faint enough that she could ignore it…and therefore prove her mother wrong. But Colleen said, “Haven’t you read that one before?”

After marking her place with a finger, Pidge turned the book over to stare at the cover of a cheesy horror novel – The Monster in Miami was exciting, if not exactly classy – and the monster it portrayed. “Yeah, but I like it.”

Colleen glanced at her, frowning skeptically, but then she shrugged.

Pidge smirked and said, “I’ll read something else, if you think I should.”

Her mother smiled. “You have another book in here with you?”

“Yeah, I have this one’s sequel.” She nudged her backpack, sitting on the floor between her feet, with her toes. “But…I saw a book on your shelf the other day”—careful—“and I want to read it.”

“Sure, anything you want, love.”

“Oh, really?” Pidge stuck her bookmark into the horror novel and turned to regard her mother, propping her elbow onto the armrest and resting her chin in her hand. “Then when we get to D.C., can I borrow Voltron?”

Colleen slammed on the brakes, and Pidge jerked in her seat as the truck came to a screeching halt. The car behind them honked their horn and swerved wide around them, and Pidge’s heart pounded in alarm, keeping pace with the thrum of the engine. She stared at her mother’s face, trying to assess her reaction, but Colleen kept her face carefully blank.

“No.”

Pidge frowned, hands tightly gripping the armrest; she should’ve expected as much, but disappointment still made her heart plummet. “But—”

“You wouldn’t like it,” Colleen said. The truck accelerated, and they drove in silence for a few minutes, the only sound that of the radio’s speakers playing Queen.

Pidge faced forward, hands in her lap. She stared out the window, trying to admire the view like her mother suggested, but her buzzing thoughts occupied her.

“What’s the book about anyway?” she asked, voice quiet.

To her surprise, Colleen replied, “It’s about a war.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “That’s…that’s it?”

“Basically.”

“So you don’t want me to read it,” Pidge guessed, but before Colleen could respond, she suggested, “Maybe you could read it to me?” She couldn’t remember her mother ever reading aloud to her, though she had told her bedtime stories when she was younger.

Colleen tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and said, “That’s not much better.” Without waiting for Pidge to contradict her, she reached for the volume knob on the radio.

‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ succeeded in distracting Pidge from her pressing questions, at least for the moment.

They arrived at the apartment complex late in the evening, and Pidge waited in the truck while Colleen went into the leasing office to pick up their keys. She read from The Monster in Miami by streetlight, eyes glued to the page despite knowing she approached her least favorite part of the book.

Her mother opening the door startled her, and she reluctantly closed the book when she started the engine and drove into the complex towards their new apartment. “We’re in Building G, Apartment 5,” said Colleen, handing Pidge a key once she parked outside the right building.

Pidge took the key, thumb smoothing over rough pastel green paint. “G for green?” she wondered.

Colleen chuckled. “Maybe.”

They got out of the car, unloading as much as they could hold, and climbed up the stairs to the apartment door. Pidge glanced around the complex, taking in as much as she could in the low lighting, while Colleen unlocked and opened the door.

Exhausted, Pidge dropped her backpack and the box she held and collapsed face first onto the worn-looking brown sofa. She heard the flipping of a light switch, but the room remained dark to her, her eyes closed and face pressed into a rough couch cushion.

“Come on, love,” Colleen told her, patting the leg that stuck up in the air. “We need to unload everything before we can sleep.”

Pidge groaned but allowed her to convince her to follow her back outside and to the truck.

Afterwards, they made turkey sandwiches for dinner, and Pidge started unpacking her bedroom. She sighed when she realized the bookshelf in this room was too small for all her books, despite the whole space being larger than her old bedroom.

Pidge gave her favorite books shelf space and left the rest in a box. She dropped her current read on the bedside table, and set up her computer on the desk. Ignoring her suitcase of clothes for now, she booted up her computer and logged into the Wi-Fi.

A click later, the cursor blinked, waiting for her to type a query into a search engine. She tapped her finger against her mousepad, and after a glance at her closed bedroom door, she reached into her backpack and found the notebook she’d started compiling notes in. After flipping to the relevant page, Pidge searched for a local public library, navigated to its online catalogue, and typed ‘Voltron’ into the search bar.

No results.

Pidge raised an eyebrow at it; so it wasn’t a very popular book? She returned to the search engine and looked Voltron up from there, but to her surprise she found no related results with that.

“This is so weird,” she muttered. She scanned her notes from the night of Allura’s visit and searched ‘Zarkon’, and when that turned up nothing, she looked up ‘Allura’.

Still nothing.

Pidge sighed and shut her laptop. Maybe she could sift through Colleen’s books when she was out. But considering how overprotective her mother was, even staying home alone would be difficult.

[farmesaco]

What you need to know when starting repairs: 7 Valuable Tips

We have prepared for you a list of what you need to take care of before starting a repair. How to insure civil liability, what should be warned by neighbors and what should be ordered in advance.

If you decide to make repairs in your apartment, cosmetic or major, then you need to take into account a number of issues that may arise during the upcoming work. We have prepared 7 valuable recommendations for you that can help you avoid unpleasant situations while updating your apartment.

1.     Planning

Determine for yourself what kind of repair you want to do. Based on this, make an estimate, plan the funds, think over the amount of necessary building and finishing materials, tools. Include here the cost of the construction team and leave some of the funds for various unforeseen situations.

You need to immediately determine what kind of wallpaper you will glue or which tile you will put, since some materials must be ordered in advance and wait several months. This also applies to plumbing.

2.     Permission to redevelop

Due to the fact that most of our apartments have an uncomfortable layout, many of us slightly or thoroughly change it: combine a bathroom with a bath, increase the area of the kitchen or bedroom, and sometimes demolish all the extra walls, creating a studio apartment.

It seems that you can do whatever you want in your apartment. Who will find out, even if it is illegal? But if you want to sell or exchange your apartment, then its plan will necessarily appear in the execution of the relevant contracts. That is why you need to get special permission for redevelopment.

You can solve this issue yourself or seek help from companies that specialize in the preparation of such documents. Whichever option you choose, issuing a redevelopment permit is better in advance than later having problems with the law.

3.     Study the law:

It is important to study the law before starting repairs: items that relate to noise and construction work. We will introduce you to some excerpts.

Noisy work under Russian law can be carried out from 9.00 to 19.00, in some regions the concept of "quiet time" has been introduced. Check the permitted times for noisy repairs for your city.

Some special equipment and tools can make a lot of noise, which is why it is forbidden to use devices that exceed the level of noise and vibration. On Saturday and Sunday, as well as public holidays, any repairs are prohibited.

Repair and construction work without a break can last no more than six hours. After that, you need to take an hour break.

4.    Warn neighbors

Repair comes and goes, but the neighbors remain. And in order not to spoil relations with them, it is better to immediately warn them about their plans. To do this, write an ad and place it on the main entrance door at the entrance.

In the announcement, indicate the approximate duration of the repair and construction work, days and time of their implementation. Leave your contact details, your neighbors may have any questions or clarifications.

