#and i think a lot of that behavior we’re seeing from our governments officials and authority figures are trickling down to civilians tbh

[starlooove]

Also this is just ME saying this but I don’t think the cruelty and disregard that brown and black people are being shown worldwide rn has 0 impact on everyone’s psyche

[blackwoolncrown]

”This essay has been kicking around in my head for years now and I’ve never felt confident enough to write it. It’s a time in my life I’m ashamed of. It’s a time that I hurt people and, through inaction, allowed others to be hurt. It’s a time that I acted as a violent agent of capitalism and white supremacy. Under the guise of public safety, I personally ruined people’s lives but in so doing, made the public no safer… so did the family members and close friends of mine who also bore the badge alongside me.

But enough is enough.

The reforms aren’t working. Incrementalism isn’t happening. Unarmed Black, indigenous, and people of color are being killed by cops in the streets and the police are savagely attacking the people protesting these murders.

American policing is a thick blue tumor strangling the life from our communities and if you don’t believe it when the poor and the marginalized say it, if you don’t believe it when you see cops across the country shooting journalists with less-lethal bullets and caustic chemicals, maybe you’ll believe it when you hear it straight from the pig’s mouth.”

>>Copied here in case anyone gets paywalled when they click the above. The full article is...a lot.<<

WHY AM I WRITING THIS

As someone who went through the training, hiring, and socialization of a career in law enforcement, I wanted to give a first-hand account of why I believe police officers are the way they are. Not to excuse their behavior, but to explain it and to indict the structures that perpetuate it.

I believe that if everyone understood how we’re trained and brought up in the profession, it would inform the demands our communities should be making of a new way of community safety. If I tell you how we were made, I hope it will empower you to unmake us.

One of the other reasons I’ve struggled to write this essay is that I don’t want to center the conversation on myself and my big salty boo-hoo feelings about my bad choices. It’s a toxic white impulse to see atrocities and think “How can I make this about me?” So, I hope you’ll take me at my word that this account isn’t meant to highlight me, but rather the hundred thousand of me in every city in the country. It’s about the structure that made me (that I chose to pollute myself with) and it’s my meager contribution to the cause of radical justice.

YES, ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS

I was a police officer in a major metropolitan area in California with a predominantly poor, non-white population (with a large proportion of first-generation immigrants). One night during briefing, our watch commander told us that the city council had requested a new zero tolerance policy. Against murderers, drug dealers, or child predators?

No, against homeless people collecting cans from recycling bins.

See, the city had some kickback deal with the waste management company where waste management got paid by the government for our expected tonnage of recycling. When homeless people “stole” that recycling from the waste management company, they were putting that cheaper contract in peril. So, we were to arrest as many recyclers as we could find.

Even for me, this was a stupid policy and I promptly blew Sarge off. But a few hours later, Sarge called me over to assist him. He was detaining a 70 year old immigrant who spoke no English, who he’d seen picking a coke can out of a trash bin. He ordered me to arrest her for stealing trash. I said, “Sarge, c’mon, she’s an old lady.” He said, “I don’t give a shit. Hook her up, that’s an order.” And… I did. She cried the entire way to the station and all through the booking process. I couldn’t even comfort her because I didn’t speak Spanish. I felt disgusting but I was ordered to make this arrest and I wasn’t willing to lose my job for her.

If you’re tempted to feel sympathy for me, don’t. I used to happily hassle the homeless under other circumstances. I researched obscure penal codes so I could arrest people in homeless encampments for lesser known crimes like “remaining too close to railroad property” (369i of the California Penal Code). I used to call it “planting warrant seeds” since I knew they wouldn’t make their court dates and we could arrest them again and again for warrant violations.

We used to have informal contests for who could cite or arrest someone for the weirdest law. DUI on a bicycle, non-regulation number of brooms on your tow truck (27700(a)(1) of the California Vehicle Code)… shit like that. For me, police work was a logic puzzle for arresting people, regardless of their actual threat to the community. As ashamed as I am to admit it, it needs to be said: stripping people of their freedom felt like a game to me for many years.

I know what you’re going to ask: did I ever plant drugs? Did I ever plant a gun on someone? Did I ever make a false arrest or file a false report? Believe it or not, the answer is no. Cheating was no fun, I liked to get my stats the “legitimate” way. But I knew officers who kept a little baggie of whatever or maybe a pocket knife that was a little too big in their war bags (yeah, we called our dufflebags “war bags”…). Did I ever tell anybody about it? No I did not. Did I ever confess my suspicions when cocaine suddenly showed up in a gang member’s jacket? No I did not.

In fact, let me tell you about an extremely formative experience: in my police academy class, we had a clique of around six trainees who routinely bullied and harassed other students: intentionally scuffing another trainee’s shoes to get them in trouble during inspection, sexually harassing female trainees, cracking racist jokes, and so on. Every quarter, we were to write anonymous evaluations of our squadmates. I wrote scathing accounts of their behavior, thinking I was helping keep bad apples out of law enforcement and believing I would be protected. Instead, the academy staff read my complaints to them out loud and outed me to them and never punished them, causing me to get harassed for the rest of my academy class. That’s how I learned that even police leadership hates rats. That’s why no one is “changing things from the inside.” They can’t, the structure won’t allow it.

And that’s the point of what I’m telling you. Whether you were my sergeant, legally harassing an old woman, me, legally harassing our residents, my fellow trainees bullying the rest of us, or “the bad apples” illegally harassing “shitbags”, we were all in it together. I knew cops that pulled women over to flirt with them. I knew cops who would pepper spray sleeping bags so that homeless people would have to throw them away. I knew cops that intentionally provoked anger in suspects so they could claim they were assaulted. I was particularly good at winding people up verbally until they lashed out so I could fight them. Nobody spoke out. Nobody stood up. Nobody betrayed the code.

None of us protected the people (you) from bad cops.

This is why “All cops are bastards.” Even your uncle, even your cousin, even your mom, even your brother, even your best friend, even your spouse, even me. Because even if they wouldn’t Do The Thing themselves, they will almost never rat out another officer who Does The Thing, much less stop it from happening.

BASTARD 101

I could write an entire book of the awful things I’ve done, seen done, and heard others bragging about doing. But, to me, the bigger question is “How did it get this way?”. While I was a police officer in a city 30 miles from where I lived, many of my fellow officers were from the community and treated their neighbors just as badly as I did. While every cop’s individual biases come into play, it’s the profession itself that is toxic, and it starts from day 1 of training.

Every police academy is different but all of them share certain features: taught by old cops, run like a paramilitary bootcamp, strong emphasis on protecting yourself more than anyone else. The majority of my time in the academy was spent doing aggressive physical training and watching video after video after video of police officers being murdered on duty.

I want to highlight this: nearly everyone coming into law enforcement is bombarded with dash cam footage of police officers being ambushed and killed. Over and over and over. Colorless VHS mortality plays, cops screaming for help over their radios, their bodies going limp as a pair of tail lights speed away into a grainy black horizon. In my case, with commentary from an old racist cop who used to brag about assaulting Black Panthers.

To understand why all cops are bastards, you need to understand one of the things almost every training officer told me when it came to using force:

“I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6.”

Meaning, “I’ll take my chances in court rather than risk getting hurt”. We’re able to think that way because police unions are extremely overpowered and because of the generous concept of Qualified Immunity, a legal theory which says a cop generally can’t be held personally liable for mistakes they make doing their job in an official capacity.

When you look at the actions of the officers who killed George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, David McAtee, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, or Freddie Gray, remember that they, like me, were trained to recite “I’d rather be judged by 12” as a mantra. Even if Mistakes Were Made™, the city (meaning the taxpayers, meaning you) pays the settlement, not the officer.

Once police training has - through repetition, indoctrination, and violent spectacle - promised officers that everyone in the world is out to kill them, the next lesson is that your partners are the only people protecting you. Occasionally, this is even true: I’ve had encounters turn on me rapidly to the point I legitimately thought I was going to die, only to have other officers come and turn the tables.

One of the most important thought leaders in law enforcement is Col. Dave Grossman, a “killologist” who wrote an essay called “Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs”. Cops are the sheepdogs, bad guys are the wolves, and the citizens are the sheep (!). Col. Grossman makes sure to mention that to a stupid sheep, sheepdogs look more like wolves than sheep, and that’s why they dislike you.

This “they hate you for protecting them and only I love you, only I can protect you” tactic is familiar to students of abuse. It’s what abusers do to coerce their victims into isolation, pulling them away from friends and family and ensnaring them in the abuser’s toxic web. Law enforcement does this too, pitting the officer against civilians. “They don’t understand what you do, they don’t respect your sacrifice, they just want to get away with crimes. You’re only safe with us.”

I think the Wolves vs. Sheepdogs dynamic is one of the most important elements as to why officers behave the way they do. Every single second of my training, I was told that criminals were not a legitimate part of their community, that they were individual bad actors, and that their bad actions were solely the result of their inherent criminality. Any concept of systemic trauma, generational poverty, or white supremacist oppression was either never mentioned or simply dismissed. After all, most people don’t steal, so anyone who does isn’t “most people,” right? To us, anyone committing a crime deserved anything that happened to them because they broke the “social contract.” And yet, it was never even a question as to whether the power structure above them was honoring any sort of contract back.

Understand: Police officers are part of the state monopoly on violence and all police training reinforces this monopoly as a cornerstone of police work, a source of honor and pride. Many cops fantasize about getting to kill someone in the line of duty, egged on by others that have. One of my training officers told me about the time he shot and killed a mentally ill homeless man wielding a big stick. He bragged that he “slept like a baby” that night. Official training teaches you how to be violent effectively and when you’re legally allowed to deploy that violence, but “unofficial training” teaches you to desire violence, to expand the breadth of your violence without getting caught, and to erode your own compassion for desperate people so you can justify punitive violence against them.

HOW TO BE A BASTARD

I have participated in some of these activities personally, others are ones I either witnessed personally or heard officers brag about openly. Very, very occasionally, I knew an officer who was disciplined or fired for one of these things.

Police officers will lie about the law, about what’s illegal, or about what they can legally do to you in order to manipulate you into doing what they want.

Police officers will lie about feeling afraid for their life to justify a use of force after the fact.

Police officers will lie and tell you they’ll file a police report just to get you off their back.

Police officers will lie that your cooperation will “look good for you” in court, or that they will “put in a good word for you with the DA.” The police will never help you look good in court.

Police officers will lie about what they see and hear to access private property to conduct unlawful searches.

Police officers will lie and say your friend already ratted you out, so you might as well rat them back out. This is almost never true.

Police officers will lie and say you’re not in trouble in order to get you to exit a location or otherwise make an arrest more convenient for them.

Police officers will lie and say that they won’t arrest you if you’ll just “be honest with them” so they know what really happened.

Police officers will lie about their ability to seize the property of friends and family members to coerce a confession.

Police officers will write obviously bullshit tickets so that they get time-and-a-half overtime fighting them in court.

Police officers will search places and containers you didn’t consent to and later claim they were open or “smelled like marijuana”.

Police officers will threaten you with a more serious crime they can’t prove in order to convince you to confess to the lesser crime they really want you for.

Police officers will employ zero tolerance on races and ethnicities they dislike and show favor and lenience to members of their own group.

Police officers will use intentionally extra-painful maneuvers and holds during an arrest to provoke “resistance” so they can further assault the suspect.

Some police officers will plant drugs and weapons on you, sometimes to teach you a lesson, sometimes if they kill you somewhere away from public view.

Some police officers will assault you to intimidate you and threaten to arrest you if you tell anyone.

A non-trivial number of police officers will steal from your house or vehicle during a search.

A non-trivial number of police officers commit intimate partner violence and use their status to get away with it.

A non-trivial number of police officers use their position to entice, coerce, or force sexual favors from vulnerable people.

If you take nothing else away from this essay, I want you to tattoo this onto your brain forever: if a police officer is telling you something, it is probably a lie designed to gain your compliance.

Do not talk to cops and never, ever believe them. Do not “try to be helpful” with cops. Do not assume they are trying to catch someone else instead of you. Do not assume what they are doing is “important” or even legal. Under no circumstances assume any police officer is acting in good faith.

Also, and this is important, do not talk to cops.

I just remembered something, do not talk to cops.

Checking my notes real quick, something jumped out at me:

Do

not

fucking

talk

to

cops.

Ever.

Say, “I don’t answer questions,” and ask if you’re free to leave; if so, leave. If not, tell them you want your lawyer and that, per the Supreme Court, they must terminate questioning. If they don’t, file a complaint and collect some badges for your mantle.

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

Armed, indoctrinated (and dare I say, traumatized) cops do not make you safer; community mutual aid networks who can unite other people with the resources they need to stay fed, clothed, and housed make you safer. I really want to hammer this home: every cop in your neighborhood is damaged by their training, emboldened by their immunity, and they have a gun and the ability to take your life with near-impunity. This does not make you safer, even if you’re white.

HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE A BASTARD?

So what do we do about it? Even though I’m an expert on bastardism, I am not a public policy expert nor an expert in organizing a post-police society. So, before I give some suggestions, let me tell you what probably won’t solve the problem of bastard cops:

Increased “bias” training. A quarterly or even monthly training session is not capable of covering over years of trauma-based camaraderie in police forces. I can tell you from experience, we don’t take it seriously, the proctors let us cheat on whatever “tests” there are, and we all made fun of it later over coffee.

Tougher laws. I hope you understand by now, cops do not follow the law and will not hold each other accountable to the law. Tougher laws are all the more reason to circle the wagons and protect your brothers and sisters.

More community policing programs. Yes, there is a marginal effect when a few cops get to know members of the community, but look at the protests of 2020: many of the cops pepper-spraying journalists were probably the nice school cop a month ago.

Police officers do not protect and serve people, they protect and serve the status quo, “polite society”, and private property. Using the incremental mechanisms of the status quo will never reform the police because the status quo relies on police violence to exist. Capitalism requires a permanent underclass to exploit for cheap labor and it requires the cops to bring that underclass to heel.

Instead of wasting time with minor tweaks, I recommend exploring the following ideas:

No more qualified immunity. Police officers should be personally liable for all decisions they make in the line of duty.

No more civil asset forfeiture. Did you know that every year, citizens like you lose more cash and property to unaccountable civil asset forfeiture than to all burglaries combined? The police can steal your stuff without charging you with a crime and it makes some police departments very rich.

Break the power of police unions. Police unions make it nearly impossible to fire bad cops and incentivize protecting them to protect the power of the union. A police union is not a labor union; police officers are powerful state agents, not exploited workers.

Require malpractice insurance. Doctors must pay for insurance in case they botch a surgery, police officers should do the same for botching a police raid or other use of force. If human decency won’t motivate police to respect human life, perhaps hitting their wallet might.

Defund, demilitarize, and disarm cops. Thousands of police departments own assault rifles, armored personnel carriers, and stuff you’d see in a warzone. Police officers have grants and huge budgets to spend on guns, ammo, body armor, and combat training. 99% of calls for service require no armed response, yet when all you have is a gun, every problem feels like target practice. Cities are not safer when unaccountable bullies have a monopoly on state violence and the equipment to execute that monopoly.

One final idea: consider abolishing the police.

I know what you’re thinking, “What? We need the police! They protect us!” As someone who did it for nearly a decade, I need you to understand that by and large, police protection is marginal, incidental. It’s an illusion created by decades of copaganda designed to fool you into thinking these brave men and women are holding back the barbarians at the gates.

I alluded to this above: the vast majority of calls for service I handled were theft reports, burglary reports, domestic arguments that hadn’t escalated into violence, loud parties, (houseless) people loitering, traffic collisions, very minor drug possession, and arguments between neighbors. Mostly the mundane ups and downs of life in the community, with little inherent danger. And, like I mentioned, the vast majority of crimes I responded to (even violent ones) had already happened; my unaccountable license to kill was irrelevant.

What I mainly provided was an “objective” third party with the authority to document property damage, ask people to chill out or disperse, or counsel people not to beat each other up. A trained counselor or conflict resolution specialist would be ten times more effective than someone with a gun strapped to his hip wondering if anyone would try to kill him when he showed up. There are many models for community safety that can be explored if we get away from the idea that the only way to be safe is to have a man with a M4 rifle prowling your neighborhood ready at a moment’s notice to write down your name and birthday after you’ve been robbed and beaten.

You might be asking, “What about the armed robbers, the gangsters, the drug dealers, the serial killers?” And yes, in the city I worked, I regularly broke up gang parties, found gang members carrying guns, and handled homicides. I’ve seen some tragic things, from a reformed gangster shot in the head with his brains oozing out to a fifteen year old boy taking his last breath in his screaming mother’s arms thanks to a gang member’s bullet. I know the wages of violence.

This is where we have to have the courage to ask: why do people rob? Why do they join gangs? Why do they get addicted to drugs or sell them? It’s not because they are inherently evil. I submit to you that these are the results of living in a capitalist system that grinds people down and denies them housing, medical care, human dignity, and a say in their government. These are the results of white supremacy pushing people to the margins, excluding them, disrespecting them, and treating their bodies as disposable.

Equally important to remember: disabled and mentally ill people are frequently killed by police officers not trained to recognize and react to disabilities or mental health crises. Some of the people we picture as “violent offenders” are often people struggling with untreated mental illness, often due to economic hardships. Very frequently, the officers sent to “protect the community” escalate this crisis and ultimately wound or kill the person. Your community was not made safer by police violence; a sick member of your community was killed because it was cheaper than treating them. Are you extremely confident you’ll never get sick one day too?

Wrestle with this for a minute: if all of someone’s material needs were met and all the members of their community were fed, clothed, housed, and dignified, why would they need to join a gang? Why would they need to risk their lives selling drugs or breaking into buildings? If mental healthcare was free and was not stigmatized, how many lives would that save?

Would there still be a few bad actors in the world? Sure, probably. What’s my solution for them, you’re no doubt asking. I’ll tell you what: generational poverty, food insecurity, houselessness, and for-profit medical care are all problems that can be solved in our lifetimes by rejecting the dehumanizing meat grinder of capitalism and white supremacy. Once that’s done, we can work on the edge cases together, with clearer hearts not clouded by a corrupt system.

Police abolition is closely related to the idea of prison abolition and the entire concept of banishing the carceral state, meaning, creating a society focused on reconciliation and restorative justice instead of punishment, pain, and suffering — a system that sees people in crisis as humans, not monsters. People who want to abolish the police typically also want to abolish prisons, and the same questions get asked: “What about the bad guys? Where do we put them?” I bring this up because abolitionists don’t want to simply replace cops with armed social workers or prisons with casual detention centers full of puffy leather couches and Playstations. We imagine a world not divided into good guys and bad guys, but rather a world where people’s needs are met and those in crisis receive care, not dehumanization.

Here’s legendary activist and thinker Angela Y. Davis putting it better than I ever could:

“An abolitionist approach that seeks to answer questions such as these would require us to imagine a constellation of alternative strategies and institutions, with the ultimate aim of removing the prison from the social and ideological landscapes of our society. In other words, we would not be looking for prisonlike substitutes for the prison, such as house arrest safeguarded by electronic surveillance bracelets. Rather, positing decarceration as our overarching strategy, we would try to envision a continuum of alternatives to imprisonment-demilitarization of schools, revitalization of education at all levels, a health system that provides free physical and mental care to all, and a justice system based on reparation and reconciliation rather than retribution and vengeance.”

(Are Prisons Obsolete, pg. 107)

I’m not telling you I have the blueprint for a beautiful new world. What I’m telling you is that the system we have right now is broken beyond repair and that it’s time to consider new ways of doing community together. Those new ways need to be negotiated by members of those communities, particularly Black, indigenous, disabled, houseless, and citizens of color historically shoved into the margins of society. Instead of letting Fox News fill your head with nightmares about Hispanic gangs, ask the Hispanic community what they need to thrive. Instead of letting racist politicians scaremonger about pro-Black demonstrators, ask the Black community what they need to meet the needs of the most vulnerable. If you truly desire safety, ask not what your most vulnerable can do for the community, ask what the community can do for the most vulnerable.

A WORLD WITH FEWER BASTARDS IS POSSIBLE

If you take only one thing away from this essay, I hope it’s this: do not talk to cops. But if you only take two things away, I hope the second one is that it’s possible to imagine a different world where unarmed black people, indigenous people, poor people, disabled people, and people of color are not routinely gunned down by unaccountable police officers. It doesn’t have to be this way. Yes, this requires a leap of faith into community models that might feel unfamiliar, but I ask you:

When you see a man dying in the street begging for breath, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a mother or a daughter shot to death sleeping in their beds, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a twelve year old boy executed in a public park for the crime of playing with a toy, jesus fucking christ, can you really just stand there and think “This is normal”?

And to any cops who made it this far down, is this really the world you want to live in? Aren’t you tired of the trauma? Aren’t you tired of the soul sickness inherent to the badge? Aren’t you tired of looking the other way when your partners break the law? Are you really willing to kill the next George Floyd, the next Breonna Taylor, the next Tamir Rice? How confident are you that your next use of force will be something you’re proud of? I’m writing this for you too: it’s wrong what our training did to us, it’s wrong that they hardened our hearts to our communities, and it’s wrong to pretend this is normal.

Look, I wouldn’t have been able to hear any of this for much of my life. You reading this now may not be able to hear this yet either. But do me this one favor: just think about it. Just turn it over in your mind for a couple minutes. “Yes, And” me for a minute. Look around you and think about the kind of world you want to live in. Is it one where an all-powerful stranger with a gun keeps you and your neighbors in line with the fear of death, or can you picture a world where, as a community, we embrace our most vulnerable, meet their needs, heal their wounds, honor their dignity, and make them family instead of desperate outsiders?

If you take only three things away from this essay, I hope the third is this: you and your community don’t need bastards to thrive.

RESOURCES TO YES-AND WITH

Achele Mbembe — Necropolitics

Angela Y. Davis — Are Prisons Obsolete?

CriticalResistance.org — Abolition Toolkit

Joe Macaré, Maya Schenwar, and Alana Yu-lan Price — Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect?

Ruth Wilson Gilmore — COVID-19, Decarceration, Abolition [video]

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was�� that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

[untitledtheunknown]

Psychofans & Mediacorps

(Backstory and lore on some psychofan encounters and the attempted kidnapping of Kerry Eurodyne along with some related events with Johnny Silverhand. Written as a Screamsheet because I was bored, and this all isn’t 100% since actual events aren’t always fully disclosed. Word count: 2976. Sources at the end.)

Being a world famous Rockerboy is really all it’s chalked up to be, doesn’t mean there isn’t its fair share of snags along the way. Fame and glory comes with a heavy price tag many don’t realize as they’re building their way to the top. Blinded by having your name in the lights, seeing hundreds of thousands of fans all eagerly waiting to just get a glimpse of you. Night City Legend Kerry Eurodyne commented, “It’s scary. I mean, to think that one hundred thousand people are selling their souls to see you, and you’ve got them hanging on your every word.” The very fans that would kill for a chance to see their idols live, are the very same that would put them on Trauma. 

Not just the fans either. Corporate is everywhere, in everything. Fight the system through lyrics while making them richer all the same. Media giants like N54 and DMS buying up the whole show to beat on their chest about who has the most control. The issue comes with their greed for it, keeping those who give them wealth on short leashes. Best offers, benefits, prestige of having a higher name attached to yours. But when friendship runs deeper than the quick climb to fame, other options of “persuasion” may occur. Aggressive strategies to keep themselves on top, because the company always come first.

We’re going to start this article off on arguably a lighter topic, that being the psychofans. I say arguably because they can do just as much damage as the corporations, but it's usually a bit more controlled. We'll hit on that later. There’s the usual rush security, jump fences, steal an axe, the almost seemingly normal chaotic fan behavior you can expect at most high profile gigs. Don’t lie, there’s always one in the audience. 

The sudden rise to fame with Samurai also helped play a part in this erratic behavior, Eurodyne had previously stated, “One minute we’re chugging through our old numbers in some small, no name club to the same crowd; the next we’ve sold out Wembley Stadium and there are a hundred thousand killing each other to get a look at us.” This wasn’t much of an overstatement either. Samurai’s rapid rise to fame took a mere three weeks after signing to Universal Music to reach the number one spot on EuroRadio charts. Everyone wanted a piece of Samurai then, and following the break up in late 2007 that craving didn’t soon die out. 

A number of incidents have happened, being on world tours is a crazy place. Never really know how fans are going to act until you’re in the thick of it. Most these incidents happen backstage, after gigs, or just by random chance coming across someone on the streets, in the open. One particular incident was documented in 2020 in the following of Trauma Team’s Rich “Meatball” Cramer M.D., Lifeline Trauma Inc., Night City Branch #23. 

Broken card call, 15:55, to the Grand Illusion Dance Hall and Bar. Patient being none other than one Rockerboy, Kerry Eurodyne. Compared to the rest of the logs of the night this was a breath of fresh air for the Lifeline agents, not so much for Mr. Eurodyne who was being assaulted by a gang of young female fans. Teargas was dispensed and our Rocker was extracted from the scene. Kerry was in good health at time of extraction, footing the bill of the call to the studio as well as a new set of clothes. Lawsuits were never charged as the fans left enjoying the chaos. 

