#SO THE CREATOR EITHER TOLD THEM TO CUT IT OUT {which is fair} OR!!! MOVEMENT IN MAKING IT REAL!!!!!

[horse-shit]

I want. posts. for fandom. RAH

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Zuck calls Apple a monopolist

The copyright scholar James Boyle has a transformative way to think about political change. He tells a story about how the word "ecology" welded together a bunch of disparate issues into a movement.

Prior to "ecology," there were people who cared about owls, or air pollution, or acid rain, or whales, and while none of these people thought the others were misguided, they also didn't see them as being as part of the same cause.

Whales aren't anything like owls and acid rain isn't anything like ozone depletion. But the rise of the term "ecology," turned issues into a movement. Instead of being 1,000 causes, it was a single movement with 1,000 on-ramps.

Movements can strike at the root, look to the underlying  economic and philosophical problems that underpin all the different causes that brought the movement's adherents together. Movements get shit done.

Which brings me to monopolies. This week, Mark Zuckerberg, one of the world's most egregious, flagrant, wicked monopolists, made a bunch of public denunciations of Apple for...monopolistic conduct.

Or, at least, he tried to. Apple stopped him. Because they actually do have a monopoly (and a monoposony) (in legal-economic parlance, these terms don't refer to a single buyer or seller, they refer to a firm with "market power" - the power to dictate pricing).

Facebook is launching a ticket-sales app and the Ios version was rejected because it included a notice to users that included in their price was a 30% vig that Apple was creaming off of Facebook's take.

https://www.theverge.com/2020/8/28/21405140/apple-rejects-facebook-update-30-percent-cut

Apple blocked the app because this was "irrelevant" information, and their Terms of Service bans "showing irrelevant" information.

This so enraged Zuck that he gave a companywide address - of the sort that routinely leaks - calling Apple a monopolist (they are), accused them of extracting monopoly rents (they do), and of blocking "innovation" and "competition" (also true).

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/pranavdixit/zuckerberg-apple-monopoly

Now, there are a bunch of Apple customers who consider themselves members of an oppressed religious minority who'll probably stop here (perhaps after an angry reply), and that's OK. You do you. But I have more to say.

Apple is a monopolist, sure, but more importantly, they are monoposonists - these are firms with "excessive buying power," gatekeepers who control access to purchasers. Monoposony power is MUCH easier to accumulate than monopoly power.

In the econ literature, we see how control over as little as 10% of the market can cement a firm's position, giving it pricing power over suppliers. Monopsony is the source of "chickenization," named for the practices of America's chicken-processing giants.

Chickenized poultry farmers have to buy all their chicks from Big Chicken; the packers tell them what to feed their birds, which vets to use, and spec out their chicken coops. They set the timing on the lights in the coops, and dictate feeding schedules.

The chickens can only be sold to the packer that does all this control-freaky specifying, and the farmer doesn't find out how much they'll get paid until the day they sell their birds.

Big Chicken has data on all the farmers they've entrapped and they tune the payments so that the farmers can just barely scratch out a living, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and dependent on the packer for next year's debt payments.

Farmers who complain in public are cut off and blackballed - like the farmer who lost his contract and switched to maintaining chicken coops, until the packer he'd angered informed all their farmers that if they hired him, they would also get cancelled.

Monopsony chickenizes whose groups of workers, even whole industries. Amazon has chickenized publishers. Uber has chickenized drivers. Facebook and Google have chickenized advertisers. Apple has chickenized app creators.

Apple is a monopsony. So is Facebook.

Market concentration is like the Age of Colonization: at first, the Great Powers could steer clear of one another's claims. If your rival conquered a land you had your eye on, you could pillage the one next door.

Why squander your energies fighting each other when you could focus on extracting wealth from immiserated people no one else had yet ground underfoot?

But eventually, you run out of new lands to conquer, and your growth imperative turns into direct competition.

We called that "World War One." During WWI, there were plenty of people who rooted for their countries and cast the fighting as a just war of good vs evil. But there was also a sizable anti-war movement.

This movement saw the fight as a proxy war between aristocrats, feuding cousins who were so rich that they didn't fight over who got grandma's china hutch - they fought over who got China itself.

The elites who started the Great War had to walk a fine line. If they told their side that Kaiser Bill is only in the fight to enrich undeserving German aristos, they risked their audience making the leap to asking whether their aristos were any more deserving.

GAFAM had divided up cyberspace like the Pope dividing the New World: ads were Goog, social is FB, phones are Apple, enterprise is Msft, ecommerce belongs to Amazon. There was blurriness at the edges, but they mostly steered clear of one another's turf.

But once they'd chickenized all the suppliers and corralled all the customers, they started to challenge one another's territorial claims, and to demand that we all take a side, to fight for Google's right to challege FB's social dominance, or to side with FB over Apple.

And they run a risk when they ask us to take a side, the risk that we'll start to ask ourselves whether ANY of these (tax-dodging, DRM-locking, privacy invading, dictator-abetting, workforce abusing) companies deserve our loyalty.

And that risk is heightened because the energy to reject monopolies (and monoposonies) needn't start with tech - the contagion may incubate in an entirely different sector and make the leap to tech.

Like, maybe you're a wrestling fan, devastated to see your heroes begging on Gofundme to pay their medical bills and die with dignity in their 50s from their work injuries, now there's only one major league whose owner has chickenized his workers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8UQ4O7UiDs&list=FLM6hLIAIO-KfsNFn8ENnftw&index=767

Maybe you wear glasses and just realized that a single Italian company, Luxottica, owns every major brand, retailer, lab and insurer and has jacked up prices 1,000%.

https://www.latimes.com/business/lazarus/la-fi-lazarus-glasses-lenscrafters-luxottica-monopoly-20190305-story.html

Or maybe the market concentration you care about it in healthcare, cable, finance, pharma, ed-tech, publishing, film, music, news, oil, mining, aviation, hotels, automotive, rail, ag-tech, biotech, lumber, telcoms, or a hundred other sectors.

That is, maybe you just figured out that the people who care about owls are on the same side as the people who care about the ozone layer. All our markets have become hourglass shaped, with monop(olists/sonists) sitting at the pinch-point, collecting rents from both sides, and they've run out of peons to shake down, so they're turning on each other.

They won't go gently. Every Big Tech company is convinced that they have the right to be the pinchpoint in the hour-glass, and is absolutely, 100% certain that they don't want to be trapped in the bulbs on either side of the pinch.

They know how miserable life is for people in the bulbs, because they are the beneficiaries of other peoples' misery. Misery is for other people.

But they're in a trap. Monopolies and monopsonies are obviously unjust, and the more they point out the injustices they are EXPERIENCING, the greater the likelihood that we'll start paying attention to the injusticies they are INFLICTING.

Much of the energy to break up Big Tech is undoubtedly coming from the cable and phone industry. This is a darkly hilarious fact that many tech lobbyists have pointed out, squawking in affront: "How can you side with COMCAST and AT&T to fight MONOPOLIES?!"

They have a point. Telcoms is indescribably, horrifically dirty and terrible and every major company in the sector should be shattered, their execs pilloried and their logomarks cast into a pit for 1,000 years.

Their names should be curses upon our lips: "Dude, what are you, some kind of TIME WARNER?"

But this just shows how lazy and stupid and arrogant monopolies are. Telcoms think that if they give us an appetite for trustbusting Big Tech, that breaking up GAFAM will satiate us.

They could not be more wrong. There is no difference in the moral case for trustbusting Big Tech and busting up Big Telco. If Big Tech goes first, it'll be the amuse-bouche. There's a 37-course Vegas buffet of trustbustable industries we'll fill our plates with afterward.

Likewise, if you needed proof that Zuck is no supergenius - that he is merely a mediocre sociopath who has waxed powerful because he was given a license to cheat by regulators who looked the other way while he violated antitrust law - just look at his Apple complaints.

Everything he says about Apple is 100% true.

Everything he says about Apple is also 100% true OF FACEBOOK.

Can Zuck really not understand this? If not, there are plenty of people in the bulbs to either side of his pinch who'd be glad to explain it to him.

The monopolized world is all around us. That's the bad news.

The good news is that means that everyone who lives in the bulbs - everyone except the tiny minority who operate the pinch - is on the same side.

There are 1,000 reasons to hate monopolies, which means that there are 1,000 on-ramps to a movement aimed at destroying them. A movement for pluralism, fairness and solidarity, rather than extraction and oligarchy.

And just like you can express your support for "ecology" by campaigning for the ozone layer while your comrade campaigns for owls, you can fight oligarchy by fighting against Apple, or Facebook, or Google, or Comcast, or Purdue Poultry...or Purdue Pharma.

You are on the same side as the wrestling fan who just gofundemed a beloved wrestler, and the optician who's been chickenized by Luxottica, and the Uber driver whose just had their wages cut by an app.

[sermacsteph]

Aftermath

Estelle bit back a cry as the anchor crackled, rift green lightning arced up his arm, crept towards his neck. He barely registered falling to his knees, bent double, cradling his arm. There was only the fire in his veins, pulsating, nauseating - readying to explode once more at any given moment. A part of Estelle knew that this was it, that this may well be the end,

‘The mark will eventually kill you,’ Solas’s voice floated from somewhere above him. ‘Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you … at least for now.’

Estelle blinked up at him. The elf whom he’d seen as a friend, who he had trusted. The icy bite of betrayal still lingered, a contrast to the blazing agony that was his arm. Solas had betrayed that trust, had used him as no more than a pawn in a bigger game. 

He heaved a shuddering breath. ‘If … if I live through this - I’m coming to stop you.’

‘I know,’ said Solas, something like regret passed over his face. ‘Take my hand.’

Estelle didn’t move. A part of him, still raw and hurting, wanted to refuse, even though it would mean his life. If Solas didn’t have the anchor … pain spasmed through his arm. He was running out of time. If he died here, now, there was nothing to stop Solas from just taking the anchor anyway. If he died here, the world would have no idea what Solas was planning - the chaos he was about to unleash.

To stop Solas he needed to live, needed to survive. For Thedas; for himself and Dorian, and the future they wanted together, he needed to live. With gritted teeth, Estelle reached for Solas’s hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Solas.

That pulsating pain flared, sending the world spinning. Estelle screwed his eyes shut, bit down on his tongue, trapping his cry inside him. He felt Solas’s grip slip from his and with it the pulsating vanished, faded, only to be replaced with a burning, blistering pain that ate at his arm. As if his arm, his hand was on fire; as if his very own magic had turned against him.

He forced his eyes open, his vision swimming. He glanced at his arm, it looked … Estelle swallowed. It looked as if his hand was melting beneath the armour. Bits of fade and rift-green tinged blood dripped between his trembling fingers, sizzling on the broken stones.

Solas was saying something, words that didn’t sound like words. Slowly, with far too much effort, Estelle tore his gaze away from his ruined arm in time to see the Eluvian flare as Solas vanished without so much as a backwards glance.

For a moment, the world had gone quiet as Estelle knelt alone amongst the ancient ruins and Qunari-turned-stone statues. Everything was spinning, his mind reeling with a hundred thoughts at once. Solas is Fen’Harel, was planning to tear down the veil which may well destroy the word and his arm…

Estelle blinked, trying to clear his head but it felt like wading through mud. He needed to move, he knew that much. He couldn’t stay here. Solas had taken the anchor but the blood loss would still kill him. The potions were all but spent and it was an effort to think, let alone attempting to form a spell. He needed to get back to the others.

His gaze snagged on the only other Eluvian. The one he had come through to find Solas. The one that would lead back to the others, to where Dorian was waiting. Its surface no longer dull as it had been when he’d come through it, it’s shimmering blue surface taunting him. It wasn’t far, he could make it. He had to. 