Repair should not exceed the duration of work more than three months. If it continues after this time, then in case of complaints from neighbors, the owners of the apartment may be held administratively liable.

When repairing, it must be borne in mind that work must be carried out without invading common areas. These include: elevators, walkways, landings, and stair

Also read:

Self-construction of a house - Building Materials Suppliers in Sharjah

5.     Think over an electrician

Modern interiors abound with a wealth of all kinds of highlights. Each room creates its own lighting scenario, using various lamps, LEDs, chandeliers, floor lamps, spotlights. All this looks very beautiful and creates a special atmosphere.

Thinking through the electrics in your apartment, provide a common switch for all light sources. So you do not have to go to bed all over the apartment and turn off all types of lighting that are available there.

6.     Put things away

Before starting repairs, you need to take care of where you will take all your belongings. Well, if you have another apartment. If not, you may need to rent a small garage. If this is not possible, then you need to put all things in one of the rooms.

It is important to carefully pack fragile things, and valuable ones to identify in a safe place. Curtains with carpets need to be well packed so that they do not nourish the building dust.

If during the repair, for example cosmetic, you are not going to clean the furniture, then wrap it with a special film. It can be found in any hardware store, it is called - "For repair work."

7.     Construction waste

Yes, construction waste should be taken care of in advance, and not when it has already accumulated. This is especially true in cases where you have to demolish walls, change tiles or tiles, and update plumbing.

Think in advance about where and how you will dispose of the waste. Today there are special companies that, for small funds are engaged in the removal of construction waste. They can provide you with a garbage container in which you can put all the waste, after which a special car will take them out.

We also advice to immediately agree with your constructions team so that they maintain cleanliness at the entrance. Or do it yourself if you are doing the repair yourself.

Contact Farmesaco FZC pvc pipe suppliers in sharjah to reconstruct your home.

Source

[allonsysilvertongue]

Chasing Hope

Summary: “If I ask you to name all the things you love, how long will it take for you to name yourself?” A story on finding hope, forgiveness and love in a world they never imagined they would survive. Post-MJ. Previously.

10. Fitting In

"So, here you are, too foreign for home too foreign for here.  Never enough for both." - Ijeoma Umebinyuo

"She's upset," Haymitch remarked, watching as Effie stormed past him in the living room to the kitchen. "I know when she's upset. Don't work with someone for 15 years and not know. What the hell happened?"

Peeta let out a sigh as he unwrap the scarf around his neck.

"Just a little set back," he said.

"Set back ‘bout what?" Haymitch pressed. "She's in the kitchen making tea and if that’s chamomile, then it's got to be serious."

At that, Peeta arched an eyebrow but Haymitch stood his ground, not reacting to it at all. He knew Effie well and that was not something he should be embarrassed about, even if the boy was looking at him with a half-amused smile playing on his lips.

Haymitch peered into the kitchen to see the box of tea bags on the counter.

"Definitely chamomile,” he confirmed, reading the label. “So spit it out."

"We were from Town. Now that there are stalls springing up and business is picking up again in Twelve, Effie wanted to try something. She asked a tailor today if there was any vacancy," Peeta paused briefly, looking at Haymitch to gauge his reaction but his face remained impassively blank. Not surprising since there was nothing terrible yet. "So – uh – he said there's no place for Capitol fashion here, said some other things as well."

"Yeah, like what?"

"He was … gloating about how the mighty have fallen."

"That little fuck," Haymitch cursed. "After we helped raised that space for him… We cemented the damn floor and laid out the bricks for him."

"Well, he doesn't know that," Peeta pointed out. "Multiple shop spaces were built together at once. He's just renting the space from the Council."

Haymitch clenched his jaws. "Maybe he needs a little reminding. What the hell did you do when he said that? You stood up for her?"

"I am perfectly capable of standing up for myself, thank you very much," Effie chimed in from where she was. "Although it is sweet of you, Haymitch, please do not drop by to remind him of anything."

"It's rude to eavesdrop," he shot back.

Effie came out just then with a teacup in hand.

"I am serious. You will not say anything to him. I do not want him to be bullied into giving me a job," Effie said and when he was about to protest, she hastily added, "Yes, I understand perfectly that it is not your intention to intimidate him into anything but if you were to have a word with him, it will certainly seem like it."

"That wasn't the first time though, Effie," Peeta said softly before turning to Haymitch. "None of them here is willing to hire her. They do not want to be seen as a Capitol - "

"That is quite enough, Peeta," Effie interrupted curtly. "I understand you mean well but thank you. There's no reason to agitate him further."

It was only after Peeta left to head over to Katniss’ place that Haymitch addressed Effie again.

"You're looking for a job? First time I'm hearin' it."

"I did not want to say anything until after I found employment. It's just... I need to start pulling my weight around here. Besides, it will give me something to do other than fixing your shirt or learning to bake. I love Peeta, I do but I just do not feel passionate about baking as he does. What else am I doing here besides all that and teaching Sally?"

"You like teaching Sae's granddaughter."

"I do," Effie said. "I will continue that, of course, but I should also start earning and saving some money for myself, too. I need to find my footing. I need to make myself useful and relevant again."

“The boy’s opening a bakery so why don’t you just wait and work for him. Not to bake, necessarily,” he added, "but you can work the counter, yeah? You get to meet people, stuffs like that."

Effie sighed. With careful movement, she sipped her tea before speaking again.

"I want to be able to do something on my own, without having to rely on you or Peeta. That is why I do not want you to speak on my behalf to anyone. I want to know – no, I need to know – that I can do it on my own."

"So... you went to a tailor for a job? That's the best you can do?"

She gasped, looking scandalised by his insult.

"I do believe that I'll make a good seamstress," she told him rather defensively. "I went to the library as well. You are aware, of course, that the library will be open to public once more and they might be looking to hire staffs. It doesn't matter. My employment is hardly a cause for concern," she waved him off and promptly changed the subject. "How is the book that you are helping Katniss with coming along?"

A dark shadow passed across his face. This was not something he would rather talk about but he wanted to talk to her. It made him feel pathetic to crave her attention and time this badly.

"It's painful," he answered truthfully, "but in a way, it's helping Katniss heal and move on, so I'll do it for her."

She smiled and reached out to squeeze his arm.

"Oh!" Her eyes were bright with excitement. "Did you notice? I made new drapes for Peeta's house – the living room and dining room. I'm working on the bedrooms but that should be done quite soon."

It was ironic, he thought, that she still referred to this as Peeta's house when Haymitch had long thought of the house as hers.

"I'm thinking..." Effie tapped her chin and he absolutely detested the glint in her eyes, "that I can work on yours next."

"Hell, no," he folded his arms. "My house doesn't need anything."

"Of course, it does! Your house especially," she fired back. "It is cluttered with... things. If you were to keep it clean and sanitary, we might even have a change of scenery, have dinner at your house once in a while."

"Sweetheart, if you want to have dinner with me at my place, just say it," he smirked. "This roundabout way... Too much work, yeah?"

Effie narrowed her eyes at him. "We shall revisit this line of thought at a later date after the state of your house has improved."

He fought off the smile threatening to bloom on his face. She had not rejected the idea, merely putting it aside. He took that as a good sign.

