#and how both of them expected a righteous kind of anger instead of whatever form of pity this is...

[efverse]

"...i don't need you of all pokemon, to pretend to care about me."

"..."

[yandere-daydreams]

Woo requests are open!!! This might be controversial but I'm here to request for more of dicku...you write him so well this is entirely on you. For scenario something similar to the recent BOE ask thank you!!!

This post, right? I do love a thoroughly delusional Yandere falling for a cam-person, if only because they’d be so committed to all that manufactured intimacy... it’s a match made in heaven, isn’t it?

Title: I’m A Whore, You Idiot.

TW: Nonconsensual Touching and Delusional Mindsets.

~

In your defense, this hadn’t been in the contract.

It might’ve been, actually, if you were being honest with yourself. You’d gone through so many clients since the start of your ‘side job’, and every single one came with some kind of baggage, some kind of trauma or anxiety or issue that rendered them without the time or means to establish a normal relationship as unconditional as they’d like. The service you provided was a needed one, whether you were soothing Shoto as he cried his eyes out or telling Red Riot he was your hero until your voice went hoarse, usually while clad in little more than an outfit that’d be considered scandalous in the worst of neighborhoods. Izuku wasn’t supposed to be any different. He wasn’t different, really. Just stressed and lonely and so, so clingy. They all were.

And yet, he was the only one who couldn’t seem to stay on his side of the screen.

He was the only one who wouldn’t let go.

You nearly sighed when you saw him, standing outside of your apartment door, one hand fidgeting nervously at his side and the other clutching a dozen or so roses, the bouquet half-heartedly hidden behind his back. He must’ve been on his way home, still wearing in the familiar grey track-suit he was always appeared in, during your nightly sessions. For a moment, you wondered if he’d been planning this, and if so, for how long. You dreaded the possibility that he’d put any kind of weight on this interaction, but a spontaneous visit might’ve been worse. It meant he didn’t have an objective you could fill before sending him on his way.

It meant he’d come to see you.

You didn’t bother forcing a smile. If a bad attitude was enough to keep him at bay, you’d be more relieved than disappointed. “Again?”

Another nervous smile, as shaky as it was panicked. He bit the inside of his cheek as he held out the bouquet, and reluctantly, you accepted it, keeping the array at arm’s length and barely giving it a second glance. It’d join his other ‘gifts’ on your kitchen counter in a few minutes, left to rot until you found the motivation to sort through the growing pile properly. This would be the first one he delivered by hand, though, rather than leaving you to collect them from the flustered clerk attending your building’s lobby. “It’s romantic, right?” He asked, his grin broadening, as if he had a reason to be proud of himself. “You’re always so shy, I knew you’d never give me an address, but then I realized my agency had your emergency contact information for evacuations, and--” He cut himself off, his ramble trailing off into a stuttered laugh. “I thought it’d be sweet if I stopped by.”

“That’s not… No, Midoriya.” It might’ve been the shock, or the exhaustion of a day that just couldn’t seem to end, but the strongest reaction you were able to summon was a small frown and a shake of your head, both barely noticeable. Izuku deflated, ever so slightly, but made no move to take his leave. “You can’t keep… You’re trying to turn our relationship into something it’s not, and I’m not going to indulge you. I’m your employee, I work for you. You can’t just show up and try to change that.”

He opened his mouth, his smile wavering slightly, but you were already closing the door, not wanting to hear whatever excuse was playing on his tongue. But, Izuku didn’t like that plan as much as you did, catching the door, holding it in place as you attempted to counteract his weight. “I have to,” He explained, speaking a little louder than he had been, a little hastier. “You never want to talk about us. When I call, you hang up, and you say you don’t want to waste time during our…” He grit his teeth, narrowing his eyes, continuing more aggressively. “It’s unfair. I’m trying my hardest, but you’re--”

“You’re paying me. There’s nothing to talk about!” With a grunt, you made a final effort to shove him out of your apartment, but Izuku only glowered, refusing to budge and stepping over the threshold. You relented, dropping your door as a defined, deepened crack formed under Izuku’s palm, his anger betraying him, only making itself more evident in the stern scowl etched into his lips, something in your stomach beginning to twist and deform in a primal, instinctive warning. Still, you clenched your fists at your sides, attempting to steel yourself. You’d been working with Izuku for months now. You knew him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t hurt you. “Get out. We can discuss this when you’re feeling rational, or else…” You paused, running a hand through your hair, letting out a deep, ragged breath. “I like our arrangement. I don’t mind it when you ask me to act like someone else, or do all the weird shit you’re into, but I can’t pretend you’re my boyfriend. I’ll call your manager tomorrow, this isn’t working. You need help, real help--”

Something must’ve set him off. You couldn’t be sure if it was your pity or your tone or anything outside of that fucked-up head of his, but in the blink of an eye, he had your collar in a vice grip, closing the distance between you and pinning you under his glare, your empathy quickly turning to anger. “I am your boyfriend. You wouldn’t be so affectionate, if I wasn’t. You wouldn’t say you love me. You’re the only one not thinking straight.”

You stiffened, crossing your arms. Trying to regain as much dignity as you could. “You pay me to fuck myself and let you watch,” You said, dryly. “That’s not something a boyfriend should have to do.”

You almost expected him to be louder. There was a low growl, a hollow thud as he kicked your door closed, and in a moment, your back was pressed against his chest, a hand clasped over the lower half of your face and his free arm wrapped around your torso, restricting your movements to pathetic squirms, your attempts to get away as limited as they were pathetic. You writhed, attempting to call and scream and struggle, but Izuku only tightened his hold, pushing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless, something in your chest beginning to ache under the pressure.

“You’re confused,” He mumbled, his forehead coming to rest against the nape of your neck. “Poor baby, I should’ve been more clear about our relationship. I don’t know why I expected you to understand. It’s alright, though.”

Again, you fought, and again, Izuku pulled you closer, lifting you off your feet entirely a second later. You expected him to drag you out into the hall, to hurt you or make threats or take you somewhere else, but instead, Izuku ventured further into your home, moving slowly, searching for something and locking onto once his target had been found. Numbly, you acknowledged that he was starting towards your bedroom, his stride suddenly confident, righteous, but you couldn’t seem to focus on his goal.

Not when his smile, wide and toothy, was back in full force.

“You just need to see how close we’re meant to be.”

[st-just]

Barely coherent rambling about nation-states, culture, the Hapsburgs, and Canada

Because why have a blog except to occasionally purge one of the essays floating around half-formed in your brain. To be clear, it’s still half-formed, just on tumblr now. 1,666 words, here’s the Deveraux essay mentioned. Book is Martyn Rady’s The Hapsburgs: To Rule The World

So I’ve had like, nationalism on my mind recently.

And so there’s a kind of recurring beat in left-of-centre American political discourse (like, not ‘internet rnados screaming at each other’ discourse, ‘people with doctorates or think tank positions having debates on podcasts or exchanging op eds’ discourse) where you have some people on the radical end list some of the various horrible atrocities the country is built on, the ways that all the national myths are lies, and how all the saints of the civic religion were monsters to one degree or another – this can come in a flavor of either righteous anger or, like, intellectual sport. And then on the other end you have the, well, Matt Yglesiases of the world. Who don’t really argue any of the points of fact, but do kind of roll their eyes at the whole exercise and say that sure, but Mom and Apple Pie and the American Way are still popular, and if you’re trying to win power in a democracy telling the majority of the population that their most cherished beliefs are both stupid and evil isn’t a great move.

Anyway, a couple weeks back Deveraux posted an essay for the 4th of July (which I don’t totally buy, but is an interesting read) about why the reason American nationalism is so intensely bundled up into a couple pieces of paper and maybe a dozen personalities is precisely because it isn’t a nation at all. Basically, his thesis is that in proper nation-states like England or the Netherlands or wherever, there really is a core population that is the overwhelming demographic majority and really have lived in more or less the same places since time immemorial, and that once the enthographers and mythologists finish their work, all those people really do identify with both the same nation and the same state as its expression. America, by contrast, is by virtue of being a settler nation whose citizenry was filled by waves of immigrants from all the ass ends of Eurasia in a historical eyeblink, even before you add in the native population and descendants of slaves lacks any single core ethnicity that is anywhere close to a majority, as well as any organic national traditions or claims to an ‘ancestral homeland’ that aren’t obviously absurd (and we are trying to include the descendents of slaves and the native population these days, to varying levels of success). All this to say that his point is America is a civic state, not a national one, with the identity of ‘American’ being divorced from ethnicity and instead tied to things like the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the whole cult around the Founding Fathers, Lincoln, and [FDR and/or Reagan depending on your politics].

Which, like I said, don’t totally buy, but interesting. (to a degree he overstates how homogenus ‘actual’ nation-states are, he makes America sound very special but if his analysis holds that it’d presumably also apply to several other former settler colonies, in the American context there’s a fairly solid case to be made that the whole ‘nation of immigrants’ story and the racial identity of whiteness were constructed to function as an erratz national ethnicity, with incredible success, etc, etc).

But anyway, if we accept that the American identity is bound up in its civic religion and the mythologized version of its political history, it’s absolutely the case that there’s several segments of the left who take incredibly joy in tearing said civic religion and national mythology apart and dragging whatever’s left through the mud. I mean, hell, I do! (reminder: any politician whose ever had a statue dedicated to them was probably a monster). And, well, call it a greater awareness of historical crimes and injustice, or the postmodern disdain for idols and systems leaking out through the increasingly college-educated populace, or the liquid acid of modernity dissolving away all unchosen identities, or a Marxist cabal undermining the national spirit to pave the way for the Revolution or whatever you like, but in whichever case, that critical discourse is certainly much more prominent and influential among left and liberal media and politics types that is was in decades past.

And, okay, so I finished Martyn Rady’s The Hapsburgs a few days ago. And I mentioned as I was reading it that the chapters on the 19th and 20th centuries reminded me quite a bit of courses I’d taken in school on the late Ottoman Empire and Soviet Union. Because all three are multi/non-national states (Empires, in Deveraux’s terminology, though that’s varying degrees of questionable for each, I think. Moreso for the Hapsburgs than the rest) who outlasted their own ideological legitimacy. And in all three cases it just, well, it didn’t not matter, but even as all the ceremonies got more absurd and farcical  and the politics more consumed by inertia punctuated with crises, things kept limping along just fine for decades. Even in the face of intense crisis, dissolution wasn’t inevitable. (The Ottomans are a less central example here, admittedly, precisely because of the late attempt to recenter the empire on Turkish nationalism. But even then, more Arab soldiers fought for the Sultan-Caliph than ever did for the Hashemites, and most prewar Arab nationalism was either purely cultural or imagined the Empire reformed into a binational federation, not dissolved).

But as Rady says in the book – losing WW1 crippled Germany, it dissolved Austria-Hungary. And in all three cases, as soon as they were gone, the idea of bringing them back instantly became at least a bit absurd.

And okay, to now pivot to talking about where I actually live but about whose politics I (shamefully) know significantly less than America’s. I mean, maybe it’s because most of my history education from public school was given by either pinko commies or liberals still high off ‘90s one-world universalism, or maybe it’s just a matter of social class, but I really can’t remember ever having taken the whole wannabe civic religion of Canada seriously (the only even serious attempt at sacredness I recall was for Remembrance Day). Even today, the main things I remember about our Founding Father is that he was an alcoholic who lost power in a railroad corruption scandal.

Really, in all my experience the only unifying threads of national/particular Canadian identity are a flag, a healthcare system, those Canadian Heritage Minute propaganda ads, a bill of rights from the ‘60s, and an overpowering sense of polite smugness towards the States.

And that last one (or, at least, the generally rose-colored ‘Canada is the good one’ view of history) is taking something of a beating, on account of all the mass graves really rubbing the public’s noses in the whole genocide thing. At least among big segments of the intellectual and activist classes, most of the symbols of Canadian nationhood are necessarily becoming illegitimate as Canada is, in fact, a project of genocidal settle colonialism.

But it really is just purely symbolic. Most of the municipalities who cancelled their Canada Day celebrations are going to elect Liberal MPs and help give our Natural Governing Party its majority in the next election, no one of any significance has actually challenged the authority of the civil service or the courts. And, frankly, most of the people who are loudly skeptical of all the symbols of the nations are also the ones whose political projects most heavily rely on an efficient and powerful state bureaucracy to carry out.

(This is leaving aside Quebec, which very much does have a live national identity insofar as the vigorous protection of national symbols is what wins provincial elections. If I felt like doing research and/or reaching more there’s probably something there on how pro-independence sentiment has largely simmered down at a pace with the decline of attempts to impose a national Canadian identity).

I mean, Canada does have rather more of a base for a ‘national’ population core than the US (especially if you’re generous and count the people who mark French on the census as a core population as well). At the same time, no one really expects this to continue to be the case – even back in Junior High, I remember one of the hand outs we got explaining that due to declining fertility most or all future population growth would come from immigration (I remember being confused when my mother was weirdly uncomfortable with the idea when it came up). I suppose our government gets credit for managing public opinion such that anti-immigration backlash hasn’t taken over the political conversation. Which you’d think would be a low bar but, well.

But anyway, to try and begin wrapping this rambling mess up – it does rather feel like Rady’s portrayal of the late Hapsburg empire might have a few passing similarities to the future of Canada. A multinational state whose constitution and political system and built on foundations and legitimized by history that no one actually believes in anymore, or at least no more than they have to pretend to to justify the positions they hold, but persisting because it’s convenient and it’s there and any alternatives are really only going to seem practical after a complete economic collapse or apocalyptic war. (Though our civil service is a Josephist’s dream by comparison, really.)

Or maybe I’m premature, and the dominant culture will just be incredibly effective at assimilating immigrants into that civic identity. Anecdotally, the only people I know who are at all enthusiastic about Canada as an idea are first generation immigrants. I could certainly just be projecting, really – I’ve never really been able to get all that invested in the nation-state as an idea of more moral power than ‘a convenient administrative division of humanity’, and certainly liberating ourselves form the need to defend the past would certainly rectifying certain injustices easier.  

Or maybe I’m just being incredibly optimistic. Half the economy’s resource extraction and the other half’s real estate, so decent odds the entire place just literally goes up in flames over the next few decades. BC’s already well on its way.

[mentalisttraceur-long]

So a Karen had a crying breakdown, after (not?) trying to hit black woman.

Ideally I just wouldn't have to experience this discourse, let alone ever need to talk about it, but if this preempts even on unpleasant-for-me take on this recent event, it's worth it. So here's why (almost) everyone is wrong somehow about this latest thing:

Your immediate reaction, in every situation ever, should be to consider the possibility that before the start of the footage, the seemingly obviously in-the-right party was doing something awful which justified what the seemingly obviously in-the-wrong party did. Ideally you readily think of at least one such situation, put yourself in the shoes of the superficially in-the-wrong party, and go on in alert for evidence of that possibility.

Similarly, you do not get to instead jump to the conclusion that the party most superficially in-the-right, was just looking to game how it looked and turn social outrage against the person. Same requirement: you should be able to think of at least one scenario where the party actually is really in-the-right, but for some reason feels legitimately worried and looking for evidence, put yourself in their shoes, and go in alert for evidence of that possibility.

In almost every situation where something bad happens, more than one person can be at fault or bad in some way, and that is almost always the case. Finding one person in the wrong in a situation is for immature children - you should be expecting that each person did something that was bad in itself, or made the situation worse than it should have been.

In this specific situation, the facial expression at the start of the footage is clearly pleading, possibly escalating to panicky, not one of the looks people tend to have on their faces when deliberately assaulting someone.

In this specific situation, the movements at the start of the footage look most like a reflexive panicky movement of instinctively wanting to grab or push down the recording phone. Given the facial features in the split second prior, this is the more likely interpretation. Given everything that happens after, this is the even more likely interpretation. Less likely in the unfavorable direction, the hand was being raised in a wind-up for hitting. Less likely in the favorable direction, the hand was being raised as emphasis/communication. More than one of of these could have been true, either at various moments, or even at the same time if the person was conflicted or still figuring out what they wanted to do.

In this specific situation, the recording person maybe had very good reason to want to record the interaction for their own safety, and the good reason may have included race-related stuff.

In general in the current social reality, a person in a confrontation often enough has good reason to want to record the interaction for their own safety, and a black person confronting a white person often enough has extra good reason on top of the race-independent good reasons.

We do not have good enough resolution on the face in a lot of frames to easily judge facial expressions, and this increases the danger of people reading in whatever they want into her facial expressions. I already see this. People seeing smiles in pixelated frames where I would say a more experienced gaze sees no likely smile, and where even if there is a smile there is not enough detail to distinguish a nervous or supplicating or reassurance-seeking smile from the smiles that would suggest malice or duplicity.

The person being recorded exhibits what is both entirely consistent with a genuine meltdown of an emotionally sensitive person being severely upset and panicking because they don't know how to handle the situation they are in, and which is consistent with a deliberately played-up reaction.

The repeated insistence of "no I didn't" with no elaboration could be true and the person is having a hard time figuring out how to say what they actually were doing, or could be false and the person is having a hard time coming up with a cover. Personally I find it much easier to come up with a believable lie which fits people's impressions on the spot, than to come up with a believable way of getting the truth around people's already-formed/forming wrong impressions.

The slow sink to the floor, especially with a sudden reduction in crying volume around the same time, is extremely consistent with people having a really bad upset. People freak out while crying badly enough, until they get light-headed and weak and it's like a half-involuntary thing which looks exactly like that - the involuntary part being that the person recognized that if they don't do a controlled descent, they're gonna have a worse uncontrolled collapse instead. On the other hand, any emotion is consistent with this - it's the crying and degree of physical activation that does it, not the nature or legitimacy of the emotion. But of course a skilled-enough faker can probably either fake it or work themselves up to a real one.

The person recording the interaction repeatedly exhibits signs of callousness, and a couple of instances of what sounds like cruel glee. If you have a person who's having a crying fit or is lying on the ground, what the fuck compels you to make snide comments or laughs at or about them, especially within hearing range? I understand that you might want to keep the camera on just in case something bad or new suddenly happens, but I'm sure if you tried to think really hard you could find a way to maybe not keep your camera persistently trained on a person actively begging you not to record their breakdown, or to least be less of an agitating, escalating dick about it.

But if we're being maximally charitable, the person recording it was probably in a very confrontational state, the kind where all sorts of social monkey politics instincts and emotions sway how we act. She might have also been trying to communicate with her TicTok friends live, giving them an update, and maybe her friends were genuinely worried.

The person doing the recording is also persistently managing to interpret and spin everything towards the bad-faith interpretation. I think this should be understandable and sympathetic and ideally you find a way to relate, but it also should be recognized as uncritically presenting some possible explanations as certain while omitting roughly-as-likely less-bad explanations.

We should also consider that as a black woman, the person recording was almost certainly acting from substantial pain history - who knows how many other experiences with people, and with white people or white women in particular, she was really cumulatively reacting to in that moment? Like when I finally physically fought back and won against my dad in my teens, in that situation I was needlessly escalating and if you looked at that situation by itself I was overly vicious, but I was lashing out against my entire history of his physical discipline and growing up in fear of angering him, and it felt very righteous at the time. (Of course, white people and Karens are not all one entity the way my dad is, so one overkill victory doesn't cash out the same way, but our brains and instincts aren't really built to handle that - in a small tribe where everyone knows each other, if you were routinely abused or oppressed or coerced by tribe members, one over-retaliation against one person would be very adaptive.)