With fumbling fingers, he gripped his staff, hauling himself to his feet. The sudden movement made the ancient ruins, the petrified statues sway violently; trembling legs threatening to send him toppling back down. He tightened his grip on his staff. Ghilan’nain guide my steps, I can do this. Just one foot in front of the other. A couple more steps. A few more, until he was stumbling, slow, methodically past the qunari. Beside him, his trembling arm hung limp, rift-green blood dripped steadily leaving behind a macabre trail on the broken stones.

The mirror was tantalisingly close now. Just down the steps, past the remaining petrified qunari. Creators, why did it seem so far? The world span and never stopped. Every step, every breath was an effort of will and somewhere deep inside, Estelle knew he was never going to make it. 

Seconds, maybe minutes, seemed to flash by. He was half dragging himself now, his hand clutching the staff shaking so violently that he could barely keep his grip. When had it gotten so cold? 

Without warning, his legs buckled beneath him, sending him tumbling forwards down the last few steps. Estelle howled. Pain spiralled through him as he curled into a ball at the bottom of the stairs, watering eyes screwed tight.

He lay there, cheek pressed against hard stone. The coolness of it, a relief against the fire burning inside. He watched the statues sway like branches in the wind. Creators, he felt so tired. The exhaustion from the past few hours, days, weeks, crashed into him. It would be so easy to give in. To give into that beckoning darkness and the relief it offered from the agony spiralling through him. 

The part of him still coherent, screamed at him to move. Through hazy eyes, Estelle glimpsed the Eluvian just beyond the Qunari. Bright sunshine danced across its surface and the crumbling stones that surrounded it. He was so close - he’d only need a few more steps and he’d be there. Only a few more steps and he would be with Dorian again.

The thought of never seeing him again, or hearing that wit that hid such a caring heart, that had made Estelle fall so hard for the Tevinter mage - it hurt. Hurt more than the melting remains of his arm.

“Why didn’t you say something?’ Dorian had cried before they’d entered the Delvaraard mirror what seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘I could have … I don’t know, something!’

Estelle had cut him off then with a kiss. ‘Vhenan, whatever happens, I wouldn’t trade the years we’ve had together, for anything. I love you.’

‘I … I knew you would break my heart, you bloody bastard,’ Dorian had sobbed before burying his face in his shoulder.

A bitter sob tore through Estelle’s chest at the memory. This - it wasn’t fair. Two years they’d spent a part. Two years of letters and promises, and when they finally had the chance to be together again something had to happen to tear them apart. Angry tears slipped into his hair as he glared at the sky. Damn you, Solas! Damn you! He glared at the Eluvian - that shimmering surface called to him and his heart ached. He just wanted to see Dorian again, one last time, to tell him he was sorry.

He willed his legs to move, clawing his way forwards with his good arm. Pain blazed through him, and Estelle screamed. There was a dull clang of metal hitting stone. He stared at the fallen gauntlet, at the melting stump of his wrist in shock. Estelle froze, unable to tear his gaze away. He shook his head, desperate to make sense of what he was seeing. His hand… it was gone. How … how was that possible? Was he just simply hallucinating? 

Estelle let his head fall back against the stone. Exhaustion stole the energy from his muscles. He leant against one of the statues, staring at his arm as whatever magic the anchor had left behind slowly disintegrated his arm. He knew he would never make the distance to the eluvian. 

‘Mythal’enaste, la abelas, vhenan,’ He whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

***

Dorian wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, back pressed against the unforgiving surface of the eluvian. Every second, every minute that passed, felt like an eternity.

In the moments after Estelle had disappeared through that mirror, he had thrown every spell he could think of at its surface. There had to be something - some long lost knowledge stolen from the elves that could reawaken it. But his spells slid off its surface and the eluvian remained dormant.

He sat with his head bowed, desperate to keep his mind from jumping from one bad scenario to another. Estelle will be fine, he told himself. After all, he had survived thus far. Yet, Dorian still couldn’t forget that horrible moment when the anchor had exploded, throwing Estelle about with its force. The pain and exhaustion that had been in his face, and there had been nothing Dorian could do to help. Now, Estelle was trapped Maker knew where…

No. He couldn’t think like that. Solas had to help. Agent of Fen’Harel or not, surely Solas wouldn’t just let Estelle die? Hurry back, amatus, please.

The silence that had settled over the three of them was deafening. Varric sat nearby, crossbow in his lap, whilst the Seeker stood guard, shrewd eyes flicking between both eluvians. None of them spoke. What was there to even say? They could only wait. Wait and hope that the next person through the eluvian was Estelle.

There was a sudden faint chime from behind, the mirror finally springing to life. Dorian scrambled to his feet, staff instinctively in hand, a defence spell at the ready. But as they stared at the mirror, there was no sign of either Estelle or any Qunari.

They waited.

And waited.

Still there was no sign of Estelle. Dorian’s heart sank. Something was wrong, very wrong.

‘Where is he?’ Cassandra muttered.

Dorian didn’t answer. He had a hunch, one he desperately hoped was wrong. Without a word, he stepped towards the eluvian, its surface rippling at his touch. A part of him knew this might well be a trap, but he couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Not when Estelle might need him. Taking a deep breath, Dorian stepped forwards.

Swirling blue light gave way to a broken courtyard. Crumbling ruins and stone statues towering over cracked flagstones. Only the statues weren’t elven as Dorian had first thought. They were qunari, the very same qunari they’d been pursuing. A chill crept through Dorian. The qunari were facing away, expressions of fear frozen on their faces. It had to be Solas, who else could it have been? And if this was what the elf had done to the Qunari, then Estelle....

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. Without waiting to see if Varric or Cassandra had followed, Dorian moved through the statues. Panic carried his steps, his mind racing, feet moving to the pounding of his heart. A flash of red hair, the rift-green glow caught his gaze, and there slouched against a statue was Estelle.

‘Amatus!’ Dorian breathed, tearing across the courtyard towards him.

He dropped to his knees, reaching a hand towards him. But Estelle barely seemed to notice that he was there, his bright green eyes glazed as he stared at his still glowing arm. But… Makers breath! Where Estelle’s hand should have been there was just tendrils of rift green at the end of a bloody disintegrating wrist. Dorian swallowed, his chest tightening.

‘Estelle?’

But he didn’t answer, Dorian wasn’t even sure he could hear him. At a loss what to do, he gently pulled Estelle towards him, holding him close.

He felt Estelle shift, his good arm clinging to him and Dorian could practically feel him trembling against him. ‘Do… Dorian?’

‘Shh, amatus,’ Dorian whispered, holding him tightly. He wished there was something - anything he could do. ‘It’s all right, I’m here, I’ve got you.’

‘Andraste’s ass,’ Varric muttered, as the dwarf and Cassandra finally caught up with them.

The Seeker’s face was white as she looked at them. Her eyes lingered on Estelle’s arm, the blood and bits of fade dripping from the trembling limb. Dorian knew she was thinking the exact same question - what exactly had happened? But it was a question that was going to have to wait.

‘We need to get you back to the palace, Inquisitor,’ said Cassandra, ‘can you stand?’

Estelle nodded. ‘I’ll … I’ll be fine,’ He said, even though it was quite clear he was as far from fine as it was possible to get.

Dorian wanted to argue with him, but he knew that determined look in Estelle’s eyes, knew that arguing with him would be a waste of time - something they didn’t exactly have on their side right now. So he hooked his arm around Estelle’s waist, helping him to his feet, letting him rest some of his weight against him; the anchorless arm draped around his shoulders.

Through eluvian after eluvian they staggered, going as quick as they dared. Time seemed to speed up and slow down all at the same time, almost as if it knew they needed to make haste. Dorian was all too aware of Estelle staggering beside him, his pained breaths, his arm slowly disintegrating beneath his grip.

‘Hold on, amatus,’ Dorian murmured, not even sure if Estelle was listening. ‘Just a little longer.’

How much further did they have to go? Dorian wasn’t sure. On their way through the ruins, they had been so focused on trying to get to Solas, on fighting the qunari, that Dorian hadn’t thought to count how many eluvians they went through. He was starting to regret that now.

It was a relief when crumbling elven ruins gave way to solid stone walls of the fort. The Delveraard looked somewhat less intimidating in the early morning light but no less dangerous. Two more eluvians stood between them and the safety of the palace.

The fort was eerily quiet. Even though they made sure to make as less noise as possible, their footsteps echoed through the deserted passages. They staggered through battle worn corridors and bloody stairs. Dorian felt Estelle stumble, feet slipping on slick stones and he tightened his grip.

‘Come on, just a little further.’

‘This … this wasn’t how I … I pictured this week … this week ending.’ Estelle muttered. His voice was so quiet and the pain in it - a lump formed in Dorian’s throat. ‘I’m … I’m sorry, vhenan.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Dorian, ‘we just have a penchant for attracting trouble, you and I.’

‘If … if I make it -’

Dorian cut him off. ‘Don’t … Don’t you dare say it like that.’

‘We’ll … we’ll have to find .... something to do … that isn’t fighting for … for our lives,’ Estelle finished.

‘I’m holding you to that,’ Dorian replied. ‘You are not dying on me yet, amatus.’

Estelle didn’t answer. Dorian glanced at him in alarm. His heart skipped several beats as Estelle sagged against him. No! Not now! Not when they were so close - the eluvian to the crossroads just over the bridge.

‘Amatus? Estelle?’ Dorian gently tapped his cheek, but Estelle didn’t respond. Eyes closed, limp. No! His skin was cold, icy against Dorian’s own. Makers breath, please, no! That familiar panic crept into Dorian’s heart. ‘No! Come on, amatus, stay with me!’

‘Shit,’ Varric muttered, ‘he's not going to make it.’

Dorian didn’t answer. He had to do something! Magic pooled in his hands, mind racing to form a spell to try and quell the bleeding. But there was so much of it. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a flash of silver.

‘What are you doing?!’ Dorian snapped, as Cassandra knelt down beside them, a knife drawn.

The seeker merely fixed him with a look. ‘Easy, Tevinter.’

And without waiting for a reply, she leant forwards, placing the blade to Estelle’s lips. The metallic surface misted with his breath and somewhere inside him, Dorian felt the knot of tension loosen. Just a little.

‘His breath is strong,’ said Cassandra, ‘we still have time, but we must move fast.’

Without a thought, Dorian gently hoisted Estelle up into his arms. He moved as quickly as he dared without jostling him. He forgot his exhaustion, the ache in his muscles as they raced towards the eluvian ahead. He had never thought of Estelle as fragile. Reckless, perhaps, but there was a strength and determination to keep going when everything seemed hopeless. Estelle had a quick wit that hid his gentle heart, who stood his ground for his beliefs and tried to do his best with everyone and everything. But now … Dorian swallowed and prayed to the Maker that Cassandra was right.

‘Hold on, amatus, please just hold on.’

[ograndebatata]

After The Storm

So... if I had to guess, this must be some sort of very absurd record. 

Explaining a bit better what I mean, I wrote this for the weekly challenge in the EoA Discord server, for the prompts ‘Future’ and ‘Dancing’.

Needless to say, it’s beyond late, and I honestly don’t know how well it meets either of those prompts. 

But I liked it enough to want to finish it and post it... so here it is.

I hope you like it. 

Note: Like the bulk of my Elena of Avalor fics, this one is set in my Tales of the Ever Realm AU. However, in this particular fic, I feel there isn’t anything glaringly incompatible with canon, so I think it can be read blind ‘fairly well’. Again, I tried my best to make it strong enough to stand on its own, but readers will tell me if I succeeded.