"Fine," he threw his hands up in surrender. "Do whatever you want to do to occupy your time and whatever you think is best but, no pink and nothing that glitters either."

XxX

Effie's laughter filling his house was something he really could get used to.

Haymitch sat on his sofa, drink in hand watching her as she animatedly retold her story. It was good to see her this way. He still spend his nights out on the porch with her whenever the nightmares kept her at night but when the sun was out, she was different. She was happier.

"I wish you had been there to see his face," Effie pressed a finger to the corner of her eye. She had laughed too much, she was tearing. "I went by to the tailor's shop and brought all those fabric for your drapes. His eyes nearly bulged out. I think if it weren't for the money, he wouldn't have sold any to me."

"Right,” he chuckled.

Haymitch eyed the fabric, nicely sown into drapes for his living room. She had even taken it a step further and made covers for the cushions on his sofa.

"Where'd you learn how to sow? Thought you'd just buy everything in the Capitol."

"Yes, my mother's sentiment, exactly. She did not think it was a particularly useful skill to have," she said, handing him the drapes for him to put up. She had painstakingly made him clean the windows three days ago for this exact reason. "I had a summer internship with a stylist years ago and I was taught to design and create clothes. Curtains are far easier, let me tell you."

He glanced over at her. He had known her for nearly two decades and it was surprising how he was still learning new things about her.

Once the living room was done, they made their way upstairs. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of his unmade bed and he was sure that his bed would be the next thing she would tackle.

"You need fresh new sheets," she muttered as they made their way out after he had put up the drapes in his room.

"Thought you might say that."

The study was next. She blinked at the clutter of books on his table and he became aware of her poking her nose where it was not wanted while he stood on the ladder, the fabric slung over his arms.

"What are these?"

"Books," he deadpanned.

He heard the rustling of papers and when he glanced behind his shoulder, she was intently studying his scribbles and comparing it with the contents of the open book on the table.

"Are you teaching yourself sign language?" Effie queried, looking at him for the first time since they entered the study.

It was only after he was done with the drapes that he approached her. He took the papers from her hand and placed them back on the table, using the book as a paper weight.

"I am," he admitted, clearing his throat as he did so. "I'm trying to … It might help people...the avoxes."

"What are you talking about?"

He steered her towards one of the armchair and urged her to take a seat. Haymitch pulled the foot rest closer, sitting down in front of her.

Slowly, he told her of the incident that transpired in the train many months ago with Ailes.

"So, yeah," he shrugged. "Now I'm thinking of setting up a place here in Twelve, like a shelter or a... halfway house."

"A halfway house..."

"Yeah, I think that's the word. They'll be able to take up residence in the house until they can find their footing in the world. There, I want them to be able to communicate and for them to do that, I got to be able to communicate with them as well. I can't teach it to them until I get this done myself. I even thought of … The house is a place for them to learn and relearn skills, any skills that can help them get a job and stand on their own. They can learn from each other and teach it to others. They aren't slaves anymore. Pollux and Ailes have agreed to help. I was going to ask Peeta if he doesn't mind volunteering a few hours each day – he can teach them to bake and paint, still skills, yeah?"

"Oh, Haymitch," her gaze softened. "That's wonderful. That is really wonderful. The fact that you thought of them when no one else did..." Effie cupped his cheek. "You have a good heart."

Again, he cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. He was never comfortable with praises especially so when they were freely given.

"You are," she insisted. "What you are giving them... Education, social and emotional support... You're giving them a gift, Haymitch."

"Let's just hope it works out, eh?" He chuckled. "Now, sweetheart, I got to ask about your plans. You're off looking for jobs so you're staying? Or is this still…. I don’t know, temporary?"

"Are you regretting your decision to let me work on your house? Are you trying to get rid of me already?” she teased.

“I’m serious, Effs. I know we talked about this and I know you need time. I said I’m going to be here and I am. Got nowhere else to be but what 'bout you? You’ve never said nothin' about what your plans are.”

“That is because I have none.”

Her answer was simple but not to him.

"Looking for a job is a plan," he pointed out.

"True," she agreed. "I am just... Taking things as they are. I do not want to plan my life three years from now or five years from now. I want to live it as it is, as frightening as it sounds," she leaned forward in her seat and Haymitch clasped her hand in his, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles. "All my life, I have schedules and plans but now... I am strangely alright with it. I just want to get better, be better."

“You’ll be,” he assured.

“The truth… The Capitol did not feel like home anymore so I came with Peeta, foolishly thinking that perhaps, I could find someplace that I could feel belonged; someplace other than the Capitol. Not here in particular but I figured, here is a start. I have thought of returning to the Capitol but I am still afraid to return and find out that I can never fit in back again. Here…. I have been here nearly a year but I am still very much an outsider. Have you any idea how scary it is not to belong anywhere? Not here and not there, a place that I have called home for years…”

The last thing she expected from him was the small, quiet chuckles. The sound reverberated and his shoulders shook. Effie was looking at him as if he was the cruelest person to be laughing in her face

“Sweetheart, you’re asking me this? I had one foot in this district and one foot in the Capitol since I was sixteen. I wasn’t district enough to be accepted into this community when I had money, food, a decent house and good clothes on my back, and I wasn’t posh enough to be accepted into your society. Have I any idea what it feels like to not feel belong? Yeah, I do, Effie, I do.”

“I’ve … I have never thought of it that way. I never thought you – I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes shining bright under the light.

“Ain’t your fault,” he muttered. “You feel lost, I get that.”

“Yes… But you and the children make it better.”

“Yeah?” he asked with a smile. “You can make this your home. Hell, it doesn’t have to be here. You and I … We can go somewhere together.”

He hated how hopeful he sounded but that was the truth and he was done skirting and hiding where she was concern.

“What I told you still stands – no pressure, alright? It’s just an option, yeah? Somethin’ we can do.”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“How about you start small? Help me help the avoxes… Help me with the program. I work better with you,” he suggested and it did cross his mind that with something to occupy her here, she would be around longer. “These little projects you’re doing with my house and Peeta’s are all well and good, sweetheart, but you’re better at planning and bossing people around.”

“Why didn’t you lead with this earlier?” she asked in exasperation.

“Cause you were looking for somethin’ that pays – this doesn’t.”

She's looking for it so let's give Effie Trinket a purpose! What do you think of Haymitch's plans and offering Effie a role in it?

[deltaponline]

International Rotating Equipment Conference 2019: Opportunities outweigh risks in digitisation

  On 24 and 25 September 2019 the International Rotating Equipment Conference will take place in Wiesbaden for the fourth time. At this industry meeting, manufacturers and users will have the opportunity to exchange information on the latest technological developments, areas of application and experience. Experience has shown that the conference is also a platform for a dialogue with science. In preparation for the event, the VDMA offers an expert discussion on important topics that are currently being discussed in the industry – with Dr. Andreas Brümmer from TU Dortmund and Dr. Paul-Uwe Thamsen from TU Berlin. The two scientists are the chairmen of the program committees for compressor and pump technology at the conference.   Digitization will be the central topic of the conference. Where is pump and compressor technology currently located?   Dr. Andreas Brümmer from TU Dortmund Prof. Brümmer: Digitization is a process that is picking up speed more and more. Nobody in industry can afford not to participate. Digitization is increasingly affecting machines, from the design of a machine to its production, operation and recycling. In the past, for example, a compressor was switched on by a technician. He had to check the local instruments to see if everything was in order. Today, some of the information is still read on the spot, but at the same time it goes to a control room where an operator checks whether the compressor is running correctly or whether adjustments need to be made. The next step will be for the compressor to monitor itself and communicate with other components in the plant. So we move from manual to central to autonomous control.  