Another lesser known act back in 2043-44, while performing in Memphis TN an assailant got backstage and put a knife to Kerry’s throat. Intentions of the attack are unknown. Could have been a psychofan making demands of an idol, or someone who knew the net wealth of the name Kerry Eurodyne at the time? Either way the incident ended without bloodshed, Kerry was able to talk the assailant down and promptly knock him out with a stiff pour of that high life tequila. The rest was handled by the venue’s security. Unfortunately events like these are almost common for the stardom lifestyle. 

Lives are kept under public scrutiny 24/7. “Be prepared to have your private life open to the world,” Rockerboy, Johnny Silverhand, had mentioned in a column from Advice From the Pros. Name in the lights simply means just that, private life is on show as well and nothing can truly be kept secret forever. Kerry Eurodyne had added, “Cover your ass on your social life, the mediacorps are capable of setting you up bigtime in compromising situations… Make sure you know who you’re hanging out with, and something about their friends.” Not just fans and so called friends you need to watch out for, but the very people you sign yourself away with. 

Rockers Kerry Eurodyne and Johnny Silverhand are no stranger to this cold truth. Even mediacorps you don’t sign with will have motives, and often resources, to try and gain a signature. Corporations will often go after the output/input or family of the Talent instead of the Talent itself. However, big companies like DMS, the rival to N54 News, also have other methods to “persuade” a contract breach and change. Both Kerry and Johnny were targeted by this particular company, though this time it was Eurodyne dragging Silverhand into trouble. 

After the time Samurai had broken up for good, late 2007 early 2008 Kerry was looking for a decent solo deal. This was a gamble for most Labels at the time, Johnny was the frontman of Samurai, Kerry’s true talent had yet to really flourish into the Legend we know today. At this stage in their careers they were just some new-boy artists, that had a couple songs and albums that made it big. A lot of bands will have their handfuls of top sellers and then disappear into a faded memory. However, media giant DMS saw promise in Kerry, and they quickly came out with an offer for the young Rockerboy that would put him right back on the road to stardom. 

Kerry was going to take the offer until Universal came up with an offer that wouldn’t just set him up but Johnny as well. The two decided that the offer Universal had was too good to pass up, and with good reason. Universal not only was packaging the two Rockerboys together as independent solo artists, they were offering a better deal as a whole. Since Universal already knew them from Samurai, and knew what the two could produce, formalities of signing a new band was skipped. Re-signing with Universal gave them guaranteed concessions normally only offered to major bands or superstars. 

DMS didn’t come back with a counter offer, they came back with threats. Eurodyne, and those close to him, started to receive threats from the mediacorp, these quickly escalated to hired thugs harassing and assaulting everyone in the Rocker’s inner circle, as well as himself. A common tactic for many corporations to get what they want. However, Kerry wasn’t folding to their pressure, sticking with his decision with Johnny to sign to Universal. At this point the signatures were received and Kerry’s talent was the official property of Universal Music once again. This only made the situation worse, and turned into a rather rare occurrence for the music scene. 

Major corporations have a number of outlets that they have at full disposal to get what and whom they want, when they want. DMS is not unique in this fact, but they do have one of the more unique techniques. DMS is creative, deadly, and, for a corporation its size, dangerously agile. They are known for their aggressive and ruthless recruiting tactics, and they do not take “no” with grace. 

Eurodyne’s fate, to DMS, was sealed the moment they selected him, no matter his choice. DMS starts with a fair offer, most of it coming with the prestige of having their name backing you and their benefits package. In the case of Eurodyne, where this was not enough, DMS will call on their Special Recruiting Division, which is devoted solely to recruiting and converting people who are reluctant to sign to DMS. A fancy way of saying they send in their black ops section to perform extractions on those who are bound by contract or reluctant to leave their current company. 

Extractions are illegal, but the government is in the pocket of these corporate giants. Though they hardly ever send their own people, so even if the extraction does fail the proof of finding out who sponsored the extraction is normally too timely, over looked, or asking corpses. Most these companies hire Solos to get the job done, a number of groups exist in this profession alone. Extractions are unsettling common in the corpo world that counter extractions are budgeted into company spending plans. As well many big companies have jealousy protection, and pre-planned countermeasures to prevent extraction attempts of their employees or Talents.

Now, you may be asking yourself, “If they didn’t want to work for them before, what would kidnapping them do?” Well, DMS and other companies thought about this issue as well. How do you force someone to work for you? Blackmail is the obvious answer, to the Talent, to their friends, their family, etc. It's a simple fix that will get a result, but can’t guarantee the product. Its proven effective though, reputation is everything- threats to destroy that are not taken lightly. For a company like DMS, they have a one up on this if they can't get the Talent to see eye to eye with their terms. “Talent Indoctrination”, TI for short, otherwise known as brainwashing to the common choom. It's a program used for winning over people who express resistance to “joining the DMS family” even after extraction. 

TI is only a rumor outside of the highest levels of the corporation, and those who have been subjected to it. Luckily, TI section failures are rare, unluckily survival of TI section failures is even rarer. DMS, however, is willing to risk TI only on targets with a high enough revenue generation potential. Executives are more at risk than artists, given artists are seen as disposable and the average commercial shelf-life of a DMS Music artist is only a couple years. Most only making it an average of two before they’re dropped back to performing at clubs and bars for the same hundred fans, if that. 

This was the threat Kerry was under, one that became very real one fateful day when the Rockerboy was abducted by a group of hired muscle from the corporation. While Kerry was successfully kidnapped and relocated, the extraction itself failed due to intervention of Legendary Solo, Morgan Blackhand. Blackhand was able to capture all five kidnappers, alone, and turned them over to the Federal Authorities. Beaten, battered, and bruised but all five were alive when they were handed over. This act alone humiliated DMS, who was only found later on in investigation to have been the group’s sponsor. Its not unheard of extractions being foiled, but for a company like DMS it was a shot to their pride since Kerry would know it was them that called it. The real humiliation of it comes from the fact Blackhand snagged them all alive, allowing the truth to be exposed to the public, tarnishing that royal reputation of theirs, though no legal action would be taken.

Embarrassing a huge company like that puts a major target on your back. Legality they could care less about, but reputation is not something any corporation wants to gamble with. Morgan Blackhand would become a target for a later date, DMS wasn’t done with Kerry Eurodyne yet. Now, though, their attention was brought to one of the key elements for why Kerry declined their original offer; Johnny Silverhand. 

“They were threatening Johnny and I with things like government investigations and stuff. By the time that threat was made, we’d already signed with Universal…” Eurodyne recalled during an interview. It was true, DMS had dug not only into Kerry’s past life but Johnny’s as well. They were at the stage of “If we can’t have you, no one will.” While Eurodyne’s rap sheet was arguably cleaner, DMS was preparing to go full out, and all in to find anything they could. What they had as their ace was Silverhand’s military past, and they knew they could find the same information about Eurodyne as well or paint him for it. Both Rockers had served during the 2000’s Central American Conflict, Johnny’s desertion was all they needed to start the fire.

DMS was preparing to take this knowledge to the government, and at that point they could say and paint anything on Kerry as well. Their careers were about to end before they even began. Short on time, they did the only thing they could do, they went to Universal Music. With the counter threat of exposure of DMS’s corruption and abusive power over their Talents, Universal made their position clear. This was a PR move, DMS could go to their pocket government agents to have the Rockerboy’s locked away for life, but Universal was going for their public appearance. The ends didn't justify the means, DMS backed down.

Lawsuits were dropped, threats ceased, no more extraction attempts were made on either rockstar. They were given freedom to produce their albums and do tours under the protection of Universal. It wouldn’t be for another several years down the line when DMS would rear its ugly head back into their lives. Well, only in passing.

Denny, the former drummer of Samurai, had a new band called Mastermind that was being recorded by DMS Music. “She knows how I feel about them, but the contract they’ve got is suitable for her, so I’m not going to interfere as long as she is happy.” Kerry had stated on the matter back in late 2013, “Even now you won’t find Johnny or I saying anything remotely positive about DMS… I’m just glad no one was listening when I made certain comments or some of my fans might have taken those rash words to heart and we might have had some serious problems.” A tongue in cheek response to the 13 April 2013 Arasaka Riots led by Johnny Silverhand, under the old band's name of Samurai. Rioters killed 18 and wounded 51 on that night, gutting the Arasaka complex. An event that would only deepen the wedge between the two Rockerboys, yet redefine them entirely.

Silverhand, however, would be blackmailed again later on in 2009 by EBS Records to leave Universal and sign a solo contract with them. EBS had found out that Johnny was an AWOL U.S. Marine who had deserted during the Second Conflict. The blackmail attempt was quickly dropped as Johnny came clean himself, revealing all his secrets and shining light on the plight of veterans of the covert war, with his now famous album Sins of Your Brother. 

One thing the Rocker was known for was starting changes with his music, back in late 2012 Silverhand had an assassination attempt on his life believed to be sourced from Biotechnica do to their belief of controversal opinions to their practices heard on his album Clone Wars. Being forced to take several months of seclusion to let the heat die down before going on tour himself.

Given all of this, and much more, they had been relatively lucky. Maybe not with the fans, Eurodyne still faces the masses though in some more creative ways now. Having his biometric data copyrighted, and agreements with NCPD to monitor CCTVs for any unauthorized replications. Hasn't stopped some from trying, going as far as faking nudes that broke headlines awhile back only to have frisky imaginations shot down by his management. As far as Johnny goes, I don't think anything beats the rumor that was circulating sometime after the events of Arasaka Tower back in 2023. The idea some obsessive fan sneaked past security of the city to dig through the rubble, locating his body to put on ice and keep like some kind of memorabilia? It sounds crazy, but everyone in Night City knew what kind of fans Samurai, and more importantly, Johnny Silverhand had. Made it completely possible and people didn't really doubt that it could be true.

With corporations though, the two Rockerboys dodged a bullet. Multiples if you were keeping count. Others haven't been so lucky. A number of stories of Talents being threatened and giving into demands, multiple assassination attempts to end someone's career, Talents being kidnapped and tortured, so far as one account of a musicians hands being crushed to prevent preformances. From the outside being a Rockerboy looks like a party scene, and a lot of it is, but as the longest living in the scene will tell you, keep a Solo and a Netrunner you trust close on personal pay.

Events come full circle, once you make it to the big time stardom, the public eye notices everything, hangs onto every word. Talents like Silverhand and Eurodyne control the masses in the same way the corporations do. The audiences look to them for guidance, though in some cases the lessons are lost in translation. With everything from greedy labels making backdoor deals behind their Talent’s backs, something Kerry Eurodyne and Us Cracks went through this year, to psychofans making their own demands, to corporate reputation wars. Being a Rockerboy never gets easier, but few have hardly ever survived the test of time as Kerry has. An uphill battle from his earliest beginnings, to sitting on the Rockerboy throne of Night City, well into 2077 and still holding the title of "God of Rock" without a fault. 

Sources and Quotes:

Rockerboy Source Book

Backstage with Kerry Eurodyne page 7-9

Extortion. Bribery. Kidnapping. Brainwashing. And Other Nasty Tricks. Page 44-45

Cyberpunk 2.0.2.0. The Second Edition

Silverhand Update: Clone Tour Begins page 225

One Night with the TRAUMA TEAM page 231 

Live & Direct 

Diverse Media Systems “Technotainment” page 81-82

Solo of Fortune Vol II Source Book

American Angels: One of Europe’s Best Rates the Top U.S. Pros. page 63

Cyberpunk Red

Welcome to the Dark Future page 239

Cyberpunk 2077

Spector Melee Vendor Westbrook

Gig: Psychofans Gaston Slayton's computer

Shard Glam Now! - The Mag For Those Who Love This For Themselves

[hopetofantasy]

Culture, parallels & meta - S2 E6

Zaterdag 18:12

C is for culture: “Because we’re going to Angèle” - Angèle is a Belgian singer-songwriter. She's one of the biggest breakout acts in French and Belgian pop, with the hit ‘Tout oublier’ ft. her brother 'Roméo Elvis'. In April 2020, she performed for ‘One World: Together At Home’, the global broadcast to support healthcare workers and the WHO for COVID 19, hosted by Lady Gaga.

Hello from the outside: The singer did have a concert in ‘Vorst Nationaal’ Brussels that night, which the actresses both attended and put on their characters’ insta. 

Perfect parallel: Zoë jokingly saying “I started being afraid that you thought we were official or something” in a previous episode, Jana’s sarcastic “There is nothing going on between you two anyway” now.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Zoë has a vintage tin box on her desk.