Anyway, when the person being recorded eventually gets up and starts actively charing the person still recording them, that's obviously the same kind of thing psychologically going on as when you have a cornered animal in pain and you keep poking it with a fucking stick. If the recording person had been less of a persistent ass after basically "winning" the whole interaction, that would not have happened. It is not proof of violent or hostile nature, and it does not suggest any greater odds that the person had violent or hostile intent in any prior situation unless they were already persistently and severely harassed by then as well.

In fact, that was still communication - it was physical bodily communication implying that the recording person was hurting the recorded person enough that it's getting desperate enough for physical retaliation to be tempting, but actually attempted violence is usually silent. When people get serious about doing bodily harm, they tend to shut up. If she wanted that to get violent she wouldn't have been yelling "get her away from me" the entire time. That was a plea for help to the other humans so that the situation could still be resolved non-violently.

When the cops and security finally got there, the recording woman has some legitimate critiques/complaints/grievances. For example, if the two women's races were reversed, there is a real chance that the cops would've handled the situation very differently.

[kae-karo]

i have never watched that anime but 61 and 63 sound like they would be quite funny together :)

for context (x - make me write things!) first of all anon bless you u are such a sweetheart lmao thank u for being so kind and supportive of my sudden obsession lmao. i have chosen some classic kiribaku for this one mostly cause i can’t imagine anyone other than bakugou saying ‘i’d rather be spitting blood’ lmao

61. “Were you drawing me?”63. “I’d rather be spitting blood.”

–

“Whatcha got there, Bakugou?” Eijirou says as he walks down the empty hallway - they’re both meant to be in study hall, but Bakugou had wandered off a while ago and didn’t come back, and Eijirou had thought to maybe do the same.

Bakugou must not have noticed him, though, because his attention seems super focused on the notebook in his hand. He’s got headphones in, too, which is probably why he didn’t hear Eijirou’s question.

Eijirou slows his pace as he gets closer to where Bakugou’s sitting up against the wall, hoping he’ll notice Eijirou’s presence on his own, though he knows Bakugou will likely be startled anyway. He can get kinda jumpy sometimes, especially if he thinks he’s alone. Like right now.

He has half a mind to stomp his feet a little in the hopes that Bakugou will feel it through the floor, but he stumbles to a stop several few feet away.

The notebook Bakugou’s scribbling in seems to be covered in doodles, not notes like Eijirou had initially thought, and he can’t quite make them out from here but he’s sort of just shocked that Bakugou’s doing something like drawing. He doesn’t seem at all like the kind of person who’d be interested in art.

But then, Eijirou’s only known him for less than a year, and he’s not particularly inclined to opening up about himself, so Eijirou shouldn’t really be surprised.

He kinda is anyway.

“Bakugou?” he tries again, then takes another few steps closer. He really should try not to startle Bakugou, he always gets extra grumpy when that kind of thing happens, but he’s also a little curious about the drawing thing…he’s never seen Bakugou express himself.

Well, except when he’s angry. Or fighting.

Bakugou continues whatever he’s currently drawing, something with lots of sharp lines in the corner of his page, and Eijirou inches himself closer, just until he’s certain another step would alert Bakugou to his presence.

It’s not enough, though - all he can really tell is that Bakugou’s been drawing people-shaped things, and that’s just piqued his curiosity even more. He’s pretty sure Bakugou doesn’t even like people, who the hell would he be drawing?

Bakugou’s hand moves in smooth, quick strokes, and Eijirou watches it for a few silent, very tense moments before an idea hits him - smooth and quick! He nods his head to himself, a smile curling the corners of his lips. He just has to be fast, act like he’s not specifically looking to see what Bakugou’s drawing, and then he can take a quick peek before Bakugou inevitably hides the notebook away. The way he does with everything else about himself.

Eijirou clenches a hand in a fist, determination fueling him. Smooth and quick.

“Hey Bakugou!” He drops down right beside Bakugou in one fast movement, taking him totally off guard, and his stunned silence gives Eijirou a brief glimpse at the page of doodles before it’s flipped shut. Bakugou yanks out an earbud and spits an angry ‘the hell do you want, shitty hair?’ at him, but Eijirou’s totally frozen.

In spite of the way his eyes remain wide and his body stays totally still, his heart races as he tries to process what he’s just seen. He can hear Bakugou’s miscellaneous grumbling as he shoves his notebook in his bag, but the words don’t really make it to his ears.

“Were you drawing me?” he finally asks, when his own tongue remembers how to move. His arm and leg are pressed against Bakugou’s, so he feels it the moment Bakugou stiffens.

“I’d rather be spitting blood,” Bakugou hisses, his tone dripping with anger. Or maybe it’s not quite anger - Eijirou finally manages to pull his gaze up to Bakugou’s face only to find it colored bright red from his cheeks up to where his ears stick out from beneath his hair.

“I- uh…” For the first time since he’s started at UA, Eijirou’s at a loss for words. Bakugou had been drawing him, of that he’s certain. Even with only a quick glance, he’d been able to tell - nobody’s got hair like his. Eijirou has half a mind to ask why him, of all people, but that seems like a big question, one that he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer to.

“Can I see?” he asks instead.

“Fuck off, shitty hair,” Bakugou grumbles, and Eijirou expects him to stand and stalk off, to find somewhere else to sulk and draw in peace. But he doesn’t move, he stays so still that Eijirou would think he might be a statue if he hadn’t just seen his lips move.

“Please?” Eijirou tries again. He thinks - or maybe just hopes - this time will be different. That, in the emptiness of the hallway where there’s nobody else to notice, Bakugou will open up a little bit. That, for Eijirou, he’s willing to be himself a little more than usual. That he wants Eijirou to see him for who he is, to see behind the wall he’s built to keep people at bay.

The silence stretches out until Eijirou can feel it in his lungs, threatening to suffocate him. If Bakugou says no, he won’t push it. He doesn’t think he should leave, either, though. He’s learned one thing about Bakugou in these past months: he talks a lot about wanting to be alone, but he never really seems to object to the company. If Eijirou had to guess, he’d say Bakugou’s actually a little happy whenever he tags along.

Not that he’d say so out loud.

Eijirou startles when Bakugou shifts, and he’s about to start shoving his disappointment somewhere below the surface when Bakugou’s hand reaches inside his bag.

A notebook is flying at his face a moment later, and he barely catches it in time to stop it from smacking into him.

Bakugou’s silent, his eyes staring hard at the floor and his arms crossed over his chest now, so Eijirou flips open to a random page.

It’s not his own face that stares back, but those of his classmates - Kaminari, Mina, even Todoroki is there, drawn in lazy, sketchy lines that somehow form a surprisingly realistic image. Eijirou flips the page and is met with another wave of faces, though he’s a little disappointed that he doesn’t seem to make an appearance.

“Last one,” Bakugou says, his voice gruff and low, and he reaches over to flip to a later page in the notebook. Eijirou wonders if his disappointment had been obvious or if Bakugou was just trying to show him what he originally asked for.

His eyes widen as penciled replicas of his own face dot this new page, some with bright grins and some with pensive frowns, one that even looks like he’s right in the middle of talking. He’s even got his hair down in a couple of them, and he wonders when Bakugou was hanging around enough to notice that. He spends most of his time in the dorms holed up in his room.

“These are…really good,” Eijirou says - it’s all he can think to say, the only thing that doesn’t mean anything else beneath the surface. You have a whole page of just me? I never noticed you drawing before. When did you look at me long enough to see me, to really see me?

No, he keeps those comments to himself. This is probably already a lot for Bakugou, to be this open. He doesn’t want to say anything that might make him close himself off again.

“Yeah. I know.” Bakugou’s still grumbling, but he sounds at least a little proud of himself - and not even in the self-righteous way he normally does, just…like he’s pleased someone else recognized his skill. Not that Eijirou’s exactly an art-oriented person, but he can tell Bakugou has some serious talent.

Not for the first time, he wonders if there’s anything Bakugou isn’t good at.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” Eijirou comments as he closes the notebook and hands it back. Bakugou takes it without a word, but his fingers brush against Eijirou’s and it sends a wave of warmth up his arm.

“Just something I do when I’m bored,” he says, and Eijirou watches as he turns to slip the notebook back in his bag. He must think Eijirou can’t see him, because just as he’s facing the other end of the hall, the corner of his lip ticks up in a small smile, and it makes Eijirou’s chest feel like it’s exploding.

Bakugou doesn’t say anything else, but he hands Eijirou one of his earbuds and presses play on his phone and Eijirou tries not to think too hard about his arm pressed against Bakugou’s or the warmth spreading through his entire body or the way Bakugou looks right now - still a little red, but like he might be about to smile again, maybe smile for real.

He takes the offered headphone and sticks it in his ear, letting the heavy bass crash over him and sync up with the frantic rhythm of his heart.

Maybe he could be the one to make Bakugou smile for real.

[kiruuuuu]

Dearest @nutbrain​, I wish you also a happy birthday and all the best 💗💗 Thank you for sharing and discussing ideas and for your neverending support and kind words. This is partly a birthday gift and partly a retaliation in our kindness war, and I do hope you like it :)

In this, Bandit asks a djinn-like Doc to help win a war. Or: a lot of things are impossible. No explicit ships but you can use your imagination! (Rating G, fantasy AU, ~13k words)

.

Doc is summoned to oppressive heat.

The ritual, as always, he could’ve done without – his essence is being compressed and forced into an imperfect, almost laughable body incapable of representing his true self, the process far from comfortable. Organs are rearranged, replaced, removed, limbs melt together to form two legs to stand on, two arms; fur regresses and makes place for naked skin and fabric materialises seemingly out of thin air to match his last excursion’s fashion: deep blue adorns him as a vest, puffy grey surrounds his lower half.

It’s disorienting but that’s nothing new: taking on the form of a human usually leaves him light-headed and struggling to compose himself for a few seconds. Their sense of balance is inferior, as is their method of communicating – if he’s honest, he finds most about them distasteful, from their thinking to their deeds and yet they happen to inhabit the sweetest space of all. Breathing clean, fresh air is pure bliss, as is feeling sand and dust between his toes, the gravity just right to allow for actual jumps even in this frail body. How he loves being here and how he despises having to deal with this race of selfish, bloodthirsty predators.

Once his eyes have adapted to the brightness assaulting him (and even this is ultimately better than any alternative, he enjoys the sun), he looks around curiously to face those who decided to call upon him.

He’s confronted with just one man.

Where’s the committee, where are the sacrificial offerings? Doc is used to lavish surroundings, the secluded wing of a cathedral, a peaceful clearing in a forest, next to a gentle stream inside a decorated cave – instead he finds himself in a nondescript landscape, dunes in the distance, no more than shrubs in view which suggests they’re high up North, near the sweltering deserts of death. He’s been summoned behind a tent like a secret lover, not like the deity as which he’s normally revered.

The more he lets his gaze wander, the more indignation rises: the summoning circle below his feet has been scratched into the dry, cracked ground instead of being carefully painted on by calligraphers, there seems to be no food ready for him whatsoever and on top of that, the man looks like a mercenary. A closer look prompts Doc to correct himself, no, not a mercenary, he’s wearing a crest of some kind with pride, though his dirt-coloured clothing is ripped, his sandals stained, his sword dull and his skin marred. It’s clear what he is, becomes even clearer when Doc takes notice of more and evermore tents behind him, catches sight of other men and women clad similarly to the one before him.

“I offer you my greetings”, comes only part of the usual phrases uttered whenever Doc or one of his brethren are dragged into this world, “it is the fifth year of the scorpion, following forty-six years of the snake following one hundred and twenty-six years of the fly. We are near the numeric ocean, two days’ journey east of the capital of Qina, formerly the province of -”

Doc nods and the man stops his history lesson. He now knows when and where they are, though there still is no indication as to why.

“They call me Bandit, it’s an honour.” Instead of a bow or a similarly respectful gesture, he receives nothing. “You may speak.”

“You don’t look Qinean”, Doc states sharply as soon as he feels some of the tingling around him dissipate. For right now, he’s at its mercy, unable to act or leave either way, so he makes his words count.

“That is correct, I’m Rangiin Kamaan. The highest general there is.”

“Why do you require my services?”

A shadow flits over the man’s face but his piercing gaze doesn’t lower. He’s a prideful one, if he dares to summon the likes of Doc without an appropriate welcome – prideful, foolish and arrogant. “We are losing a war”, he replies quietly.

“Isn’t that a shame.” It comes as no surprise. He might not have visited this part of the continent in decades, possibly centuries, and yet humans are the same everywhere, all of them open books with the same kind of boring story on display. Envy, ire, hurt, arrogance – it’s all the same, whether it’s a dispute between neighbours or a widespread conflict involving more than just two nations.

Bandit seems dissatisfied with his lack of compassion but forces an easy grin nonetheless. “I don’t like being on the loser’s side. So I thought I’d ask for help. You’re good with anatomy, isn’t that right? You know how to eviscerate someone? Make them die a slow, painful death? The most efficient kinds of poison?”

“You”, Doc spits back, hardly masking his disdain, “are a warmonger. I know your kind. Do you even know who stands before you?”

“Someone who is glad to be here.” They glare at each other, neither of them backing down. They’ve reached an impasse: Doc cannot exit this world of his own accord, not with the circle intact, and Bandit wants him to cooperate which he will refuse to do. “The knowledge of summoning you has been passed down in my family and with it, your earthly name. You are Doc, one of the ancient ones, able yet often unwilling to assist us.”

“My powers are of restoration”, Doc adds with venom, “not destruction. I refuse to utilise them according to the wishes of a murderer and furthermore, I have always refrained in changing the tide of battle as have most of my kin. If your army is losing, perhaps it would’ve been wise not to go to war in the first place.”

“We had no choice -”

“There is always a choice!” More glaring. Doc silently both commends the human for his bravery and condemns him for his insolence. If he knew exactly who Doc is, he must’ve been overconfident or desperate to call on him regardless – he’s known for upholding the balance others of his kind with inferior standing might upset, known for healing rather than harming. He is no help in a war, neither willing nor capable to lend assistance and therefore surmises this foreign army is on the brink of being eradicated. “Why do you wish to conquer land which isn’t yours? Why do you cause death?”

It’s meant rhetorically, in Doc’s experience there’s only one answer: power. Expansion of territory, pre-emptive strikes, tactical weakening of potential opponents. Whatever it is, wars are never started out of just reasons. Even so, what he expected to see on the man’s face was a sneer maybe, anger too, thought he’d be confronted with a defensive stance or a self-righteous smirk. Instead – there’s nothing. A careful stony façade pulled up to hide emotions, probably practised over the years. “We won’t come to an agreement like this”, he states very correctly. “Yet I can’t let you roam free without making sure you’re not going to join our enemies instead. You’re able to do that, right?”

Doc confirms wordlessly. Enlisting his services requires knowledge of his name and other details, a meticulously drawn summoning circle, strong willpower and constitution and a keen mind. Carrying the burden of being the anchor tying a being as powerful as Doc to this world is far from easy and negotiating terms with him usually demands either for a pure heart and earnest intentions – or hidden cunning. He’s been deceived in the past, involuntarily participated in horrendous acts which have long since been lost to time; in some cases, he helped humanity forget about his unintentional crimes. He has since become considerably more reluctant to act. But yes, compared to his weaker kindred spirits, he can exert his will much more freely, even act against his summoner’s wishes and orders, against their agreement. So Bandit is exercising necessary caution in not entering a verbal contract and therefore setting Doc free.

It’s possible that his family preserved the knowledge of just how much Doc relishes his stays in this world and he’s abusing it by allowing him to taste the sweet air, feel a soft breeze caress his temporary silhouette – dangling a carrot in front of him, in a way, until Doc gives in at least partially. He has a pronounced sense of honour. If he promises to stay and assess the situation, he’ll stay.

“How about this? It’s morning now. If I haven’t convinced you by sunset that we not only require but deserve your help, I will set you free.”

A cocky proposition. Also extremely improbable, given the lacklustre greeting Doc received as well as Bandit’s questionable status and rotten attitude. Nevertheless, he’s giving Doc an out, offering him to set foot into his world properly without tricking him. At least that’s what it looks like. “Those are your terms? As long as you do not expect me to interfere in any way, I am willing to grant you more time.”

Bandit pauses. He doesn’t strike Doc as the anxious type and yet he shifts his weight uneasily, his eyes flitting from object to object for a second. “Let’s say tonight for now.”

“Accepted”, Doc replies and watches as the half-hearted circle by his feet shifts, begins glowing in a rich orange and contracts, dragging the elaborate symbols with it towards the human shape in their midst, crawling up his bare soles, past his ankles and diving under his saroual. Though intangible by itself, the fizzing around him ceases and he can now be sure not to lose a few toes or possibly more if he takes a step forwards. It’s a little like surfacing after having been underwater: he inhales deeply, shakes out his limbs and inspects the cracks lining his skin. They’re vein-like, almost akin to a precious metal shimmering through and of a bright, warm colour; they keep him manifested in this plane of existence. Sometimes, they’re more prominent than his skin, brutish and ugly in their primitiveness, but now they’re thin and look almost elegant. It seems Bandit knows what he’s doing.

“I have something to show you before I answer your questions”, Bandit announces and turns towards the camp.

.

During the short walk, Doc sates his curiosity about the rest of the continent by allowing his companion to elaborate on the events shaping the past decades. Some empires have gained or lost land, kingdoms have emerged or fallen, but he’s pleased to hear that the people inhabiting the eastern part of the central mountain range cutting the continent in half are flourishing. He helped them gain independence from all surrounding nations by arguing that their rocky terrain has nothing of value to offer and that they’d be willing to trade for goods which they can produce more easily than anyone else due to experience – in the end, they were permitted to establish their own laws and customs based on what their members deemed sensible. Doc enjoyed aiding them, especially since they welcome curious guests, migrants or refugees with open arms and teach them to carry their own weight should they decide to stay.

Much to his surprise, Bandit speaks of them favourably instead of with sarcasm, so he inquires about his own nation. He has never heard of the name Rangiin Kamaan before. Formerly part of the once glorious empire of Qina which used to span almost the entire width of the continent, from one ocean to the other, it’s now independent, became one of Qina’s smaller neighbours. He never paid this region much heed as they generally followed whichever trend allowed them to survive at the time and involvement in any of the Great Wars was minimal. Bandit speaks with reverence of a kind ruler who inspires his people by practising what he preaches yet Doc doesn’t assume he’ll get to speak with him any time soon. Weak Kings like this one tend to either die early in war or avoid fighting altogether.

“I still do not understand”, he interrupts Bandit’s wordy speech. They’ve come to a stop beside a huge tent, the largest one Doc spotted during their trip. The camp itself is well-organised and kept neat, hardly any soldier is simply lounging around or even pausing to stare at him (which in itself is nothing short of a miracle – is this nation so accustomed to the likes of him?), their uniforms seem practical and the men and women determined. Iron discipline is indubitably a requirement yet Doc fails to spot any hint of dissatisfaction with their conditions. It seems they’re all convinced their cause is virtuous. “Qina by far exceeds your troop strength, has more allies and resources and, though not the force it once was, still possesses the strategical knowledge to easily outmanoeuvre you. What do you hope to gain by fighting?”

“See for yourself.” Bandit indicates the entrance next to them. “I won’t be following you but take your time, I’ll wait.”

Doc eyes him suspiciously yet can’t imagine a way how this mere human could trick him simply by entering a tent, so he obliges and steps through the protective flaps keeping some of the heat outside.