Prof. Dr. Paul-Uwe Thamsen from TU Berlin Prof. Thamsen: In pump technology, digitization is far more important than networking production. In its application, the pump is always part of a pump system. In a complex infrastructure, many pumps can be networked with each other and with other components of the pump system and can thus implement advantages for the entire pump system. There are new approaches for these tasks, such as machine learning, intime optimization or fast data processing. The advantages are easy to grasp. For example, a digitally networked pump system can prevent flooding in a city during heavy rain, because the pumps always switch on where they are urgently needed.   One application benefit is condition monitoring, i.e. the monitoring of machines. Where can pump and compressor technology be found here?   Prof. Thamsen: Condition monitoring and the resulting support of availability and economy have long been the focus of pump users. Further progress will also be made here. However, the networking of components in the pump system also results in new approaches. The centrifugal pumps are integrated into the complex systems or networked with them. It should be emphasized that today's computer performance makes it possible to simulate the process of the entire system in real time and to use the results as a decision-making aid for control technology. This makes it much easier to eliminate malfunctions or achieve other economic goals.   Prof. Brümmer: The digitization process actually started here 30 years ago. Since then, compressors have been equipped with sensors whose signals have been processed in a computer. Now it goes one step further. The aim is to bring the different trades together so that they can communicate with each other. This is the path we are currently taking. This new type of condition monitoring, for example, has already led to new business models. There are compressor manufacturers who no longer sell their machines, but only rent them out. The plant operator then only buys a certain quantity of compressed air, for example. In order to optimize costs, the manufacturer then has to monitor his compressors remotely. If the manufacturer uses this method to monitor a large number of compressors worldwide in various plants, he has a large amount of data at his disposal. He can, for example, evaluate this data via digital processes such as AI and thus optimise the use of compressed air in each individual plant and, of course, optimise his machines to customer specifications.   Are the companies prepared to exchange data with an external manufacturer?   Prof. Brümmer: Yes, that works in this case. For many companies, compressed air consumption is not a relevant trade secret. In this respect, the operator can let these data go to the outside world, especially since the described model of purchasing compressed air can partly reduce his costs. If, on the other hand, the compressors are part of a process that represents a key competence in a company, I am rather sceptical as to whether the operator will give his consent to the data transfer.   Prof. Thamsen: The users of centrifugal pumps are usually very cautious. Of course, no chemical factory or refinery wants to give its process data to third parties and the situation is similar in water supply and wastewater disposal. Nevertheless, there is a need for condition monitoring for process plants, pumping stations, water treatment plants and sewage treatment plants, the data of which usually remain within the operators.   Interfaces play a major role in networking. How important are open interfaces such as OPC UA?   Prof. Thamsen: Networking the various components is actually the biggest challenge for implementing digitization. Operators will be looking for manufacturer-independent solutions. OPC UA is therefore certainly a step in the right direction. However, the current trend towards using the Internet or the cloud directly to facilitate data communication is also conspicuous. Many small companies that offer low-cost sensors and implement online networking with little effort are on the move here. These solutions are particularly interesting for smaller municipalities that are looking for a low-cost solution for monitoring and control of pumping stations or sewage treatment plants.   Prof. Brümmer: OPC UA is a good thing that should prevail. Defined open interfaces are very valuable. The goal is to agree on this standard across companies. Unfortunately, this is particularly difficult for manufacturers who hold a dominant market position and want to set their own standards on this basis. As long as this dominance does not exist, however, I believe that there is a good chance of introducing such a standard. In this context, customers can also increase pressure. It would be important for global players to get involved in the discussion and support the idea of OPC UA. The establishment of such standards would thus be significantly promoted.   Will open interfaces and generally stronger data exchange - even across company boundaries - make data security more difficult?   Prof. Thamsen: The question of data security always comes up. Of course, data misuse and manipulation must be prevented. On the other hand, we should not obstruct the added value of digitization - which does not work without data exchange - for fear of data theft. With regard to other industries, such as energy technology, traffic control and banks, a very high level of security in the processes already seems feasible today.   Prof. Brümmer: Absolutely! Digitalization offers opportunities and risks. This applies in particular to security. On the one hand, digitization can increase the security of processes by digitally recognizing more quickly that a plant is running out of a permissible range and thus becomes unstable. On the other hand, there is the risk that the digitisation of processes is only as intelligent as the person who programmed them. There are two directions here. Either the programming is based on AI and thus on large learning data. In this case it is a statistical question which process data was used to train these AIs. There is a risk that the statistical basis for AI is too thin. Then it can happen that in a critical case, for example the failure of a central component, the digitization based on AI may not make the right decision. There may be a security risk. On the other hand, digitization is fundamentally a challenge for IT security. How do you protect against external attacks?   What other topics are currently occupying pump and compressor technology besides digitisation?   Prof. Brümmer: There is not one single topic, the industry is simply too broad for that. We have the vacuum world, we have the compressed air world, we have the process machines and every world has its own detailed problems. These detailed problems are increasingly coming to the fore because the machines are already very good in principle. If a manufacturer then wants to achieve an increase in energy efficiency or availability, he has to think more and more about detail problems. In addition to the topic of digitization, we will also have various presentations at the conference on various detailed problems, such as axial forces in compressors or the optimization of impeller side space pressures. It will also be about new materials, such as those that change dynamically during operation.   Prof. Thamsen: Energy efficiency is always a big issue. After all, centrifugal pumps are the number one in energy consumption. The energy is not consumed by the pump itself, but by the fluid system. This is precisely where the greatest potential for energy savings still exists, which can be exploited by analysing the operating mode and reducing system losses. However, many more technical advances will be presented at the conference. For example, new findings from research on characteristic curves, partial load behaviour, cavitation and new solutions for CFD and other simulation methods will be presented. Condition monitoring and availability of pumps will also be a topic.   What will the conference participants take with them?   Prof. Brümmer: What is always more important at the conferences than you think, apart from the quality of the lectures, is what takes place outside the lectures, the cooperation. Precisely because this conference brings together very different industries: Pumps, compressors, vacuum and compressed air. This is unique and one of the very important incentives to attend the conference. Where else can you talk to insiders from such different companies and find that they all have the same or at least similar problems? The cross-industry knowledge transfer at the conference works very well in the face-to-face discussions. In addition, it is always easier to ask for advice from someone you have already met in person, for example at this conference.   Prof. Thamsen: That's how I see it. At least as important as the high-quality presentations will be the opportunity to exchange ideas with experts from the industry. The exchange will be facilitated by the beautiful setting. One highlight will certainly be the dinner cruise on the Rhine. The many testimonials from different users are also important. Since the conference is traditionally used by universities to present current research results, it also offers a good platform for young scientists. Around 750 participants from over 30 countries attended the "International Rotating Equipment Conference" in 2016, the world's leading conference for pumps, compressors and vacuum technology. The venue is the RheinMain CongressCenter in Wiesbaden. The extensive conference program with almost 70 lectures and 28 sessions emphasizes the application relevance. In addition, it offers a trade exhibition on around 700 square metres as well as participation opportunities for sponsors - available online at https://www.introequipcon.com. Read the full article