Note #2:  I don’t own the lyrics to the song ‘Once Upon a Dream’ used below. They belong to their respective creators, just as the Elena of Avalor main universe and any elements you recognize from it belong to their respective creators.

With this said, please check below the cut for the actual ficlet.

///    

After The Storm

In the Kingdom of Aravallia, February 19th, Year 9147 of the Ever Realm Calendar...

Trying to hold back the concerned frown that tugged at his face, Fiero strode fluidly through the beach’s wet sand, his tamborita thrust out before him as it sent an invisible magical ripple across the sand to clear a trail through the leaves and twigs and other bits of litter that had been blown across the sand by the previous night’s weather. Some might call him squeamish, but he wasn’t in the mood to keep flinching whenever he stepped on something sharp with bare feet, and the only other person around to see what he was doing wouldn’t think poorly of him if she saw him.

Which she didn’t. Because she wasn’t facing him. Like she had been about half an hour ago, Gracia was staring into the horizon as she stood by the water’s edge, her long black hair flowing in the wind, the pink wrap and yellow sundress she wore contrasting against her dark skin as they undulated around her,  the dress' hem swaying  around her legs and flapping against her tamborita, which she held in her left hand.

 From a distance, she’d seem alright to a casual observer. But Fiero had always been perceptive. Even two years ago, when he first met Gracia, he had been able to tell she was different from all other malvagos he had met. If he had seen her like this back then, he would have been able to tell how sad she was in the way her head hung slightly, in the edge of a slump to her shoulders. Now that he and Gracia had grown so close, had learned to read each other like written pages, she wouldn’t be able to trick him even if she wanted to, just like he knew he knew was true with him regarding her.

Of course, neither would try it by now. Even before they had come to an understanding, they had barely been able to treat each other like threats. Now that they had grown so close, neither would even consider trying anything underhanded towards the other.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Gracia’s shoulders briefly rose, then dropped again, her body shuddering in what seemed like a deep sigh. Again, Fiero’s face itched to shift into a concerned frown, joined by a weight in his chest and a shiver that washed over him as the wind briefly picked up, no doubt aided by the large cloud that kept blocking the sun, even though most of the others had cleared away to reveal a pristine morning sky. 

Perhaps leaving her alone while I made breakfast wasn't the best idea. He thought.

A slight pang sank into his heart at the thought. He had meant well when he did so - he’d only wanted to give her a warm meal to enjoy when she came back - but now that she had stayed outside for so long, not to mention wearing only a dress in this weather, he started to get worried. While he did want to respect the fact she might want to be alone, he also didn’t want to leave her in pain without trying to comfort her. He knew from personal experience that having no support when one was in pain was not pleasant. 

To put it mildly. He thought, the old scars from all the times that had happened to him briefly flaring up.

The breeze picked up around him, stronger, chillier, sending a second shiver through him before it settled down again. No doubt, his white t-shirt and light grey trousers weren’t the best outfit to shield him from this weather, especially with the latter pulled up to mid-calf. Gracia had to be feeling it even more, standing barefoot in the surf with the occasional wave washing over her feet and ankles, but she didn’t even flinch. Either she withstood it better than him, or she was so lost in her thoughts she didn’t even notice. 

Yes, she had her wrap over her dress, and could use her tamborita to cast a spell to warm herself if she needed, and even without it she was powerful and skilled enough to use her magic to do so. But still, he couldn't help but worry. 

Don't be like that. He told himself. She's an adult woman who's about as powerful a malvago as you. She can take care of herself.

His concern didn't fade. He knew that was all true, and he also knew he couldn't be consumed by worry all the time, but he couldn't just not worry to any degree, especially when he knew she was hurting.

The ground under his feet suddenly became even colder, an edge of actual wetness meeting his skin as he stepped onto the sand by the water's edge. He lowered his tamborita and retracted his magic; there was no litter to clear away here. The weight in his chest grew as he got a close look at Gracia, clutching her wrap to her with her right hand, the pain and sadness she emanated ever more visible, as if he was approaching a campfire. 

In a way, it was expected, for lack of a better term. Gracia was only human, and life hadn’t been kind to her recently. But it being expected didn’t make him feel better. The idea of her being in pain cut him up inside like a row of knives. Gracia had already been dealt far too much suffering; she didn’t need any more. 

And yet, life kept giving her further helpings of it. 

It’s not fair. Fiero thought, pain cutting through his heart as he finally got close enough to see her violet eyes, glistening with unshed tears. It’s just not fair.

The urge to rush over and wrap his arms around Gracia came over him. He pushed it back and stopped, then cleared his throat, careful to be loud enough to be heard over a distance. 

She started as if she was coming out of a trance, her tamborita swaying slightly with her movement.

“Fiero?” she asked as she turned to face him, showing him that, instead of the heavier makeup she wore with her malvaga outfit, she had chosen a more subdued look to go with the sundress. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up when I left?”

Before he could answer, she blinked, her eyes briefly widening. He guessed she had somehow noticed how much time had passed. So whether she’d noticed the chill or not, she had indeed been lost in her thoughts. 

The concerned frown pulled at his face yet again. Pushing it back, he smiled, closed the gap between them. 

“Don’t worry, you didn’t,” he reassured, running the backs of his fingers from her cheekbone to her chin. “And even if you had, you wouldn’t need to apologize,” he added as he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

He said nothing else as he slid his hand away from her ear, cupping Gracia’s cheek. A hint of light returned to her eyes, her lips curling upwards as he caressed her cheekbone with his thumb. Then, she stepped closer to him, stretching up a bit. Mirroring her motion, Fiero leaned down, his lips meeting hers, their mouths lingering together before they drew apart.

Then, as he straightened himself, her nose scrunched up, her right eyebrow arching. 

The shift in expression working as well as a verbal question, Fiero explained. “Breakfast is ready.”

Her eyebrow arched another fraction, her nose scrunching up again. “What is it?” 

“Misto quente,” he replied, caressing her cheek again.  “Your favorite.” His need to be specific protesting in the back of his mind, he added, “It’s a bit different from the one made in Paraiso, but it's the best I could do with what’s sold in Aravallia.”

Her smile widened slightly. 

“I’m sure it’s delicious.”

Despite her words, she made no move to walk back to their cottage, or any kind of move, other than letting her mouth fall back into a frown. 

The weight on his chest seeming to turn into a crack on his heart, Fiero moved his hand down and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. For a moment, her eyebrows knit together as if she was deciding what to do. Then magic flowed out of her right hand and into her wrap, two of its corners twistingly themselves together into a knot. Once the garment was secure around her shoulders, she switched her tamborita to her right hand and settled her left arm around his back. Wordlessly, Fiero drew her into him, her full figure settling against his lean profile as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

A wave washed over their feet. Fiero flinched in surprise, but no shiver came over him, the water somehow warmer than the air.

“If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen to every word,” he whispered into her hair.

Her left arm curled around his torso, her cheek shifting with her deepening frown, the change conveyed even through his t-shirt.

“Is there really anything I can say?” she murmured, snuggling her cheek into his shoulder.

He kissed her hair. “I understand if there isn't."

She curled her fingers more tightly over his side, a long exhale mixed with a pained whimper flowing from her. Again, Fiero kissed her hair. A softer, calmer sigh flowed from her, her form relaxing slightly against his’.

For a while, they stood in silence, the quietude broken only by the hushed murmurs of the breaking waves and the occasional caws of seabirds.

Then, Gracia found her voice.

“I suppose there really isn’t anything to say.” She took a breath, the sound telling Fiero she was either considering if there was anything to say after all or if she wanted to say it to begin with. “I just… I'm just still having trouble taking it all in. I’ve known my family was not very family-like for a long time, but that it has people who would go as far as they did…” She fell silent, her fingers loosening against him. “It's just... difficult to deal with.”

Fiero didn’t say anything. He simply kept his arm around Gracia’s shoulders.

“I admit that, in a sense, it shouldn’t be so shocking,” Gracia went on. “I’ve been a malvaga for over seventeen years. And I've met plenty of rotten people even before I was a malvaga. And I’ve seen my share of families who don’t act like families at all. And yet…”

She trailed off, briefly tensing up against him as if forcefully holding back the memories of the unpleasant discovery she had made. Fiero drew her even further into him, his other hand curling more tightly around his tamborita’s handle. 

“I’m sorry you got such a short end of the stick when it comes to family,” he breathed. “And that you learned what those four are like in the way you did.” 

Again, she curled her fingers over his side, her left hand running up and down his ribcage. “Don’t be. It’s better that I got to know. At least now I definitely won’t hold any illusions that things could have been different. Not with the four of them anyway.” She paused again, a shaky breath flowing out of her. “Still…”

Again, the words died in her mouth, her hand loosening again. Another wave washed over their feet, covering them up to their ankles. This time, it was followed by another stronger gust of chilly wind, the ambience around them darkening a fraction, as if the weather itself had decided to try and make them shiver. Neither of them blinked.

“You don’t need to explain,” Fiero soothed. He slid his hand from her shoulders and caressed up and down her back. “These things are always difficult to deal with. Especially when they happen to us personally.”

Again, Gracia didn’t give a verbal response, but the way she leaned against him, tired and drained while at the same time tense, spoke for her well enough. 

“I can’t help but be shocked also,” he went on. “I’ve been a malvago for almost thirty years, I ran into plenty of nasty bastards even when I was a wizard, and I got to see firsthand how charming your family is, even before everything happened. Still, to learn what those four wanted to do to you...” 

He cut himself off, an invisible foot suddenly kicking him. He’d gone more than far enough. 

“Point is, if I feel like this, I can only imagine how you feel,” he finished.

Another deep, tired sigh flowed out of Gracia’s mouth. Then, he felt her shifting against him as her cheek left his chest and her arm pulled away from him. Looking down, his green eyes met her violet ones, the crack in his heart growing at the sheer pain within them. 

“You know the worst part?” 

Fiero curled his eyebrow in a silent question. 

A briefer tired breath leaving her mouth, she replied, “On how I said it shouldn't be so shocking… In a way, it actually isn't shocking at all, considering what they have always been like. Looking back on it, the writing was always on the wall. I really should have known their natures from the beginning, rather than held any hopes about them.” 

Another sigh crawled out of her, slow and heavy as if she was trying to exhale wet clay. Pain flared up in his chest as if both halves of his heart were being pushed apart. A lump started to settle in the back of his throat. He gulped to force it back, curled his arm more tightly around Gracia as he kissed her hair again. 

“Don’t blame yourself,” he whispered. “ It’s not on you.” 

Her gaze shifted towards the sand at his words, self-reproach all too plain in her eyes. The pain in his own chest throbbed harder. A wave ran over their feet once more.

"Please, look at me,” Fiero begged, his voice thick from the effort he was making to keep it calm and soothing, rather than filled with all the anger he felt towards Gracia’s so-called family. 

Slowly, Gracia’s eyes turned up to his, pain roiling in their depths more intensely than ever before, just as the landscape around them seemed to grow darker once more, as if a thicker layer of cloud cover had just gotten before the sun. Carefully, Fiero brought his other hand up and, stretching his fingers as well as he could without losing his grip on his tamborita, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“It’s not on you,” he repeated. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You tried to follow their values as well as you could without compromising your own, you tried to step into their shoes time and again, you tried to give them the benefit of doubt multiple times, to believe there could be a sliver of kindness hidden deep within them, to help them when they needed even though they never showed a sliver of gratitude for, and yet all of them treated you like dirt.” 

A reminder flaring in the back of his mind, he added as he lowered his hand, “Well, almost all. But most of them treated you like dirt. And those four monsters actually started plotting to have you killed just so they’d get their hands on your money. And yet when their plot was discovered, they tried to beg for mercy by appealing to the fact they’re family!” 