It’s a field hospital. This fact alone is hardly noteworthy but the size of it is unproportional to the amount of soldiers he’s seen so far – surely, if this many resources are necessary to patch up wounded troops, they’re better off giving up. Not only that, literally all the improvised beds are occupied with people who at first glance don’t display any injuries, few bandages visible, hardly any limbs missing. And yet they’re tormented by something, trembling and shivering, some of them curled up and moaning quietly, others passed out entirely. Helpers hurry from person to person in bustling activity and still, they seem unable to relieve whichever ailment plagues their brothers and sisters. All they offer is emotional support, some food and water, a soothing hand on heated or clammy skin.

The atmosphere is suffocating. It reeks of sweat and disease and the collective whimpers and groans make for a pitiful cacophony. All the impressions are strengthened by the stale air and assault Doc’s senses. He’s seen worse, walked among the plague-ridden and witnessed open mass graves, and yet the suffering here is sharp, tangible, spreads further in his lungs the longer he resides. An impulse takes hold of him, urges him to leave instead of investigating more closely but he squashes it before it grows irresistible. He knows he’s too kind. He knows he’s guilty of giving humanity the benefit of the doubt entirely too often, despite all.

Looking for answers, he steps up to the nearest helper, a tall, broad-shouldered man tending to a grim-looking muscular young woman whose clenched fists are shaking. “What is going on?”, he addresses both of them softly.

As soon as the man catches sight of him, he interrupts his whispering to bow in respect. “Great One, I offer you my greetings and joyous thanks to be graced with your -”

Doc holds up a hand to silence him. With Bandit readily answering his questions more like an equal than the puny creature he is, the otherwise so pleasant-sounding phrases have become hollow to his ears. He’s always enjoyed the awe he seemed to inspire, enjoyed the way humans cowered before him, asked for permission to speak, praised him and treated whatever he said as sacred. Right now, however, it feels oddly out of place after the light conversation earlier. He wonders whether this is the so-called vanity one of his kin once accused him of. “No more of this.”

“I apologise. In my experience, Bandit struggles a tad with common courtesy, so I thought you might appreciate an official greeting. My name is Monty, it’s an honour.”

The man’s smile is warm and youthful and Doc suddenly understands why he doesn’t mind the frankness and general nonchalance with which his presence is being met as much as he thought: it’s a good sign that he’s getting an authentic insight into these people’s lives instead of being shown a carefully staged play intended to sway him the desired way.

“If circumstances were different, you’d be offered a banquet to rival all you’ve had before but rations are tight enough already.” He turns back to the woman and massages her upper arm, loosening the tension in it a bit. “It’s going to start working soon, relax. You’ll be alright. Sleep will help. Will you allow the Great One to examine you? I assume that’s why you’re here?”

Blue eyes peer at him, similarly unwavering to Bandit’s – yet where the warlord’s gaze had been firm and at times even cold, this man’s is confident and calm. He seems pleasant to be around, much more composed than the other people flitting about the field hospital. Once the woman has affirmed her cooperation, Doc reaches out for her hand, gently uncurls her fingers and takes them between his – wounded, humans strike him as fragile and delicate, like a young animal which overestimated its abilities. He has mercy on the weak and injured, has always shown compassion for the unfortunate even if he likened it to nurturing a snake. By helping humanity, he probably aids it in harming itself further.

The almost golden cracks running over his skin brighten as soon as he heightens his senses but he pays no attention to the familiar sight, instead closing his eyes to see with his mind. A heartbeat overlays his and thumps until both have synchronised, his lungs fill with air at the same time the woman’s do, his sense of gravity flips, the temperature increases even more – and then he barely resists making a noise when they finally melt together.

The pain is blinding.

He’s trying not to upset her, so he keeps quiet and doesn’t cause her throat to produce sound without her approval, yet it gets more difficult with every passing second. He needs to be quick about it. Her organs are weakened, some of them not working as they should, her pulse is quickened, skin sensitive and sore, muscles only just shy of cramping, her head muddled – though this might be the aforementioned medicine – and above all is brilliant, cutting pain. Its origin, however, remains a mystery, no matter how much he searches. He calms her racing heart, removes the exhaustion holding her back, but it’s obvious he’s merely addressing symptoms and not the cause. There are no broken bones, no disease nesting in an unexpected part of her body, nothing he can pinpoint.

Nothing he can cure.

Puzzled, he does whatever he can for her and withdraws once she’s fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. Separating their physical senses is uncomfortable as usual, like leaving a warm bath to throw himself into the icy white desert of the South. He’s sat down on the bed without realising and looks down on the tormented body, watches as a mere minute later, the tension returns.

He’s powerless. Utterly incapable of healing whatever is slowly eroding this human in front of him.

“Would you like something to drink?”

It’s the man again, someone so filled with a sense of duty that he left Doc by his patient’s side to help others in the meantime. Mutely, he nods, accepts the mug handed to him and shudders as he feels the liquid fill his mouth, slide down his throat, arrive in his stomach. Ingesting anything for the first time in this form is usually a joy but as refreshing as the water is, the shock dampens the experience. “What is this?”, he wants to know quietly, gesturing at the entirety of the tent. “How did it come to this?”

Monty deflates visibly and follows his gaze with a defeated sigh. “We call it the divine disease. A second visit at night would reveal why.”

Following his implicit instructions, Doc leans down, blocks out the sunlight with his hands and looks at the woman’s hand in his little bubble of darkness. Her veins are glowing.

The light they give off is faint and barely comparable to the one emanating from Doc yet it’s undoubtedly there, the shimmering turquoise unnatural and unexpected. He’s never seen anything like it before. It’s the same further up on her arm, seems to follow her bloodstream and yet he failed to detect any trace of its source. “This is impossible”, he blurts out before considering his remark – the last thing he needs is to cause a panic.

“Unfortunately, it isn’t.” Monty sounds as if this wasn’t the first time he’s had to convince someone.

“Tell me all you know.”

Another sigh. The woman between them twitches in her sleep, brows drawn together in agony. “It has several stages and begins with inexplicable pain. The initial location varies from person to person but over time, it affects the entire body, causing fatigue and severely inhibiting the afflicted, though the ultimate effects once again vary. One has gone blind, another developed a rash, there have been rotting limbs, muscle atrophy, tremors. The only common ground is the pale blue light, persistent aching and the fact that we don’t know how to cure it.”

Doc shoots up without a reply and approaches a different bed, this time with a whimpering, older man. His eyes widen once he catches sight of the orange markings denoting Doc as a higher being but doesn’t manage to utter a syllable as Doc forcibly fuses their sensations, barely avoiding throwing up in the process due to the suddenness of it. No, his powers are working the way he expects them to – he clearly is aware of all the differences between this body and the last one, instinctively repairs a few things here and there, closes a scratch on the man’s shin, rejuvenates his liver and tries to block out the omnipresent pain which presents a solid foundation to all other sensations. It’s the same as before, he finds nothing wrong except for everything being wrong somehow.

He’s frazzled, pulls back too fast and sways unsteadily until a hand rests on his shoulder. This can’t be. He’s never encountered anything like it. Just to make sure, he invades Monty as well, takes careful note of his regular heartbeat and breathing, apparently not at all perturbed by Doc’s behaviour. He’s in good shape, even better than the two soldiers, and yet Doc finds some things to improve, restores an awkwardly healed rib to its intended state, rids the man of all exhaustion and slight dizziness from spending all day in the stuffy tent, looks for any indication that his own abilities just aren’t the same as they used to be. But there’s nothing. No sign of the illness and therefore his powers are the same as always.

They’re both light-headed when he severs the connection abruptly and his tongue won’t obey him fully yet, causing him to slur his next words: “Is it contagious?”

To his credit, Monty remains by his side, doesn’t subconsciously distance himself from Doc despite the indubitably uncomfortable experience he must’ve just had. Doc shouldn’t be surprised, he’s noticed before that humans who devote their life to helping others tend to be much more agreeable. “Yes”, he responds after a short pause. “Though we don’t know how. Physical contact is necessary but not sufficient – I seem to be largely immune, for example. Some others are, too.”

Doc’s shock is still at the forefront of his mind. There hasn’t been an earthly ailment he wasn’t able to fix, some more easily than others, so this is inconceivable. He turns and marches out of the tent, feeling oddly sullied as if he had contracted the ��divine disease’, as they called it, himself. A mockery, even an offence to all he stands for.

Bandit is yelling at a few young warriors when bright sunlight greets him again, but dismisses them immediately when he meets Doc’s dismayed gaze, turning towards him with a grim smile.

“Answers”, Doc demands with gritted teeth.

“I have but one to give.” He pauses momentarily and Doc almost grabs his neck to shake it out of him. “You wanted to know why we’re fighting Qina? Well.” Bandit’s expression hardens. “They have the cure.”

.

~*~

.

“This is preposterous”, Doc barks at the other man while walking back and forth, making no effort to conceal his indignation. “What you’re claiming is impossible.”

“And yet here we are.” Bandit inexplicably seems bored with their conversation, focusing more on sharpening his sword than on Doc’s words.

“None of us would ever go this far, no matter how much we’d believe to be in the right. You hear me? None. This must be a, I don’t know, a whim! Or an accident. Nature made an unfortunate mistake!”

“Nature has produced a variety of abominations of all kinds, I’ll give you that, but shouldn’t you be able to heal it in that case? You can take pain away, so why not this one?”

He’s fuming over Bandit’s accusations, can barely think straight. If he hadn’t seen, even felt the illness himself, he’d have silenced him on the spot, removed his tongue or his vocal chords, possibly made him die a slow and painful death for his open disrespect. As things stand, he experienced it himself, his curiosity urging him to find answers – but vehemently rejecting the one Bandit offered him. “Maybe my influence on this world has lessened. Maybe the passing of time weakened my powers to the point where I’m unable to adapt to this new malady. It might just be an odd coincidence.”

“It is not and you know it isn’t, I saw that look in your eye when you left the tent, you know it’s -”

“Do not dare to speak it one more time. I will wipe you off the face of this earth if you even imply it once more.”

Bandit drops his sword with a clatter, expression furious. “Threaten me all you want, it’s the most obvious explanation. This fucking disease which has caused so much suffering and death already, this plague which is killing the very people I have vowed to protect, is otherworldly and caused by a so-called ‘Great One’.”

Like a cornered animal, he lashes out without considering the consequences, and, like a rabid animal, he needs to be put down. Doc has come into contact with enough heresy committed by humans to know he’s not going to change his mind, but has never faced it quite as directly and bluntly as this. Blind rage seizes him, propels him forward and convinces him to try and touch Bandit anywhere so he can ravage his organs, eviscerate him from the inside out, find what’s most precious to him and gouge it out. His eyes maybe? His fingers?

The human displays an impressive reaction time, ducking away with a pale face full of terror, jumping aside yet not running away for some reason Doc can’t discern. He holds him in place with the sheer force of his will, feels an oddly triumphant excitement rise in him when Bandit realises he’s trapped standing up, incapable of moving his muscles. Doc approaches him, raises a hand and touches his temple, eager to maim and make this worm bleed, eager to -

“Wait.”

He pauses, unmoving. Bandit still looks terrified, eyelids fluttering and deathly pallid, but his eyes aren’t directed at Doc anymore. “I do not believe anything you have to say could change my mind”, Doc states loudly. Only now he realises that no one else is in sight, no wandering soldiers staring at them, no living creature visible except for Bandit and, behind Doc’s back, Monty. It says a lot about a leader when his own troops abandon him as easily as this.

“Please, show mercy. And let him explain. You’ve witnessed how my kinsmen suffer, and I don’t think you’ll give up on them so soon.”

Doc deliberates his words. He considers himself merciful, that much is true, and he wants to find a solution for this odd disease, though not for either of their sakes. Still, he removes his hold, takes a step back and watches as Bandit sags in relief. Of course he pretends not to have been affected as much as he was, waves Monty’s concerns aside but leans into his casual touch nonetheless when he checks up on him. His small smile is grateful and Doc doesn’t miss the way his gaze lingers when the tall man turns back to Doc.

“Maybe it’ll make you reconsider hearing that you’re not the first one he’s asked for help.”

“I imagine you’ve appealed to doctors all over the continent”, he responds with a shrug but is confused to receive a shake of the head.

“You’re the eighth”, Bandit admits. “I’ve summoned seven others before you.”

“That’s -” Impossible, he almost says once again. Wordlessly, Bandit lifts the hem of his top and reveals several scars on his abdomen which by themselves wouldn’t be remarkable if not for their blackened state; inflamed-looking tendrils crawling away from the wound, the dark colour sickening. Doc knows what kind of being leaves such marks. He knows because he’s inflicted them before.

“We acquired knowledge of eight of your kind, I summoned them to cure the disease or aid us in battle, and all of them refused. One of them left me this present. You’re the last one.”

Leaving aside the fact that Doc was convinced calling upon his kind several times in a row would lethally exhaust humans, this means that Bandit is currently managing to both recover from a wound like this and keep Doc anchored in this world. He must possess a greater strength and willpower than he was aware. Even so, this isn’t the time to marvel at an insignificant human’s abilities. “Why?”, he demands to know.

The two men glance at each other uncertainly. They’re familiar with each other, affectionate enough that Monty would step in and risk his life to possibly save Bandit’s, and Doc wonders whether it really was coincidence that he ended up talking to the taller one in the field hospital or whether it was carefully orchestrated. He does not see a way as to how it could be reliably achieved and therefore decides that Monty is simply someone with whom Bandit works together a lot and well. He certainly seems to cultivate close relations with the soldiers under his command, if his casual remarks to the people around him are anything to go by.

“Why did they refuse?”, he clarifies.

“I don’t know. One pretended to be bored, another claimed it was beneath her, and the most recent one said we weren’t in the right, the scales not tipped in our favour.”

“Is that so?” Doc’s eyes narrow. “Because assuming you speak the truth, there is no reason for either of them to ignore your plight. A small nation which will die a slow death seeking help from a much larger ally, being denied unjustly and then attempting to save itself warrants our meddling. Your continued existence doesn’t upset the status quo while your demise might have far-reaching consequences. None of us would decline.”

Bandit catches on first. “You’re calling us liars.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe my kind knew more than they let on. Explain to me once again why you believe that the Qinean empire possesses the remedy you seek.” Now that his immediate fury has calmed, Doc is determined to uncover the solution to this mystery. Even on the other side, he rarely communicates with his brethren but is steadfastly convinced they act the same way he does and fell sensible decisions when determining the fate of humanity as a whole. If they refrained from aiding Bandit’s people, they must have good reason to doubt his story.

“Publicly, they deny any connection to or even knowledge of the divine disease”, Monty speaks up. “Fact is that it broke out after a Qinean ambassador and his entourage visited our court. Furthermore, a servant witnessed the ambassador himself displaying the sickening glow, yet when he joined the court again a while later, it was gone. He must’ve gotten rid of it somehow.”

“Even the Queen herself paid a visit once the illness had spread and she showed no sign of worry about contracting it herself, nor did anyone with her”, Bandit supplies to a nodding Monty. “The last straw was a plea for help with further research which they denied outright under the excuse of lacking the necessary funds. We conduct regular trade with them, so it’d be in their interest to stop an epidemic – unless they already have the means to do so in their own country.”

Conjecture. Oh, how Doc despises the vagueness which encompasses this world sometimes. There are moments in which he enjoys its ambiguity, its resistance to be labelled one thing or another – almost all beings are at the very least twofold, never purely one thing or another: the sweetest honey can make him sick, and the annoying mosquito still fulfils a role in nature. He appreciates being challenged to fell the right decision, to weigh pros and cons and see which possesses more importance. But at times, he curses the fact that he majorly inhabits other worlds and therefore has to navigate the webs of lies and truths humans spin with their words. Taken at face value, he’s inclined to agree with Bandit’s interpretation of the facts, but how can he be certain of their accuracy?

“Our neighbours have reported similar inflictions. The only ones it doesn’t affect is Qina.” They seem to be sensing his hesitation yet none of what they say can sway him. Ideally, he’d need to talk to either someone unrelated or of relevance in Qina – but he knows that if he showed his face to the empire, stating that Bandit summoned him, it’ll look as if he’s taking their side, thusly prompting Qina to take similar drastic measures. He doesn’t want to provoke a great war so he’ll have to remain here.

“We’re currently on Qinean territory, correct?” They confirm with a nod, still looking unsure. “Is there a city nearby? Any place from where you could kidnap someone who can vouch for the other side of this conflict? I would like to speak with them without making my presence known.”

Oddly enough, Bandit looks to Monty for his opinion on the matter and the two of them converse quietly, gesticulating and decisively shaking their heads now and then. Doc is surprised at how casually they interact and how highly Bandit values his friend’s opinion but waits patiently until they’ve come to a consensus.

“There’s… a Qinean spy in our custody”, Bandit begins, looking slightly sheepish, “but we haven’t been able to extract anything from her. Maybe you can -”

“Take me to her.”

.

Being feared is normal. He’s always been feared one way or another, caused people to flinch away from him, leaving them tongue-tied, scared of saying the wrong thing. Over time, he got used to it and barely paid attention to whoever cowered before him, but here in this camp, surrounded by what likely are honest, hard-working, wronged people, it’s…

He doesn’t like it. His outburst was necessary and understandable, his self-defence justified. If Bandit’s accusation had been voiced not in private but so that the rest of the continent could’ve heard it, the damage to their reputation could’ve been disastrous. One of Doc’s kind, spreading disease without reason? Making it incurable? People would fear them too much to ever call on them again.

And still – watching these brave soldiers shrink away causes a bad taste in his mouth, which reminds him that he still hasn’t eaten anything yet. Despite their shocking lack of manners, he has to admit he’d feel guilty simply abandoning these people which is something he’ll have to monitor very carefully if he wants to remain unbiased.

Monty seems to be even more popular than Bandit, exchanging quick quips with passer-bys often accompanied by suspicious glances in Doc’s direction. He’s lost a lot of sympathy by attacking their leader and even more by endangering Monty. But he’s not here to develop any kind of attachment, so he ignores it. Eventually they stumble over a boy, hardly old enough to participate in a war, who’s obviously been crying but attempts to hide his tears nonetheless, and Monty promises to catch up with them later before he separates to talk to him.

“He has strange priorities”, Doc comments afterwards and earns a derisive scoff from his remaining companion.

“No, but you do. He puts others first, no matter what. You may have incredible power, but… that’s all which makes you ‘great’.”

Doc stops. There’s defiance showing in Bandit’s features, together with that same misplaced pride again he’s been displaying from the beginning. “You don’t think I’m going to help you. That’s why you feel secure enough in voicing your half-baked opinions.”

“Yeah. None of you have exactly filled me with confidence, you know.”

One of his eyebrows rises in disbelief. Bandit has – according to his own words – spoken with seven others of Doc’s kind so far on the same controversial topic and believes this to be representative of their ethical values. “This has always been the problem with you humans, you tend to think in extremes even if your world is so varied and rich and multi-faceted. You find it impossible to imagine someone might refuse their aid categorically at first but change their mind later, once sufficient information has surfaced. I might have formed a strong opinion on you yet that won’t influence my decision to either declare your cause just or unjust. That is what sets me apart from someone like you.”

“You know what, you’re really starting to piss me off with your fucking righteous attitude.” Bandit’s words are like venom which he spits gladly in Doc’s face. “Some might think you are, but you’re not a God, you’ve never been, so what gives you the right to act like you are? To decide on good people’s fate as if there was an objectively ‘correct’ solution when you’re just as fallible and closed-minded and biased as we are? You might have your own fucking ideals but don’t pretend they’re outright perfect by default.” He must’ve noticed the cold fury Doc is emanating at this point because he adds: “Go ahead, kill me if you want, hurt me, violence is the only argument you still have left.”