[thisdaynews]

JUST IN:Why Ekweremadu Belongs to Hall of Shame -- SKC Ogbonnia

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/just-inwhy-ekweremadu-belongs-to-hall-of-shame-skc-ogbonnia/

JUST IN:Why Ekweremadu Belongs to Hall of Shame -- SKC Ogbonnia

The recent protest in Germany in which former Deputy Senate President, Ike Ekweremadu, was harassed, chased around, subdued, and beaten like a palace pickpocket brought big shame to Nigeria, and the senator must own full blame. Even a novice could have discerned that the popularity of the #RevolutionNow, led by Omoyele Sowore, shows that the Nigerian masses are not fools and will not endure abject injustice forever.

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They are gradually recognizing their true problems and real enemies. The masses are keenly aware that Ekweremadu has been a recurring decimal in the gross misrule of the country in the 4th Republic, particularly the South-East zone.

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A fifth-term term senator, Mr. Ike Ekweremadu is a malignant narcissist masked by a boy-scout persona, yet any dig into his record readily exhumes mess and miasma to boot. He has only managed to sustain power through fake popularity, buoyed by a montage of propaganda, mass deceit, political bribery and brigandage and, of course, a vicious army of well-educated and well-paid bootlickers, made possible by an overflowing wealth accumulated without a sweat.

I must admit that I was once gullible to the propaganda and consequently became one of Ekweremadu’s biggest boosters.

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The trust dramatically waned after I penned him a letter following the election of 2011. Since he was the political leader of the South-East to the centre, I specified important projects in the zone that could mold his name into gold, namely, Enugu Airport; Enugu/Port-Harcourt, Enugu/Onitsha, and Onitsha/Owerri highways; 2nd River Niger Bridge; and an additional Igbo state.

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I have yet to recover from the shock I felt when Senator Ekweremadu thundered back, suggesting that I was an ingrate.

To him, instead of worrying about public projects, I should be grateful for life that he hired my brother as his adviser, supported my cousin’s election to the federal parliament, and graded the pavement leading into my country home.

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But Ekweremadu forgot that we both must first pass through the roads plied by the masses before striding into our mansions. Lo and behold, yet very, unfortunately, the senator would lose his beloved brother, Chukwuemeka, to a motor accident caused by potholes on the same Enugu/PH highway on December 23, 2012.

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This experience contributed to my piece, “Every Nigerian Blood Is On The Line”.

The last straw took place in 2013 at Houston, Texas. I had organized a meeting between Ekweremadu and the leaders of Igbo Peoples’ Congress while he was in the city on the invitation of Greater Awgu Leadership Forum (GALF).

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When confronted why he had not shown up at the Igbo meeting, he retorted that the size of the crowd was not large enough to deserve his presence, and he never showed up. Ekweremadu’ apparent insult on the Igbo made me furious, obviously, but that is nothing compared to what follows.

A night before the aborted Igbo meeting, the senator was kind to have presented the Awgu people copies of a fat pamphlet titled, “Accomplishments & Constituency Projects Attracted by His Excellency Senator Ike Ekweremadu, CFR”.

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Interestingly, the number one on the list (S/N. 1) was a library he claimed to have attracted in the year 2009 to my town, Ugbo, under MDGs Quickwin. I quickly called the town union to inquire about the library and other projects on the list—only to find out that no such things existed and still do not exist.

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I made similar inquiries around the constituency and other parts of South-East where projects were supposedly attracted. I received a similar result—phantom. Even in some cases with traces of such projects, they were uncompleted and totally abandoned. After his tawdry refusal to explain the contradictions, I made my findings public.

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Since then, I have been a marked man. He not only unleashed a global campaign of calumny against my person and businesses, but he is also on record to have threatened my life. I will never wish my worst enemy the most immoral sight of Ike Ekweremadu laughing and jeering while my dear mother, a septuagenarian, knelt in full glare of a national TV, appealing to the senator not to hurt her son—for daring to question his representative in government.

The date was December 27, 2013. As if that lacked in folly, Ekweremadu commanded his toadies in the district, including some “autonomous” royal fathers, such as Igwe Lawrence Chime of Ugbonabor and Igwe Jerome Okeke of Ngene Ugbo to publicly denounce me for daring to oppose their Excellency.

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This last election season, obviously rattled that my presidential bid could inspire opposition in the constituency and threaten his ageless grip on the people, Ekweremadu sponsored his aides to tear down my posters around Enugu State. They even had the audacity to invade my country home on August 10, 2018, beating up my campaign officials, as well as some family members. It took the timely intervention of Ugbo youths to avert counterattack and bloodshed.

Of course, I alerted the senator and some relevant authorities in the state. Besides the President General of Ohaneze Ndigbo, Nnia Nwodo; and Ogbuagu Anikwe, the spokesman for Governor Ifeanyi Ugwuanyi, who registered strong displeasure, Ike Ekweremadu neither apologized nor condemned the thuggery.

But this pattern of do-or-die, remember, is how he has sustained power.

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The bigger problem, however, is that no part of the South-East has seen any tangible development the 12 years Ekweremadu has held power. Today, the only major public attraction in his entire local government is his mansion at Mpu, being one of his 32 choice properties currently under criminal investigation.

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Today, the three major roads that traverse his constituency, namely, Enugu-Onitsha, Enugu-Port Harcourt, and Awgu-Oji-River highways are among the 10 worst highways in the country.

Today, most major projects in Igboland have only been good for election propaganda and money-spinning by the area politicians through a series of funded but abandoned contracts. Needless to mention that Part II of this essay will demonstrate how Ekweremadu used and dumped the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) for his personal interest.

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Ekweremadu’s imprint at the national level does not need to be retold here. Consider, for instance, his ignorable role as a ringleader in the third-term plot to derail our democracy and elongate Obasanjo’s tenure. Combine the subversive act with the fact that Ekweremadu was one of the brains behind the jumbo salary for senators, as well as the Constituency Project scheme, which has cost the country trillions without any meaningful project to show.

Further, despite being palm handed N10 billion under President Jonathan to influence the amendment of the constitution towards restructuring, including the additional states and local governments, the only result Nigerians have seen is tale after tale.

It is clear the grievances against Ekweremadu by IPOB are profoundly justified.