He winced as he suddenly realized his voice had started to slip into a shout. He knew Gracia knew him well enough to understand he wasn’t angry at her, but he still didn’t want to further upset her by raising his voice.

Nevertheless, he seemed to have built up enough bile that he couldn’t avoid rolling his eyes and adding, “It’s beyond belief. They try to frame you for murder so you’ll be hanged and then say they’re family the moment they realize you found out their plot.” A sharp scoff blasted out of him. “Family, my…” Catching himself as he realized the word he was about to utter, he said instead, blood rushing to his cheeks, “Well, my that certain body part which is located on the side directly opposite to my front side, on the region right below my waist.” 

A bout of laughter bubbled out of Gracia, a happy glow blooming in her eyes. Though his cheeks kept blazing, Fiero smiled at the sound, feeling every muscle in his body loosening from it.  

“Are you sure your phrasing was verbose enough?” Gracia drawled once her laughter faded, her smooth contralto a fraction deeper and huskier than usual. “You might have been able to add two or three more sentences to that description.”

Unsure of what to say, Fiero could only shrug, though none of the defensiveness from his youth flared up within him. With Gracia, he always knew that when she teased him or poked fun at him, she did not mean to offend or hurt him.

“Well, what I said was specific enough already, I figure,” he said in an affected nonchalant tone, the red in his cheeks fading.

A mirthful spark in her eyes, her smirk shifted into a tender smile as she briefly curled her fingers around his side again, running a brief caress over his ribs. 

His voice calmer, Fiero went on, “Point is, they were just rotten, period. And they were beyond lucky that they not only lived to see another day but didn't even end up in prison. If they still want to be dirtbags rather than try to better themselves, it’s on them, not on you.”

Gracia’s smirk returned, though this time it didn’t reach her eyes. Knowing what was on her mind, he added, an edge of tension creeping into his voice, “Not those four in particular. 'Greedy heartless monsters' would be more appropriate for them. 'Dirtbags' is a label for your other relatives.” The same reminder from before flaring up again, he added, “Other than Esha and Anjali and Lavanya. And their husbands and children, as far as I can tell. But that still leaves literal dozens of people in your family who are…” 

This time, he was the one trailing off, his mind drawing a blank on a word good enough to refer to the kind of people most of Gracia’s relatives were. Still, her arm slipped down to his waist as her face fell. 

“I know.” 

The weight over his heart returning, Fiero pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. 

He knew he was repeating himself, but he meant what he said now as much as he did before.

He felt her face leaning away from his shoulder, though her arm moved up to rest over his ribs once more. He looked down; their gazes met again. 

“It's alright,” she replied. “You did nothing wrong either. You don't need to apologize.”

A long sigh washed out of him. He drew her back into him, as she let her head rest on his shoulder again.

"I only wish I could actually do something about this."

///

Hearing the sorrow in his voice, Gracia leaned up and put a kiss to Fiero's cheek, briefly pressing her hand to his side as she did so, feeling the breeze blowing over them both.

She knew he meant what he said, but she'd never dream of asking him to do more than he already did.

He looked out for her well being, he tried to help her to the best of his abilities, he listened to her when she wanted to talk, he always respected her boundaries, and he was there for her. 

That was all she could ask him to do.

She knew him wanting to do more for her meant that he cared, but she also knew that there were things he just could not do. All magic had its limits, and malvago magic in particular was very limited when it came to things unrelated to destruction. Having been a malvaga for as long as she had, Gracia knew that from personal experience. And even ignoring those limits, there were lines that no person with a sliver of decency and humanity crossed, and Fiero had much more than a sliver of either. 

It was more than she could say of many people she had met, including some who claimed to be paragons of virtue, only to turn out nastier than some fairy tale villains.

Like ‘those four’ as Fiero had labeled them. They claimed to walk the path of righteousness, to follow the values of old, and then they had tried to have her killed, and for such a mercenary reason to boot.

Not that any reason would have been good, but doing it only because they wanted her money to add it to their very much not-paltry fortune… It was just… it was just beyond low.

Don’t think about that anymore. An inner voice tried to insist. It’s not worth it. They're not worth it. 

A knot materializing in her chest at the thought, she took a deep breath, mentally pushing back the remains of the whirlwind within her as if the air she took in would do the job. Not thinking about them was easier said than done, especially after what they had done to her.

Having taken the deepest breath she could, she released, willing herself to let it out calm and slow, yet with purposefulness flowing through her. As the air rushed out of her, Fiero rubbed his shoulder over her wrap, pressing his lips to her hair once more, his embrace tightening a bit again.

‘It's alright.’ She read in his touch, even through the fabric. ‘Take all the time you need.’

Turning her head slightly upwards once more, she gave him another smile. The corners of his mouth curled upwards in response as he rubbed another circle over her shoulder.  

Her smile widening, she closed her eyes as she took another breath, slightly faster and shallower than the last, but still allowing the salty air to flow into her lungs, to mentally will what she could only call its ‘calming essence’ to flow through her being. Just as she let it out, the breeze around her softened, grew warmer, everything around them and their own bodies seeming to lighten a few shades, the sun finally peeking through the clouds. Another wave washed up the beach, moving past them until it rose past their ankles. Then, as it retreated, it seemed to take yet another bit of her inner turmoil with her, the knot in her chest softening further. 

A small sigh trickling out of her, Gracia nestled her head into Fiero’s shoulder, pressing her hand to his side once. Thinking about something else might be easier said than done, but it was better to do it than dwell on what those four had done just for the sake of it. And a good way to start thinking about something else was to start talking about something else.

Fortunately, while enjoying each other's company in silence was not a problem for them, finding things to talk about wasn't either.

Her gaze met his’ as she spoke up.

“Speaking of doing, is there anything you'd like to do once we get to Bansagubat? Other than following up on the lead we found on the Scepter of Night, I mean?” 

He blinked at her question, confusion flickering in his gaze. She knew without having to ask that he'd found her change of subject sudden. But she also knew that he'd go along with it as long as her attempt at not dwelling on the recent events didn't fail.

Sure enough, his brow furrowed into the focused look he often assumed when he was in deep thought, though he didn't bring up his left hand to hold its thumb and forefinger to his chin, due to the tamborita he held.

“I don't think so,” he replied after some time. “At least for now. I don't know enough about Bansagubat to have an idea of what to do there.” He cocked his head to the side, curling an eyebrow. “What about you, mi alma? Is there anything you'd like to do?"

He punctuated his second question with a knowing grin, telling her he'd guessed the basics of her answer. 

Gracia smirked in response. He did know her well...

“Indeed there is, mi amado,” she replied, her voice a fraction lower and slower again.

His knowing grin widened a fraction.

"Any chance I can know exactly what it is?"

Gracia started opening her mouth to reply, but the teasing tune she was mustering faded like a snuffed candle as she realized a few things. 

"I'd tell you if I knew, but I'm not sure yet myself. It will depend on how long we stay there, and on where we have to go to find our next clue, if it even exists to begin with."

Her eyes narrowed into a glare at the thought, Fiero's expression mirroring hers, both recalling how many fake clues on the Scepter of Night’s whereabouts there seemed to exist throughout the world.

“But there are quite a few dancing festivals in Bansagubat, at many places and at many times of the year," Gracia went on before her mind could start wandering down another bad path. "I’d like to be able to go to a few. Or then take a few classes on the local dances, if I find any. Maybe do both things, if we find the time.”

Her chest seemed to grow lighter as she went on, a familiar giddiness rushing through her at that line of thought. She had only been to Bansagubat once, and the stay had been too brief for her to do much of anything, but she had read about the kingdom, and, more relevantly to her tastes, about its dances. It was true that seeing drawings and reading descriptions on the written page didn’t compare to the real thing by any means, but the authors had been good enough that she could join the picture and the text to somewhat visualize what the real dances were like. And even if she hadn’t, she had always liked learning new dances, and Bansagubat had plenty that she wanted to learn.

A faint shift in Fiero’s face brought her back to reality - his knowing grin had become a fond one, no doubt at the view of the joy she felt bubbling within her and which she now realized had spilled over onto her features. 

That was one of the things she loved about him. While she knew he didn’t hate dancing per se, she also knew he wasn’t particularly fond of it. But he still wholeheartedly loved seeing her so happy doing something  she loved, and was genuinely happy to do it with her just because it made her happy. 

“I don’t see us staying at Bansagubat for less than several months,” he said. “I think we’ll find the time for that." He pursed his lips shut, as if struck by a sudden thought. "Or, if you’d rather I did so, I can also read up on Tolome’s treasure on my own while you have your dance classes and we read up on it together whenever you’re not in class or practicing.”

He winced right after he spoke, as if he thought he’d just put his foot in his mouth with his suggestion. Giving him a comforting smile, Gracia shifted around so that she now stood before him, her hand flowing from around his back to rest on his shoulder, on cue with another wave washing over their feet. The landscape seemed to grow a few more shades around them, though this time the breeze strengthened for a moment, as if unsure of whether to let up or intensify. 

“I get what you mean,” she told him. “And I don’t mind going to classes for some of those dances on my own. But we find classes for some others, I confess I was hoping you’d come with me.” Suddenly afraid of how her words might be taken, she added, “But I will accept if you don’t.” 

She punctuated her sentence with a calm smile to reinforce her words, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. She would indeed like it if Fiero went to classes for those specific dances with her, but she wouldn’t try to force him to if he really didn’t want to. Even before her time with her family, she knew how awful it was to be forced into things one didn’t want to do.

At first, Fiero’s forehead crinkled in puzzlement. Gracia knew without asking that he was wondering what kind of dances she might want him to go along on. But then, his warm smile returned as he raised his now free hand to rest it on her cheek, running a slow, tender caress over it.

“I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “Whatever the kind of dances you’re talking about, as long as you want me to go with you, I will.”

Gracia’s smile widened a bit further, her whole being suddenly lightening. It might be the kind of line too easily uttered, but again, she knew just from his tone and expression that Fiero was doing it willingly, because he knew it would make her happy. The fact he hadn’t even asked what dances she was talking about only reinforced it.

She snapped out of her thoughts as a hint of a scowl returned to Fiero’s face, as if something had just reminded him of an unpleasant memory. 

A frown replacing her smile, she asked, "What’s the matter?"

Putting his smile back in place, Fiero reached down and held her hand in his’, raising it up until it was level with their chests.

“Nothing serious,” he soothed. “Just a few bad memories of the last time I had dance classes.”

Gracia’s eyes opened a bit wider, a mix of amazement and realization pricking at her.

“So you did have dance classes…” Again reading a silent question in Fiero’s face, she explained, “I thought you had them from the first time I danced with you. You danced far too well to be a novice. But I confess it does seem a bit surprising.”

His own smile still in place, he briefly squeezed her hand more tightly. 

“I know. I didn’t ever think I’d have dance classes before I started them either. Dancing was never among my top-favorite activities until we started seeing one another.” Again wincing right after his sentence, he added, “Not that I ever hated it, but…”

He trailed off, unease creeping up into his eyes. Smiling again, Gracia rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. 

“I understand. I liked learning magic well enough when I was younger, but I didn’t throw myself into it until I became a malvaga.” Feeling the shadow of more unpleasant memories starting to creep over her, she went on before they could settle in. “Though now I’m curious on why you had dance classes if you didn’t particularly like dancing.” 

Fiero’s shoulders dropped at the question. This time, a sigh actually flowed out of him, his hand slipping off of hers. Gracia knew without having to ask that whatever he was recalling, it was not pleasant. 

But before she could tell him he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to, he explained,  “I felt I should when I started training to be the Royal Wizard of Avalor.”

Gracia’s eyes opened a fraction wider. 