His bluntness is … troubling, to put it very mildly. He really does lack any kind of respect which does not help his case, no, it does not at all, and there’s an old, deep-seated voice in Doc whispering to him the same things coursing through his mind earlier. Honestly, the world would be a better place without someone as inconsiderate, as rude and derisive as Bandit, wouldn’t it? But, and this is strangely important, it’d end up proving him right. And that’s the last thing Doc wants to do. “I have half a mind to simply abandon you this instant”, he growls quietly, ignoring the worried glances they’re attracting. They don’t matter – none of these people do, in the grand scheme of things.

“Is that so?” His ugly grimace transforms into a sneer. “Wouldn’t that be the proof that you’re everything but unbiased?”

He -

Doc stares at him, thunderstruck.

He’s right.

Personal dislike must never triumph over his vocation to aid humanity as a whole. If Bandit’s nation really has been wronged, he simply can’t turn them down based on a reason as flimsy as this. But it can’t be, doesn’t Bandit’s arrogance justify his people’s demise? Does he not represent their ethical stance? Then again, who is he to determine the death of thousands, possibly more, just because they lack manners? Shouldn’t he instead show the world that his actions are justifiable regardless of his personal preference?

Frantically, he recalls former decisions, quickly tests them against this theory and tries to objectively judge whether he acted in humanity’s best interest – or out of self-interest. And even if it’s the former, would he recognise it?

“Come on. She’s right over there.”

Bandit’s softened voice snaps him out of his panicked thoughts and redirects his attention to the matter at hand. He can contemplate his words later, for now he has a spy to interrogate.

.

The woman is chained to a stake driven deep into the ground and looks as if this was all which keeps her from dismantling the entire camp by herself. Her glare is fierce and emphasised by the prominent scar adorning her face, yet her resolve wavers as soon as she notices Doc approaching. For a few seconds, she struggles with herself, probably overcome with contempt towards Bandit, but ends up slightly bowing to Doc nonetheless. A polite Qinean – in Doc’s experience a common sight.

“I greet you”, he addresses her in her mother tongue, causing her to sit up straight in awe.

“It is the greatest honour to be graced with your presence, Great One, and with deep respect I vow to be your servant. With eternal gratitude I trust that you will always act wisely and I plead for you to have mercy on us”, she instinctively replies in the same language, uttering the traditional greeting of her nation.

“Wait”, Bandit chimes in, audibly concerned, “she can speak my language, why don’t you -”

“You are being held against your will on the grounds of espionage on behalf of the Qinean empire. Is this true?”

Her eyes flit back and forth between them, calculating. Not even asking Bandit whether he speaks the notoriously difficult High Qinean is deliberate, he wants her to know that his trust in Bandit is shaky at best. “That is true”, she confirms and seems to enjoy the fact that her increasingly frustrated enemy won’t be able to listen in to their conversation.

“As for the allegations, are they true also? You act in the interest of your Queen? Tried to gather information about these troops?” She hesitates, glances at an upset Bandit once more. “If you are honest with me I will grant you the same favour.”

“Yes”, she states with a nod. So far so good.

“You know who I am and what I stand for.” Another curt nod. “Then you also know that as of yet, I am neither on your enemy’s side nor on yours, instead currently gathering information to decide how to act. It is important that you are as objective as possible as your account may turn the tide of this conflict one way or another.”

He allows for a few seconds so she can parse his words. It’s imperative she understands the gravity of the situation and simultaneously gets a chance to gather her thoughts.

“I remember your people as disciplined, honourable and well-educated but have no recollection of the Rangiin Kamaan. They strike me as very similar, from what I’ve seen.”

The woman’s face darkens. “A convincing show they must’ve put up for you. Compare it to a sinner who vows betterment behind sacred walls and relapses as soon as he’s left. Your imposing presence would inspire thieves and liars to put on their best behaviour.” She spits on the ground directly between Bandit’s feet, making him curse loudly and take a step forward. A single glance from Doc stops him, however, and convinces him to withdraw, grumbling, reconvening with the newly-arrived Monty to undoubtedly complain in hushed voices. Doc pays him no heed. “I’ve been their prisoner for a few days, and I’ve seen their real face. Hit me only where the bruises wouldn’t show, recently, before that they had no such qualms. My entire body must’ve been the colour of a rainbow.”

Concerning. Provided she speaks the truth, it’d subvert all that Doc has come to believe about the Rangiin Kamaan. “I have had similar suspicions”, he tells her calmly, “so it’s good to hear them confirmed. What can you tell me about the conflict between your nation and theirs?”

She shakes her head in regret. “It is messy and full of false accusations. They might’ve claimed it’s only them being affected by this odd illness – you have seen it yourself, correct? In truth, my motherland is ravaged by it as well, far worse than this. These snakes are trying to take advantage of our weakened state and attempt to rally our vassals and enemies alike to destroy what little is left of our empire.”

Once again, a direct contradiction of what he’s heard so far. The erasure of Qina would have unforeseen consequences and as oppressive and authoritarian the nation always has been, it is nonetheless the capital of all knowledge, has amassed countless books, scrolls and relics which, if lost, would set the entire continent back. If she’s speaking the truth, it’s in Doc’s interest to strike down this rebellion as swiftly as possible. “They claim you possess the cure to this disease.”

“They would. If we did, would an army of this size have been able to venture this far into our territory? No, we have just as fruitlessly attempted to heal our people and failed, just like them.”

“What of your ambassador? And your Queen?”

The spy once again sits up straighter at the mention of the Qinean matriarch. “I have heard the lies they spread. Ambassador Abyad has indeed been inflicted and suffers the consequences as we speak, he has not, as they claim, been cured. And our Mother took all the precautions necessary to ensure she wouldn’t suffer the same fate.”

“I see”, Doc responds, touches her temple and synchronises their senses.

Despite it being done without warning, he’d gathered the necessary focus pre-emptively and thus ensures smooth proceedings, a process much too quick for the woman to react. She’s in a state of extreme agitation, her heartbeat pounding and adrenalin coursing through her blood causing an almost painful alertness. Apart from her limbs complaining about too little movement, she’s in no pain and exhibits no sign of physical injury – broken and healed bones lie far in the past and other ailments are similarly unrelated. As soon as she understands what’s happening, she struggles against the intrusion, the first to do so this day. She must realise that her body is giving her away.

He never understood lying. Some people resort to it despite easily being disproved, they do it for sport or to feel a rush of power over being trusted blindly. It’s an ugly habit of humanity but one impossible to eradicate, Doc assumes, as it’s been around since the dawn of time. He hates it when humans lie to him implicitly, but hates it even more when they do so directly in his face.

With Bandit’s and Monty’s eyes in his back, he withdraws from the woman’s body and leaves her gasping for air. His hand travels down her jaw and forms a cup below it. “Give it to me voluntarily and I will have no need to take it with force. If you swallow it, I will make your insides squirm until I hold it in my hand.”

The Qinean glares up at him with an ironically betrayed expression, as if his deception had been in any way worse than hers. He had to pretend a more friendly disposition towards her to show she had indeed the chance to change his mind. No one is to blame for her failure other than herself.

After a few more moments, she procures a small vial from inside her cheek and drops it into Doc’s outstretched hand. With it intact, she can’t have been beaten – at least not in the face, it would’ve shattered. He wipes it off and inspects the liquid curiously, at first not understanding why it baffles him, but then it registers: it’s the same colour as the eerie glow the patients are emitting.

“Are you fucking done?”, Bandit snarls at him and is held back only by a calming hand on his midriff. “What is that?”

“You have to help my people”, the woman makes a desperate last attempt, her voice now pleading where before it’d been carefully even. “Please, I beg you. Help them. You might be the only one who can.”

Yet another reason for lying: despair. Doc is unsure of its source – the prisoner has been treated fairly as far as he can tell, and she must know he would never contribute to Qina’s downfall. Why is she discarding her pride now, after she failed to convince him?

“Let’s talk somewhere else”, he suggests. While they walk away, the prisoner’s sad wailing trails after him almost hauntingly.

.

“There are two options”, Doc announces once he and his two companions have reached a clearing of tents, the middle point of the camp bustling with activity and yet no one stops to eavesdrop. “Either this is poison which causes the cursed disease or it’s a cure. She might’ve carried it with her to afflict you, Bandit, as the highest in command, hoping you’d be unable to lead your troops into battle – or it was a precaution in case she contracted the illness herself and needed a remedy.” He hands the phial to a stunned-looking Bandit and expects him to pocket it immediately, yet instead he holds on to it, unsure what to do.

“But in either case it won’t harm anyone who’s afflicted?”, Monty clarifies and earns a nod. “So this can possibly cure a single person?”

“Yes. I can’t be absolutely sure but it is the most likely option.”

“What did the bitch tell you? Did she say anything about it?”

It seems Bandit is still hung up on the fact he couldn’t listen in to Doc’s conversation with the spy earlier. As typical as it is petty. “It is none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it damn well is. What if you made an agreement with her? What if you’re going to double-cross or abandon us, just like your other -” A hand on his wrist stops him in his tracks and Doc is once again grateful for Monty’s calming presence.

“Are you going to help us?”, the tall man wants to know and it’s not an accusation, not an ultimatum, merely an inquiry.

“I need time to think”, Doc replies simply. The accounts of no more than three people are insufficient but they grant him a foundation on which he can form his opinion, provide him with a good idea of what he can ask the other soldiers. If there are inconsistencies, asking a variety of people about the same story should unearth them.

“That is good enough for us.” When Bandit opens his mouth to protest, Monty turns to him with a gentle expression and reminds him: “Dom. We cannot expect him to trust us if we don’t show him the same courtesy. Let’s wait. Justice can’t be rushed.”

The warrior deflates visibly, slain by rationality and respect. “Yes. Alright. But here, you take it.” He thrusts the small container towards his companion, much to Doc’s shock. He does not keep it to himself?

Monty is caught just as off-guard as Doc. “What? No, you can hold on to it, I can’t decide what -”

“But your sister -”

“I won’t claim this privilege, don’t make me -”

“You have all the right to -”

“What about Blitz, he’s going to be invaluable in battle tomorrow -”

“Please, just take it.”

Doc perks up at this new information. “You are going to fight tomorrow?”

The two bickering men immediately cease their back and forth and turn to him. “We’re meeting the Queen’s legion tomorrow”, Bandit says quietly. “They’ve been gathering their troops and will meet us halfway to the capital. This is why I was unable to grant you more time than today. We’re all going to die soon.”

.

Now that he focuses his gaze, seeks out the signs, he realises they’ve been there all this time. The methodical behaviour inherent to all that the soldiers do, a grim determination lining their features, the odd kindness and forbearance accompanying those who have accepted that which they cannot change. These are people already lying in their graves, some of them going through practised motions with a blank expression, others seeking solace in mindless distractions, yet more seem to be set on making their last hours count. Doc stumbles over couples sharing secret, wistful smiles, friends reminiscing or playfully sparring, strangers opening up to each other.

They carry their doom with much more dignity than he would’ve guessed.

None of them blame him though he supposes their anger died down and gave way to resignation after his predecessors toured the camp more standoffishly than he did; it is a miracle that only Bandit carries an otherworldly scar like a battle wound. Their wariness hasn’t fully dissipated yet either, their trust still impeded which, if both Bandit and Monty really are as respected and loved as they seem to be, comes as no surprise. Regardless, they engage in conversations willingly, answer his questions with an open and authentic attitude he likes – and some of them even smuggle food into his pockets. There are dried dates, roasted nuts, even crumbly baked goods, and they’re a feast for his senses, explode into flavour on his tongue and make him curse whoever was responsible for putting this sweet nectar into this world specifically.

Most of them speak favourably of Bandit, hidden behind thinly-veiled insults lies a deep admiration and a loyalty only inspired by likewise devotion. They’re comfortable with him, are allowed to criticise and voice opinions, and even if he usually shoots them down mercilessly, he listens and considers them nonetheless. His style of leading an army is highly unconventional but he can demand discipline and absolute obedience if necessary.

Monty receives even more praise. It turns out he’s not even part of the medical personnel, yet his apparent immunity spurred him on to spend as much time alleviating symptoms as possible, bonding with the patients despite the position he holds – this part is emphasised wherever Doc goes. He supposes he’s Bandit’s second-in-command, a confidant and friend as much as a fellow warrior. It gives him faith.

Not all of it is rosy but with humanity’s past he didn’t expect it to be. Racist undertones, superiority complexes and bitterness leak through some of the more resentful comments and taint the milder ones. Even so, criticism towards their ruler is virtually non-existent and shut down quickly whenever it arises. Doc doesn’t ask any further, it’s obvious their King isn’t gracing him with his presence and so he wastes no thought on him.

The matter at hand remains … elusive. Its solution enigmatic, its cause a mystery. He’s at a loss because admitting Bandit might be right is overstepping a boundary Doc is not prepared to leave behind, especially not without any prior warning, no opportunity to confer with his brethren.

Sunset is fast approaching, the brilliant ball slipping over the horizon, threatening icy nights once the twilight has fully dispersed. Doc is perched on a stool someone gave up willingly, sits at the edge of the camp and gazes towards the source of dwindling warmth, towards where the Queen must be currently commanding her army to walk until their legs are sore.

“Do you get hungry?”

He breaks out of his half-meditation and finds himself facing Monty, holding two bowls and indubitably only just now questioning his own actions, judging by the slightly sheepish smile. “I don’t”, Doc replies evenly. “But this body does. I’m not sure how you humans manage.” Rarely does he share details as private as this, keeps his opinions largely to himself but finds that he lowers his guard around this particular human a little too easily. Under different circumstances, he’d watch his words more closely but either he’s going to aid these people or abandon them to certain death. In either case, they won’t be inclined to speak ill of him.

They eat in silence. Doc vaguely recalls previous meals and supposes the stew falls on the flavour-light side but as he only gets to eat every couple of decades, he relishes it nonetheless. He recognises coriander and savours every bite.

“How is it? Being here – compared to where you’re from?”

Very nearly his mouth releases the same platitudes so familiar to him that they’ve been etched into his tongue by now but something in Monty’s innocent curiosity quells the urge. Somehow, he deserves honesty and maybe it’s the compassion he shows all those around him, maybe his reluctance to accept the possible cure despite having a personal incentive to do so, maybe the fact that he convinced Bandit to trust Doc despite all. Whatever it is, it tips the scales in his favour and Doc knows at this moment that he’s going to assist the Rangiin Kamaan. “You have a name for the place where I usually reside. Hell.”

Monty halts but does not respond, merely waits for Doc to continue.

“This, in comparison, is a paradise. You take fresh air for granted, the force allowing you to walk the ground, all these things without which you never had to manage and thus you can never appreciate them the way we do. This is why we serve humanity. This is why we attempt to be agents of justice so that we may never side with a civilisation which could potentially perish. If we weren’t allowed this outlet, weren’t able to walk the earth now and then, we would cease to be. Our existence is so painful and so horrifying even to us that we desperately cling to the hope of being summoned here. It is our oath: by resolving conflicts we ensure humanity’s and therefore our own survival. It is why the mere thought of one of us sabotaging our collective future is abhorrent.”

Emotion colours his speech and he silently reprimands himself for it. Revealing this much, too, is forbidden, yet he felt the strange need of justifying his actions to this man. His bodily functions tell on him, let him know he’s upset even though he’s had half an eternity to come to terms with this fact. And still he harbours more anger than the soldiers awaiting their fate.

“I’m sorry”, Monty says and, oddly, Doc believes him. He’d like to provide more details because there are aspects he misses while he’s on this plane, but trusts that Monty understands. Nothing is ever black and white, is it?

“I’d like to talk to Bandit. I have reached a conclusion.”

To his credit, Monty doesn’t ask and simply points out the tent in question. “He’s given strict orders not to be bothered after sunset but I’m sure he’ll make an exception for you. Thank you for listening to us.”

Like Bandit, he seems to have accepted the possibility of Doc refusing their plea as fact and he doesn’t feel like correcting him, so he just hands him his empty bowl and gets up.

.

It’s going to be a tentative agreement, that much Doc has already worked out. For the moment he’ll do reconnaissance, buying time, assessing the situation after having talked with Qinean officials to decide on further proceedings. One step at a time, he’ll unravel this mess into its components with which he’ll deal one by one – it’s a cautious approach but one which will hopefully not end in bloodshed. He needs to decipher Qina’s motivation first and foremost.

Mulling over all the information available to him, he ignores the uneasy glances between the people outside their commander’s tent and enters without hesitation, not at all expecting to be confronted with something which makes him freeze, leaves him petrified, almost forces a noise of shock and dismay out of his throat. A cold sensation settles low in his stomach and spreads out to his limbs, takes hold of his tongue and prevents him from exclaiming, asking, accusing.

Bandit is his own source of light.

Here, in the semi-darkness of his hideout, the blue is crassly visible and almost turns the lithe man into a terrifying creature haunting a world where it has no right to be. It pulses softly in the same rhythm as his heart, covers his naked arms, feet and face in a glowing spiderweb of pure disease, his features faint against the prominent veins. He doesn’t seem human anymore, features contorted in a pitiful grimace as he sits on the floor, pressing palms against temples and breathing deeply, consciously. He is but a shadow of the prideful fool Doc met earlier this day.

As soon as he realises his solitude is interrupted, he jumps up onto trembling legs, eyes wide in shock. “You – you had until sunset”, he blurts out idiotically, as if this detail somehow invalidated the view in front of Doc.

It can’t be, and yet a sickening idea takes hold in his mind. “Why did you hide this from me?”, he wants to know, tone cold.

“No.” Bandit is shaking his head, apparently knows exactly what Doc is considering. “No, that isn’t it – I didn’t -”

“The only reason you’re doing everything you can to cure your people is because you selfishly want to cure yourself. If you weren’t afflicted, you’d act differently. Is all of this a ploy to save your own life? Have you deceived me this entire time?”

“Please. Please, don’t.” Even now with his legs nearly giving in, Bandit refuses to kneel before him. He might be begging for his life but this bit of pride will not die, no matter what. “That is not why. I kept it from you because you’d think exactly this. I didn’t want you to believe I’m only doing it for myself, I’m not, it’s -”

His voice dies in a pitiful croak when Doc grabs his jaw and uses his power to keep the man upright as well as rooted to the ground. This time, he won’t be able to evade him. “And I am supposed to believe this?”

Wide eyes are filled with fear and yet he pleads: “Kill me. Do it, it won’t prove me right, I promise – it’s – I’m a horrible human being and need to be erased from history, you need to kill me. But please, please promise me that you’ll save them. Don’t let this deter you, they deserve it. You know they do.”

Doc examines him, momentarily ignoring the sinking feeling of having been betrayed somehow. Slowly, he loosens his hold on the man until he slumps a little, fragile body shivering and teeth working to probably hold back undignified whimpers. It must’ve cost him immense willpower to suppress his symptoms all day, not let anyone see the condition he’s in, hide all this suffering from Doc and possibly his soldiers too. Even now, Bandit refuses to back away, lightly grabs Doc’s wrist to keep it in its place and stares him down in a mixture of defiance and genuine terror.

Maybe it really wasn’t deceit. Maybe him refusing to take the cure himself wasn’t a display for Doc’s benefit. Maybe he really does care about others more than himself, as showcased by him desperately trying to win one of Doc’s kind over.

And wait.

This is impossible.

This time, it actually is impossible, no human could ever carry the weight of Doc’s materialised form while simultaneously bearing the aftermath of an otherworldly scar as well as suffering from this divine disease – no one possesses the physical and mental strength necessary.