°

Zondag 11:53

C is for culture: “When I arrived back at the polling station, ..." - In Belgium, voting is mandatory for anyone of legal age and Belgian nationality. Not showing up for polling station duty or voting itself, could cost you a fine or even a lawsuit. Exceptions are illnesses, working abroad, being jailed, etc. The election always happens on a Sunday morning, so that (almost) everyone can cast a vote on a non-working day. Due to the complex political system, some elections are grouped together. Every five years, it’s the one for the European parliament, the Federal government and the regional governments (Flanders, Wallonia, Brussels). Every six years, the municipal and provincial council election. It’s entirely possible to vote ‘blanc’ if you want to, then it simply doesn’t count.

Perfect parallel: Zoë asking for a break in their relationship in the exact same spot as the start of it - their first kiss in an earlier one. 

That’s character: Throughout the seasons, Senne has shown that he has got some anger issues. Whenever he feels frustrated, scared or incapable of things, it often results into physical violence. From slamming doors and punching walls to threatening Viktor with a knife. This is a consequence of his own insecurity. He often feels incompetent about the situation he’s put in (due to his past) and wants to change that by ‘being the bigger (tougher) guy’. 

Hello from the outside: After this whole Zoënne ordeal, Jens posted a picture to his insta claiming that he ‘lost his bike last night due to heavy drinking’. He provided a vague location and the fact that his number was attached to it. This resulted in an actual search for the fans around Antwerp. Eventually, someone found it, called the number and the actor Nathan Bouts showed up to collect.

°

Maandag 10:14

Perfect parallel/Funny coincidence: The principal thinking about cancelling FreeFest due to the Beat Boys’ violence in S2, then cancelling it due to COVID-19 in wtFOCKDOWN.

Oopsie: You can clearly see that Senne’s black eye is smudged with white make-up at the borders, making the whole thing look fake. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Zoë mouthing ‘Wat?’ (= What?) to Jana, her answering ‘Ik weet niet’ (= I don’t know).

Bonus: The fact that they put ‘Sound of da police’ by KRS-One underneath the image of the police officers going outside. Brilliant!

°

Dinsdag 13:50

Perfect parallel: 

Zoë having a conversation about what to do with Senne in the same classroom as her making up with him in an earlier episode.

Yasmina vaguely revealing a (former) crush in this episode and later on in S2, Robbe trying to pry information out of her about that someone, without result, in wtFOCKDOWN. 

How ‘meta’ of you: Yasmina saying “That I have to wait” about the feelings for the boy, but it’s also a hint that we have to wait for her season to explore that storyline. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Senne gifts her a ‘Huawei Psmart 2019′. Zoë needs to finish her Biology report, as the subject is a red thread in this season like Psychics was Jana’s.

°

Woensdag 13:45

Perfect parallel: Milan saying “I think you’re looking for excuses to be angry at Senne” in this episode and Zoë doing exactly that in the episodes before their first kiss. 

Lost in translation: Milan saying “Dat is geen huiswerkge-ijsbeer. Dat is boyfriendgebanjer”. The words ‘ijsberen’ and ‘banjeren’ both mean nervously pacing around, but the last one is only used in the Netherlands. Milan wants to make an alliteration, so he chooses that to rhyme with ‘boyfriend’. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Some of the Grindr profile names include ‘Power bottom XL’ and ‘Sex now’.

°

Donderdag 13:45

C is for culture: Why aren’t Zoë and Amber in school on a Thursday? Well, it’s the holiday weekend of ‘the Ascension of Our Lord into Heaven’. In Belgium, when a holiday falls on a Tuesday or Thursday, the schools and some companies have an extra day off in between that holiday and the weekend, thus extending the weekend.

Perfect parallel: Zoë confessing her relationship with Senne to Amber in S2, in the same location as Jens confessing to Jana that he smokes weed in S1.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The coffee cups have the sentence 'I’M a big HOT cup' on them and are instantly forgotten during their conversation. 

°

Vrijdag 21:42

That’s character: Viktor’s manipulative behavior is starting to get apparent here. At first, he’s being nice, offers help and invites her in. Then he throws her off by saying things like “Did Senne tell you that? Typical”, “Our Senne doesn’t like it when his friends get to know his family” and “And I don’t think he’ll be sleeping alone either”, while he acts like he’s doubting, insecure and wounded.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The hardened look on his face right before he calls Senne, a sudden change from his (fake) nice face.

°

Vrijdag 21:53

That’s character: Senne’s big brother keeps controlling this entire conversation, not only by the words he’s saying, but also his body language and timing. He already gained some trust in the previous clip, by helping her out and acting innocent. Now he put a glass of wine in her hand, compliments her, waits for the moment that she’ll ask more about Senne and makes up a sob story. Then he digs into Zoë’s insecurity by stating "He saw a lot of women trying to change him and getting hurt". At the end, adding the final blow to make her believe that he’s cheating. And viola, Viktor has an intoxicated victim he can prey on. 

Perfect parallel: Viktor lying that Senne has an undiagnosed MI, doesn’t want people to find out and that all sorts of women tried to change him in S2, while Sander actually has an MI, wás scared that Robbe found out and Britt somewhat tries to change him in S3. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Zoë doing shots of ‘Pisang’.

[hushedhands]

Challenge 73

Thank you so much for voting @iebenhoch21! This was really fun and cute to write, I hope you like it. And for anyone else who has sent me a prompt, don’t worry, I see you and I’m proud of you! I’m getting these out as quickly as I can, in the order that I get them ♥️ Don’t forget to make sure all your friends who can vote have voted! 

The monarchy of Illéa maintained properties in every province for the royal family to use in case they needed to stay overnight away from the Palace. America used them more than Maxon, mostly while touring the country and meeting with governors or bringing publicity to newly-opened public libraries.

This time, the whole family was traveling to the groundbreaking ceremony of the first public secondary school in all of Illéa. The public schools that had existed in America and Aspen’s childhood, used primarily as a holding cell for Sixes and Sevens until they were old enough to work, were in the process of being reformed and converted into proper elementary schools. It was clear, though, that more space would be needed for older students. An elderly couple from Kent with no children of their own had willed a small plot of land on the outskirts of an equally small town to Marlee, who had been their province’s representative in Maxon’s Selection and whom they’d grown to love through the television.

This kind of thing wasn’t unheard of; the Selected often found themselves beneficiaries in someone’s will at some point, but this gift was particularly special. Marlee found out about it just as America and Kriss began scouting land for their public school initiative and measuring the costs of acquiring that land for the Crown. It was a pretty little spot in a good location for a school, and best of all, it was totally free. The decision was made to name the school after the couple who’d willed the land to Marlee, thank Marlee for donating the land to the government of Illéa in a placard on the cornerstone, and begin construction as soon as possible.

America, Marlee, and Kriss would all be at the official groundbreaking ceremony, but Kriss, with no children to shepherd around, would be flying in just before the start of the ceremony. Marlee and America thought it would be best to bring their families a night early so they could all get some good rest and not have cranky, weepy kids in front of photographers the next morning. That was how Addy came to be riding in a car with her mom, Jamesy, and newborn baby Maisy on the way to a special royal house in a far away place.

Instead of regular breakfast that morning, almost five-year-old Addy rode with Kile, his two-year-old sister Josie, and Marlee in a car driven by Carter, and then they all got on an airplane with America, Jamesy, Maisy, Maxon, and a host of royal advisors. On the plane, Addy got to sit with Kile and they got eggs and toast for breakfast served on special airplane plates. Addy used a spoon for her eggs and only dropped a couple of bites on her lap, which she then ate with her fingers.

America had to give baby Maisy a lot of attention, as usual, and Maxon had to work for the whole six hour flight, but Marlee and Carter kept Jamesy, Addy, Kile, and Josie well entertained with coloring, board games, and eventually cartoons on the airplane television.

When the plane landed, Addy had to put on a puffy coat because it was chilly between the plane and the cars waiting to whisk them away. Addy loved her puffy coat and wished she could wear it all the time; it was a color called maroon which sounded very exotic and magical to little Addy. There were a few photographers on the tarmac waiting to greet them, and Addy gave them her very best wave. Maxon even thanked her for being on her best behavior.

This time they rode in a car that didn’t have rear-facing seats in the back, the way Palace cars usually did. Jamesy rode in a safety seat in the far back, and Addy was supposed to sit by him but she begged to ride next to America, and Jamesy didn’t mind having a whole row of seats to himself, so baby Maisy’s carrier clicked into the middle seat, and Addy sat behind the guard who was driving, and America sat on the other side of Maisy’s carrier.

“Mommy?” Addy asked as the car got moving.

“Yes, baby bird?”

“Why is this place far?”

“Why? Um…” America tried to figure out how to answer that question. “It’s far because… we live in a very, very big country. One of the biggest in the whole world. If we want to visit different places in our country, we have to go very far.”

“Hm.” This didn’t really answer Addy’s question, but it gave her something to think about. Was Illéa different from other places? What other places were there, besides Illéa? She knew about Luke and Andy’s home, that was different, but were there more places than their home? How many places were there in the world?

“Mommy?”

“Hm?”

“How many places are there in the world?”

America scrunched her brow, “In the world? I don’t know, Bird… lots and lots. At least a thousand.”

“Hm.” Addy didn’t know how much a thousand was, but it was definitely lots. Addy had never considered that the world was so big before.

They rode along in silence for a few minutes. Baby Maisy grew fussy and America offered her a bottle. Addy volunteered to hold the bottle, promising to keep it tilted up high so there wouldn’t be any bubbles to get into baby Maisy’s tummy and make her cry. Addy pressed a kiss to the baby’s fist as she fed her. Maisy’s fist was squishy and cute, and Addy liked to smooch it when she could.

America reached over the baby carrier and ran a hand through Addy’s red hair and smiled tiredly over at her, “Thank you for being such a good helper, Bird.”

“Welcome, Mommy.”

America closed her eyes, still stroking Addy’s hair, as Addy continued carefully feeding the baby. After a few minutes, Maisy spat the bottle out and refused to drink anymore. “She’s all done.” Addy announced.

America stopped stroking Addy’s hair, pried open her eyes, and packed the bottle back into Maisy’s baby bag.

Addy turned to look out the window again and this time, something major caught her attention. “Mommy!”

“What is it, honey?” America asked, concerned at the urgency in Addy’s tone.

Addy pointed at the window, “The leafs… the leafs are red!”

“It’s okay, Addy. Nothing’s wrong.” America soothed, “Aren’t they pretty?”

They were the prettiest thing Addy had ever seen. Reds, yellows, and oranges, vibrant and bright as far as her eyes could see. “Why? Why are they different colors?”

Again, America had to think about how to answer her, “This is a place where it snows in the winter. You know snow from cartoons, right?”

“Snow? Yeah.” Addy knew snowmen, in particular.

“Snow is kind of heavy and it could break tree limbs if it got caught on leafs. So, to protect their limbs, trees will let their leafs fall down before the first snow of the season. And when leafs are getting ready to fall, they turn from green to all of these beautiful colors.”

“Will…will they ever have leafs anymore, Mommy?”

“Yes. Every spring, brand new baby green leafs are born.” America reassured her.

Addy was astounded. “Our trees have all of their leafs. They aren’t scared of any snow.” she reasoned.

“That’s right.” America smiled, proud that Addy had grasped the concept. “We don’t get snow, so our trees don’t have to shed their leafs in the fall.”

“Wow, Mommy.” Addy had never imagined such colorful leafs before.

“And you know what else, Bird?” America had an idea, a smile spreading on her face.

“Hm?”

“Once they fall to the ground, leafs become crunchy.”

“Crunchy?” Addy thought about crunchy things. “For salad?”

“No, baby.” America giggled. “For playing in.”

“Playing!” Addy was excited. “We can play with them?”

“Yes. Once we get to the house where we’re staying tonight, we’ll go outside and play in all these gorgeous, crunchy leafs.”

“Yes!” Addy kicked her legs excitedly. Who would have thought that leafs would be her new favorite toy?

***

The cars carrying the Palace contingent rolled through big old black iron gates to signal that they’d arrived at the monarchy’s property. The house at the end of the drive wasn’t as big as the Palace, but it was definitely a mansion of sorts. America figured Gregory Illéa had probably stolen it from whatever family had owned it before the founding of Illéa, claiming it for the monarchy by his right as the newly crowned King of a formerly free land. As soon as the cars stopped and the guards opened the doors, the kids were ready to run wild. Kile, Addy, Josie, and Jamesy were allowed to run and jump and scream as much as they wanted, as long as they could still see the house from wherever on the massive, tree-lined lawn they were playing.

No adults standing over them! No seatbelts holding them back! Addy ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, just to feel the wind in her hair. She ran until the cold air caused her lungs to ache, and even then she only paused to catch her breath for a moment. She spun in circles until she collapsed onto the leafy ground below. Her mommy was right, the leafs were crunchy, but Addy couldn’t figure out how to play with them yet.