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But physical assault must be condemned as well. Petitions, picketing, booing, jeering, and heckling are proper. In fact, the nature of the German protest remains at risk of turning Ekweremadu, the villain, into a victim. Notice how he quickly resorted back to his familiar mélange of propaganda and profligacy upon arrival in Nigeria, shamelessly chartering aircrafts, renting ever-ready crowds, and portraying himself as a hero—for being disgraced on his plot to remain Deputy Senate President for life and later flogged naked at a fake New Yam Festival in faraway Germany while his direct constituency is under siege by terror herdsmen.

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The Nigerian masses, particularly the Igbo, have suffered massive neglect the last 12 years Ike Ekweremadu held sway as the de facto Senate President. But the senator is not alone. The Diaspora Nigerians should, therefore, unite and quickly initiate a Hall of SHAME where the likes of Ike Ekweremadu deserve a permanent place. Yes, it portends a crime against the humanity to continue to allow Nigerian corrupt leaders to enjoy freedom in foreign lands if they cannot guarantee freedom for the masses in their homeland.

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SKC Ogbonnia, a 2019 APC presidential aspirant, is the author of the Effective Leadership Formula.

[mattved]

On blogging, again

Everybody makes a mistake from time to time, and the junction came where I gotta admit belonging to that exact domain. My blog went through about as many changes in platform as it had posts. (Everybody sometimes exaggerates, right?)

So I am here today to give an account on journey of my content across individual platforms, outlining their upsides and downsides and ranting about my fuckups leading to choosing them.

The Beginnings: Blogger

One of the most popular blogging platforms of the 90s offered two gates of entrance to your Google-hosted website: Hitting an URL, either name.blogger.com or your own domain, and being discovered through hub of all Blogger articles, featuring the most popular favorite-tag-relevant along a fulltext search. Both obviously played role in googlability and building an on-line brand.

It seemed to work for a while. I was getting units of traffic from people and crawler hits every now and then. With keywords including my name and username, I slowly made it to the first page of results in Search and DuckDuckGo, pushing the pamphlet article about a person of my name dying at the age to the second, and enabling to compete with identically named photographer for #1. The latter, I unfortunalely did not make. And am obviously mad about it.

The problem was that Blogger lacks some cool features of the modern web. To this day, you are limited to a raw/wysiwyg HTML editor, forced to do more clicking than real writing. Uploading images was a completely separate activity from the writing process and involved browsing filesystems three times before inserting one into the article.

Besides, people no longer visit the article hub, making it useless for anything than that SEO aspect mentioned earlier, and professing the site's backend obsolescence with the a searchbar included along the top edge by default. Of course you can hide it through creation of custom theme including a CSS tweak, but that is just more hassle. Besides, you are not really allowed to do much other than raw CSS to manipulate the site's looks. And the loading times of some articles were just horrible, especially when the engine attempted to apply analytics tools on embeded content, often causing its failures to even load.

And even though Blogger was my big love for the early posts and I stayed for almost 9 months with it, these aspects had driven me elsewhere. Somewhere I was in control of both my content, looks, and structure of the homepage.

The Techie Period: Webhosting

I had rented a cheapo webhost my friend and I had been using for ages as a platform for our various PHP projects the history of which ran all the way to our sweet boarding school development sessions, which were known throughout the staff hierarchy and occassionaly lifted the curfew imposed on us by the system.

Since I was now able to do whatever I wanted with the whole base, many experiments were done and a lot learned in the process. I even made a switch to self-hosting everything on my very own BananaPi webserver, gaining a lot of sysadmin skills.

May I write, please? Wordpress

So many people love wordpress, since there is a massive ecosystem around it, with so many commercially available themes, wonderful plugins, and an open-source base. But I was not overly excited about having somebody else's work showed off on my little personal site. I wanted to build my personal brand and allow myself to be actually proud of it.

But the time it takes even a fairly skilled webbie to get into the zipped-theme format with about as many files as a fresh core linux installation has is not the shortest. And the tweaks always seemed to break whatever I was trying to customize. I sure could've had a blog in no time, but getting to something I'd be happy with was a question of becoming fairly expert in the wordpress ecosystem, which is honestly not worth it, unless you wanna capitalize on it as soon as you can. Besides, there is no certainty in how long such profession would remain relevant. And there is all the Filipinos beating you in sales.

Wordpress is really not for you if you want to give individualist impression. After about a month, I deleted the folder.

This is actually fun! Anchor CMS

Real perfection for those who know pure PHP and want to build a unique site really quickly. It is also where I first encountered markdown outside of GitHub. And it had been my platform for over a good year and a half.

But my audience disappeared entirely. The search engine performance remained, true that, but that was about it and it seemed that some social network marketing was necessary. And even though I do have some outreach on Facebook and Instagram, I consider these to be purely personal devices, that I give public limited access to. So in spite of my general satisfaction with the workings of my wonderful brown colored design featuring many elements enriching the text, I now understand that this alone just won't cut it. And maintaining the website along with a different platform is just not something I have time to do.

So long, my love. I'll pull you out once I'm famous enough. I'll rebuild you on something less outdated than Anchor.

Taking it seriously: Medium

The problem here is that I rarely react to immediate news. Because I am long-term oriented individual aware of the self-adjusting nature of running averages of almost anything. And it doesn't even need to be on index-based variables. Because yes, I do believe that all functional relationships have some sort of equilibrium. Logical or strictly endogenous.

Besides, Medium is filled with... well, media. Wide-readership accounts shitposting five times a day in order to maintain audience, especially of those behind the paywall, who may even consider that the media they are paying for through means other than advertizing are more reliable as a source of infromation.

Yes, I went through the grind of migrating my entire blog to this site, copy-pasting almost everything and adhering to that non-markdown article editor, which made me feel well in the very beginning. It made it a no-bullshit platform after all.

I even wrote one medium-exclusive post, which is never gonna be on Tumblr as I managed to delete it along with my entire account days after doing all the hard work.

Medium is a great concept badly executed. Adios.

Terminal station: Tumblr

At least so far. I may be giving up on fully custom theme for a short time or I may be on a retreat. I may have decided to use an exclusively ad-based platform (at least I can remove ads on my personal tumblr, if not in the feed.

I don't like that there is very little original content on here, but I might soon benefit from reblogs. I don't plan to reblog a lot myself, unless I find a post to be five-star. But I will always like whatever feels appropriate and amazing. And I am always happy to stay in touch with any number of followers. Because some audience is better than massive audience. And I can get at least some feedback here. Hit me, guys. I'm posting for my own benefit and hope somebody will take time to read and reflect on what I am about to post here.

I even plan to switch back to the slightly more interesting topics, showing off my knowledge and passing it on.

Wish me luck ^^

[mbcorvo-author]

11/11/11 Tag Game

Thank you @dotr-rose-love​ for tagging me!

Rules: answer 11 questions, write your own 11, tag 11 people

1. Did you have alternate ideas for a wip that eventually didn’t make it in the story or were exchanged with a better scene or sth? If yes, tell us one or a few that you left out (could be just a character too, or a name) I think that for every wip I have a lot of alternates ideas that got shoved into the trashbin or didn't even got added into the story because they didn't fit. The most evident example is my Sci-Fi wip. It's the one that has changed the most during its long years of being a work in progress. From an idea of story for an rpg was reworked to became a novel, then that plot has changed to remove everything that was connected to other's work (since it started as setting for an rpg, I took some races and planets from sci-fi movies and such), then changed again to fit a better idea, and changed again to be then shoved in the corner after hitting a MajorPlotHoleTM that made the story go down the drain. In all these years and reworks only the characters kept to be all the same, maybe I changed partially them to fit the new idea but they still were the original ones.