“What does dancing have to do with being a Royal Wizard?”

He sighed again.

“Nothing. But I wanted to destroy any possible grounds for criticism. They included failing to mingle and dance during formal events. So besides studying up on all the magic I could, I started learning other things I thought would help me for when I became Royal Wizard. Ballroom dancing was one of them. I was never actually tested on that during my so-called exam, but I guess that’s just as well, because my instructor said that if I didn’t get rid of the snake-like edge to my movements, I’d always be a lost cause.”

Gracia’s face hardened, her eyebrows settling into a straight line, her blood suddenly warmer.

She already knew enough about Fiero’s time trying to be the Royal Wizard to be angry on his behalf at pretty much everyone involved, but it still seemed that the more she learned, the more reasons she found to be angry. It still didn’t excuse what he had ended up doing, of course, but Fiero himself had always acknowledged such a fact whenever they talked about it, and just because she didn’t excuse the way he had snapped it didn’t mean she couldn’t feel sorry for him. As personally motivated as he might have been to a degree, Gracia knew Fiero had also wanted the post because he wanted to help people. Yet, it just kept turning out that more and more people involved in the game were against him, and for all sorts of nonsensical reasons at that.

And to think people from Paraiso were seen by Avalorans as high and mighty jerks, more shallow and vain than parrots! If she ever got to meet those particular Avalorans, she’d certainly have a few choice words for them on that matter. 

But most of them were dead anyway, and if they hadn’t been able to recognize Fiero’s worth before, her ripping them a new one wouldn’t do anything on that front. Not to mention that, unfortunately in every sense of the word, Fiero couldn't be a Royal Wizard anyway. Malvagos couldn’t be Royal Wizards because of the limits to their magic, and once wizards became malvagos, there was no way for them to be wizards again.

Some of her anger drained away by her inner tirade, she willed the remainder back into the depths of her being. Then, smiling at him once more, she held his hand and raised it, this time rubbing her thumb over his palm.

“Well, take this from someone who danced since she was three and was a professional dancer for over thirteen years.” She paused for a moment longer, until Fiero’s gaze was locked on hers. “You’re better than some of my dance partners, and I’m talking of people who danced for a living. And that’s a fact as far as I’m concerned.” She paused again, this time to make sure her sentences sank in. “But even if it wasn’t,  there are only two rules that one needs to follow when dancing.”

Fiero’s lips parted slightly, in a clear relay of his amazement. 

“Really?” he whispered.

“Well, not if you’re doing it professionally,” Gracia admitted. “Then the audience will expect nothing but the best, and in a competition in particular, the judges tend to have a mile-long list of standards, and failing to meet even half of them will rob you of any chance.” She released his hand, then rested her own on his cheek. “But when you’re dancing for fun, there are only two things that need to be done. To dance from the heart, and to choose a partner you like dancing with and who likes dancing with you.”

His smile returned at her words. Warmth again enveloped her hand as he put it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles as he finished, his moustache tickling her skin. 

“As long as I’m dancing with you, none of those things will ever come into question.”

“Likewise,” she replied as Fiero straightened himself, their gazes meeting again.

And that was all either needed to say on the matter, their eyes telling each other everything else they needed to know as the breeze flowed around them, a wave again trickling over their feet and then pulling back.

Then, slowly, like a spark spreading across kindling, sunlight spread across the whole landscape, a warmth seeping into their surroundings, the breeze settling down even further until it merely ghosted over them, like the settings in the kind of fairy tale moments common in the ballets Gracia had performed in.

She knew this one was entirely natural and just a lucky coincidence, but she was more than happy to go with it. 

"Dance with me?" she requested, squeezing Fiero’s hand.

He squeezed hers in return, his eyes twinkling. 

"Of course, mi alma."

Her chest fluttering, Gracia slowly withdrew her hand from his’, then raised it until it was before the knot in her wrap.

“Let’s get ready then,” she said.

With those words, she channelled magic into the garment around her shoulders, her signature purplish-pink tone surging around it. As fluidly as a liquid, the wrap untied itself loose and then slid through the air until it hovered before her, folding itself into a neat rectangle. Once it finished, Fiero raised his own hand, sending magic forth as the glow around the bundle shifted from purplish-pink to a different violet shade. Retracting her own magic, Gracia raised her tamborita and aimed it at the wrap, landing a firm, but subdued smack on the drum. A purplish-pink glow bloomed around it, and the next instant, the folded cloth shimmered out of view with a hushed poof, teleported into what she knew was its proper place in its drawer.

That part of the task done, Gracia again channeled magic into her tamborita, purplish-pink sparks surging around its handle and drum with a faint hiss. Lowering the hand he’d been holding up, Fiero raised his tamborita to hers, violet sparks erupting from it. Then, as they put their tamboritas’ drums together, the sparks fused into bigger, brighter bolts of their shades blended together, a loud crackle lashing forth as their magic joined, finishing the protective spell that would safeguard their tamboritas. 

After holding the drum wands in place for a few seconds, Fiero and Gracia released them and, with a sweeping motion of their arms as coordinated as a dance step, sent them floating about thirty feet away, where they sank vertically into the sand. The bolts around them faded, but the tamboritas remained together as if glued, standing under their own power like two swords stuck on the same stone.

Their preparations complete, Fiero put an arm across his chest and bowed, while she curtsied in her sundress as formally as she would in a ballgown. Their gazes locked again, both stepped towards each other, her left hand resting on his shoulder while his right one settled on her waist, their other hands interlacing together. A familiar thrill bursting through her as she felt Fiero’s hand pressing to her left, she went along with the movement of his spin, her hair fanning out as she circled her way around him. A faint splash reached her ears as she stopped, but she barely noticed it as he released her waist and raised their entwined hands above their heads. Following the cue, she twirled in her spot and then put her hand back to his shoulder while his’ settled on her waist again. Her smile growing even wider, she pressed slightly into Fiero’s shoulder to convey what she wanted him to do; he followed along and spun to the left once more with her in his arms, though this time she tightened the circle as she walked around him. In perfect tune with her movement, Fiero stepped back, the two of them falling into their rhythm of steps and twirls and circles, the warm sun shining down on them. 

Reminded of a similar setup in a ballet she had once performed in - and in a musical version of the same story that she had gone to on her fourth date with Fiero - Gracia started humming a familiar tune under her breath, setting their steps to it.  

Again, Fiero curled an eyebrow even as he settled into her cue.

“Aurora and Phillip’s Waltz?” he asked.

“Just something to set our dance to, mi amado,” she replied without slowing down. “I thought this fit us.”

And it did. In more ways than one. Between the costumes they - or at least she - had been wearing on the night they actually started their romantic relationship, the dreams they’d both had on the same night not long before that occasion, and the musical adaptation of The Tale of Sleeping Beauty they had watched on their fourth date, she thought that the song fit them. Not to mention she had always liked it since she was a child, even if Princess Aurora’s tale had never been her top favorite. 

For a moment, Fiero narrowed his eyes, his look out of focus as if he was thinking of something. Then, he pressed his lips together as if gathering himself, and sent a warm tingle flowing into the thrill shooting through her as he began singing. 

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream

Not missing a beat, Gracia joined in.

I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

He pulled her just a bit closer as both sang the next verses.

Yet I know it’s true That visions are seldom all they seem

Their voices soared as they moved into the chorus, the breeze briefly picking up again, but not slowing them down in the least as they swept across the beach.

But if I know you I know what you’ll do You’ll love me at once The way you did once upon a dream

[hiphopandtheirishquestion]

The Birth of Def Road

It all started sometime around 1985. As a music journalist and chancer, my brother Johnny rarely paid for anything. I grew accustomed over the years to standing by the entrance while he negotiated free passage into whatever gig we were at.

- ‘I’m on the guest list  

- You’re name’s not down

- I rang ahead. I spoke to the manager. I’m doing a write up for Hot Press.

- No one told me’

... and so the drama would unfold, me standing there like a lemon (the +1) thinking ‘can we not just pay the fiver in?’ But inevitably they crumbled and in we went, journalist +1.

The experience would stand him in good stead as he set about liberating the music companies of New York of their choicest cuts. Zip, Buck, Artie and the boys were no match and he returned with a veritable treasure chest of records, none of which he'd paid for. The vast majority belonged to a genre called hip hop, or sometimes rap. Wasn’t that just talking?

By 1985, the Irish Republic had been in existence for nearly 50 years. The Brits, may God’s curses, shit, piss and jizz rain down on them, had long since been kicked out. Ireland was now, finally, in the hands of the Gaels - who immediately palmed it off to the church.

And New York was in my hands. The city, it seemed, consisted mainly of black lads in tracksuits and gold chains. Their ‘music’ involved a DJ stealing the best parts from other people’s records while a rapper bragged in rhyming couplets about, amongst other things, how great he was. The other things could be anything from the size of his cock to how much weed he smoked and on to race, crime, politics, cars, shopping malls, guns, hookers, snot, STDs, cars, watches...the list is long.  

Introspective it wasn’t. Feelings and inadequacies rarely entered the lexicon of that first wave of MCs. They spoke with absolute certainty and iron resolve. Self-doubt was an ailment the rapper didn’t appear to suffer from. It was all fierce confusing.

‘No one understands me’, went the lament of angsty teenagers like me. ‘I’m gonna lock myself in my room and listen to The Smiths. Girls are so pretty – if only I could talk to them. Who am I? What’s it all about?’

‘Yo! Everyone look at me, screamed his black NY counterpart. ‘I got the best clothes, I even got jewellery. Girls? Fuck, man. Dime a dozen. Life is so damn straightforward. I’m the coolest, smartest best looking bastard going’.

At first glance, Tramore, Co Waterford seems quite different to the ghettos of New York. People from our neighbouring estates did not spend their time ‘dissing’ each other. Sweetbriar residents did not wish to ‘take out’ motherfuckers from Moon Laun. And gunshots were almost never heard at the Friday night GAA Discos. This could not stand. The ‘boroughs’ of Waterford would have to be re-classified, starting with my hometown.

What is Tramore? Upwardly mobile Gardaí and Secondary School teachers were by now colonizing it's burgeoning estates. A beautiful beach, amusements for the kiddies, pubs, pissed up jackeens in the summer, and now lots and lots of new homes, from where people set off for the bright lights of Waterford City every day if they were fortunate enough to have jobs in 80s Ireland.

We were a bit wussy – just didn’t have that hard edge that came so naturally to people from the barrios of places like Lisduggan and Ballybeg. We weren’t the Bronx. Long Island was seen as being a bit ‘soft and country ’ by New Yorkers. Culchieville, or at least suburban. But it was also where Public Enemy came from, along with De La Soul, EPMD, and Eric B & Rakim to name a handful. They didn't like the name, so they changed it. Long Island became Strong Island.

Tramore, or Tra Mhor as Gaeilge, meaning 'big beach', would now be Strong Beach. Kinda shit, but still better than Tramore. My home address of Cliff Road was renamed  Def Road – considerably better. The newly-drawn boroughs of  Waterford began to take shape.

It was an era that came to be known as hip hop’s Golden Age. Ireland had once had a golden age of it's own. The Island of Saints and Scholars we had been called, as the Christian Brothers were quick to remind us. Alas that time had long since passed. When darkness prevailed in Medieval Europe, Ireland had been a beacon of light, home to the dopest lyricists and flyest artwork. And as recessionary 80s Ireland trundled on hopelessly, we could at least pat ourselves on the back in the knowledge of our glorious past.

Through the lyrics of the likes of Chuck D and Krs-One I discovered black America was prone to leaning on a similar crutch. The extremist Nation of Islam claimed that the great kingdoms of Africa had thrived when we Europeans, or cave dwellers as they called us, were still running around on all fours. Take that whitey!