Finally, Addy ran into the house and called out for her parents. The inside of the house was huge and confusing, but Weaver heard her call and he carried her to the upstairs bedroom where her parents were unpacking their bags. Maxon’s work day was done and he was finally free to focus on his family and the importance of this trip.

“What’s wrong, Bird? Are you done playing already?” Maxon asked as Addy was transferred from Weaver’s hip to Maxon’s. Weaver bowed out of the room to continue his work downstairs.

“No, I’m sweaty.” Addy announced. Sure enough, the little hairs framing her face were plastered to her forehead.

Maxon helped her unzip her coat and Addy turned around as if she was going to head straight back outside.

“Hold on a second, Bird.” America stopped her. “You can’t go outside with no sleeves, it’s too cold for that.”

“But Mommy, I’m sweaty.” Addy complained.

Maxon scooped Addy up again, “Let’s go check your suitcase for a long-sleeved shirt. That should work until you’re ready to slow down and bundle up again.” he glanced at America to make sure that she agreed, and when she nodded, he carried Addy off to the bedroom next door where she and Jamesy would sleep that night.

The view out the window was gorgeous. Addy could see the whole long driveway all the way almost to the iron gates. She also spied Kile, Josie, and Jamesy down on the lawn playing some kind of game of tag.

While Maxon dug through her bag, Addy climbed up onto the bed and waited. It was really cushy, Addy liked it.

When Maxon found a shirt he thought would work for both Addy and America’s specifications, he told Addy to reach for the sky and he pulled her old shirt off and put this new one on. Addy’s new shirt was gray like her eyes, and it was soft on her skin. Much better than her old, sweaty shirt.

“Can I go play?” Addy asked permission.

“Yes. Mommy, Maisy, and I will be outside soon.”

“Kay.” Addy took off like a little bolt of red-headed lightning, navigating her way back out the front door and rejoining her friends in a flash.

It seemed like no time at all before Aunt Marlee and Uncle Carter joined them outside, followed by America, Maxon, and baby Maisy in her stroller. As soon as Aunt Marlee spied the baby, she rushed over to cradle her and kiss her, which freed Maxon and America to round up the bigger kids. Addy loved being a bigger kid.

America was in charge of the leaf quest because she’d played with lots of leafs as a little girl in Carolina. Maxon had never played with leafs before, so he was at her command. She told everyone to go all around the enormous lawn and gather big handfuls of bright, colorful leafs, then pile them up right here.

This was already fun, and Addy would have been happy making silly leaf piles all day long. But then, just when Addy though their leaf pile couldn’t get any more enormous, America and Marlee had a conference and seemed to agree.

“Line up by me, oldest to youngest!” America instructed. “Not you, Maxon.”

Maxon pouted and left the line so that Kile now stood up front. “Okay Kile, you’re going to run as fast as you can and then leap into the leaf pile.” America instructed.

Kile glanced at his mom as if his Aunt America had lost her mind.

“It’ll be soft, don’t worry.” Marlee encouraged him.

Kile gathered his bravery and ran full-speed at the leafs. At the last second, he jumped into the air and belly-flopped on to the leaf pile, disappearing for a moment in a puff of crunchy, colorful leafs. He emerged laughing his head off and helped restore the flattened pile to optimal fluffiness for the next jumper in line, Addy.

Addy pumped her little arms to give herself extra speed as she launched herself toward the leaf pile. At the last moment, she spun around and jumped backward, landing on her back with a soft thud and a lot of giggles.

America helped Josie and Jamesy while Carter snapped photographs of the fun. Maxon finally got his turn and made a huge mess, because he made what he called a leaf angel once he landed, which America said was like a snow angel, but Addy didn’t know what either of those things were. She just knew it was silly.

From then on, until the sun set and it was too dark to see, the Schreaves and Woodworks ran and jumped in an endless loop into the leaf pile. For a while, Maxon and Carter even tossed the kids into the pile so that they’d get to fall from higher up.

Addy never wanted to stop playing with leafs, but when it was officially dinner time she had to admit that she was starving. She’d worked up a huge appetite with all of her running and jumping (and giggling until she had a stomachache). The savory squash soup and fresh, hot loaf of rosemary bread that they had for dinner warmed her tummy up perfectly. After dinner, Addy took a long, hot bath where she found a hidden piece of leaf still in her hair.

Once America had Addy all dressed in her snuggliest pajamas, Addy joined the rest of everyone on the big back terrace and it was Jamesy’s turn for a bath. Addy took his abandoned spot on Maxon’s lap and learned that the chef had made them some super yummy apple cider for dessert. Addy got her own kid-sized glass and sipped away happily. Her mouth was hot enough from the drink that her breath became even foggier than it had been before, and it was fun to blow out all of that smoke like a dragon.

Bedtime came too soon, and they didn’t have time to play again the next day. They went straight from the groundbreaking ceremony back to the plane, and then home. Addy was disappointed, she’d wanted more time to play with the leafs, but America brought home an especially pretty red leaf and pressed it onto a blank page in a book for Addy to look at whenever she wanted and remember their family trip to Kent.

[soundtrackofversace]

Episodes 5 & 6 Summary

Okay so we’re going to try and cover a lot in a little, because a lot of good music examples span a few episodes, not to mention that this is the juicy part (we really start to see the foundations of a lot of relationships and personality traits). Last we left off, Andrew was butting his head in where it didn’t belong in David’s personal life, trying to marry him in a last ditch effort to ‘fix’ his life and inflating his role in their relationship. Because the show operates retroactively, I think it’s worth reminding exactly who Andrew has killed at this point, especially because I’m about to talk about them when they were alive. In chronological order, we’ve got Jeff Trail, David Madsen, Lee Miglin, William Reese, and Gianni Versace (the entirety of his victims), so now we’re getting into the time in Andrew’s life prior to becoming a killer.

In the rest of Episode 5, we get to learn more about Jeff Trail and understand the nature of he and Andrew’s relationship. Not only that, but we also get our first glimpse of Versace in a while, albeit still only included as a framing device for Cunanan’s storyline (or more accurately here Jeff’s storyline). Both Versace and Jeff are dealing with life as a queer man in the 90’s, but they each have very different experiences. Due to his fame and fortune, Versace must contemplate coming out to the public from a business standpoint, with Donatella concerned it will affect the business and Gianni not having a care in the world about it; he’s certain that those who deserve his business would remain loyal. While he has to consider the business, for the most part his wealth and influence allows him to go relatively unscathed; he’s able to give an interview for a queer magazine offically coming out without any real concern for his close relationships or personal safety. 

Jeff, on the other hand, is a retired Naval officer who is very much in the closet; only his sister and close friends know anything about his sexuality. Instead of a reaffirming interview celebrating his sexuality, Jeff gives a 48 Hours interview about life in the military during Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, a super bigoted and ignorant tactic that the government used in the 80s and 90s to ‘allow’ gays in the military, they just couldn’t talk about it. This obviously meant that being gay was looked down upon, leading to a really crappy life for queers in the military. Jeff gave his interview anonymously, only making the shame he was supposed to feel more painfully obvious. In the interview Jeff discusses his reasons for leaving the military; at one point during his service he witnessed a group of officers beating up a presumably gay man and intervened, which called his sexuality into question (which just baffles me like...because I don’t think you should actually beat another person, I’m gay? ok buddy). From there, Trail himself was bullied and pressured out of the military, fearing for his own safety. As someone who had idolized the military from a young age, Jeff was torn; while he knows it was the right choice to intervene in that fight (that one gay guy would have definitely died), there’s also some serious regret about saving him, because it clearly outed him and prevented him from having a future in the military. There’s an encounter between Trail and his superiors where they seem to be trying to get him to out himself under the guise of sensitivity training (what a fucking joke, I truly scream-laughed when I watched that), which seems to be the final straw for Trail to officially feel unsafe. 

Also in Episode 5, we see the inception of Jeff and Andrew’s relationship: while patronizing a gay bar for the first time, Jeff meets Andrew and is pretty immediately intoxicated by his worldliness and mysteriousness that Jeff has equated to queer culture. There’s a manic pixie dream girl vibe to Andrew, and now it’s clearer how it could have taken so long for Andrew’s friends to catch on to his bullshit. If Andrew had actually taken the time to achieve any of the goals he claimed to have already achieved, he just might have stopped lying long enough for people to actually like him, but obviously we’ll never know for sure. 

Episode 6 helps to indicate how Andrew was able to transition from life at home with his middle class family that embodies the ordinary life Andrew thought he was too good for. We see the way that Andrew has managed to seem as rich and successful as he has is because he acts as a gigolo to Norman Blachford, a wealthy older man that Andrew lives with and gets large sums of money from in exchange for intimacy. Well, Andrew is determined to get his money and yet still get the guy, so at his birthday party he has to juggle satiating Norman and that relationship while also trying to woo David. Throughout the party Andrew also does anything and everything to make himself seem important and rich, including giving Jeff a new gift that is more expensive than the one he actually brought and making him change his shoes into designer shoes Andrew bought for him to wear. It’s clear that this is the beginning of the end of their friendship, as Jeff clearly thinks Andrew is on some shit for that behavior. This episode is truly the only stretch in Andrew’s life (besides his teenage years when his father did it for him) where his life seems to be going exactly how he wants it to; very little responsibility, loads of discretionary spending, pretentious and boujee company and activities and an absolutely crazy and grandiose mansion to live in rent free. He appears to others the way he has always thought he should, and without a stitch of genuine effort or determination on his part (except determination to manipulate maybe). 

[orchidbreezefc]

OKAY COOL I WAS ON THE FENCE ABOUT POSTING MY OWN EXPERIENCES IN THE KFAM DISCORD BECAUSE A POST ABOUT People Being Mean To Sage Specifically SEEMED KIND OF MASTURBATORY OR SELF-PITYING OR WHATEVER BUT IF WE REALLY ARE GOING TO STILL BE OUT HERE PUSHING THE This Server Is A Lovely Familial Community And Dissenters Are The Problem NARRATIVE EVEN NOW? HELL NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

obviously this is hard to be objective about. this stuff is a lot less concrete than my first post, a lot more based on vibes i got, which, yknow, is why it’s not in my first post. but if anyone identifies with this, if anyone sees their own experiences in this discord reflected in mine, then it’s going to be worth the worry i’m reading too much into things, or others thinking the same of me. if i can help anyone who felt like THEY were mistreated there and weren’t sure if they were reading too much into things, then. it’s worth it. especially since the M.O. in there was ‘everything’s fine and if not we’re going to MAKE IT FINE by silencing anyone who disagrees’.

a lot of talk has been done about the censorship (word used loosely, first amendment protects from the government not from the mods etc, definitely a specific suppression of dissenting ideas though) the mods have been doing--once more i suggest @kfam-tea for receipts and screenshots. not something i feel great about, but not something i have personal experience with, so i won't speak to it. see also my first post about my interactions with the creators. it touches on the dogpiling, which i'll go into more depth on in this post. you can find it [link: here].

so. the first thing in the official discord that tipped me off about the hivemind samethink phenomenon is that the whole place is distinctly frosty on the subject of samben. that’s a post all its own, one that follows through to numbers on ao3 and whatever, but i’m not here to make a ship manifesto. suffice it to say i got attached to the ship upon listening, inhaled the (suspiciously small) ao3 tag, and was stopped in my tracks at the discord server where any implication of such ship inclinations were met with silence and pointed changes of subject.

distinctly weird. distinctly unusual fandom behavior, that i couldnt even hint around shipping the two men whose incredibly profound relationship is literally the crux of the show, who have exchanged ‘i love you’s, one of whom is confirmed gay--all other romantic entanglements aside, because when have those stopped shippers? that was weird. i realize that's maybe a bit tinfoil hat of me. it could have been the goldfish-bowl big-brother-is-watching vibe from having creators in there, except, as i said, it carries to other sites.

anyway, much more concrete was when i spoke out about my thoughts on ben’s actions in ep68. again, enough there for another post, so tl;dr: he was doing his best, he’s a good guy and a good friend, but his actions DIRECTLY outed sammy to the WHOLE town, without allowing sammy to say the words himself. it was an accident, yes, but it had tangible, harmful consequences, and even accidental harm warrants apology. it should at least be... acknowledged. at some point. by the show OR the fandom. it's a disservice to ben himself to never get the chance to own up to it.

this was an unacceptable take. i tried breaching this topic and making my case twice, and got THOROUGHLY dogpiled both times. a dozen fans crawled out of the woodwork to argue heatedly, sometimes getting quite aggressive, sometimes toeing the line of outright hostility toward me personally. definitely some downright rude messages. not once did anybody speak up to defend my right to put forward my dissenting opinion, let alone SUPPORT my argument, god forbid. ben’s were the actions of a good friend, i was told. outing someone to their whole town without giving them the chance to say it on their own terms didn't qualify as harm at all, i was told, on account of ben's heart being in the right place.