2. Do you have a specific audience in mind for your wip? I have to admit that I don't have a specific audience in mind for Beyond the Veil, even if the story could fall into "new adult" genre since most of the characters age from 20 years up. But for what I'm thinking for the story, it will fit every one that love fantasy stories (or specifically urban fantasy ones) and that are searching something "lighter" than the dark-ish/gothic/gloomy ones I'm often seeing in bookshop shelves. While for a wip that I have in the backburner I think that it would be better for a grown-up audience since it (at least in my ideas) will be more on the horror side of mythpunk with biblical figures like devils, angels and whatnot.

3. Is it important to you that your wip has a moral or a message? I think that it could be nice if a novel has a moral or a message for the readers. I'm not good with morals and messages...like, I know I'd love to put some of them in my story but I'm not sure if I'll be able to mix them well in the story so everyone could find them. But for Beyond the Veil I'm trying hard to plan everything to give the message that everything will be better and...welp not saying anything else because it could be spoiler!

4. What kinds of relationships do you like writing the most (romantic, platonic, familial, etc)? I love writing friendships. The healty kind of friendships where each friend really care about the other. I was in a lot of unhealty friendships in which I gave everything and I got nothing except being laughed at when I wasn't there...so writing friends that are really caring about each other makes me feel good. In my stories you won't find only that kind of friendship, though. Life isn't always peaches and cream, so in my stories I try to reflect it.

5. What kind of research have you done for your wip? what have you learned? I love learning, so I love doing researches even when I find myself a couple of hours later learning about something not relevant for any wip. For my sci-fi I ended up collecting a bunch of scientific magazines, but this maybe it's not really relevant because I was always a science nerd and there always been some scientific-oriented stuff at home, but sometimes getting something new could help remaining up to date with new discoveries and such. For Beyond the Veil I'm mostly bounching back and forth from Wikipedia to some websites found while googling, but going into the next town library hoping to find something about local/Italian folklore I found a couple of books that are transcriptions of trials of witches and similar. For the horror-ish wip in the backburner I weirdly have to do less research...either because when I was a teen I tried to write an horror and got weird stares when I asked the librarian if they had something about torture and then left renting a book about black masses...and then proceeded to do some research online, I think that I still have a pdf copy of the "Bible of Satan" by LaVey somewhere in my laptop...and also because in the last years I did some research while playing in a homebrew urban fantasy rpg set in the Purgatory. I learnt...quite a lot of stuff I think? Maybe not the useful kind of stuff, but stuff that I could use in my works and that could be interesting or weird random notions that I could tell to someone.

6. If your wip became very successful, would you want to make a movie adaptation? why or why not? I think I already answered this in another version of the tag game, so I'm going to copy-paste it because heck yes.

"Gosh, yes! But I’d like to have a big part in realizing them choosing how to adapt the story, who to cast and so on, like Neil Gaiman with the Good Omens series and such. Also, screenwriting is one of my dream jobs."

7. Did you have any alternate title ideas for your wip? if so, what are they? The sci-fi, in its many reworks, has never changed its title: Otherverse. Maybe for some time had some variants like "Chronicles from the Otherverse" but usually I ended up keeping the original title. Beyond the Veil actually is a placeholder title, but looks like it could become the actual title since I never found anything else that I liked as title. Maybe when (and if) I'll complete it I'll know if I want to keep this or change it. The horror in the backburner has a title. And now I'm struggling to find a good plot that could fit the title (sorry, I'm not telling it since I never "officially" announced this new wip since as for now it's only a pinterest board and a mix of ideas in my head) or changing it and making it a chapter title.

8. What has been the hardest part about writing your wip so far? The plot. As I said in the past, for Beyond the Veil I came up first with the characters, then the generic setting and an even more generic plot for them. Now I'm facing some difficulties to make everything connect correctly and, most importantly, interesting. The plot was also a big part of the failure of my sci-fi, so I'm afraid that Beyond the Veil could face the same fate.

9. Do you prefer writing action or description? Description. I re-read one of my old writings, one that was an actual attempt to write something original and not fanfiction, and the chapters where full of detailed descriptions because I remebered that I was trying to put on paper the picture I had in my head. But, as a reader, I'm not really fond of too leghty descriptions so I'm always keeping myself in check to not over-describe stuff and - at least - describe stuff only when it's necessary and for how much is necessary to know. I feel that I'm not really good at writing action, but after years of text-based rpgs where in some you had to nail the action description correctly to have more probabilty of good results during quests, I think that now I have at least the basics for them.

10. What do you want your readers to come away with after reading your story? Uhhh...I think that this question could be linked to the previous one about the moral and message in the wip since my answer for that one could also answer this one...

11. What’s your favorite part about your wip? what makes you excited to write it? The characters. I love writing and seeing them interact with each other and seeing how they evolve during the story. You already know that I'm fond in particular of Luciel the Genie, but this is because they are a rework of the character I played for years in the rpg I previously talked, but I'm fond of all the characters I create. There are also some scenes in my mind that I can't wait to write...but the most important thing, apart from characters, is that Beyond the Veil is a wip that I started after years of writer's block and time spent (or wasted) on the sci-fi that never worked.

The heatwave today has gotten me and my brain is a bit fried by the heat, so the questions will remain the same and...I'm not tagging anyone. If you see this and want to do it, feel free to do so and tag me so I can read it! :D

[keelanrosa]

I tried So Hard to do literally anything else today but kept getting distracted.

(Also look at me wildly underestimating the count, spoiler alert for this entirely non-fiction rant: i remembered a million was the commonly accepted number but for some reason thought someone had made a low estimate of only 800k and didn’t want that, of all things, to be something I got in a twitter war over? But nah the lowest possible number is 985k and does anybody seriously think that was all? so at that point just. fucking round up and say a million)

Anyway i got Pepsi (not my standard “keelan is yelling about irish history again” sleep deprivation but as it’s basically a sedative for my adhd ass it’ll do) and a willingness to yell about potatoes (lol do i ever not), so here we go.

(none of this is new to anyone who has followed me for more than a few months to the rest of y’all surprise this is Just What Happens sometimes all manner of shit will get me yelling about the Irish potato famine of the 1840s until i pass out)

LET’S START WITH SOME WELL-KNOWN CONTEXT: the Irish potato famine was, well, caused by a lack of potatoes. Said lack of potatoes was the result of a blight which caused the majority of potatoes in Ireland to go bad. Tragic natural disaster, right?

LESSER KNOWN CONTEXT: The blight affected potatoes throughout America and Europe. The specific strand of blight (the HERB-1 strand of Phytophthora infestans, for the agriculture geeks) is believed to have originated in Mexico and spread as far as Poland. Along the way it caused massive potato-crop failure in several other countries and, not counting Ireland, killed about a hundred thousand people.