Ireland’s time as the foremost creator and preserver of the written word ran from about the sixth to ninth centuries. Missionaries from Christian monastic schools went forth from the motherland into the wild lands of Western Europe; writing, learning and being generally noble as they went. The Roman Empire was falling and the barbarians were ransacking the once civilized and ordered cities of Europe. It was left to a previously unheralded wee island to preserve the written word. Which, miraculously, it did. But no one outside Ireland seemed to care.

It’s a state of affairs that many pan-African movements would empathise with. They often claim history is written by the white man, cynically removing their own people’s contributions from the record books. We break it down a step further. White Anglo-Saxons and Protestants decree what is history – the achievements of the paddy man and the black man just don’t make the cut. And so we glory in our past deeds, with a healthy balance of chips on either shoulder.

The pinnacle of Ireland’s Golden Age would come to be seen as The Book Of Kells, a kind of Three Feet High And Rising of its time. There for all to see in Trinity College - proof of our glorious past. Suck it up, ye bastards!

Hip hop travelled a fair old road to reach its Golden Age, if not quite as far back as the Vikings. But just like the Irish scholars of medieval Ireland, in that second Dark Age of the mid-eighties, hip hop was a beacon of light. As mediocrity thrived all around them, the ghettoes of New York became the ultimate seat of motherfucking learning.

The New York we saw on our 80s TV screens pre-Giuliani and zero tolerance seems barely believable now. Apolcalytic, Mad Max style urban wastelands. Anything went, or so the schoolyards of Tramore CBS would have it. There was never any graffiti on the Tramore-Waterford bus route, aside from the odd ‘Paul is gay’ or ‘Sharon Loves Browner’, but New York?

-‘Sure the whole feckin’ subway is full of it! Can’t even see out de windows.  Me uncle works there and he says there do be gay lads stalling the heads off each other on the street. Full of black lads too but they love the Irish so you’re alright there’.

Mental, like. And it was into this environment that one Clive Campbell, soon to be better known as Kool Herc, rocked up on the streets of the Bronx in the early 70s with his quare Jamaican ways.

Quare Jamaican ways that included sound systems – very, very big sound systems – which he used to rock parties all over the neighbourhood. He occasionally employed a rapper, but more importantly began cutting up records.  He played the funky, instrumental bit of the tune and then played it again, and again and again if the vibe was right. The break. The two turntables were now an instrument.  This was the cue for the b (for break) - boys to do their thing on the dance floor. Or breakdance. The big eejit from the Caribbean had only gone and invented hip hop.

A boyo called Patricius had a gameplan of his own when he rocked up in Ireland with his big Welsh head on him around 432 AD. This was his second trip. First time round he had come as a slave, and spent his days working his hole off high in the mountains, tending sheep and the like. Fuck this for a lark, he thought. And like so many convicts down the years, he turned to God for help.

And he was rewarded with a vision, enabling his escape. Six years swotting up in a French monastery, a brief trip home to check in with the folks, and back to Ireland. ‘ Right. I’m gonna Christianize these chumps’, he vowed to the man above as he returned and set to work.

Patricius was a good egg, albeit one with a bit of ‘previous’. As a former slave, he empathised with their plight, a borderline pinko stance unheard of in those brutal days. The Black Panthers had MLK and Malcolm X, we had Saint Patrick.  And he was a hard bastard. Slavery, the monastery and then 30-odd years trundling across the wild lands of Eireann spreading the word. No choirboy either. Some unexplained sin, committed at the age of 15 and later confessed to, racked him with guilt. At least one historian hints at murder. Ireland, denied the ‘civilizing’ influence of the Roman Empire, was no place for the faint-hearted.

The original Paddy may not have driven any snakes out, but if he’d wanted to those slimy fucks wouldn’t have stood a chance. And neither did the pagans. With the bold Patricius at its helm Christianity stomped all over them. Like Ray Houghton a couple of centuries later he had earned his spurs. He was now one of us – an Irishman, and a proud one

Kool Herc was good, but he was no Saint Patrick. He needed help. And two others would rise from the East (Coast) to create a glorious triumvirate. Hip hop now set about crushing the faggoty, silk-shirt and gold-medallioned world of disco.

Afrika Bambaata (or Kevin Donovan as he was then) hadn’t required enslavement to have his eyes opened. He won a motherfucking essay writing contest, motherfucker, first prize being a trip to Africa. Bam’s eyes were opened and he returned with a new vision. No more gang banging – it was peace, love, unity and having fun from here on in.

St. Patrick may have passed on the ‘having fun’ aspect of Bambaata’s message. There was already far too much of that in early 5th century pagan Ireland. But otherwise he surely would have concurred with the mission statement. Patrick had come to enlighten and Christianize, Bam enlighten and Africanize. Peas in a pod. Kind of. Patrick wanted less of that kind of thing, Bambaata probably a bit more. He formed The Universal Zulu Nation, a broad church of hip hop, spirituality and all things Africa.  

Joseph Sadler was a wiry little bollocks. Like Herc, he was originally from Jamaica, and was good with his hands. Not only could he spin records, he was a qualified electrician. So it should come as no surprise that it was he who first succeeded in wiring two turntables to a mixer.

-‘Janey Mac’, he said to the waitress at his local cafe , ‘I’ve only gone and opened the door to sampling, changing the face of contemporary popular music, perhaps forever. Not bad for a wiry little bollox from de Bronx, wha’?’

-‘Fuck you on about? she replied.

And he was no mere DJ, either. Herc played his records, Bambaata enlightened, but Grandmaster Flash was a showman. He span the records with his feet, pirouetted, spliced, diced and generally acted like a prize chimp in the DJ’s booth.

- ‘Tell ye what, dat’s savage’, noted Walter ‘the bomb’ MacKenzie to his fellow Bronxian Rashid Washington Jr at one of Flash’s jams.

- ‘Ye not wrong there, so you’re not’, replied his pal. ‘Dem Jamaican lads are at it again. Must be something in the air out there – or maybe the grass, if ye know what I mean. Ay? Ay?

- ‘Ha ha. Ah will ye stop. Tell ye what, though. I predict this will change the face of music as we know it. It won’t be long before it’s threatening the higher echelons of the charts. DJs will now be limited only by their imaginations and the size of their record collections’.

- ‘It will and its bollocks’, replied the less-effusive Washington Jr.

But history shows Mr McKenzie's statement wasn’t a ‘will and its bollocks’ at all. Far from it. Flash, Bam and Herc – the holy trinity, as hip hop lore would have it. The disaffected youth of New York now had a voice, and its name was hip hop.

There would be others. Run DMC duetted with Aerosmith and got heavy rotation on MTV. They even played Live Aid, not that you were likely to see it.

- ‘Run DMC? You fuckin’ kiddin’ me’? We’re trying to raise money for staving Ethiopians. Last thing we need is people ringing in kicking up shit about two black lads in Adidas tops grabbing their balls’. They were the only Live Aid act not shown live on TV, the risk of bollock-grabbing too high.

But it couldn’t stop the juggernaut. And it would culminate in a spotty teenager in the arse end of Ireland being beholden to the sound of black men in sportswear and gold chains rhyming over pre-programmed beats.Watching The Sunday Game one summer’s evening in the late 80s, he realized why.

-Michael, I’ll tell ye now why hurling is the greatest sport in the world. Are ye listening now? I’ve watched some desperate games over the years. Brutal, only brutal. But I’ll tell ye this. No matter how bad it got, there’d always be something. Some lad would crack over a point from 65 metres, or cut one over the bar. Something to have you saying, ‘Holy God, that was savage good.

‘Compare that now to foreign rubbish like soccer. No goals at all in some games. Sure they all have long hair and they wear shinpads. Bunch of Nancy boys. I’ll tell ye know, if I got my hands on....

-‘Thanks Ger/Ogie/Denis/Micheal/Mossie (can't remember who), the point is well made though. Hurling is clearly the world’s greatest game because even the most boring game can be enlivened by a bit of trickery or magic. Ireland and the Irish are great!’

- ‘That’s exactly it Michael’.

This got me thinking. Krs One had a track called ‘Part-time Suckers’.  It consisted mainly of a serious of dictionary definitions, intended presumably to illustrate the superiority of his vocabulary over that of his less educated contemporaries. It sounded a bit like the speak-and-spell gizmo that Elliot gave ET to help him phone home. It was pretty shit, in all fairness.

But the last minute or so made it all worthwhile – a DJ workout, scratching the bejaysus out of a line from an old Smokey Robinson song. The half-way line cut over the bar, the point from the impossibly tight angle – the otherwise ‘brutal, only brutal’ track enlivened by a bit of DJ tomfoolery. It all made sense!

Hip hop was the hurling of the ghetto – the black man and the paddy man once more inextricably linked. Def Road would bear witness.

[dylodandria-blog]

TWD FANFIC: Human Genome Project

Disclaimer: This is a piece of fan fiction utilizing the world of The Walking Dead; it is for entertainment purposes only. I do not own nor do I have any rights to TWD copyright, privileges etc... Nor am I affiliated with its creator. With that being said I do hope you enjoy this fanciful version of possible events that could happen in the world of The Walking Dead. I also do not own any of the pictures that I have posted and they belong to their rightful owners.

Note: I am not a professional writer, my grammar and spelling might be atrocious. Please be kind as this is my first Fan Fiction piece.

Thank you,

Dria.

 Characters of TWD: As many as I can manage to fit in.

New characters:

TS-685436 (TS = Test Subject), Army veteran, female, early 30’s, white, 5’7”, athletic build, brown hair, brown eyes, and dark brown freckles.

Lieutenant Richards – aka Bear, Marine, security, male, late 40’s black, 6’3”, large muscular physique, black hair, and whiskey brown eyes.

SSGT Lionel – aka Silent Angel, Army Special Forces Sniper, security, male, early 30’s, white, 5’11”, dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a lithe athletic physique.

Rachel Ortega - aka Hell, Veteran Coast Guard Nurse, DOD employee, female, early 50’s, 5’3”, Hispanic, salt and pepper hair, brown eyes, and a slender athletic build.

 HUMAN GENOME PROJECT

Chapter 1

FOB (Foreword Operating Base) Human Genome Project Facility 967 48°28′44″N 122°53′31″W Designation: Lopez Island, Washington state.

 On 4 military assault rafts 37 souls sped away, the civilians in shock .staring at the destruction left in their wake, watched as the island was aflame plumes of smoke obscuring the horror as the dead decimated the living. What little military personnel made it out were taking inventory, checking weapons or navigating the water through body strewn waves from the ferry’s that crashed against one another the night before during the storm.

Those that made it out had only thrown a hastily made plan together as they knew it was only a matter of time when the beaches defenses would fail and they would be overridden with the dead. They had to get the last one out, the one that didn’t go insane.

Without her the possibility of a cure would be lost forever. They left the others lost to the madness from all the failed attempts in their cells. But her, she was made to be resistant to “it” whatever it was. A Bag with journals, notes, test results chemical formulas sat next to her prone form knocked out from the concussion grenades they used. They had no choice but to storm the building. The General would not listen to reason, he would not evacuate before it was too late. We had no choice but to break her out.

She had volunteered like all the others, but she was made prisoner by her successful transition, and him! The man that called himself a Doctor from the CDC Seattle Branch that was overrun; a scientist trying to “save all mankind” he had claimed. He was no such thing, and the “patients” those that did not make it they were treated no better than cattle being readied for the slaughter house.