still, the opinions being argued matter less than the attitudes and behaviors. people don't have to agree with me about that ep, i don't care. i do care about being given the right to, as a single person on my own, have space to make an argument without being shouted down by a dozen people. i do care about how it fit into a greater pattern of forbidding any criticism of the show, and ben in particular, who is a good friend and therefore all of his actions are good and harmless, who is our resident heterosexual unassailable paragon of purity. which might explain the samben problem--sammy/ron[/jack] was perfectly fine, even popular, but there was never a whisper of shipping ben with anyone but emily. they're Official. theyre The Perfect Couple. don't you dare challenge that (and for the most part, i didn’t dare. i quickly learned not to).

my [link: previous post] details kyle's response to these fun events, where he specifically went out of the way to follow me being shouted into silence (a result of me being driven to literal tears and shutting down rather than invite more argument) with a warm congratulations to everybody for their conduct in this discussion. because that's the kind of conversation kyle wants to specifically and explicitly praise and encourage, i guess.

anyway. this contributed to the growing sense over my time in the discord that people held a certain distaste for me but didn’t want to say anything direct. instead they talked around me, ignored me, immediately changed the subject from my messages, the whole while bestowing constant glowing compliments on each other and endlessly repeating saccharine sentiments about what a nice family type community they were, how grateful they were for the discord being such a positive space. i suppose that’s an easy impression to get when negativity is ruthlessly suppressed (and apparently outright censored nowadays) and instead of insults or, god forbid, communication with people with whom folks might take issue, they just (more or less) silently stonewall and cold shoulder them.

again, i could be misreading cues, being egocentric or tinfoil hat by reading this pattern into how i in particular was treated. either way, the fact that i was given the fandom friday shout out the week after KFAM live was definitely... strange. fishy, even. i was already mostly out the door at that point, had been for weeks--it was actually in my last few days speaking there period. i felt strangely guilty that they would dedicate a day to me when i didn’t like being there much and hardly spoke any longer. one thing’s for sure: my congratulations were fewer and more impersonal, perfunctory, and/or generic than other fans got (i kept a screenshot). i still have no idea what to make of that one, but there you have it.

p.s.: since vagues are in vogue now apparently, i might as well mention the person who's been accused of being A Problem In The Discord For A While Now, among nastier things, which definitely is not an effort to justify kyle's passive aggressive response to their untagged post which used the phrase 'death of the author', or kyle subsequently crying on twitter about death threats because apparently he couldn't be bothered to google a basic literary analysis term and thought if he was vague enough nobody would look into what was actually said. i guess he was right, if the hundreds of asspats and outcries against The Evils Of Podcast Fan Meanies were any indication.

i digress. i just wanted to testify that the fan in question was one of maybe three or four people on the server who consistently treated me nicely and acted like they liked me. and that another fan who claimed to be uncomfortable around death-of-the-author-person was the person who came the closest to being outright nasty to me when i expressed a critical opinion. make of that what you will i guess!

p.p.s.: if i never say anything more about this whole thing or the creators’ part in it, i do want to say for the record: noah james is fully exempt from all of this and remains absolutely wonderful and a whole treasure. like dont pedestalize male creators and assume them incapable of wrongdoing etc etc but i had an hour long midnight denny’s breakfast sitting across from him and he was nothing short of an angel the whole time. sweetest guy i’ve ever met. he hasn’t breathed a word about any of this drama. he may not even know it’s going on because he’s too busy being the most beautiful and talented man in america or something. i love you noah

[liskantope]

Some thoughts on BLM and our current unrest

[Content warning for death and violence and even sexual abuse (although that’s not part of this week’s issue) and, you know, discussion of a current topic that’s very upsetting for many people. I can’t guarantee that the opinion I express won’t be additionally upsetting although I’m hoping for an open-minded rather than strident tone here. Also, it turned out super long. And I didn’t even get around to the protest vs. rioting discourse!]

This post is long, and since Tumblr for some reason has done away with the light horizontal bars separating sections of writing (I can’t imagine why, and I wish they’d bring it back), I’ll adopt the style of Slate Star Codex and The Last Psychiatrist to mark different sections.

I.

(The following hypothetical situation is inspired by the crimes of Jerry Sandusky of Penn State and Larry Nassar of Michigan State.)

Suppose it becomes public knowledge that in many American universities there are officials working in athletics departments who are using their programs to gain access to children and teenagers for the purpose of sexually abusing them. Say it is discovered that this has been going on for decades at most of these universities, with the perpetrators using their privilege and power to keep the suspicions of the higher-up administrators on the downlow. This would of course become a dominating national news item and lead to a public conversation about how poorly structured the system must be at universities to allow for such despicable crimes to go on, how we as a society are putting people in power who care more about their power than about the basic safety of children and teenagers, and so on. If enough people felt like university administrations or state governments were refusing to take action towards dissolving these corrupt systems, or if they disagreed with the actions being taken, there might be full-scale protests or even riots along with the vigils that would take place in any case. I mean, I believe all of this is basically what happened when the Sandusky and Nassar situations broke out some years back.

Now suppose that in addition, when looking at all these horrific revelations from universities all around the country, it became noticeable that the victims of these sex crimes were disproportionately young people growing up in poverty; let’s say fully one third of the victims were growing up in households whose annual income was under $30,000. (I don’t recall the Sandusky case in great detail but something like that was probably true there to a more dramatic extent since he got access to his victims through a program designed for underprivileged children.) This makes the situation feel even more tragic -- don’t kids from low-income backgrounds suffer enough disadvantages already? These monsters that are protected by The System are adept at preying on the most vulnerable, and clearly this (hypothetical but altogether not unrealistic) phenomenon highlights the vulnerability of those who are not economically privileged.

Now in such a situation, class issues would definitely become at least a minor part of the discourse, but I have a hard time imagining that the entire main thrust of the public outrage would focus on classism, even if (and this is something I can’t imagine either!) the only cases being projected by the media to become common public knowledge, out of the whole series of university athletics sex crimes, were the ones where mainly poor kids and teenagers were targeted. In fact, I expect that if any media outlet tried to present the entire thing as being a class issue and implied that it affected only poor kids, there would be a lot of backlash especially on the grounds of this coming across as a big middle finger to the higher-income-background molestation victims. I just don’t see it happening. Primarily, the outrage would be centered on the fact that university administrations allow high-ranking people in their athletics departments get away with despicable violations of young people for decades. The fact that a disproportionately high number of those young people are from underprivileged backgrounds would be treated as sort of a secondary issue, if properly noticed by the broader public at all.

So, if you’ve read this far you probably see where I’m going with this. And I know that the above hypothetical scenario furnishes nowhere near a perfect analogy to what has people riled up right now. But why is it that in my hypothetical nightmare crime scenario, the prevalence of the crime itself (rather than which demographic is disproportionately on the receiving end) is what constitutes the outrage, whereas in the real-life scenario of numerous documented instances of police brutality and murder, the entire thrust of the public outrage is centered on the notion that this is all about racism, that yeah there must be something seriously amiss in a system that lets cops get away with brutal violence towards innocent civilians but pretty much every single statement expressing that sentiment will frame it in terms of racism while the existence white victims of police brutality is essentially never even acknowledged?

From what I can see, in this age where everyday happenings can easily be recorded by random bystanders and the recordings can easily become accessible to the public, we are seeing evidence that a number of American cops are way, way too liberal with lethal violence, either through direct training or through a tendency towards paranoia of how dangerous a civilian under arrest might be or through psychopathic tendencies that attract certain kinds of people to a profession where brutally violent behavior is too easily excused in the courts after the fact. I don’t know to what degree these relatively few pieces of documented footage reflect a large part of the police force rather than just “a few bad apples”, but on some level it doesn’t matter -- an event like the murder of George Floyd should not be tolerated and the fact that many such instances are happening every year seems unacceptable. This is true regardless of whether Floyd’s race actually played any significant part in Derek Chauvin’s decision to apply very excessive force. Then there are statistics to reckon with -- I don’t have the skillset that some have for knowing where to look up data and rationally analyzing it, but to my understanding it’s quite unambiguous that American law enforcement officers kill a lot more people than the police forces of most other countries, and this would seem to point to a serious problem. I have generally heard that in absolute terms, in fact more white men are killed this way than black men, but relative to the ratio of white people to black people, black men are killed disproportionately often. Of course there seems to be no room whatsoever for discussion of any possible reason this could be aside from purely racist motives on the parts of the cops, which is certainly one of my issues with the whole topic, but let’s set that aside for the moment and assume for the sake of argument that this disparity is entirely attributable to anti-black racism. Even with this assumption, does it make sense to present the entire issue of police brutality as a purely racial one?

Here is another analogy to something that is not only non-hypothetical but is an even bigger current situation: the pandemic. It’s frequently been remarked on that Covid19 has been killing at a significantly higher rate among racial minorities. And yet the broader framing of the crisis we’re in hasn’t been that it’s an African-American issue or that every failure of government officials to respond effectively is primarily an instantiation of racism. The racial component of this is treated secondarily, in fact with far less emphasis than the direct crisis which affects everyone in the country even if not in equal measures.

With the murders of George Floyd and Ahmaud Abery, as with every other story of a cop killing of a black person that goes viral, it’s not only that the narrative frames the race component as the primary issue -- the race component is framed as the only issue. This is done in such an absolute and unquestioning manner that I’m still a little taken aback whenever I see each new “We denounce racism!” announcement from almost every company whose mailing system I’m in: my Unitarian Universalist organization, the university I work for, Lyft, Airbnb, etc., not that any of them actually suggest a plan of action beyond donating to Black Lives Matter and other related organizations.

I think I can answer my own questions about why the narrative is coming out this way. Some areas of social justice enjoy a much more prestigious position in America than others do, and racism seems to dominate all the rest. (I’ve come to see this as a very American thing, no doubt due to the exceptionally dramatic nature of my country’s struggles against racial oppression, although it’s probably the case in Canada as well and maybe to a comparable extent in other Anglophone countries.) There is no surer way to make an issue more hot-button than by framing it as a racial issue, except in the unusual case (as in my Covid example) that the issue is actually of urgent and immediate concern to all citizens. Opposition to something like police brutality could have some momentum on its own, but as motivation for activism it has nowhere near the mighty strength in our culture that anti-racism does. In the hypothetical scenario about child abuse at universities, we have one type of social injustice, economic inequality, which has mostly been relegated to the background in the recent history of social activism (yes, Bernie Sanders has had a significant following, but my impression is that even many of his most diehard supporters get more passionate about racial inequality than economic inequality, at least when it comes to fiscal issues other than health care reform). Whereas child molestation is condemned in the strongest terms by our society perhaps even more universally than racism is (even though this universality makes it less of a cause for energetic activism -- I never hear anyone complain that “we live in a molestation culture” or anything like that). So, issues viewed as racial have far more memetic endurance than non-racial issues or even the exact same fundamental issues when not viewed from a racial angle.

Or, here is another way that I’ve considered looking at it: because police violence happens disproportionately to African-Americans, police violence could be considered to be “an African-American issue”, and since anti-racism activism is already quite a strong force in modern American culture, the issue of police brutality will naturally find an outlet to the public through the lens of African-American issues. Therefore, this is the only angle from which most of us will ever see it.

Of course the obvious thing that someone would surely point out here is that pretty much all of the examples of police brutality we’ve been seeing for years have white people victimizing black people (George Zimmerman did not present to me as white from the moment I first glanced at him, and by many definitions he is a PoC, but I guess he’s close enough to white that people were able to ignore this). Therefore it seems logical to assume that anti-black racism is the only lens to view these events through. Well, it would be logical except that we should all be able to think critically enough to realize that there are probably tons of videos out there of innocent white people being victimized by cops but those aren’t the ones that go viral. In fact, videos of black people being victimized by non-white cops probably also don’t get very far in the memosphere* -- it’s occurred to me that perhaps if the Asian policeman on the scene had been the one in the center of the frame pinning Floyd to the ground, this atrocity might never have become public knowledge!

(*Did I just make up that term? Google isn’t showing anything.)

And honestly, for this reason, I can’t help feeling particularly bad right now for loved ones of nonblack people who were victims of such crimes while being treated as if their cases didn’t exist.