A vicious ache stabs through his head once he’s linked his consciousness to Bandit’s and he’s lost for a moment, disoriented despite being so familiar with human bodies. It’s as if there were several more limbs despite him knowing there aren’t, and yet there’s a phantom sensation of a much more expansive form, like a container which is larger on the inside. It’s bewildering and causes a painful throb under his scalp but it’s simultaneously familiar, strangely enough.

Even now, Bandit doesn’t struggle against him and instead allows him easy access to his body, yet the more Doc finds the more astonished he is. Internal organs show hardly any signs of age and are as invigorated as they would be had Doc rejuvenated them already – the omnipresent pain of the illness is prevalent but not nearly as prominent as in the other subjects Doc examined, instead it’s more an ebb and flow in the background, intensifying now and then but fading in between the spikes. As if something interfered with it.

He presses on: Bandit is distraught and his emotional state is mirrored in his body but parts of it are remarkably calm and merely trying to uphold the minimum; it takes him a moment to realise that resources are being allocated towards a very specific part in his midsection. There’s a tumour here, a growth of not insignificant size spanning the width of his belly on the inside – three, actually, and it doesn’t take Doc long to identify it as following the pattern of the ugly scars Bandit received from one of Doc’s kin. Normally, wounds like this heal extremely slowly, sometimes not even for a lifetime, but they cause no other side effect other than a persistent ache. He’s never felt or witnessed anything like this before.

Poking and prodding it reveals that it’s painless, merely causes discomfort where it presses against other organs. Is it possible that it counteracts the disease? Doc inspects the bloodstream, muscles, bones, anything he can find to either prove or disprove his theory but it seems he’ll have to rely on conjecture yet again. And then he delves into one of the non-existent limbs, body parts which should not be – under no circumstances should they belong to a human body, but they do.

It hits him out of nothing, a sudden realisation which he pushed aside out of pride, out of self-preservation instinct. …no, that is not why, and in this case it’s not righteous thinking which prevented this idea from springing up sooner. This revelation, too, is a sharp pang in his mind.

They’re left reeling once he’s severed their connection, hold on to each other like drunkards and gasp for air, hands clutching fabric, feet seeking balance, eyes unfocused. It takes them a long time to regain their composure and when they do, Bandit takes a step back, confused, embarrassed, hopeful.

“You didn’t kill me”, he states full of wonder.

“There was a human who studied us.” The non-sequitur startles Bandit into speechlessness. “He was as persistent as he was hungry for knowledge – he summoned us, one by one, travelled the continent until he had spoken with us all, even sought the help of minor beings. During his quest, he realised he gave up more and more of himself: every time he allowed one of us to walk the earth, a piece of him crumbled, irretrievable. But it wasn’t lost, instead our essence replaced it and imbued him with our nature. Once he realised what was happening, he couldn’t stop it.”

How could he have forgotten him? It’s the one black sheep, the one who doesn’t fit. Will never fit.

“He became one of us. He followed us down into our realm and felt what we feel, learnt what we know. He didn’t take it well. He attempted to convince all of us to tell the humans of him, to make them summon him to his original home so he could experience peace again, escape our reality – but he was rash, unjust, cruel. If he were allowed to roam free, he would tarnish our name; he was planning to sow discord among humanity so that our services – his services – would be required more often. We declined. We damned him to an eternal existence in our world.”

Bandit absent-mindedly runs his fingertips over glowing veins, brows drawn together. He understands. “So he’s the one who did this.” No gloating even though he’d been right. “Why didn’t you think of him earlier?”

“I believe our memories of him were sealed. You might find this hard to believe but there are beings of greater power than myself. The only possibility I see is that he found a way to escape. It explains the nature of the disease, the unnatural light, the seemingly random symptoms and its spread, and the fact that the cure seems to stem from the same source as the illness. It’s consistent with all that we know and the most likely explanation that he invaded this world and put a plan into motion to cause conflict rather than resolve it in the hopes of making us redundant and himself invaluable.”

The man before him is now pacing back and forth as if he hadn’t been in mortal danger mere minutes ago which only cements Doc’s theory. His resilience is extraordinary and only increasing. “How come the others refused their help then? If he’s a liability to you all, shouldn’t they interfere instead?”

“I can only guess as to their motives. They might’ve felt his presence and decided not to intervene.” As expected, Bandit’s expression darkens, so Doc adds: “We all have different control over the forces holding this world together and access to different layers, so while others of my kind might’ve immediately understood the situation, they’re unable to copy most of my skills. It is not impossible that they knew more than I did. As to your question – a fight between two of our kind can be devastating and cause irreparable damage to this world. They were likely scared of this possibility and thus preferred not to remain here. Additionally, the Qinean empire is worth conserving and more important than your nation in the grand scheme of things, making his transgression not as severe as if he’d tried to destroy them.”

Suddenly, he remembers the spy’s words: You have to help my people. You might be the only one who can. The situation might be more dire than he was aware – he can’t discard the possibility that the Qinean Queen is under the control of this defector, acts on his wishes and thus goes against the interests of her people. The prisoner might’ve realised someone far more powerful than any human is influencing her matriarch and that Doc can be her saviour, too.

“So”, Bandit speaks up abruptly, still fidgeting uncomfortably. He finds no solace in having been right, now that the consequences of this reality have sunken in. “Does this mean you’re going to help us?”

No more accusations, no more implied mistrust. He’s learned. “Yes”, Doc says simply. “I am equipped to negotiate, hopefully without antagonising him. And if it should come to it, I am also prepared to fight.” If it means peace in the future, he will take lives in the interest of both his and Bandit’s kind. He knows he can do it, knows he can walk the battlefield like an omen of death, slaying with a single thought and wiping out entire armies should the need arise. He hopes it won’t come to this – but if it does, he’s ready.

Bandit nods and, once it has fully registered, even graces him with a smile. “Took you long enough. Let’s go then, we need to talk -”

He was on his way out of his tent, past Doc, but is stopped by a hand on his torso. It slowly lifts the hem of his top to reveal almost vibrantly illuminated marks on his skin, three slashes frightening in bright daylight already and only more foreboding in half-darkness. “Do you not want to know what made me remember? What unsealed my hidden memories?”, Doc murmurs. This, he has to do. If he doesn’t, the collective repressed energy might tear Bandit in half eventually.

The man looks down at himself and rejects the thought, Doc can read it on his face. “No”, he says but in his heart, he knows the truth.

“You are going to share his fate. The repeated summoning, the disease born from unnatural sources, the injury caused by a being not from this world – it’s too much for your body to bear, so it’s adapting a new form which can carry this burden. You are going to become like me.”

“No, this isn’t – I didn’t want this. I don’t want this.” Once again, eyelids flutter, a lip quivers. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be stuck.”

“You won’t. This is where you two are different. You were ready to sacrifice your own life to save those of others. Your actions speak of more honour and compassion than he ever displayed in his life as a human. I will speak on your behalf and you will not be condemned to rot like him. But for that, you need to accept it. Allow it into your mind, into your body, just like you allowed me. It’s waiting.”

He takes Bandit’s hands and calms the staccato of his heart without probing too deep, keeps their link delicate – just enough to even their breaths, relax muscles, reduce faint aching. He wasn’t present when the traitor changed forms but somehow knows that Bandit possesses the strength to begin this journey right now. It might take months, even years to fully take hold but those he’ll spend in comfort. Under his gentle guidance, Bandit lets loose and concentrates, seeks out the source of the disease in him, feels for the remedial influence of the scars. Doc’s own arms are increasing in brightness, the orange cracks lighting up in resonance.

A shockwave emanates from Bandit, no more than a momentary gust of wind yet an exceedingly forceful one, causing loud clattering around them.

When they open their eyes again, the tent is gone – and so are all the others, flattened by the power of Bandit’s awakening, leaving behind an entire army of confused and vaguely frightened soldiers, most of them gathered around what would’ve been directly outside the tent. They must’ve been waiting to hear Doc’s final verdict.

They make for an intimidating picture as a large part of them is emitting an eerie glow, unlike Monty in their midst. He looks as if someone had slapped him.

Next to Doc, Bandit seems no different to the cocky and outwardly disillusioned man who greeted him this morning, but like an utterly different person to the broken one he discovered in the tent a while ago. That Bandit had been desperate, in pain, ashamed. This one is… confident.

“It’s going to be fine”, he assures Monty, sounding very sure of himself. “I promise. We’ll be fine.”

“I will do everything in my power to resolve this matter as peacefully as possible”, Doc adds. “I am at your service.”

It takes a few seconds. Then the cheering begins.

The jubilant atmosphere sparked by his statement is contagious and even Doc feels the corners of his mouth lift up. Monty sags in relief, exchanges a slightly questioning smile with Bandit but seems content with this promise for now. He can’t have known of Bandit’s illness, not with the way his eyes keep straying to his arms, and yet he holds back on reprimanding him for keeping it secret.

Even so, the celebratory mood remains hesitant, as if the men and women believed it too good to be true, but Doc has no doubts it’ll catch on once they’ve made progress. For now, one important matter at hand remains aside from teaching Bandit about what will happen to him, which changes to expect and how to contain his ever-growing power for now.

“I need to discuss strategy”, he announces loudly over the excited chatter and waits until it has died down to a reasonable level. “Take me to your King.”

Strangely enough, people tilt their heads in confusion, exchange glances, frown. Until one young woman slowly raises her arm and points. More follow, and in the end there’s a myriad of fingers all directed at a modestly smiling Monty.

Oh.

“You didn’t know?”, Bandit asks him, surprised.

More puzzle pieces fall into place retroactively. No wonder everyone spoke of him so favourably.

Thinking back to the way Monty so naturally tended to his suffering subjects, addressed their concerns directly despite his status, settles something in Doc. Knowing this, he’s suddenly very sure he will not regret aiding these people, come hell or high water.

[shestranged]

Bellatrix Hecate Lestrange // the devil shudders as she rises ( she’s taking aim for his throne )

She grew up wanting to break things —- toys and hearts and bones and people. Her father indulged her, quietly forming her into the woman that she is today, a weapon, a beast. Someone who finds peace in the destruction, in the chaos, in the violence. People say that she came out a little wrong - something unhinged about her persona already as a child. Those jet black eyes, waiting to devour you. Sharp teeth pulling into a Cheshire cat grin before she could even speak. As she grew older, she became more adept at hiding her… faults, slowly learning how to suppress her anger, her hatred. Instead growing colder, burning less hot ( a ticking time bomb in the making ). But then she met him. And at his side, she became so much worse. As his right hand, she tapped into unimaginable powers, but it all came at an equally unimaginable price. With him, she became less human, more vile. At his side, all she wanted to see was the streets run red with blood.

what up i’m liz, i’m twenty one and i’m here to bring u my favorite villain and chaotic badass, bellatrix lestrange !! this will be a bit long probably bc i could talk about her 5ever. most important parts to read probably are #hogwarts years, #after hogwarts and #personality stuff !!

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QUICK STATS:

name: bellatrix hecate lestrange occupation: senior obliviator former house: slytherin date of birth: december 23. age: 32

BIRTH AND EARLY YEARS:

Let’s set the scene --- it’s a cold December night, right before Christmas, and the Black mansion is shaken by blood curdling screams. It’s the kind that leaves you breathless, shivers running down your spine, leaving you with the sense that something is very, very wrong. Which, Druella Black fears that it very well might be ---- because her (expected) son is four weeks early. 

The birth process is excruciatingly long and difficult for poor, poor Druella, but when the clock strikes eleven on the night before Christmas, a girl comes crashing into the world. She’s not what they expect, nor what they want, and she never cries --- instead, she just watches them with those big black eyes that always seem to be appraising something.

-

Though Bellatrix’s birth was mostly an unwelcome surprise ( she came too early, and it was no secret that her parents had hoped for a boy ), she was also the first child to carry on the Black legacy, which was an honor. A necessity.

As a baby, she was small and meager. Nurses whispered about the Black baby that could barely muster a scream, that seemed so frail. Like she might break at any second. But that memory would soon fade and be replaced by a much more unpleasant one - because Bellatrix’s bones hardened, her skin thickened, her eyes grew meaner. Within a few years, any trace of that soft baby was gone, and instead, a cruel toddler took her place.

As a child, Bella was vicious. Biting, clawing, screaming and cursing were things she picked up fast, and she’d terrorize the other kids at the playground ( with an almost scary aim for her muggle born / half blood peers ). 

Once she reached the age of seven, she calmed down a bit, and instead started following her father around ( and was lovingly referred to as his ‘little shadow’ ). Eager to prove herself, she learned everything that a son of Cygnus would have learnt. She was determined to show her father that being a girl would not stop her from becoming worthy of the Black throne, to carry his name with pride. Over the years of her childhood and adolescence, Bellatrix forged herself into the golden girl, a respectable heir in the making. Desperate to wear the crown.

Under her father’s influence, uncontrollable rage was switched in for an eerie quietness, anger instead boiling right below the surface, just waiting to be unleashed. She was so eager to please, to sculpt herself into whatever he wanted, so she suppressed her emotions the best she could, even though it never felt natural. And so, the nurses whispered again, but this time, it was about her sweet, sweet smile, matched with those mean, mean eyes. ‘Doesn’t it look distorted? Like that damn Cheshire cat. Something’s not right about that girl, I’m telling you. She came out wrong’.

Behind closed doors, Cygnus also encouraged Bella’s darker side. Introduced her to the dark arts and the chaos that she would later come to love so desperately.

Most of her childhood was characterized by harsh words, strict rules and high expectations. Her family’s reputation weighed heavy on her shoulders, constantly pressuring her to excel. Luckily, she shared her parents’ ambition and values, and had no problems conforming to their rule. Which also meant that she could get away with much else. As long as she remained the golden girl, Bellatrix could run wild and free.

HOGWARTS YEARS:

Bellatrix had been duly prepped before arriving at Hogwarts. She was the first of their children to walk the halls, so it was important to both Druella and Cygnus that Bellatrix knew how to behave. Who to fraternize with. Who to avoid. Who was worthy of her time. Her parents had also made sure that she already had the appropriate friends — and play dates with other pureblood kids were a common occurrence when Bellatrix was younger.

At school, Bellatrix was popular ---- the resident cool girl. The type of girl that hardly ever objects to anything, because she is always down to have a good time. The type of girl that loves Quidditch, dirty jokes and cheap beer. The type of girl that hides her true colors, at least for a while. Until she explodes.

So Bella kept out of trouble, for the most part. There were a couple.... incidents, with muggleborns. One or two may have been turned into rats and toads ( under the guise of it being a joke --- can’t you take a joke, come on now? ). More serious things have been strictly forgotten by everyone involved. Powerful parents will do the trick. Mostly though, Bellatrix kept to her fellow Slytherins... biding her time. Waiting to strike.

She played for the Slytherin Quidditch team, as a beater, and was eventually made captain ( nothing less for a child of Cygnus, she must excel ). During her time on the team, she was notorious for her cruel playing style, her foul tricks, the constant smirk on her lips as other players fell to the ground. 

And during her sixth year, she was eventually recruited into the Death Eaters. And with them, she found a second home, quickly rising through the ranks. 

AFTER HOGWARTS:

After graduating from Hogwarts, Bellatrix took a year off from her studies. The official reason was that she needed to “find herself”. Whatever the fuck that meant. Obviously, it was a lie to hide what she was really up to. In reality, Bellatrix was at Voldemort’s side, learning leglilimency and occlumency, all the while developing her dark magic and her shitty personality.

Quickly became Voldemort’s personal attack dog, always willing to do his bidding, no questions asked.

At the age of nineteen, Bellatrix found work as an obliviator. Though the choice had ultimately been hers to make, the dark lord was always whispering in her ear, encouraging her to infiltrate the ministry. The goal was to have sleeper agents of death eaters in every department once it was time to go to war. It also helped that becoming an oblivator just made sense — fucking with the minds of muggles could already be counted as a hobby (albeit a twisted one), and she had always been good at taking things that didn’t belong to her… Memories would be no different.

Will occasionally throw pureblood galas, but isn’t too invested in them. They’re just for show, and she couldn’t care less.

Among the Death Eaters, Bellatrix is in the inner circle. She considers herself the dark lord’s right hand, and prides herself on being his most loyal servant.

Bellatrix also has a pet snake, lovingly named Medusa. 

Today, Bellatrix works as a senior obliviator at the ministry of magic. She handles a lot of paper work, but is also out in the field a lot.

PERSONALITY:

First of all - Bellatrix is a fucking shit show and we all know this.

She is like night and day ----- and her temper switches incredibly quickly, which makes her unpredictable, a little scary. She can go from the girl her family forced her to be - the Socialite, the Sophisticated Woman, the Cool Girl, to something far more sinister in the matter of minutes.

When she’s at her worst, Bellatrix is cruel, sadistic, self righteous, impulsive, angry as hell, deranged, unstable, manipulative, a little bit unhinged, ruthless, playful, childish and absolutely lethal. It’s always brewing right below, so close to the surface, just waiting to come out.

But she’s also calculating, clever, quick on her feet, intensely passionate, fiercely loyal (until she’s... not), adaptable, intuitive and assertive. 

Bella often contradicts herself — she has grown up believing that it’s best to be cold and devoid of emotions (#thanks dad), but she’s a highly emotional person by nature. She tries to suppress that as best as she can, but she usually boils over pretty fast. Other emotions are usually translated into anger as well, so that’s fun. I think the best way to describe her is that she’s just fire, always burning hot or cold.

Voldemort’s influence on her is also really important!! His influence poisons her mind, her soul, her heart. The darkness that was already there is amplified, becomes a thousand times worse. Though already a skilled witch, he introduced her to magic she could only have dreamed of --- and that power became corruptive, addictive. For power, Bella would gladly pay the steep price of sacrificing her soul, her humanity.

Bellatrix really does think that she is in the right. 

Also probably thinks that she’s better than everyone else at all times. There’s definitively an air of arrogance surrounding her.

Mrs Lestrange thinks that she’s invincible, and likes walking a little too close to the cliff’s edge ( playing with fire ). Will occasionally drop hints that she COULD be a death eater, but never goes too far with it. And if someone suggests that she is one, she acts like that’s absolutely outrageous. How dare you imply that I am affiliated with anything... !

Okay so, I am convinced that Bellatrix doesn’t reach peak evil + instability until after Voldemort’s fall and Azkaban, so I’m really trying to tone her down a bit and give the influence of her upbringing ( + her nature ) a bigger role in the person that she becomes. Hence why she is a little better at hiding her true colors, a little more refined. : ~ ) Though, she’s still the hammer ( doesn’t have the most finesse, mostly just likes getting things done, her technique isn’t exactly intricate, but ALWAYS effective ).

Even if most people probably don’t know that she’s a death eater ( though some probably suspect lbr ), she has a very intimidating presence. That’s her brand. And she still has that Weird Aura about her, like there is something that isn’t quite right, so that could also weird people out.

STYLE / FASHION / APPEARANCE:

Bellatrix has jet black eyes and the hair to match. It falls in soft curls over her shoulders, down her back. 

Usually wears dark red lipstick.

She hides her dark mark with a concealment spell while out in public.

Dresses mostly in black. Has to wear clothes that can fit into the muggle world while at work ( since she is often out in the field, interacting with muggles ). While there, she wears a well worn leather jacket ( with shoulder pads, in true 70s style ), and wide, black pants.

Files her nails into long claws, and paints them black.

Is tall. Likes towering over people.