“Whoa, that’s interesting. Why do we only hear about it affecting the Irish, then?” asks the hypothetical person who did not pay attention to the earlier parenthetical spoiler alert.

Because in Ireland alone it killed closer to one million people. (Census data suggests 985 thousand. For a variety of reasons relevant to the limits of mid-nineteenth-century census data, especially as regards to poverty-stricken rural people ie the people the Famine was most likely to affect, the census data is generally considered inaccurately low. The highest estimate I’ve seen was historian Joel Mokyr suggesting it could have been up to 1.9 million. Tldr we don’t know and never will, but most history nerds consider “about a million” Accurate Enough.)

One million people was about one-eighth of the Irish population, even before taking into account the number of people who left because “hey, you know what other countries have? Food.” Generally speaking, a famine is a Huge Fucking Deal if it kills 5% of the population, so over 10%? Yeah. Massive fucking famine… which only affected Ireland to such an extent.

Belgium got the second hardest hit (40,000-50,000 deaths attributed to the blight), and their overall population still went up during the Famine. Not as much as it might otherwise, but they didn’t lose an eighth of the population either.

(y’know what else went up during the Famine? Exports of food from Ireland. But that’s for later.)

“Why did it kill so disproportionately many Ir-”

RELIGIOUS DISCRIMINATION.

“…that sounds fake.”

Nope.

For the Religious Discrimination bit of context: Ireland was still under British rule at the time. The British government was not known for religious tolerance. Among other things, they weren’t keen on Irish Catholics. (They weren’t on the best terms with Irish Protestants, either, because Irish, but they were on better terms with them, because Protestant.)

Things the British penal laws prohibited for Irish Catholics include: entering a profession, leasing or purchasing land, accepting land as a gift from a Protestant, renting land worth more than thirty shillings, or reaping any profit exceeding one-third their rent. (That’s just the stuff most obviously related to the ability to buy and/or grow food; they also couldn’t vote, worship as a Catholic, get an education, own a horse of greater value than five pounds… it’s a long list.) Some of these laws were revoked by the 1840s, but banning people from getting an education or owning Anything of Value for centuries means they’re not exactly gonna have fields of corn and free-range cattle within a generation. Many of them remained poor tenants living on very small patches of land owned by Protestant landowners (most of whom were British, a fair number of whom didn’t even live in Ireland), made to earn their rent working on their landlord’s farms and hoping the already-tiny corner of land they lived on wouldn’t be further subdivided for Even More Corn.

Here’s where potatoes come in: cheap, nutritionally dense, and easy as fuck to grow - both because they don’t take much effort and because they will grow Basically Anywhere, regardless of soil quality or space. So if your Protestant landlord took the last bit of good soil of land permitted you for a new fucking cowshed? That’s fine, you can still grow potatoes in the garbage-can-sized pile of sawdust he left.

This is how Ireland ended up with one-third of its population (and, specifically, a predominately if not exclusively Catholic third) living on potatoes by 1845.

Needless to say if many people are living off a single crop, and a blight happens to said crop, there’s a high chance of MUCH STARVATION resulting.

There are plenty of ways to prevent said starvation. Potatoes aren’t even an Irish crop; the Irish were doing fine without them for centuries before they came to Europe from South America. And other food in Ireland was still doing fine in the 1840s. Super fine. “Exports of beef and corn to England went up” fine.

(This is about the point where historians start debating over whether to treat the Famine as a natural disaster or a genocide, “no we are not using the term lightly, yes we literally mean genocide, as in an intentional attempt to murder or otherwise destroy a specific group of people based on national/racial/religious ties, that kind of genocide.”)

The British “relief efforts” were something Paul Ryan would have approved of. Giving food to the poor would keep them from having any initiative to work. Also, it was the Irish people’s fault they were poor to begin with, because poverty is a result of laziness and not, like, a couple centuries of oppression designed to limit economic opportunity. (ENGLAND had poor people, but most of the country was doing all right. Poor Irish PROTESTANTS existed, but not in as large numbers. Therefore this problem the Irish Catholics had was because there was something wrong with Catholics and not a problem caused by the British and/or Protestants.) Trevelyan straight-up gave copies of The Wealth of Nations to his subordinates when he was heading the relief effort. (The Wealth of Nations, for those unfamiliar with it, is one of the first books on capitalism and the monetary efficiency of the free market. It is not a book on feeding the poor during a famine.) Workhouses were initially required for anyone who wanted food from the government and simultaneously designed to be complete fucking I-would-rather-eat-grass hellholes to discourage anyone from actually using them. (Workhouses also didn’t exist in some areas where the Famine hit the hardest, but were still a requirement for the Irish desperate enough to seek government assistance.) Soup kitchens eventually became a thing because a) Quakers are, as a general rule, not complete dicks and b) the British realized soup kitchens would be cheaper for them than workhouses, but the government ones were inefficient and requests for food which could be cooked at home were a sign of not being poor enough because you’re asking for government food while still having the bare resources necessary to cook? Um, food stamp soup kitchen fraud much??? Look guys, this is clearly lazy people looking for a handout… Meanwhile disease was going up everywhere as immune systems were weakened by malnutrition and people crammed into crowded workhouses or queued up in crowded soup kitchens or moved to crowded cities in a desperate attempt to find work. Mass graves were a thing, as were people dropping dead on the side of the road while they sought work or food and being left there by friends or family who had no way to bury them.

But worry not, the Irish British economy was fine, guys. Because as already mentioned, beef and corn exports went up, for reasons which would be entirely expected when the guy running the relief effort is using The Wealth of Nations as a how-to guide on feeding the poor.

The people in Ireland who were most affected by the Famine were also people who couldn’t have afforded anything beyond potatoes in the past; limiting the price of corn or beef to something the poor Irish could afford would have been interfering with the free market and would have resulted in lower profits for the predominately British landowners. Attempts by Peel to buy cheaper maize from America to distribute at lower prices in Ireland were likewise struck down as interfering with “the regular operation of merchants”. Meanwhile, in the rest of Northern Europe, there weren’t as many people who had been living exclusively on potatoes, but there was still enough potato failure for a higher demand in other types of food and Ireland had plenty of corn and cattle just lying around not being eaten by starving Irish. Why import food from a country not struck by famine when Ireland was closer and just as cheap?

(This is where some historians argue the Famine wasn’t genocide; genocide requires an intentional attempt to destroy a group of people. Sure, the British designed their penal laws to ruin Catholics and their way of life, even if it killed them; and Cromwell thought slaughtering the Irish was God’s work; and Trevelyan, the man put in charge of food distribution, considered the actual Famine less an issue than “the moral evil of the selfish, perverse and turbulent character of the people”; but the actions which killed and displaced millions were at worst a negligent prioritization of economics over lives.)

Anyway, it’s lovely to live in a country where discrimination against religious minorities and the poor isn’t active government policy and keeping people alive is more important than money. I’m so fucking glad we learned from history like this and we now respect the Choctaw who donated to Irish famine relief efforts more than we respect Andrew Jackson who gave the Choctaw reason to know what government-sanctioned death was like.