This is not me trying to covertly imply support for “All Lives Matter” here. I’ve never felt the slightest bit of attraction to that counter-hashtag, which has always struck me as subtly obnoxious in implying that Black Lives Matter’s name is equivalent to saying “only black lives matter”, which of course BLM is not saying. Black lives do matter and in many ways still constantly get devalued and it is good that there’s an activist group out there whose main purpose is to stand up for them. But my discussion above does point to a specific issue -- probably the biggest of two or three issues -- I have with BLM. It would be one thing to say, “Police brutality can be considered a black issue since it affects black people disproportionately, so we should form a Black Lives Matter group and include it as one of the things we want to fight against.” Instead, BLM’s rhetoric strongly implies, “Police brutality is entirely a black issue and we’ll round off the entirety of it to racism and make opposition to it our main plank”. (Compare, from an secularist activist group, “Anti-gay bigotry often arises from fundamentalist religion and the justification for anti-gay-rights legislation threatens separation of church and state; therefore we should consider it an atheist/secularist issue and place gay rights issues among our concerns” vs. “Anti-gay bigotry and legislation is simply a manifestation of religion’s attempt to dominate non-religion so we should make opposition to it our main plank and not acknowledge or stand up for gay Christians.” Again, not a perfect analogy, but I hope it shows where I’m coming from.)

II.

I already wrote a post exactly four years ago describing and criticizing what I called “protest culture”. My point in linking to it here is not to revisit the discussion about Bernie Sanders or even the question of protesters’ deep-down motives but to endorse the following paragraph describing the kind of protest activism I felt (and still feel) could be helpful:

I definitely think there’s an important place in our culture for organized protest.  Sometimes we ordinary citizens need to show our dissatisfaction to the higher-ups in a way that they are forced to notice and not ignore.  But I strongly prefer protests that express dissent from a particular action, propose a concrete solution, and include many people who are able to make nuanced arguments in favor of this solution.  If there is no good consensus as to a serious solution, then I’ll settle for some particular action that is being protested against.  For instance, I would have proudly joined the marches against the war in Vietnam had I been around for it, and would have joined the marches against the war in Iraq had I been a little older at the time.  I would consider joining protests against, for instance, particular amendments I feel strongly about.  I did not, on the other hand, feel comfortable with the “99 percent” movement.  What was it expressing a sentiment against, exactly, apart from the very vague notion that a few people at the top screw things over for the rest of us?  (And by the way, I suspect that demonizing the entire top 1% was too heavy-handed; it’s probably only some in the top .01% who have been doing the main damage.)  There seemed to be little organization to this movement, and little common purpose except “let’s protest for the cause of being vaguely left-wing!”  The best argument I remember hearing in its favor was when a student explained to me the main strategy behind the movement: they would essentially fight guerilla-style by occupying large areas for a very long amount of time in a way that the top politicians couldn’t ignore, never, ever giving it up until things change in Washington.  But I was still pretty sure that at some point, the movement would have to die down, and was willing to bet that this would happen before anything changed in Washington.

I’ve never felt as fervently as I do now that too many law enforcement officers in the US are out of control and some kind of reform needs to be done (or at least strongly considered, in a serious conversation) to the system so that it can be effective in keeping them in check and outlawing certain forms of excessive force. There’s a lot I don’t understand about the demands and risks involved in law enforcement, but I really can’t imagine how there’s any possible excuse for what Officer Chauvin did, or for his colleagues who stood by and watched him do it. One reason I’m bringing up everything I did in the section above is that a massive protest movement based entirely on opposing racism seems to me like the exact wrong way to bring about the kind of reform we need, in part because it fails to recognize that the link from the bare facts of these events to possible racist motives is far less direct than the link to the overpowered nature of American law enforcement.

What is a campaign centered on “Be less racist!” possibly going to accomplish? Yelling at the police to be less racist isn’t going to change the behavior of individual cops who might be subconsciously racist but don’t realize it, many of whom are likely to react with defensiveness (because racism on an abstract level is sufficiently shamed in modern western culture that nobody likes to admit to themselves that they’re being racist). It’s even less likely to change the behavior of individual cops who are maliciously racist. It’s not going to change the policies set in place for law enforcement when, in this day and age, it would be highly illegal and unconstitutional to have explicitly racist policies in the first place. (It can be argued that some of these policies are a part of systemic racism, but then in my opinion the activist movement should focus on attacking those specific policies.)

In fact, I can’t think of any situation, however race-related, where I expect it helps to yell “Be less racist!” except for when (1) you are protesting against a particular law which discriminates against people of a certain (minority) race; or (2) you are denouncing a particular candidate or person in power who has explicitly endorsed racism in public or in private. Both of these scenarios are highly rare in 2020. Maybe there are other neighboring scenarios I’m not thinking of at the moment, but I’m pretty sure our current scenario isn’t one of them.

I imagine that if we set race aside for a moment and focus on police reform, by waiting for background information on the Floyd case to come out and piecing together what led to this injustice and pinpointing which factors led to it, a difference could be made. I’m not saying that this should all be done dispassionately, and in fact acting with passion and emotional force is crucial. And I’m not saying that in the wake of such an obvious murder everyone should just stay quiet until more facts come out. It makes sense to cry out in pain and anger as an immediate reaction, and I’m not going to criticize anyone for doing this, especially someone who feels closer to the tragedy (yes, including through shared racial background) than I do. But letting this get immediately drowned in a rampage against perceived racism and only that, against a system that has shown time and time again that it clearly doesn’t think itself racist at all and perhaps (in at least most of its components) has no deliberate intention of being, doesn’t seem likely to produce anything but further acrimony and polarization.

[TL;DR for these last two sections: it would seem like a more effective response to focus on police brutality and overpowered-ness as the main issue rather than making it all about race.]

III.

I forced myself to watch as much of the video of George Floyd’s final hours and minutes as I could. I didn’t actually succeed in finding the full video, and maybe that’s for the best, because what I did see chilled me to the bone and distressed me more than almost any real-life footage I’ve ever seen. I’m not as eloquent as some at putting my raw emotions in writing and don’t know the words to describe how twisted up it made me feel to “witness” an obvious murder of a man whose greatest “crime” was resisting getting pushed into a police car, and to watch him dying one of the most undignified deaths I can imagine ever being forced on anyone. I felt momentarily physically ill and wanted to cry.

Others in my orbit -- mostly white people; my social bubbles have always been disproportionately white and Asian and certainly nonblack -- have expressed a similar emotional reaction to mine except with the added factor of disgust at the obvious racism present. This was just simply not part of my immediate emotional reaction. On a cognitive level I am aware that there clearly has to be some degree of anti-black racism in law enforcement, even independent of classism and other factors, and that could be of some relevance in any individual case (although it would seem very tricky to assess how much). But this awareness doesn’t have time to kick in when I open a video or news story that’s already been presented to me as “another black man killed by racist cop” which reminds me that this is embedded in a particular media narrative and makes me feel instinctively on guard against letting my perceptions be colored by it.

Black people seeing these apparently all feel on the level of deep, fundamental knowledge that this happened to Floyd because he was black and that it’s a fate they have to constantly fear happening to themselves, or at least that’s what the white people around me are constantly claiming. I feel epistemically helpless when it comes to knowing what the “average” (rather than one of those on the forefront of racial activism) African-American’s take on this is, or how fearful the “average” African-American is of the police on a daily basis as compared to a white person’s, especially prior to the age when videos of police abuse started going viral.

But I’m certain that a significant part of the African-American community is right now in a deep pain that I can’t really imagine, because I don’t quite know how it feels to perceive one horrible tragedy as indicative of something that is done to attack a specific minority that I belong to.

I expect that some of them learn about an incident like this, and an incident like the one with Ahmoud Arbery, and feel on the level of social intuition (I think I’ve sometimes called this “social sense”), developed from a web of personal experiences, that these individual terrible choices clearly had a lot to do with the victims being black. I would be a hypocrite to fault someone for reaching a strong conviction based on this kind of social intuition, because I do it myself all the time -- in fact, I often express such conclusions on this blog. I feel less qualified to rely on this social intuition and my own experience when it comes to race issues, but I invoke it all the time on this blog when I talk about male-female dynamics in order to argue on controversial position on gender relations, for instance, because I do have lifelong ample experience with men and women interacting.

If many black people in America have a deep instinctual feeling for the racial aspect of many of these attacks, then I do acknowledge that a lot of that is probably coming from somewhere other than media narratives. It might come from everyday interactions with police, observing that they are stopped and treated hostilely by the police than their white friends seem to be, or who knows what else. And those voices with their explanations need to be at least listened to. I wish it were easier to hear them through all the tribalistic noise and confusion.

So trying to better understand all this is part of my struggle at the moment. This post might not age well -- I wouldn’t be surprised if I view some of my turns of phrase in this section of it with some embarrassment even sometime in the near future -- but I need to commit myself to trying.

Anyway, I guess all of this is to say that my lengthy arguments above aren’t meant to claim that the instances of police brutality we’ve been seeing aren’t related in some way to racism, but that reflexively framing them in terms of racism seems guaranteed to bring only more pain to an already painful situation.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

December 5, 2020

Heather Cox Richardson

Today’s news just amplifies yesterday’s, but the stories add up to an interesting scenario.

Coronavirus continues to devastate the country, with official deaths topping 281,000 today, but it turns out that the Trump administration did not actually have a plan for distribution of vaccines. Federal officials have drastically slashed the amount of vaccine they promised to states before the election. Instead of the 300 million doses the administration had promised before the end of 2020, the plan is currently to distribute 35 to 40 million doses. Even those, though, are plagued by bottlenecks in parts of the production process, as well as manufacturing issues. This means a longer struggle with the disease than many had come to expect.

Trump continues to refuse to acknowledge his loss in the November election. This morning, before a scheduled rally in Georgia for two Republican senators facing runoffs against their Democratic challengers, Trump called Georgia Governor Brian Kemp to pressure him to overturn Biden’s win in the state. Trump asked Kemp to convince the state legislature to ignore Biden’s victory and appoint their own slate of electors who would give the president the state’s votes in the Electoral College. Biden won Georgia by about 12,000 votes, and Georgia law does not permit the legislature to submit alternative electors. When Kemp, who is a Republican, declined to do as Trump asked, Trump took to Twitter to attack him.

Trump also asked Kemp to demand an audit of the signatures on mail-in ballots, which Kemp does not have the power to do. Georgia’s governor may not interfere in elections. Instead, the state secretary of state has jurisdiction, and Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger, a Republican, has defended the existing signature match process and says there is no evidence of fraud.

At tonight’s rally, Trump continued to insist he had won the election and to assure attendees they are all victims of the Democrats’ plot to steal the election. The rally was nominally about the senate candidates, but Trump treated it pretty much as he treated his rallies before the election. He is convincing his supporters that the election was rigged, and that President-Elect Biden will be an illegitimate president.

Trump loyalists at the Pentagon continue to refuse to let Pentagon officials communicate with Biden’s transition team. According to an official, the Pentagon chief of staff Kash Patel, a former staffer for California Representative Devin Nunes appointed after the election, has rewritten policy descriptions to reflect well on Trump before letting Biden’s people see them. He has also stopped communications. He “told everybody we're not going to cooperate with the transition team,” an official said, and he has "put a lot of restrictions on it." He is “controlling the information flow.” This will put the Biden camp behind on getting up to speed on sensitive foreign policy issues with Iran, Afghanistan, Russia, and North Korea, hurting national security.

Also today, the Washington Post printed the results of its query to all 249 Republicans in the House and Senate, asking them who won the 202 presidential election. Only 27 of them are willing to acknowledge that Biden won. Two Republicans insist that Trump won the election, all evidence to the contrary. The rest of them—220 of them—refuse to say who won.

This is a big deal. This was not a close election. Biden currently has over 7 million more votes than Trump, and has won by 306 to 232 in the Electoral College. And yet, Republican leadership is permitting Trump to undermine our democracy. Try to imagine any past Republican president doing what Trump is doing, and you can’t. But today’s Republican lawmakers are standing to the side, permitting Trump to poison our democracy.

To what end? Why are Republicans accepting this anti-American behavior from Trump?

It seems to me they are unwilling to risk losing Trump’s voters in the future because they are determined to regain power. They don’t much care about our democracy, so long as they have a shot at keeping Trump’s people on their side. But then, again, to what end? If Republicans regain power in 2022 or 2024, what will that look like? Do we have any reason to think they will then begin to defend our democracy? Do we have any reason to think they are interested in anything but even more legislation that moves wealth upward?

We have been in a spot much like this before. In 1884, Americans turned against the Republican Party because it had abandoned its support for ordinary Americans in favor of the industrial leaders who put money into Republican lawmakers’ political war chests, as well as into their pockets. Voters put Democrat Grover Cleveland into the White House, the first Democrat to hold the presidency since James Buchanan was elected in 1856.