AESTHETICS / VIBES:

black dresses, whispered hexes, broken champagne glasses, the calm before the storm, bullets caught between teeth, a constant paradox, skin stained black and blue, a devilish grin, ‘is that wine or blood on your carpet?’, snakes wrapped around wrists, mean eyes, always running hot and cold, a cheshire cat’s smile, soft laughter as the light leaves your eyes, divine violence, a taste of the approaching revolution / the new world order, quiet desperation, family heirlooms, unwavering loyalty, sudden fits of rage, emerald lockets, double lives, ‘would you still like me with my hands around your neck?’, no conscience, silent promises, taunting you with her very last breath, the hardest of hearts, dried blood on expensive clothes and a quiet conviction that this will all make sense in the end.

CHARACTER INFLUENCES:

amy dunne ( gone girl )

katherine pierce ( tvd )

jamie moriarty ( elementary )

glory / glorificus ( btvs )

villanelle ( killing eve )

jennifer blake ( teen wolf )

klaus mikaelson ( tvd )

kilgrave ( jessica jones )

lilith ( supernatural )

drusilla ( btvs ) 

cersei lannister ( got )

helena ( orphan black )

faith lehane ( btvs )

mazikeen ( lucifer )

FAVORITE CHARACTER TROPES:

SLASHER SMILE - a smile in anticipation of pain or death // a cheshire cat grin.

THE DRAGON - a monster the hero has to get past to get at the big bad. the top enforcer.

TORTURE TECHNICIAN -  takes the heroes and turn them into screaming, shinned shambles.

LADY MACBETH - frequently more crazy than her husband, quite the sociopath, in the business of turning men towards evil.

EVIL WEARS BLACK - duh.

DISSONANT SERENITY - someone smiling gently in the middle of death and carnage, seeming almost enlightened as they slit throats left and right.

THE BERSERKER - throws herself into battle with such reckless abandon, that it seems like she wants to die. never, ever retreats.

THE BARONESS - a female baddie with a chilly disposition and more than a touch of the dominatrix about her.

WICKED CULTURED - evil is intellectual // basically an evil aristocrat.

THE CHESSMASTER - thinking three moves ahead at all times. manipulating, planning, plotting.

DADDY’S LITTLE VILLAIN - shares dark father’s ambitions and cruelty.

BERSERK BUTTON - always ready to fucking snap.

SOFT SPOKEN SADIST - occasionally. a monster who might describe just how horribly she’s going to mangle you, while speaking in a voice that’s anything but monstrous.

DARK ACTION GIRL - likes beating the hero to a bloody pulp. good at it too.

AMBITION IS EVIL - has grand plans. ends justify the means, always.

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

💐

For whatever reason, the bouquet emoji made me think of weddings and florist!Cas. I added a twist and here we are! (also on ao3!)

Dean's best friend was supposed to be getting married in two months. The key phrase being supposed to because, according to Gabriel who had just called Dean ten minutes ago, the wedding was off.

As horrible as it sounded, Dean didn't think he had ever been so relieved. Which he knew made him a complete and utter jackass in addition to the worst friend in the world but it wasn't exactly his fault.

Cas' fiance — well, former fiance now — was an even bigger asshole than Dean. A smarmy Brit with a posh accent and a superiority complex the size of the UK, Arthur Ketch was a certified piece of shit.

He was some kind of higher up businessman for a London-based corporation called the Men of Letters. Apparently, his company had connections with Roman Enterprises and the Alpha Corporation in Chicago.

Together the three companies formed a mega-conglomerate that Cas ironically referred to as the Leviathan. Dean had thought the nickname was clever.

Ketch? Not so much. He took personal offense to the name.

Dean wasn't sure why. It wasn't like Ketch actually owned any part of the mega-corporation, he was just a guy in a suit with a plush corner office and a PhD in business.

Or so he said. Dean had always suspected that Ketch was actually just a pencil pusher. An accountant who played with numbers all day.

Dean had tried to get along with the guy for Cas' sake. He hadn't wanted to rain on Cas' parade and point out all of his new boyfriend's blatant flaws, sure that he would notice them himself soon enough.

But Ketch had made things insufferably difficult. He resisted any and all of Dean's attempts to spark some sort of rapport.

He thought American football was simultaneously barbaric and infantile, claiming rugby was superior in every way. He hated beer, especially American beer, sticking to Scotch or wine instead.

He thought American TV was all mindless drivel, especially melodramas like Dean's beloved Dr. Sexy. He even despised American food, turning up his nose at the fantastic blueberry pie Cas made in favor of ranting and raving about his aunt's spotted dick.

Dean had tried to grin and bear it. To just smile and nod whenever Ketch went off on another rant about his travel around the world or his most recent business meetings.

But it was extremely difficult considering how boring the guy was. Not to mention, condescending as all hell.

He subtly belittled Dean's profession any time they were in the room, straightening the lapels on his fancy overpriced suits while curling his lip at the sight of Dean's dirty jeans and band t-shirts. He even insulted Dean's car, calling it an overcompensating phallic symbol on wheels.

But Dean could forgive all that.

Could forgive the way Ketch sneered when he learned Dean was a high school dropout. Most people did, anyway. Ketch wasn't special in that regard.

Could forgive the way Ketch rarely deigned to even acknowledge him when Cas invited him to dinner. More often than not it was better than the alternative.

He could forgive nearly everything. Every subtle dig about his family or his line of work. Every eye roll whenever he showed up at Cas' for movie night.

But what he couldn't forgive was how Ketch treated Cas.

Couldn't forgive the way he constantly talked over Cas, cutting him off mid-sentence in order to correct him. The way he critiqued everything Cas did from the way he decorated his home to the way he dressed.

Couldn't forgive the way he always insisted that Cas get a better job than the one he had, despite the fact that he owned his own flower shop, that he was doing what he loved. The way he treated Cas more like an arm piece than a boyfriend or fiance.

Dean couldn't forgive any of that. Because Cas was his best friend and he would be damned if some British bastard treated him like shit.

And yes, Dean was man enough to admit that part of the reason why he hated Ketch so much was because he had been ass over ankles in love with Cas for the past eight years.

He had managed to ignore his feelings for the better part of a decade, tamping down on them so he wouldn't completely fuck up their friendship. He refused to lose Cas over something as stupid as his pathetic little brush.

So he had tried to be as supportive as possible when Cas had started dating Ketch. Had bitten his tongue and kept quiet about how much he despised the limey bastard.

He hadn't raised any objections when Cas announced his and Ketch's engagement. He had graciously agreed to be Cas' best man.

He had helped with all of the wedding planning, all of the minutiae from picking out the color scheme after staring at paint swatches for two hours to mailing out needlessly ornate invitations. He had spent days dealing with Cas' overly dramatic wedding planner, Crowley.

Hell, he had even helped Cas pick out the flavor of the wedding cake when Ketch couldn't make it to their appointment with the baker, giving only a bullshit excuse about work.

Thoughts of all the hours he had spent helping Cas put together a list of songs for the reception, sitting in the waiting room at the tailor while Cas got fitted for his tux, listening to Cas go on and on about how excited he was for the wedding flitted through Dean's mind as he climbed into the Impala.

When Gabriel had called him, Dean had been expecting an update on the situation with the caterer who kept trying to haggle. But Cas' older brother had instead relayed that Ketch had broken things off.

After recovering from the shock, sure that Gabriel was playing some sort of cruel joke, Dean had snapped to attention and raced out to his car. His mind was racing and he was still in shock, but he had the presence of mind to know that he had to get to Cas. Had to make sure he was alright.

The drive across town was blessedly short, mostly because Dean's lead foot had him going well over the speed limit. Fortunately, no cops pulled him over and he made it to Cas' cozy little house in record time.

He didn't bother knocking. He just let himself in with the spare key Cas had given him for emergencies.

Getting dumped by one's fiance two months before the wedding? Definitely counted as an emergency.

Everything seemed normal, every ridiculous throw pillow in place and the ever-present scent of flowers hanging in the air. The only thing that struck Dean as odd, that made him pause in the doorway, was the shattered vase in the middle of the living room.

There were flowers in various shades of red strewn around on the floor amongst the shards of broken glass. A crumpled up note sat discarded along with the livid blooms.

"Cas?" Dean called, kicking the door shut behind him before he took a few steps further into the room. When no response came, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called again, "Cas?!"

There was still no response but Cas' car was parked in the driveway, so Dean continued on. Bypassing the living room and kitchen, Dean made a beeline to Cas' bedroom.

He found Cas there, sitting on his bed with his face buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking as he sniffled, sounding so despondent and miserable it immediately broke Dean's heart.

"Cas...?" He said questioningly, tentative and quiet as he walked closer to the edge of Cas' bed. When Cas didn't say anything, Dean took a seat by his socked feet, reaching out a hand to lay on Cas' knee. "Cas? Buddy?"

"He dumped me, Dean," Cas announced through his tears, keeping his face hidden in his hands. His voice slightly muffled and thick with sorrow, he continued, "Arthur dumped me. With fucking flowers."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, shifting closer. Cas didn't answer at first, too choked up, prompting Dean to give his knee a reassuring squeeze.

"He sent me flowers..." Cas explained, hiccuping a bit. "He sent me flowers to break up with me."

His hands curled into fists as he dropped them to his sides. His face was streaked with tears, blue eyes puffy and red-rimmed.

But where Dean expected despondency and dejection, he found righteous anger. He felt almost an electric tension in the air as Cas absolutely growled, "He sent me flowers from my own fucking shop to break up with me! He sent Mick to deliver them!"

Ah, Mick. Ketch's cousin and one of Cas' only two employees at the flower shop. The one who had introduced the two. Ketch's would-be best man.

Poor guy probably had no idea he was delivering a break-up bouquet. Dean highly doubted Ketch would have volunteered the information to his well-intending cousin.

"Fucking asshole," Dean hissed under his breath as Cas' anger melted away, dripping away like wax from a candle, leaving only a puddle in its wake. He watched helplessly as Cas wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, his breath labored and shaky.

"What am I supposed to do?" Cas wondered aloud, not really directing the question at anyone in particular. "I have to cancel everything. The venue, the catering, the band, the tailor. I lost ten pounds for that stupid tux. Oh, god, what am I gonna tell my family? If Gabriel hasn't already told everyone."

"You're not gonna tell em anything, Cas," Dean announced, surprising both Cas and himself. He knew what he was doing was stupid and desperate but at that moment he didn't care. "The wedding's still on."

"What are you talking about, Dean?" Cas whined reaching for the box of tissues on his nightstand. Dabbing at his eyes, with the corner of a tissue, he announced, "Arthur made it very clear that he doesn't want to marry me. And after all this, I don't want to marry him, either."

"You're not going to," Dean informed him, hoping he sounded much more confident than he felt. At Cas' confused squint, accompanied by one of his trademark Castiel Novak head tilts, Dean mustered up all the courage he could and announced, "You're gonna marry me."

"Very funny, Dean," Cas said, rolling his eyes as he gave a weak attempt at a laugh. "But I'm not in the mood for one of your jokes."

With a frustrated grunt, Dean shoved his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. He dug around for a few seconds, his keys jingling, until he closed his fingers around the box.

The one he had bought two years ago. The one he had been carrying around ever since. The one holding the single most important piece of jewelry he had ever owned apart from the amulet Sam had given him for Christmas half a lifetime ago.

Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he thrust the box out at Cas. He kept his eyes down, cheeks burning with a bright blush, refusing to look at Cas' face.

He couldn't bear to see the rejection. The disgust. The pity.

This was better. If Cas was going to let him down gently, he didn't want to see the soft, sad forgiveness in those blue eyes.

He would rather keep staring at the bedspread. At the dark damask pattern of the comforter he had helped Cas pick out when they went shopping together after Cas moved into his house.

Cas had picked the blanket, deep blue with a navy pattern, because it reminded him of damask roses. Brilliant complexion, Cas had said while admiring the blanket in the store. They symbolize brilliant complexion. And love.

Dean's bittersweet reminiscing was cut short when he heard Cas suck in a sharp breath. Cas' fingers brushed his as he gingerly took the box from Dean's hand.

He let out another gasp when he opened the box. "Dean...? Is this...?"

"Meteorite," Dean confirmed. He kept his eyes lowered, fisting his hand in the denim of Cas' jeans. "I know how much you hate gold and silver 'cause they're not really rare and you'd rather have something more unique. And I know you hate that stupid ring Ketch got you because you hate chocolate diamonds."

He barely paused to take a breath before steamrolling on, "Look, I've known you for a long time and I've loved you for just as long. I-I bought this ring a while ago. I was gonna ask you out the day you introduced me to Ketch. And I know it's wrong and selfish and stupid, but I wanna marry you, Cas."

There was a small rustling sound, followed by an almost metallic clunk accompanied by Cas' soft laugh. It was only then that Dean chanced a look up to find the dark silver ring he had bought Cas on the man's ring finger, Ketch's gaudy diamond ring set aside on the nightstand.

He flicked his eyes up to Cas', his mouth slack with shock. "Do-Do you really...? You wanna...?"

"Yes, Dean. I'll marry you," Cas announced, scooting close enough to wrap his arms around Dean's shoulders. "On one condition."

"Anything," Dean breathed, settling his hands on Cas' waist as the dark haired man shifted closer, pressing their foreheads together. Cas could have asked for Dean's heart and he would have carved it out of his chest himself and presented it to Cas with his dying breath.

But all Cas asked was, "You have to help me mail out all the new invitations."

Then, after years and months and interminably long seconds of pining and perishing, Dean finally pressed his lips to his best friend's. His fiance's. His angel's. His Cas'.

[significanceofsongs]

Some Kind of Zombie - Or - Is it ok to be a human?

Part 2 of my series “The Pitfalls of Evangelical Christianity - Set to Catchy Tunes!”

In Part 1, I looked at “Breathe” by the Newsboys and did some long-form analysis of how a certain theological perspective encourages Christians to be really hard on themselves. This time, I’ll be talking about “Some Kind of Zombie”, by Audio Adrenaline. Look around: Do you have a lot to do and are just taking a break for some light reading? Maybe shelve this essay for a time when you are otherwise unencumbered. Otherwise, it will be a serious, serious TLDR.

Some Kind of Zombie came out in 1997 - right after I started listening to Christian rock in 1995-1996. I remember listening to it and realizing that it was possible that I had started listening during the heyday of Christian Alternative music and that Some Kind of Zombie marked the beginning of the decline. I don’t know if that’s true, but it felt like it at the time.

Let’s talk about the music first. Some Kind of Zombie combines 1970′s disco (replete with falsetto vocals and strings) with medium-heavy alternative rock and some wacky out-of-the-box production touches. I want to say that there’s nothing that quite sounds like it. I think 90′s Christian Alternative music benefited from lower expectations in many cases. Christian record labels had a sense that the kids would just eat up whatever hard rock albums they could dream up, so they let their artists go nuts and just do it. Unfortunately, it didn’t always work out, and Some Kind of Zombie is an example of a song that didn’t quite get there. It’s just a little bit too sprawling and “production-y”. I, having made music that was too production-y myself, understand that sometimes that this is how it goes so I can’t judge the music too hard. They went all the way with it and I have to pay some respect where it’s due. But that said, if you’re going to dismiss Audio Adrenaline based on this song, you should at least check out Bloom instead. It’s a superior album and it has superior songs done in a superior style.

On to the words;

[Verse 1]

I must have been confused or vain

To let this evil in my brain

Lord did I enjoy the change

That You made inside my heart?

[Bridge]

Oh here they come

I’m not afraid

There’s no temptation I can’t evade

[Hook]

Stand up straight

I look through the haze

I begin to walk

Through the maze

Here they come

They’re all up on me

But I’m dead to sin

Like some kind of zombie

I hear You speak and I obey (Some kind of zombie)

I walk away from the grave (Some kind of zombie)

I will never be afraid (Some kind of zombie)

I gave my life away

[Verse 2]

I’m obliged and obey

I’m enslaved to what you say Disclaimer:

How can I write all of this without it being a strawman? There are as many Christianities as there Christians because everyone is different. It’s foolish to write criticisms of an entire faith. Any given reader is no doubt already formulating a response of “NOT I!”. I don’t want people to see this as a roast of Christianity. I want people to understand me and I want people to understand why the words we speak and our interpretations of things MATTER. It’s about me and my interpretations of things that I heard when I was a kid. If it can help anyone else to avoid the same pitfalls, great! It’s easier and more painless to find truth within your own faith than to be turned off, run away from it, find it elsewhere and then reassess how your faith is - in fact - pointing some people to that same truth. Therefore, you may detect anger and skepticism, but I hope that ultimately you see the forgiveness and understanding that writing this article brought about in me.

Part 1 The 30,000 foot view - what it’s about.

If you read my first post, you’ll remember that Breathe, by Newsboys is probably at least partially a meditation on Romans 7-8. So is Some Kind of Zombie. To review, here’s Romans 7:

15 I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. 16 And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. 17 As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. 18 For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature.[a]For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. 19 For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. 20 Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it… 24 What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? 25 Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!

And then on to 8…

8 Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, 2 because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you[a] free from the law of sin and death. 3 For what the law was powerless to do because it was weakened by the flesh,[b] God did by sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh to be a sin offering.[c] And so he condemned sin in the flesh, 4 in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fully met in us, who do not live according to the flesh but according to the Spirit.

5 Those who live according to the flesh have their minds set on what the flesh desires; but those who live in accordance with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires. 6 The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace. 7 The mind governed by the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law, nor can it do so. 8 Those who are in the realm of the flesh cannot please God.

9 You, however, are not in the realm of the flesh but are in the realm of the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God lives in you. And if anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, they do not belong to Christ. 10 But if Christ is in you, then even though your body is subject to death because of sin, the Spirit gives life[d] because of righteousness. 11 And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies because of[e] his Spirit who lives in you.

So we gotta deal with these two chapters again. Great.

Part 2, the Biblical and Theological Background:

Evangelical Christianity has several different branches, and based on these two songs I suspect that Audio Adrenaline and Newsboys both subscribe to the Holiness Movement branch. The Holiness Movement is a wing of American Christianity that focuses heavily on Romans 7-8.

In Christianity - perhaps by design - it’s pretty much impossible to know exactly how good of a person you need to be in order to go to Heaven. The Bible offers no consistent answers.

On one hand James says that we have to have faith to be saved, but if we’re not also doing some unspecified amount of good things, our faith is dead. The writer of Ephesians says that we’re “saved by Grace, through faith, and not of works, so that no man should boast”. In Matthew 25:31-46, Jesus says that compassion is the means of salvation. “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did also unto me”. John 3 has him saying that simply “believing in him and being ‘born again’” will do.

It is no wonder that entire Protestant denominations have sprung up around these verses. United Methodists seem to like James and Matthew’s take on Jesus, whereas the Lutherans seem to like Ephesians. Everyone seems to like John’s take, but it’s a bit unclear on what “born again” means, so it appears that the various denominations interpret it in light of whatever other verses they like.

Then there’s the issue of Romans v. Ephesians. The astute Christian reader has probably been gasping and muttering under her breath at this point that Paul wrote Ephesians, so there can’t be a contradiction between Romans and Ephesians. However, the general scholarly consensus is that Paul didn’t write Ephesians. It was likely a forgery in Paul’s name. And it makes sense because Ephesians says one thing and Romans says something totally different. I can imagine that the writer of Ephesians was writing to a group of Christians that were trying to outdo each other in terms of righteousness - calling each other’s salvation into question if the congregation members didn’t “exude enough spirituality” et al. I can imagine people reading Romans and being worried that perhaps their salvation was at risk because they didn’t “have enough of the Spirit of Christ within them” - aka they failed and sinned. The writer of Ephesians wants to put a stop to this absurdity and writes an authoritative book in the name of Paul - perhaps presented as a long lost volume. And in this book, the author tells everyone to chill out. “You’re all saved. Everyone is good enough. Jesus loves you all and everything is going to be ok.” I’m pretty sure that this is what is going on because Ephesians starts out with a close echo of Romans 7-8, but the emphasis is different. He takes away any sense of dread about the precariousness of his faith and any nervousness about the reality of his salvation, and instead focuses on God’s action in the whole business. The author says that we’re saved by the Grace of God, not by our own actions. God’s action is the most important factor in the equation.