Staff Sergent Lionel looked at her, thin, pale and poorly cared for; she had a bruise forming on the left cheek under her eye, bruises lining her arms like she had been a heroin junky for years. It was obvious to anyone that looked at her, that something had gone very wrong from the highly sought after prize of a cure. It was evident in the multiple scars up and down her arms. And there was no mistaking what they were from. Teeth marks, of which would forever mark her as different now.

No one even knew her name; they only knew her as TS-685436 from the tattoo on her chest. That should have been the first clue something wasn’t right with that man, Dr. Harris.

No names were allowed, we were ordered not to speak to them any of us that entered that building, we were told that they should not be disturbed. They said the stress incurred on the patients was because of the drugs and chemicals used, and the volunteers needed all their strength.

We should have known better, I should have known better.

By the time I opened my eyes it was nearly too late.

LT Richards: “Staff Sergent, it won’t do any good to dwell on it, focus on the maps we need to get to the main land, as far in as is possible. Hell, how do our medical supplies look?”

SSGT Lionel went back to his map, glancing over it every now and again watching and waiting for any movement from her, trying to find the best place to make shore if that was even possible now.

They all knew how bad things were on the main land, no bases were even operational anymore, and many were burned to the ground in the beginning aftermath from the panic.

Hell: “Sir it doesn’t look good, we have minimal medical supplies. Once we reach a safe landing we need to recon for more. She needs fluids, and will not last long without them. I can’t tell if there is any major damage from the grenades, but she’s weak more so lately. The bastard doubled her testing 5 days ago according to her charts. She’s had little rest and less food and water than she should have been given to compensate. Ever since the Dr. went mad, they cut rations too far below the needed levels for the patients in the project wards. It’s why we lost so many of them, faster than we should have.”

LT Richards: “Will there be any lasting damage?”

Hell: “I don’t know sir; I don’t even know how she made it this long. But if we do not get her the fluids she needs, it won’t matter anyway.”

The older woman looked down at TS-685436, she didn’t know how long precisely she was a patient in that god forsaken excuse of a field hospital, but once they entered that building to extract the patients she knew at only one glance around, even one day was too many.

It was a prison laboratory with cells; she did not know how this one woman even made it through even one week. But according to the charts that made it through the incursion, this patient had at least been there several months if not longer.

Too many of the documents were lost, in the ensuing firefight but, what they did find horrified her to her very core, no one should have had to of gone through that, never. They even tattooed them; it was how they identified her charts by the number on her chest.

Rachel was one of the intake processing nurses to the island after everything went to hell; she had seen more than her fair share of devastation, guilt and horror on the refugee’s faces from the main land every time one came in. They knew things had gotten horrifying there; it was bad when she fled.

However, it wasn’t until 7 months ago she finally realized the “volunteers” for the project were going missing, that there was an increase in military traffic on the boats outbound into Puget Sound with cargo but when they came back, the boats would be empty.

When she had asked questions she gotten demoted and sent to the far side of the island to “monitor” the soldiers’ health.  It was the poorest defended place on the island. That was until SSGT Lionel came, a sniper and a Special Forces Army soldier he turned that around in record time.

In him Rachel found someone she could trust and eventually confide in, she finally worked up the courage to reveal to him what she found, and days later he was called into the main camp on several occasions for debriefings. Each time he came back more disturbed.

Combining Rachel’s information and what he had seen with his own eyes, he turned to the only person he trusted on the island the Marine unit’s Lieutenant Richards but he knew him as Bear. Not because he was big for man, he was, but because the LT’s nephew called him that. It was fitting for him though in a marine unit and suited him well. It was the three of them that made the decision to leave, the night after the storm they knew time was running out.

The LT’s unit faithfully followed his command and trusted in him, out of all 87 marines not one faltered in their duty, they are the reason we are in these boats. Only 15 marines made it off the island, the rest either didn’t make it or died getting us to the rafts and off that death trap of an island.

Hell looked over at both the men that were responsible for saving all their lives and the few civilians that made it out as well. Looking back at the patient, she wondered if the horrors she endured while in that cell would irrevocably change her.

She hoped the woman would be sane enough, that when she woke up, that they would not have to put her down. She was after all the only thing left of the project; the only one that knew, and even though Rachel was a nurse, even she did not understand some of the procedures in those journals and charts. Without TS-685436 and her knowledge they had no hope at a cure or vaccination.

 Nothing it would have all been for nothing.

**more to come** :)

[toomanysinks]

The damage of defaults

Apple popped out a new pair of AirPods this week. The design looks exactly like the old pair of AirPods. Which means I’m never going to use them because Apple’s bulbous earbuds don’t fit my ears. Think square peg, round hole.

The only way I could rock AirPods would be to walk around with hands clamped to the sides of my head to stop them from falling out. Which might make a nice cut in a glossy Apple ad for the gizmo — suggesting a feeling of closeness to the music, such that you can’t help but cup; a suggestive visual metaphor for the aural intimacy Apple surely wants its technology to communicate.

But the reality of trying to use earbuds that don’t fit is not that at all. It’s just shit. They fall out at the slightest movement so you either sit and never turn your head or, yes, hold them in with your hands. Oh hai, hands-not-so-free-pods!

The obvious point here is that one size does not fit all — howsoever much Apple’s Jony Ive and his softly spoken design team believe they have devised a universal earbud that pops snugly in every ear and just works. Sorry, nope!

Hi @tim_cook, I fixed that sketch for you. Introducing #InPods — because one size doesn’t fit all pic.twitter.com/jubagMnwjt

— Natasha (@riptari) March 20, 2019

A proportion of iOS users — perhaps other petite women like me, or indeed men with less capacious ear holes — are simply being removed from Apple’s sales equation where earbuds are concerned. Apple is pretending we don’t exist.

Sure we can just buy another brand of more appropriately sized earbuds. The in-ear, noise-canceling kind are my preference. Apple does not make ‘InPods’. But that’s not a huge deal. Well, not yet.

It’s true, the consumer tech giant did also delete the headphone jack from iPhones. Thereby depreciating my existing pair of wired in-ear headphones (if I ever upgrade to a 3.5mm-jack-less iPhone). But I could just shell out for Bluetooth wireless in-ear buds that fit my shell-like ears and carry on as normal.

Universal in-ear headphones have existed for years, of course. A delightful design concept. You get a selection of different sized rubber caps shipped with the product and choose the size that best fits.

Unfortunately Apple isn’t in the ‘InPods’ business though. Possibly for aesthetic reasons. Most likely because — and there’s more than a little irony here — an in-ear design wouldn’t be naturally roomy enough to fit all the stuff Siri needs to, y’know, fake intelligence.

Which means people like me with small ears are being passed over in favor of Apple’s voice assistant. So that’s AI: 1, non-‘standard’-sized human: 0. Which also, unsurprisingly, feels like shit.

I say ‘yet’ because if voice computing does become the next major computing interaction paradigm, as some believe — given how Internet connectivity is set to get baked into everything (and sticking screens everywhere would be a visual and usability nightmare; albeit microphones everywhere is a privacy nightmare… ) — then the minority of humans with petite earholes will be at a disadvantage vs those who can just pop in their smart, sensor-packed earbud and get on with telling their Internet-enabled surroundings to do their bidding.

Will parents of future generations of designer babies select for adequately capacious earholes so their child can pop an AI in? Let’s hope not.

We’re also not at the voice computing singularity yet. Outside the usual tech bubbles it remains a bit of a novel gimmick. Amazon has drummed up some interest with in-home smart speakers housing its own voice AI Alexa (a brand choice that has, incidentally, caused a verbal headache for actual humans called Alexa). Though its Echo smart speakers appear to mostly get used as expensive weather checkers and egg timers. Or else for playing music — a function that a standard speaker or smartphone will happily perform.

Certainly a voice AI is not something you need with you 24/7 yet. Prodding at a touchscreen remains the standard way of tapping into the power and convenience of mobile computing for the majority of consumers in developed markets.

The thing is, though, it still grates to be ignored. To be told — even indirectly — by one of the world’s wealthiest consumer technology companies that it doesn’t believe your ears exist.

Or, well, that it’s weighed up the sales calculations and decided it’s okay to drop a petite-holed minority on the cutting room floor. So that’s ‘ear meet AirPod’. Not ‘AirPod meet ear’ then.

But the underlying issue is much bigger than Apple’s (in my case) oversized earbuds. Its latest shiny set of AirPods are just an ill-fitting reminder of how many technology defaults simply don’t ‘fit’ the world as claimed.

Because if cash-rich Apple’s okay with promoting a universal default (that isn’t), think of all the less well resourced technology firms chasing scale for other single-sized, ill-fitting solutions. And all the problems flowing from attempts to mash ill-mapped technology onto society at large.

When it comes to wrong-sized physical kit I’ve had similar issues with standard office computing equipment and furniture. Products that seems — surprise, surprise! — to have been default designed with a 6ft strapping guy in mind. Keyboards so long they end up gifting the smaller user RSI. Office chairs that deliver chronic back-pain as a service. Chunky mice that quickly wrack the hand with pain. (Apple is a historical offender there too I’m afraid.)

The fixes for such ergonomic design failures is simply not to use the kit. To find a better-sized (often DIY) alternative that does ‘fit’.

But a DIY fix may not be an option when discrepancy is embedded at the software level — and where a system is being applied to you, rather than you the human wanting to augment yourself with a bit of tech, such as a pair of smart earbuds.

With software, embedded flaws and system design failures may also be harder to spot because it’s not necessarily immediately obvious there’s a problem. Oftentimes algorithmic bias isn’t visible until damage has been done.

And there’s no shortage of stories already about how software defaults configured for a biased median have ended up causing real-world harm. (See for example: ProPublica’s analysis of the COMPAS recidividism tool — software it found incorrectly judging black defendants more likely to offend than white. So software amplifying existing racial prejudice.)

Of course AI makes this problem so much worse.

Which is why the emphasis must be on catching bias in the datasets — before there is a chance for prejudice or bias to be ‘systematized’ and get baked into algorithms that can do damage at scale.

The algorithms must also be explainable. And outcomes auditable. Transparency as disinfectant; not secret blackboxes stuffed with unknowable code.

Doing all this requires huge up-front thought and effort on system design, and an even bigger change of attitude. It also needs massive, massive attention to diversity. An industry-wide championing of humanity’s multifaceted and multi-sized reality — and to making sure that’s reflected in both data and design choices (and therefore the teams doing the design and dev work).

You could say what’s needed is a recognition there’s never, ever a one-sized-fits all plug.

Indeed, that all algorithmic ‘solutions’ are abstractions that make compromises on accuracy and utility. And that those trade-offs can become viciously cutting knives that exclude, deny, disadvantage, delete and damage people at scale.

Expensive earbuds that won’t stay put is just a handy visual metaphor.

And while discussion about the risks and challenges of algorithmic bias has stepped up in recent years, as AI technologies have proliferated — with mainstream tech conferences actively debating how to “democratize AI” and bake diversity and ethics into system design via a development focus on principles like transparency, explainability, accountability and fairness — the industry has not even begun to fix its diversity problem.

It’s barely moved the needle on diversity. And its products continue to reflect that fundamental flaw.

Stanford just launched their Institute for Human-Centered Artificial Intelligence (@StanfordHAI) with great fanfare. The mission: "The creators and designers of AI must be broadly representative of humanity."

121 faculty members listed.

Not a single faculty member is Black. pic.twitter.com/znCU6zAxui

— Chad Loder ❁ (@chadloder) March 21, 2019

Many — if not most — of the tech industry’s problems can be traced back to the fact that inadequately diverse teams are chasing scale while lacking the perspective to realize their system design is repurposing human harm as a de facto performance measure. (Although ‘lack of perspective’ is the charitable interpretation in certain cases; moral vacuum may be closer to the mark.)