In Romans, it’s distinctly different. In Romans, we abide in Christ and therefore the Spirit of Christ dwells in us and controls us so that we’re able to live up to a very high moral standard. Remember what it says: “The Spirit gives life because of righteousness” This is salvation as understood by some in the Holiness movement: We are given the strength, willpower and love of Christ so that we’re able to be extra super ultra good people - “little Christs, or Christians”.

Lutherans, who favor Ephesians, say that we’re saved by grace through believing and we have freedom as Christians to not worry about the law or being perfect. They might say “One ought to be a good person, but this isn’t as important as believing and being a part of the family of Christ. Those things will naturally make you a better person anyway.”

Romans and Ephesians present such different views of salvation that it’s no wonder different denominations have sprung up. It’s also no wonder that people argue endlessly about this topic and there are no clear winners. But I digress back to Romans. Why does Paul say that we should defeat our own sinful bodies by becoming vessels for the Spirit of Christ?

Jesus in Matthew 5:20 told his listeners that their righteousness must exceed the Pharisees and scribes in order to be saved. Elsewhere, he makes it pretty clear that the Pharisees aren’t actually righteous and that they’re just a bunch of wankers who arbitrarily have decided that they are the only ones who follow the law perfectly. While they appear to follow the letter of the law, they’re actually a bunch of snobby dicks, so they’re not really doing anything worthwhile. Their words are just a bunch of hollow platitudes and they are constantly grandstanding about their superiority. “Of course,” Jesus says, “you have to be more righteous than that. Giving a sandwich to a homeless person is better in the eyes of God than all of the meaningless rules you could follow to look more righteous than other people.” It’s really not saying much to say that you should be more righteous than the people who he calls hypocrites and a den of vipers.

But Paul himself was a Pharisee. One could extrapolate that he heard the saying of Jesus - that one must be more righteous than the Pharisees to enter the Kingdom of Heaven - and took it pretty personally. “How can I be more righteous than I already am? I’m trying so hard!” His answer was pretty revolutionary; If we are in Christ, then his spirit is living in us and we’re able to be perfect. He thinks that the only way to please God and be saved is by achieving spiritual unity with Christ - and in essence - becoming Jesus.

The Holiness Movement is all about that kind of thinking. They are not so arrogant as to suppose that they can achieve “Christ-likeness” on their own by following the words of God. That’s very difficult and Jesus says some pretty challenging things about loving your enemies and cutting out your eyeballs.

But Jesus had a twin aim and it was very specific. He wanted to destroy Rome and he wanted his people - the Jewish people - to snap out of it and rise up with him to destroy Rome. But his way of destroying Rome was interesting; he wanted to accomplish this mission through subversive nonviolence and love - being so righteous that you start to inspire change in society. If enough people change personally, they start to smash the fash and Jesus wanted to smash the fash. At least, this is the version of Jesus presented in Matthew and Luke. Even today, casually giving a homeless person a sandwich is a slightly subversive activity. Capitalism insists that your personal value is dependent on your net worth. Following Jesus’ teachings flies in the face of that truism. Giving someone a truly free lunch is casually flipping capitalism the bird. And it seems that it’s always been a bit like that - even during the Roman Empire, which didn’t subscribe to capitalism. At any rate, in Matthew, Jesus told everyone in no uncertain terms that giving a needy fellow human a sandwich is the way to get into heaven, but Paul seems… distracted. Paul’s interpretation of the life and teachings of Jesus became part of the Canon. And an entire movement of Christianity sprung up around it - the Holiness movement.

Part 3: The lyrics, broken down

Oh, you nodded off there. Sorry, I forgot for a second that we were here to talk about music lyrics from 1990’s Christian Rock songs. Ok so here’s what Some Kind of Zombie is saying:

In verse one, the singer approaches God as if (the singer) is a henchman in a Disney movie who has just failed in his mission to stop the good guy. God is the bad guy who responds with “You fool! Betray me one more time and you’ll see the meaning of Zombie!”

“I must have been confused or vain, to let this evil in my brain.” In other words, he’s not being tempted to do something bad because he’s a human being with human desires. He’s being tempted because he either was just too stupid to not be tempted (wut), or because he entertained the idea of doing (x sin) because he figured he was a strong enough Christian to think about it without doing it.

“Lord did I enjoy the change that you made inside my heart?”

Due to this temptation, he questions whether he even is a real Christian. Maybe it’s all been fake and he’s just been fooling himself all along.

Let’s be honest, this song is probably about sex stuff. He’s a Christian Rock star. He’s good looking. He has groupies I bet. Even if he’s not married, I’m guessing he’s constantly dealing with temptation from Christian girls that want to hook up with the godly rock star. He’s probably trying to be chaste and abstinent until he finds the right girl to marry. That’s fine, but his solution is disturbing.

He is trying his best, but daaaang some of those groupies are something else. There’s no way he’s going to be able to keep it in his pants without divine intervention - or so he thinks. He reads in Romans where it says that - if we’re in Christ - then Christ will dwell within us and make us super duper righteous. In essence, we’ll be possessed by the spirit of Christ and Jesus will take over and start running the ship.

The other night, the singer watched Dawn of the Dead and decided that it was a good metaphor for Romans 7-8. The zombies die and then rise again as mindless drones driven towards a singular purpose. In his case he has died to sin - died to himself - and replaced his old personality with the grafted-on personality and agenda of Jesus. Now he’s driven towards a singular purpose, but it’s not brains. It’s resisting temptation from all of those Christian groupies who want to jump his Christian bones.

“I’m obliged and I obey, I’m a slave to what you say”. Just like a zombie is driven by the virus to relentlessly seek brains, our “hero” lurches about through life without making any of his own decisions. No. He is completely under the control of Jesus and therefore he can easily ignore those Christian babes that want to ruin his reputation as a righteous and holy Christian Rock star. When you are talking to him you’re not talking to the guy from Audio Adrenaline, you are talking to literally Jesus, since Jesus is animating his fleshly form like he’s a golum.

There’s another ridiculous Christian worship song called “Every Move I Make”. It goes;

“Every move I make I make in you, you make me move Jesus. Every breath I take, I breathe in you”.

These songs encourage Christians to switch off their bodies, minds, and general humanity. “Your body is evil because it wants you to sin. It needs food and sex and to feel and express emotions that are inconvenient and contradictory to the gospel message. Therefore you gotta put that self to death and rise again with Jesus - becoming Jesus (metaphorically, or perhaps literally speaking) in the process.”

Paul says “who will rescue me from this body of death”. His body is harshing his spiritual mellow with its inconvenient demands, and if he doesn’t become more righteous than he was as a Pharisee, he’s gonna go to hell.

So too with the singer of Audio Adrenaline.

Part 4 “To Thine Own Self, Be True”

Any group of people that encourage me to just shut off my mind and do exactly what “God” says can take a number and I’ll politely explain to them that I’d rather not.

For one, my head is a noisy place. I’m talking to myself in a stream of thoughts all of the time. Some of these thoughts might be original, but I bet that most of them are just me regurgitating things that other people told me in the past. Even if some of my thoughts are from God, how do I know? How am I to know if my thoughts are;

a) God?

b) my own intuition?

c) a suggestion planted in there by a pastors sermon?

d) something my mom told me when I was six?

e) an idea I got from a friend?

f) Paul’s personal opinion that happened to be canonized?

g) the lyrics to a ridiculous Christian Rock song?

You can’t know.

It is possible to achieve spiritual insight and clarity of vision - to see things with an epic wide angle lens and feel connected with the divine. I have had some epic spiritual visions that fit this bill exactly. I’m not sure how “real” they were, but they were very interesting, compelling, beautiful, and powerful. I think what I saw led me closer to the truth. To get there, I did kind of have to shut off my mind and cease to pay attention to my body. But I never felt as though I was possessed or as though I was not me. I felt as though I was being shown something by a higher power - a benign, wise, and knowledgeable power who had no agenda for me - other than to show me the truth. I saw things differently after this. I will actually talk about this experience in another blog post, but for now, let’s just focus on how and who. How? By meditation and deep focus. Who? I’m not sure, but they didn’t tell me to DO anything. In contrast, plenty of people want you to just shut off your mind in a different way: Swear fealty to them, do what they say, and obey their commands. A good way to make people open to suggestion? Feed people suggestions, or barring that even commandments.Then say that they need to be quiet and listen to the “still small voice” in their head. Then people start listening to the “voice of God” in their own private prayer time, and guess what thought pops up? Hint, it’s not some beautiful heavenly vision usually. It’s something weird, like “you need to marry Bill, (who you absolutely do not want to marry)”, or “you need to stop playing music and become a medical missionary even though you have no training as a medical missionary.” Think I’m making this up? Well, I’m not. Both of those were real examples from anonymous holiness movement friends. Plus there’s me: When I was in Fifth Grade, my teacher at my Christian School said that there are things in life that aren’t sin, but that aren’t part of God’s will for our lives, and that God might ask us to give them up. “No reason”, I guess - “just to prove our obedience to him”. So, later, I started playing guitar and I fell in love with it. It totally changed my life. I had something that I was really good at that I chose for myself. When I played guitar, all of the stresses of life seemed to fade away and I felt good. It changed my brain. Before I started playing guitar, I was a conservative hawk who wanted to nuke any country that opposed us, just for looking at us sideways. Something about playing guitar and perhaps having my brain develop and have better integration between the left and right sides made me become more tolerant, intuitive, imaginative, and kind. But, I started to feel like I loved it too much and maybe God wanted me to give it up. I had this relentless, OCD-like thought in my head that I thought was maybe from God. The voice said: “Give up your guitar” - over and over again throughout the day. I now recognize that this was a symptom of anxiety. But it was anxiety brought on by THIS kind of thinking; Ridiculous, authoritarian, depersonalizing thinking. I can’t tell you how long I suffered with this obsessive anxious thought before I finally said “no” and it stopped. But then my other thinking started: I couldn’t even give up my guitar to please God; how was I supposed to do anything legit as a Christian? How was I supposed to give up all of my worldly possessions like the rich young ruler. If I couldn’t even do that, then could I even call myself a Christian? I guess not. If I didn’t have the Spirit of Christ in me controlling my every action like I was some kind of zombie, how could I really say that I was saved? Ephesians was scant help for me, I guess. Faith without works is dead, so I guess we can be saved by faith, BUT faith apparently means dying to yourself and becoming righteous so that you can be saved on account of how righteous you become. Of course it’s through no effort of your own, because Jesus just comes in there and takes over like he’s a power ranger and your’re Megazord; like you’re some kind of Zombie… and God is a…erm…virus?? That’s a way of looking at it, I guess. It’s a bit convoluted, and maybe it doesn’t make any sense though. For one, it all begs the question. Why would God make us all separate beings that have a variety of likes, dislikes, experiences, and lives - if the only way to be really saved is to just get rid of all of that and be possessed by his spirit so that you aren’t even really “yourself” anymore? Is that “good”? What are we even here for, if God - like an overbearing, workaholic manager - throws our report in the trash and writes it himself. “If you want it done right, you gotta do it yourself!” Do what right?

Are we not supposed to experience anything in life? Are we supposed to mentally float around above the existential plain while Jesus drives us around like a Subaru from errand to errand? Or are we supposed to just murder our own desires and personhood so we can create a space for him in ourselves and then become totally unconscious until we wake up in heaven some day - having done literally God knows what? I guess that thought was disturbing enough to me that I snapped out of my Christian conditioning and started thinking more about how ghastly that seems. I didn’t want to stop playing guitar. I didn’t want to be a pastor or a missionary. I didn’t want to not be in my body. My body was screaming at me to pay attention to it and not worry so much about how many brownie points I racked up on a given Thursday. In the midst of this conflict I spent more time worrying about this whole topic than I did doing anything worthwhile - giving sandwiches to bums for example.

Part 5: Sympathy for Paul

I just don’t think you can take what Paul wrote and happily apply it to any sort of existence in a world that isn’t pretty hellish. In other words, if life is kind of a nightmare, it might feel good to just turn off your brain and body and let a higher power take over so that you can accomplish your mission. Unfortunately for Paul, his life was pretty hard and horrible. This was partially by choice, but also partially because life in the fascist Roman Empire was really hard for everyone. If you think about Paul in those terms, his writing makes sense. Allow me to elaborate:

Jesus and Paul were tough as nails. Jesus died the most severe, awful death I can imagine. He was tortured for hours. He didn’t sell out his peeps. He suffered unimaginably but didn’t cave. And as a result the movement he started continued. Paul also suffered in his work. He lists his travails in Corinthians.

Whatever anyone else dares to boast about—I am speaking as a fool—I also dare to boast about.22 Are they Hebrews? So am I. Are they Israelites? So am I. Are they Abraham’s descendants? So am I.23 Are they servants of Christ? (I am out of my mind to talk like this.) I am more. I have worked much harder, been in prison more frequently, been flogged more severely, and been exposed to death again and again.24 Five times I received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. 25 Three times I was beaten with rods, once I was pelted with stones, three times I was shipwrecked, I spent a night and a day in the open sea, 26 I have been constantly on the move. I have been in danger from rivers, in danger from bandits, in danger from my fellow Jews, in danger from Gentiles; in danger in the city, in danger in the country, in danger at sea; and in danger from false believers.27 I have labored and toiled and have often gone without sleep; I have known hunger and thirst and have often gone without food; I have been cold and naked. 28 Besides everything else, I face daily the pressure of my concern for all the churches.29 Who is weak, and I do not feel weak? Who is led into sin, and I do not inwardly burn?30 If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness.31 The God and Father of the Lord Jesus, who is to be praised forever, knows that I am not lying. 32 In Damascus the governor under King Aretas had the city of the Damascenes guarded in order to arrest me.33 But I was lowered in a basket from a window in the wall and slipped through his hands.

They were fighting against the Empire. They were fighting against both Rome and the Jews. They were going toe to toe with the powers that were. They had to be as tough as nails to do it. When Paul talks about his weakness in Romans, he’s not saying that he’s having a hard time with porn addiction. He’s probably saying that - after lashing number 2 - it’s hard to get out of bed and fight the powers. Paul needs to invoke a higher power just to keep going down the road.

Fortunately, we don’t need to live our lives like that to spread the gospel message. For one, to get around, we can just fly a plane or drive a car. For two, in most countries it’s not only legal to be a Christian, it’s encouraged. If the only people that can go to heaven are those that are willing to Kamikaze at North Korea in a gutsy attempt to emulate Paul’s zealous mission work, then I hate to say it, but almost no one is going to heaven and that makes no sense. Christianity won, and now you don’t need to sacrifice your personhood to be able to practice your faith and live a good life.

Part 6: Misconstrued Messages Take you Weird Places.

Since we don’t have to die to ourselves and take up our crosses to follow Jesus anymore, what are we left with? Giving sandwiches to homeless people. Donating to the Red Cross. Building houses in places that are devastated by natural disasters. Being nice to people. Caring for others. Doing good things. Spiritual visions and existential understandings are great, but they can be wrong or misunderstood. Love transcends all of that.

But, if you take Paul too personally, you might find yourself singing about being some kind of zombie and believing that your natural desires are evil. You might find yourself begging for forgiveness for lusting after sexy Christian groupies. And you might spread this idea around - encouraging others to shut off their minds and bodies and lurch about like MegaZord - presumably with Jesus pulling the levers. But mightn’t this have some potentially negative consequences? No. No way this could ever be used for nefarious purposes. Perhaps you’re living in an abusive situation and you feel that if you just let Jesus take the wheel, he’ll help you suffer through it and you’ll be able to stick it out for your kids. Perhaps the Nazi party takes over your government and your pastor extolls Hitler’s virtues. In your prayer, you find that the still small voice says “vote Hitler”. Lots of people like you also vote Hitler and once elected and he immediately dissolves the legislature and then invades Poland.

On the less extreme end of things, perhaps you’re so busy trying to get to the level of spiritual ascendancy where you can not look at porn that you completely ignore the reason that you’re looking at it in the first place. But meanwhile, you’re so busy fighting that battle that you’re not giving sandwiches to bums, or barring even that, having enough wherewithal to be kind to the women around you. If you’re “joke-demanding” that women make you a sandwich, while fighting an addiction to porn…is there…maybe a connection? Idk. And do you really think that the solution for this is is to shut off your mind and become a thoughtless zombie for Jesus? It would be interesting to do a study on how well that works in the long run. I just can’t say I’ve met anyone that was able to operationalize this weird take on the Bible in any sort of medium or long term. Part 7 - Remembering But in the lyrics to Some Kind of Zombie, they’re not just mangling the message on account of failing to understand the historical context or Paul or Jesus. They just (conveniently?) quit reading after the section I highlighted above.

”I’m obliged and I obey. I’m a slave to what you say” - Audio Adrenaline

“14 For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God.15 The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship.[f] And by him we cry, “Abba,[g] Father.”16 The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.17 Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”

In other words, Jesus was not the only Son of God. Anyone can take on the mantle become - not just “like Christ in a tepid ‘WWJD’ way”, but literally a co-heir with Christ. Think of it this way, if Jesus is the Son of God, then Joe the Plumber who sincerely believes and is part of “Team God” and has accepted the Holy Spirit into his heart…yes Joe the Plumber…though his crack may be visible and exposed for you. HE is like Jesus’s little brother - a co heir to the glory and blessings of God. And that’s the interesting thing about Paul…and the interesting thing about Audio Adrenaline. By cutting off after where Paul makes it seem like we should become mindless zombie slaves of God and really insisting on it, they are pulling things in an interesting direction. Let’s take them literally (as is fun to do, when being annoying). Who are they praying to then? They are slaves to an invisible spirit that controls their actions and apparently has no respect for their personal freedom, desires, and wishes? Is this a God who assembles a giant family of loving humans to smash evil empires through love? Or is this a puppet master god - who obsessively fights to prevent Christian rock stars from getting laid while failing to prevent the Rock stars’ democratically elected government from blowing up some random country’s infrastructure for fun and profit? Curious that the Christian culture that fought to keep their virginity in the 1990s generally supported George W. Bush, who blew up other people’s countries in the 2000s.

I’m just saying. America is the empire. America is Rome. Just because there are Christians in charge a lot of the time does not mean anything. It is super weird that people are demanding God control their actions to fight their own personal desires; when they turn around vote for politicians that represent the worst, sleaziest, and most vindictive sides of those desires and then cause harm to either America or the world or both. It’s even weirder that God apparently has nothing to say about that and doesn’t control their hand as they try to vote for…literally ANYONE??? I guess…but especially George W. Bush. God must have known that GWB was liable to then start two eons long wars and destroy two countries and ruin countless lives. Why would he not do something about that impending disaster? Even sparing controlling divine intervention to move their hand and make them vote Green Party or whatever, did they not read Jonah? Did they literally read the end of Jonah? What do they think God cares more about? Their own personal “having it together” or the lives of literally MILLIONS of PEOPLE? 

Some Christians think both are important. I went to a Nazarene college, where people believed God cared about both your personal ethics and your civic ethics. That’s getting a lot closer to Paul. But again, you don’t have do die for any of that anymore. Personally I think you don’t have to die in a literal sense or a metaphorical sense to be a good person. It’s not that hard. But no one ever, once in all of my time as a Christian, told me that I was the co-son of God with Jesus. No one once loved me like they would love Jesus in any sense of the word love. And I never thought the same about any of my fellow Christians. No one even loved me like I was the “least of these”. Instead, Christianity was a hard thing. It was all about dealing with the alleged evil in my heart and my alleged tendency to be the worst sort. There was no deference or love shown to me as a co-heir with Jesus - just a lot of “what can you do for us?” And of course, I too didn’t see any of my co-heirs as heirs. I viewed them skeptically - as bunch of people that were maybe good or maybe bad - but probably mostly bad. It says so elsewhere in the Bible, I think. Right? But barring what it says in the Bible, the Christians around me didn’t act like co-heirs with Christ. They acted like themselves because that’s generally what you have to do, and a lot of them were a bit sketch - just like I am. Just like you are, dear reader.

I eventually decided that it was best to develop a healthy spirituality that’s based on the idea that God loves all of you and created you for a reason and it’s not because he wants to micromanage your existence like a Power Ranger. Get out there and live!

But maybe I missed something there and threw the baby out with the bathwater. Paul isn’t talking about being a slave after all. Paul is sort of talking about remembering; remembering who we are and sort of “Rebecoming” it. I don’t think God will make us into zombies and that’s a terrifying idea. But we can be something much better. We can remember our fundamental divinity and let it grow within us so that we are able to live life and live it abundantly. Perhaps that’s what Paul is pointing us to - in his own way. Maybe I threw the baby out with the bathwater, but I rediscovered it in a different way on my own - a way that made more sense to me. And here as I write, I’m sort of “rediscovering it” in Christianity.

So that said, all hope is not lost for Christianity. It can still smash the empire. It can still be a force for good in the world. In it’s own way, in fits and starts, and in times and places, it has never totally stopped. I hope those with a sense of humor and a great deal of patience have the ears to hear me right now and can make the change that needs to happen within your faith.

In the meantime, listen to Bloom instead of Some Kind of Zombie.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Normal Part 2, a continuation of one of my previous post

Part 1

It has been two years since I unleashed my serum on the world, ridding it of superpowers forever. Now, it seems my time as a free man may be running out. Before that happens though, I’d like to give my account, from my eyes. Before the rest of the world demonizes myself and my actions. Although, they would be right to. I have completely changed the world. Devastated it even. I have some regrets, though I do not regret doing what I did. It seems a good a place to start would be after the serum started taking effect.

It took a few weeks before people started to really understand what was happening and by that time, it was too late to stop it. My serum had already traveled through the North American continent, the entirety of the west actually and the effects had just started manifesting in Europe and Asia.

Needless to say, no one took it very well. There were accidents, deaths, suicides, riots. What you would expect when an entire culture is shook to the core. I really did sympathize with a lot of them at first. Worksite accidents were very common at the beginning. Yesterday Jeff the construction worker could have lifted that 2000-pound I-beam. Today, though, he was crushed by it. People with super intelligence feeling their mind slowed down to what seemed like a standstill. They all would feel so… Normal. It was a beautiful thing.

Soon after, I decided it was time to seclude myself. With all the chaos happening it would be easy enough for me to slip away unnoticed. I packed up all the important things. My research, my samples, my serum and most importantly the “anti-serum”. I’m not entirely sure why I created it. The anti-serum worked essentially the same way as my serum, only, instead of programming my “normal” DNA into others I could write others DNA into someone. Essentially, I could give someone superpowers if I had samples from before my serum went live. Which I did.

I watched the world spiral into chaos as world leaders and researchers scrambled to figure out what had caused this. I was impressed when they found out it was the water. There were handfuls of people who were not yet affected by my serum due to them being lucky enough to be in situations where they were drinking solely bottled water. Researchers out in the field where fresh water was scarce, astronauts in the various space stations. To them, bottled water became more valuable than gold. I wasn’t worried about that though. There was only so much bottled water from before and soon enough, those remaining would be forced to drink my serum.

There was one person, who caught me off guard, that was left with there powers. Benjamin Wrigley, one of my few childhood friends. Loyal and righteous to a fault. He found me one day, in a diner in Wyoming of all places. I was amazed that he still had his powers. I had to know why.

My curiosity was my first mistake.

I asked him too many questions. I was too specific. Ben was never the smartest kid, but he wasn’t stupid, and his years of hero work must have taught him a few things. I found out that part of his power made it so he didn’t have to eat or drink. He was kind of like a plant. He could essentially photosynthesize sunlight into whatever he needed, he could stockpile the energy he consumed from the sun and use it to increases his strength, his speed, his bodies natural healing process. I never considered the small minority of people who didn’t need to drink.

I left the diner soon after and continued my journey. I eventually set myself up in a small house in rural Nevada. It wasn’t too long until Ben found me again. It was about 7 months after I unleashed the serum. I was watching the news, interested in how the world had been adapting and they were doing surprisingly well. People were finally starting to come to grips with their situation and began picking up the pieces. Stronger, more centralized law enforcement was formed. People began finding ways to do things without superpowers. The few superheroes that remained were doing their best to help around the world.

There was a knock at my door, around 2 in the morning. I got up and looked out the peephole. It was Ben. With hesitation I opened the door. I’d never seen him look so betrayed.

“It was you.” he finally said.

“Ben, what are you-“ I couldn’t finish the sentence before he grabbed me and pinned me up against the wall.

“You did this to us! You destroyed everything.” He screamed. “You… you killed so many people…” he whispered, releasing his grip as I fell to the ground.

I had said too much when we last met. Somehow, he put together the situation. But how?

“Ben… I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I lied

“Don’t lie to me, Alex! We found you DNA in the water. It took so long but we finally found your poison. Polluting everything. Permeating every water source in the world. You’re a monster.”

“Ben… someone must have… used my DNA. Some villain must have created it using my normal biological code!” I kept up the lie, hoping he’d believe me.

“You were never a good liar Alex. The only villain left is you.” He looked down at me, rage filled eyes staring daggers. Piercing through me. “I wanted to confront you myself. Before we released our findings. I wanted to know. Why? Why did you do this.”

He was right. I was always a terrible liar.

“You want to know why, Ben? So that you could all know what it was like to be me. Helpless. Weak. Equal. All these people running around with superhuman abilities. They were a menace! You go on saying how many people I killed, but did you ever stop and think about how many people you have killed?”

I was also never good at keeping my temper in check.

“I’ve never killed anyone, not even a villain!” He yelled back at me in disgust.

“We both know that that’s bullshit, Ben. Thursday, April 16th, 4:16 am.” I spat, looking directly in those burning eyes, watching the fire slowly fade as my old friend made the connection.

“I… I didn’t… it was an accident… We were at war!” I could see the anger flicker in his eyes, but also shame, regret.

“It took me a while to put it all together. But after I saw the footage. After I saw my hospital get disintegrated! I knew I had seen something like that once before. Tell me, Ben. Just how long did you have to bake in the sun to make a blast that big? A week? A month? Honestly… I was amazed. Amazed and horrified. The news wrote it off as a hero deflected some attack from a villain. But it was the other way around wasn’t it?”

“Stop.” Ben whimpered. Pathetic.

“That blast that Blackbeam swatted away from you killed hundreds of people. Men, women, children, doctors, mothers, fathers. Do you know how many lives were crushed because of your negligence? Did you even think about the damage that a blast like that would have caused, even if it did hit its mark? You didn’t, did you? All that mattered was stopping the “bad guys”. Well guess what, Ben? You were all the bad guys that night. That’s why I did what I did. I was tired of innocent people getting hurt. Caught in the crossfire of your petty squabbles.” I felt the passion again. The passion that I felt when I first started working on a cure for Kenny. The passion I felt when I first started working on the serum.

I stood back up, knowing deep down that what I did was right. The amount of lives lost that my serum indirectly caused paled in comparison to the amount of lives cut short by superhumans over the years.

Ben looked almost like a ghost. He always did take things too personally, another flaw of his. But he never let anything stand in the way of what he believed was right.

“What’s done is done, Alex.” He finally spoke, regaining some of his composure after minutes of silence. “We’re going to let the United Nations know that it’s you who caused all this. I’ll be taking you to the authorities myself. You’ll be lucky if you just get life in solitary.” I felt his hands grab me by the shoulder, ready to pull me away and throw me in a jail cell.

“That isn’t going to happen, Ben. Not when I’m the only person in the world who can change this.” It was time to play my hand.

“I don’t want to hear any more from you.” He began, I could feel the spite in his words, almost like a knife against my skin.

“I have an antidote. I can give people powers again but if you take me now. It will never see the light of day. There’s no one alive who knows what I know, and by the time someone does unravel the secrets that I did, superhumans will just be stories.”

Ben stopped in his tracks “Why should I believe you.” He asked, not looking at me.

“You said it yourself. I’m a terrible liar.” I felt his grip loosen.

I took Ben to the small warehouse I’d set up my lab in. Another one of Ben’s flaws was that he would take any opportunity, no matter how unlikely, if it meant a chance to set something right. I opened the doors and ushered him inside.

“Here it is. My life’s work.” I exclaimed, motioning him over to the equipment. “If you bring me to the police, I will make sure that every piece of information I have is erased. You will have the answer, but none of the work leading up to it and without that, you can’t even use the antidote.”

He looked around, Ben was never very good at science, so he had no idea what any of this equipment did and hadn’t the slightest idea how my serums worked. The confusion on his face was endearing.

“I might as well explain. The way my serum works I mean.” I said, moving over to my computer. “Have a seat.”

Ben hesitantly sat next to me as I pulled up diagrams and simulations.

“The serum essentially rewrites the patient’s DNA. I found a very specific, unique piece that every superhuman has- well, had. We’ll call that the “S-block”. Once ingested, it starts to work. I found that I also have a very specific, even more unique piece of my genetic code. We’ll call mine the “N-block”. The serum breaks down the patient’s DNA, destroys the S-block which gave them their powers, and replaces it with my normal N-block, so that they don’t fall apart. This in turn, rids them of their powers entirely. Making them normal. Like me.”

As he watched and listened, I could see the horror on his face. Was I playing God? Changing the very building blocks of human life. Did it really matter?

“The antidote works exactly the same way. Only this time it targets the N-block and replaces it with an S-block of my choosing. You will need a DNA sample from before I let my first serum loose and only, I know how to extract the S-block from it to make the antidote work. And, as I said, if you apprehend me now. All of this will be destroyed, gone forever. The choice is yours, Ben.”

Ben was silent for a while. Just staring into space. Thinking.

“I can’t just let you go, Alex.” He finally said, his eyes distant. “You don’t get it. I never came here to find a cure. I was sent here to bring you in. We don’t need you to cooperate to get the information out of your head.”

I knew I had no way to talk myself out of this. Ben never let anything get between him and completing a mission. I began to sweat. I felt trapped. Just like when I was a kid. When they strapped me down and performed test after test after test. I wouldn’t let that happen to me again. I would never be a guinea pig, strapped to a table while someone poked and prodded.

“It’s time to go, Alex. We’re done here.” He stood up and walked over to grab his coat.

It all happened so fast. BANG. There I stood, a smoking gun in my hand. Ben slowly turned, putting his hand to his chest as he grabbed at the hole. I could tell he was using his powers, trying to close the wound.

“I’m sorry, Ben. You never should have gotten involved. I wish you could have just let everything be…”

I felt sick.

“A-Alex… why?” He started, struggling to talk as he used up all the energy he had been storing to heal the wound.

A second bang as his wound was still closing, but this time I shot him right between the eyes. There was no way he could recover from that. I watched as Ben, once my best friend, fell to the ground. I still remember the look in his eyes. The sadness. The confusion. The shock. That was his last flaw. He never thought that I could be a threat.

I’d never killed someone before. That night, I killed my best friend.

submitted by /u/Brick_Wall_Britches [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2JPZSAR

[nothingman]

I can’t even with hypocrites who stand in the way of people who are actually trying change how things are done. I can’t even with people who, because a particular problem doesn’t affect them (or perhaps because they identify a bit too closely with the accused), feel comfortable deciding when and where is “appropriate” to fight things like sexism, sexual harassment, or assault—as if these problems didn’t need to be eradicated from every angle and fought in every sphere. I can’t even with Michael Rapaport and Ron Perlman.

Yesterday, we reported on the awesomeness that was John Oliver holding Dustin Hoffman accountable for alleged harassment he’s committed throughout his career. During a 20th Anniversary screening of the film Wag the Dog, John Oliver was moderating the panel, and he interrogated Hoffman about his responses to the allegations, catching him “off guard.”

Though I have to ask, how ignorant does one have to be of the world around them to legitimately be caught “off guard” by questions and a conversation that is permeating every facet of our lives right now? A conversation in which one is a principal actor and example. How far does one’s head need to be up their own ass in order for them to actually believe that a movie panel upon which an alleged sexual harasser sits can ever be just a movie panel again?

Well, apparently Hoffman was surprised by the line of questioning. Probably because at any other point in history, the allegations against him would’ve been brushed under the rug for the sake of “politeness.” Because as we’ve been taught, nothing is more important than men being made to feel comfortable. Even if that means never getting around to the pesky matter of women “not wanting to be abused” or whatever.

WELL NOT TODAY, BUDDY!

So yeah, Oliver questioned him about it publicly, because allegations like these deserve public scrutiny, and while Hoffman could’ve used it as an opportunity to reaffirm his commitment to being better, or to acknowledge just how much society allows men to get away with, he did not. He got defensive and flustered, expecting the event to cater to him, and when it didn’t, you could tell he was angry.

In this moment, John Oliver was exactly what I would hope every man would be, and what I believe every man can be. We talk about things like “masculinity,” and usually that includes a conversation about “strength.” This is the kind of strong that men need to be. I don’t care how much you can bench-press, or whether or not you can throw a good punch. I care how much you’re willing to put yourself on the line for others. I care about how you stand up for what you believe in. When I talk about men being “providers,” I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about providing emotional support, providing help, providing an environment of safety, and you do that through your actions, not by how much you earn, or how loud you get.

Enter actor Michael Rapaport, who for some reason felt the need to not only comment on the Oliver/Hoffman exchange, but come after Oliver hard. Like really hard. Like, really too hard?

This Motherfucka John Oliver calling Dustin Hoffman “Dustin” Motherfucka you address this man as Mr.Hoffman. You came to moderate a discussion about a movie #JohnOliver, you selfish fuck,you ruined paying customers evening out in Manhattan

— MichaelRapaport (@MichaelRapaport) December 6, 2017

Dustin is his name, and he’s not Oliver’s dad, teacher, boss, or the goddamn President. Listen, I know you respect the shit out of him as an actor or whatever, but “Mister Hoffman?” Bro, please.

Like, sorry your movie night was ruined? But there’s shit happening right now that’s more important than your favorite actor being made uncomfortable.

You assume that every paying customer had their evening ruined as opposed to improved by the exchange. I would happily bet you money that there was a decent number of people in that audience who were happy that Oliver was doing what he did. Not everybody prioritizes film over people’s lives the way you seem to.

You repeatedly talk about Hoffman being an “80 year old man.” Exactly. He’s GROWN. He’s not a child. He can handle himself however he wants to. He doesn’t need you swooping in for the rescue, or policing how other people approach him about alleged wrongdoing.

But wait! There’s more! In video form. Take it away, MISTER Rapaport:

Since John Oliver “had” to ask Mr.Hoffman those questions about alleged sexual harassment,why didn’t he ask Mr.Hoffman face to face backstage before the @Tribeca event?Why did he wait to get on stage & ask?Was he doing this for the Gram? For merit points?#JohnOliver http://pic.twitter.com/FUksCXqH9m

— MichaelRapaport (@MichaelRapaport) December 6, 2017

Me:

Brah. Brahbrahbrahbrahbrah. It was Oliver’s job to ask him questions and get answers, and when you’re talking about a 20th Anniversary screening of a film, you’re at liberty to ask about a person’s entire career. Sadly, these allegations against Hoffman are a part of his career. Oliver was being more of a journalist than a lot of journalists have the courage to be in a similar situation. But it was absolutely his place to ask the questions.

Oliver asked him publicly rather than privately so that Hoffman wouldn’t get to weasel out of an answer privately the way he allegedly harassed women in private. Oliver was holding an alleged predator accountable while standing up for women. Yes, publicly. Why exactly are YOU commenting? What are you standing up for publicly? Who exactly told you they give a shit what you thought about it anyway? Oliver was doing his job. You’re just flexing on Twitter for no reason. Who’s doing what for the ‘Gram?

Oh wait, maybe there is a reason:

Of course, this is from a man who pleaded guilty to aggravated harassment of an ex. http://pic.twitter.com/HfIgNBWEfW

— Lori (@loriegabidel) December 6, 2017

Aaaaaahh. I see now. This isn’t about Hoffman at all. This is about being afraid of a climate that no longer tolerates this kind of behavior. This is about covering yo’ ass. This is terror masquerading as righteous anger about “proof,” because something-something chickens and roosting-something.

(whispers) The chickens are coming from inside the house …

And because ignorance loves company, Ron Perlman decided to speak up in “support” of Rapaport, because solidarity, bro.

Dude’s got a point. And I particularly loved how he kept saying “I hate to do this, but..” Dude, you LIVE to do this. Cutting people down gets you hard! https://t.co/UeDlyIToTf

— Ron Perlman (@perlmutations) December 6, 2017

Um, not that I in any way want or need to be thinking about your junk, but does cutting down panel moderators on Twitter get you hard? Seriously, why are you even up in here? Why are you commenting? When did this become something you had to get involved in? Yes, “dude’s got a point,” it’s just not a good one. The fact that you’re jumping in on it speaks volumes about you.

I got no problem having a serious discussion about the actions of Dustin Hoffman in an appropriate venue. John Oliver’s a show boater who picked the wrong fucking time and the wrong fucking place to make the story about himself.

— Ron Perlman (@perlmutations) December 6, 2017

“John Oliver’s Ron Perlman’s a show boater who picked the wrong fucking time and the wrong fucking place to make the story about himself.” Fucking fixed it.

And just to head this off at the pass, you might be thinking Oh, you’re yelling at me for defending Hoffman and coming after Oliver? Why do you get to come after me? Oliver doesn’t need your protection.

No, he doesn’t. But I’m not saying all this to protect him. He’s clearly a fighter capable of fighting for others as well as himself. He doesn’t need me. I’m saying all this to protect women by trying to create an environment in which certain behaviors and attitudes will no longer be tolerated. I’m coming at you critically, because for too long men like you have been allowed to just spout whatever they want without having to deal with any repercussions. That time has passed.

The way to get men to stop being criticized and come for is not to stop the criticism, but to stop the actions that warrant it. You wanna be helpful? Why don’t you put your focus there instead of on the people who fight against the inappropriate behavior, complaining that they’re “not doing it right.” Put them out of a job! Because believe me, none of us wants to be doing this. Yet here we are.

It appalls me that Rapaport and Perlman can both profess to be “totally against any sexual harassment in any way, shape or form” or that they “got no problem having a serious discussion about the actions of Dustin Hoffman” yet feel totally justified in thinking themselves the arbiters of when it’s “appropriate” to have those conversations.

Certainly not during their movie time, apparently. I mean, how dare we, right? That’s damn near blasphemy.

If you’re not going to help, then shut up and stay out of the goddamn way, but don’t “denounce” sexual harassment out of one side of your mouth, while putting terms and conditions and disclaimers on it out of the other. You’re only further muddying waters that are already hella muddy. The rest of us are trying to clean it up, and we don’t need you and your advocacy for the devil tarnishing the effort.

The devil doesn’t need any more advocates. He’s got enough support as it is.

(image: Netflix)

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