As WWW creator, Sir Tim Berners-Lee, has pointed out, system design is now society design. That means engineers, coders, AI technologists are all working at the frontline of ethics. The design choices they make have the potential to impact, influence and shape the lives of millions and even billions of people.

And when you’re designing society a median mindset and limited perspective cannot ever be an acceptable foundation. It’s also a recipe for product failure down the line.

The current backlash against big tech shows that the stakes and the damage are very real when poorly designed technologies get dumped thoughtlessly on people.

Life is messy and complex. People won’t fit a platform that oversimplifies and overlooks. And if your excuse for scaling harm is ‘we just didn’t think of that’ you’ve failed at your job and should really be headed out the door.

Because the consequences for being excluded by flawed system design are also scaling and stepping up as platforms proliferate and more life-impacting decisions get automated. Harm is being squared. Even as the underlying industry drum hasn’t skipped a beat in its prediction that everything will be digitized.

Which means that horribly biased parole systems are just the tip of the ethical iceberg. Think of healthcare, social welfare, law enforcement, education, recruitment, transportation, construction, urban environments, farming, the military, the list of what will be digitized — and of manual or human overseen processes that will get systematized and automated — goes on.

Software — runs the industry mantra — is eating the world. That means badly designed technology products will harm more and more people.

But responsibility for sociotechnical misfit can’t just be scaled away as so much ‘collateral damage’.

So while an ‘elite’ design team led by a famous white guy might be able to craft a pleasingly curved earbud, such an approach cannot and does not automagically translate into AirPods with perfect, universal fit.

It’s someone’s standard. It’s certainly not mine.

We can posit that a more diverse Apple design team might have been able to rethink the AirPod design so as not to exclude those with smaller ears. Or make a case to convince the powers that be in Cupertino to add another size choice. We can but speculate.

What’s clear is the future of technology design can’t be so stubborn.

It must be radically inclusive and incredibly sensitive. Human-centric. Not locked to damaging defaults in its haste to impose a limited set of ideas.

Above all, it needs a listening ear on the world.

Indifference to difference and a blindspot for diversity will find no future here.

source https://techcrunch.com/2019/03/23/the-damage-of-defaults/

[fmservers]

The damage of defaults

Apple popped out a new pair of AirPods this week. The design looks exactly like the old pair of AirPods. Which means I’m never going to use them because Apple’s bulbous earbuds don’t fit my ears. Think square peg, round hole.

The only way I could rock AirPods would be to walk around with hands clamped to the sides of my head to stop them from falling out. Which might make a nice cut in a glossy Apple ad for the gizmo — suggesting a feeling of closeness to the music, such that you can’t help but cup; a suggestive visual metaphor for the aural intimacy Apple surely wants its technology to communicate.

But the reality of trying to use earbuds that don’t fit is not that at all. It’s just shit. They fall out at the slightest movement so you either sit and never turn your head or, yes, hold them in with your hands. Oh hai, hands-not-so-free-pods!

The obvious point here is that one size does not fit all — howsoever much Apple’s Jony Ive and his softly spoken design team believe they have devised a universal earbud that pops snugly in every ear and just works. Sorry, nope!

Hi @tim_cook, I fixed that sketch for you. Introducing #InPods — because one size doesn’t fit all pic.twitter.com/jubagMnwjt

— Natasha (@riptari) March 20, 2019

A proportion of iOS users — perhaps other petite women like me, or indeed men with less capacious ear holes — are simply being removed from Apple’s sales equation where earbuds are concerned. Apple is pretending we don’t exist.

Sure we can just buy another brand of more appropriately sized earbuds. The in-ear, noise-canceling kind are my preference. Apple does not make ‘InPods’. But that’s not a huge deal. Well, not yet.

It’s true, the consumer tech giant did also delete the headphone jack from iPhones. Thereby depreciating my existing pair of wired in-ear headphones (if I ever upgrade to a 3.5mm-jack-less iPhone). But I could just shell out for Bluetooth wireless in-ear buds that fit my shell-like ears and carry on as normal.

Universal in-ear headphones have existed for years, of course. A delightful design concept. You get a selection of different sized rubber caps shipped with the product and choose the size that best fits.

Unfortunately Apple isn’t in the ‘InPods’ business though. Possibly for aesthetic reasons. Most likely because — and there’s more than a little irony here — an in-ear design wouldn’t be naturally roomy enough to fit all the stuff Siri needs to, y’know, fake intelligence.

Which means people like me with small ears are being passed over in favor of Apple’s voice assistant. So that’s AI: 1, non-‘standard’-sized human: 0. Which also, unsurprisingly, feels like shit.

I say ‘yet’ because if voice computing does become the next major computing interaction paradigm, as some believe — given how Internet connectivity is set to get baked into everything (and sticking screens everywhere would be a visual and usability nightmare; albeit microphones everywhere is a privacy nightmare… ) — then the minority of humans with petite earholes will be at a disadvantage vs those who can just pop in their smart, sensor-packed earbud and get on with telling their Internet-enabled surroundings to do their bidding.

Will parents of future generations of designer babies select for adequately capacious earholes so their child can pop an AI in? Let’s hope not.

We’re also not at the voice computing singularity yet. Outside the usual tech bubbles it remains a bit of a novel gimmick. Amazon has drummed up some interest with in-home smart speakers housing its own voice AI Alexa (a brand choice that has, incidentally, caused a verbal headache for actual humans called Alexa). Though its Echo smart speakers appear to mostly get used as expensive weather checkers and egg timers. Or else for playing music — a function that a standard speaker or smartphone will happily perform.

Certainly a voice AI is not something you need with you 24/7 yet. Prodding at a touchscreen remains the standard way of tapping into the power and convenience of mobile computing for the majority of consumers in developed markets.

The thing is, though, it still grates to be ignored. To be told — even indirectly — by one of the world’s wealthiest consumer technology companies that it doesn’t believe your ears exist.

Or, well, that it’s weighed up the sales calculations and decided it’s okay to drop a petite-holed minority on the cutting room floor. So that’s ‘ear meet AirPod’. Not ‘AirPod meet ear’ then.

But the underlying issue is much bigger than Apple’s (in my case) oversized earbuds. Its latest shiny set of AirPods are just an ill-fitting reminder of how many technology defaults simply don’t ‘fit’ the world as claimed.

Because if cash-rich Apple’s okay with promoting a universal default (that isn’t), think of all the less well resourced technology firms chasing scale for other single-sized, ill-fitting solutions. And all the problems flowing from attempts to mash ill-mapped technology onto society at large.

When it comes to wrong-sized physical kit I’ve had similar issues with standard office computing equipment and furniture. Products that seems — surprise, surprise! — to have been default designed with a 6ft strapping guy in mind. Keyboards so long they end up gifting the smaller user RSI. Office chairs that deliver chronic back-pain as a service. Chunky mice that quickly wrack the hand with pain. (Apple is a historical offender there too I’m afraid.)

The fixes for such ergonomic design failures is simply not to use the kit. To find a better-sized (often DIY) alternative that does ‘fit’.

But a DIY fix may not be an option when discrepancy is embedded at the software level — and where a system is being applied to you, rather than you the human wanting to augment yourself with a bit of tech, such as a pair of smart earbuds.

With software, embedded flaws and system design failures may also be harder to spot because it’s not necessarily immediately obvious there’s a problem. Oftentimes algorithmic bias isn’t visible until damage has been done.

And there’s no shortage of stories already about how software defaults configured for a biased median have ended up causing real-world harm. (See for example: ProPublica’s analysis of the COMPAS recidividism tool — software it found incorrectly judging black defendants more likely to offend than white. So software amplifying existing racial prejudice.)

Of course AI makes this problem so much worse.

Which is why the emphasis must be on catching bias in the datasets — before there is a chance for prejudice or bias to be ‘systematized’ and get baked into algorithms that can do damage at scale.

The algorithms must also be explainable. And outcomes auditable. Transparency as disinfectant; not secret blackboxes stuffed with unknowable code.

Doing all this requires huge up-front thought and effort on system design, and an even bigger change of attitude. It also needs massive, massive attention to diversity. An industry-wide championing of humanity’s multifaceted and multi-sized reality — and to making sure that’s reflected in both data and design choices (and therefore the teams doing the design and dev work).

You could say what’s needed is a recognition there’s never, ever a one-sized-fits all plug.

Indeed, that all algorithmic ‘solutions’ are abstractions that make compromises on accuracy and utility. And that those trade-offs can become viciously cutting knives that exclude, deny, disadvantage, delete and damage people at scale.

Expensive earbuds that won’t stay put is just a handy visual metaphor.

And while discussion about the risks and challenges of algorithmic bias has stepped up in recent years, as AI technologies have proliferated — with mainstream tech conferences actively debating how to “democratize AI” and bake diversity and ethics into system design via a development focus on principles like transparency, explainability, accountability and fairness — the industry has not even begun to fix its diversity problem.

It’s barely moved the needle on diversity. And its products continue to reflect that fundamental flaw.

Stanford just launched their Institute for Human-Centered Artificial Intelligence (@StanfordHAI) with great fanfare. The mission: "The creators and designers of AI must be broadly representative of humanity."

121 faculty members listed.

Not a single faculty member is Black. pic.twitter.com/znCU6zAxui

— Chad Loder ❁ (@chadloder) March 21, 2019

Many — if not most — of the tech industry’s problems can be traced back to the fact that inadequately diverse teams are chasing scale while lacking the perspective to realize their system design is repurposing human harm as a de facto performance measure. (Although ‘lack of perspective’ is the charitable interpretation in certain cases; moral vacuum may be closer to the mark.)

As WWW creator, Sir Tim Berners-Lee, has pointed out, system design is now society design. That means engineers, coders, AI technologists are all working at the frontline of ethics. The design choices they make have the potential to impact, influence and shape the lives of millions and even billions of people.

And when you’re designing society a median mindset and limited perspective cannot ever be an acceptable foundation. It’s also a recipe for product failure down the line.

The current backlash against big tech shows that the stakes and the damage are very real when poorly designed technologies get dumped thoughtlessly on people.

Life is messy and complex. People won’t fit a platform that oversimplifies and overlooks. And if your excuse for scaling harm is ‘we just didn’t think of that’ you’ve failed at your job and should really be headed out the door.

Because the consequences for being excluded by flawed system design are also scaling and stepping up as platforms proliferate and more life-impacting decisions get automated. Harm is being squared. Even as the underlying industry drum hasn’t skipped a beat in its prediction that everything will be digitized.

Which means that horribly biased parole systems are just the tip of the ethical iceberg. Think of healthcare, social welfare, law enforcement, education, recruitment, transportation, construction, urban environments, farming, the military, the list of what will be digitized — and of manual or human overseen processes that will get systematized and automated — goes on.

Software — runs the industry mantra — is eating the world. That means badly designed technology products will harm more and more people.

But responsibility for sociotechnical misfit can’t just be scaled away as so much ‘collateral damage’.

So while an ‘elite’ design team led by a famous white guy might be able to craft a pleasingly curved earbud, such an approach cannot and does not automagically translate into AirPods with perfect, universal fit.

It’s someone’s standard. It’s certainly not mine.

We can posit that a more diverse Apple design team might have been able to rethink the AirPod design so as not to exclude those with smaller ears. Or make a case to convince the powers that be in Cupertino to add another size choice. We can but speculate.

What’s clear is the future of technology design can’t be so stubborn.

It must be radically inclusive and incredibly sensitive. Human-centric. Not locked to damaging defaults in its haste to impose a limited set of ideas.

Above all, it needs a listening ear on the world.

Indifference to difference and a blindspot for diversity will find no future here.

Via Natasha Lomas https://techcrunch.com