Horrified, the Republicans flooded the country with stories of how Democrats were socialists who would attack the rich by ending the legislation that protected businesses. If Democrats continued to control the government, Republicans said, they would destroy America. In 1888, they suppressed Democratic votes and created modern political financing as they hit up businessmen for major donations. Despite their best efforts, voters reelected Cleveland by about 100,000 votes, but Republicans managed to eke out a win for their candidate, Benjamin Harrison, in the Electoral College. Harrison promised a “BUSINESSMAN’S ADMINISTRATION,” and indeed, in office, he and his men did all they could to cement the Republican Party into power so it could continue to defend business (among other things, they added six new states to the Union to pack the Electoral College).

But voters still didn’t like the Republicans’ platform, which seemed more and more to funnel money from hardworking Americans upward into the pockets of those men who were increasingly portrayed as robber barons. In 1892, they voted for Cleveland in such numbers they couldn’t be overridden in the Electoral College. Voters also put Democrats in charge of Congress, both the House of Representatives and the Senate.

And that is the moment I cannot help thinking about today. Faced with a legitimately elected Democratic government, Republican leaders deliberately sabotaged the country. They swamped the media with warnings that Democrats would destroy the economy and that men should pull their capital out of stocks and industries. Foreign capital should, they said, go home or face disaster. Money began to flow out of the country and stocks faltered. When financiers begged the Harrison administration to shore up the markets in the face of the growing panic, administration officials told them their job was only to keep the country afloat until the day of Cleveland’s inauguration.

They didn’t quite make it. The economy collapsed about ten days before Cleveland took the oath of office, saddling the new president with the Panic of 1893 and very few ways to combat it. Republicans had deliberately sabotaged the country in order to discredit Cleveland, then demanded he honor the demands of financiers to stabilize the economy. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Cleveland tried to work with moneyed interests to combat the depression and promptly split his own party. The country roiled as out-of-work Americans despaired, some of them marching on Washington, D.C., to demand the government do something to address their plight.

The Republicans went into the 1894 midterm elections blaming the Democrats for the crisis in the country. They won the midterms in what remains the largest seat swing in the history of the House of Representatives. Then they claimed that, with Republicans back in power, the economy was now safe. They papered the country with media announcing that the panic was over and people should reinvest. The panic was over, and a Republican president won in 1896, once again insisting the Democrats were socialists, but this time adding that the past four years had proved the Democrats could not run the economy.

There is no excuse for the silence of Republican lawmakers as their president attacks our democracy. But there might be a precedent.

—-

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[wolfliving]

The Internet of Aggressive Cop Things

Unprecedented times call for thoughtful conversations By Stacey Higginbotham

In the last month and a half, reading about how cities are enforcing curfews and police are monitoring Black Lives Matter protestors I've realized that the surveillance network we are worried about building with the internet of things is already in place. And as we bring people back to work amidst the threat of COVID-19, that surveillance network is only going to expand from the state to our employers. This scares me. It's not what I hoped for, and it's not what I envisioned when I tried to connect my light bulbs to Twitter to try to track sentiment to make it easier to spot stories. Now police are using a similar idea to find protestors. And while a connected thermometer can help us see the spread of a disease a few days earlier, I worry that in the hands of an unscrupulous employer, private health data could become a liability. The future we've built and are continuing to invest in is not one many people want to live under. And we need to talk about it. — Citi Bike's were remotely rendered inoperable during the New York City's curfew last month. Let's focus on existing ways our connected devices can be used to control or track citizens that has been exposed by the Black Lives Matter protests. New York City Mayor Bill DeBlasio decided to shut down Citi Bike in New York City last month during curfews set in place for Black Lives Matter protests, leaving some people unable to get to their work or other destinations (including protests). Shutting down the bike network is similar to shutting down public transportation which is well within a mayor's right, but it does bring up two questions. The first is about betraying the promise of a future of shared resources enabled by connectivity on every device. If a shared resource can be remotely deactivated at the behest of a government official, then prudent citizens will likely decide to use their own resources rather than share. So the question is, should we rely on a network of shared connected devices or fall back to individual ownership? The second question is about how far a government can reach to control a connected device. Citi Bike is clearly using public infrastructure, made available on the streets of NYC only because its government has allowed it to offer bikes there. But what about private vehicles that are connected? Could a government ask companies to help enforce a curfew by shutting off power to an individual's connected car?   What about if a police officer wanted access to a building in order to follow protesters, would the police officer be able to get a warrant to break into the house via its electronic locks? What if police wanted to search an apartment building that had connected locks installed? Would the building's management open them up? Would the lock company? What might be different if the police needed access to apartments in public (government-owned) housing?   If you're an access company, are you prepared for these requests? Do you know where you'd draw the line when it comes to cooperating with the law? What about smart camera companies? Could they fight a subpoena for access to their cameras in a geographic area, or in a backyard where a crime was committed? It's not just connected lock and camera makers that should think about this. Already Google is trying to walk the line between an individual's right to privacy and unreasonable search and seizure while getting requests from police departments for data from cell phones used near crime scenes. Are the companies building connected products ready to ask themselves these questions? Are they ready if government officials in the form of police or immigration officers come to them with these requests? In the meantime, because of COVID-19, society is encouraging employers to build out intra-company surveillance networks to monitor their offices for occupancy and ensure that workers socially distance. The pandemic is also driving health professionals to deploy more technology for remote monitoring without necessarily understanding how some of these tools might be collecting and sharing anonymized patient data (or reporting that data to insurers). I'm concerned as well about how employers might use occupancy sensors to track employees in private places, such as bathrooms. If someone spends a lot of time in the restroom because they have a health condition, but their work is fine, it's possible a manager may never notice. But if in an effort to help with occupancy sensing or contact tracing companies start using that data to put together reports, such personal habits might become clear. And invite action. A more insidious threat could also emerge. Wearables to ensure social distancing are already being marketed in manufacturing and factory environments. And some employers are turning to consumer wearables that people already own to track fevers or sleep as indicators of potential infection. But if those employers start looking closely at that data, they might see other habits that should remain private. Additionally, it's worth remembering that actual people are the ones with access to that data. And in some cases, not people from the HR department or someone specially trained for the job. That symptom survey or temperature tracking wand might be wielded by a random 25-year-old receptionist or office manager who has time on his hands. It's one thing to share health data with a professional who has some sort of training and discretion, but another to have it go to a random individual who may or may not keep it to themselves. A similar worry exists around video surveillance in the office. I recently read about using AI to tell when people behave badly in elevators and wondered what it might mean to have a camera and an algorithm constantly monitor and flag bizarre elevator behavior. I also think giving an underpaid security guard access to the footage is a problem. We're deploying a lot of new technology without spending a lot of time thinking about who can use it and how they can use it. We need to start thinking about both of those issues. We also need to start thinking about legal and ethical frameworks that can protect individuals when their every action at home and at work is potentially captured by a computer and rendered both intelligible and searchable. I don't have the answers beyond a growing awareness that we need to seek consent from those affected before deploying this technology and that companies should be building with anonymity in mind as opposed to simply anonymizing data after the fact. What else should we do?

[mrtroy]

America Needs Both

I've been reading a lot of opinions of my friends, pundits and others over the last few weeks.  Corona virus.  Racial injustice. Police brutality.  The coming presidential election. 

I feel like with each passing issue, the divide gets deeper.  The differing sides seemingly getting further apart.  Some of these opinions I agree with. Some I don't.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize as a nation, we need both sides of most of our issues.  No, we don't need racism.  We don't need looting.  Or police brutality.    But we do need the ability for people with different opinions and viewpoints to be able to have those viewpoints without vilifying them.  We need a nation where we understand that black lives matter. But we also need a nation where our public servants (police, teachers, government officials) matter too.  You may be angered by one side of that paradigm right now, but in order for our nation to truly live up to its ideal, we need both.  We need a nation where people in cities feel represented.  And we also need to provide opportunities to those who live in rural America.  We need corporations.  And small businesses.  We need non-profits.  And agencies that watch out for at risk portions of the community.  Right now, there's a good chance that the idea of voting for the candidate opposite your preferred political party seems like an outrageous thought, but lest not forget that whoever our next president is will again be governing our entire nation.  Forget who wins, how beneficial will it be to our nation to have roughly half of our citizens enraged?  Say what you want about Donald Trump, but he realized in 2016 that a large subsection of our population felt like the policies that Barack Obama's administration had enacted didn't appeal to them.  Pause.  Whatever you think about that statement above, it is true.  Now, fast forward to 2020, whoever wins this election will signal to our nation that we either want to go the same direction, or back the other way.  Joe Biden is currently running campaign messaging that is asking potential voters to condemn the acts of Donald Trump and pledge their allegiance to Biden's campaign.  Let's just say this works. I have no idea who will win this election, but just for the sake of this piece, let's say it's Biden.  Come January of 2021, we'll have the opposite half of our nation that can't wait to vote a president out of office.  Not only that, but if Biden were to follow suit with Obama and Trump, and if balances of power stay split in the House and Senate, we're going to spend the next four years seeing different pieces of legislation that previous administrations enacted be reversed.  Or, we'll see the opposing party block things in the Senate to the point where very little will change in Washington.  At this point as you read, you might be thinking, okay, you're a moderate, or, you're arguing for party reform, or maybe the abolition of the electoral college.  And while some of those things may be the answer (I'm not educated enough on those topics to know for sure) what I'm actually arguing for is something that isn't political at all.  It comes back to the examples I gave at the beginning of this piece.  America needs both of its major points of view.  As people, are we better off accepting our neighbor with a different point of view, or turning them into a sworn enemy until they see things exactly how we do?  Before you fire off a retort to a school of thought where you just can't possibly accept Point X of someone's viewpoint, realize that person may be reading this same piece and thinking the same thing about not accepting your point of view.   If we continue in these cycles of behavior, where do we end up?  Do we just keep browbeating each other until one school of thought dies out? Or, do we end up having the public conversations where we say one thing to avoid drawing a reaction, but actually believe something else in private?  To be clear, I don't know how to fix every issue. I don't know how to find a common middle ground for some of society's most inflammatory issues.  But what I do think would be a good start would be to stop trying to make every issue one-sided. 'If you don't believe this, you must be a raving lunatic.' Or, 'If you believe this, you can't possibly call yourself a good person.'  And yes, I have been guilty of reacting in the above manners in discussions I've had. But, bringing these kinds of attitudes to any conversation / debate / issue rarely leads to change and it rarely helps anything.  So, rather than jumping all over your neighbor - or silently writing them off in your brain - the next time you disagree with them, I think we all need to do a better job finding a middle ground.  And again, this isn't to say that we should tolerate terrible things in our country because we're doing the neighborly thing and accepting people's vile viewpoints.  But it is to say that we should be able to find a way to find a middle ground on things that are worth finding a middle ground on.  Because I think many of us can agree that the status quo we've got going on isn't working. For the rest of this year, we can find some solace in saying, 'Vote in November.' But come December, all of us have to live with the officials we elect - and it doesn't do us much good if roughly half of the population is ready to lose their mind if their candidate happens to be the one who loses.  -- I have always thought American ingenuity was our greatest virtue as a country. Throughout our history, we've had groundbreaking inventors and innovators that have figured out new and better ways to do things in more effective ways.  We need to muster up some more ingenuity as a nation. To modify how we think and how we react to opposing thought. We have to empower the things that make us different to also make us great.  We cannot simply agree to disagree.  Or, stop trying to address topics in our world because the opposing sides on certain issues are simply too far apart.  We also cannot simply take politics, or matters of social / racial justice off the table when things get too touchy to deal with.  We must not run to the safety of only those who think like we do and attempt to isolate ourselves from anyone who thinks differently.  We must ask ourselves, in 2020, do we want to attempt to solve the issues plaguing our nation, or do we want to continue to point out how stupid, or wrong, or morally bankrupt our neighbors are?  Let's say you were brought into a situation as a third-party mediator in a fight between two neighbors in the town next to yours.  Let's say you agreed with one of the neighbors, but after talking to the second neighbor, you could see that he or she was 100% convicted on where they stood  -  and weren't trying to be a jerk about anything in any apparent way...  If it was your goal to help these neighbors, would you start your engagement with a ruthless insult of the second neighbor?  Would you tell your neighbor that if he didn't come around to seeing things the way the first neighbor did, he may as well be an idiot?  Would you tell your neighbor that his family - and anyone that thinks like him - is a worthless pile of garbage for thinking the way he does?  Unfortunately, it seems as though these kinds of tactics are often resorted to in response to things happening that we don't agree with.  What about trying to find solutions?  What about trying to listen?  What about trying to work towards mutually beneficial outcomes?  These are the things we need to be doing.  Not arguing.  -- In closing, as discussions, debates and conversations happen over these next few months, try to be empathetic to your fellow humans.  Yes, there are some terrible people in the world who have thoughts that are not worth considering a second side of. However, there are also millions of our neighbors that think differently than we do that are fantastic human beings who deserve to be heard and respected. 

America is better when the right and left find common ground.  America is better when opposing viewpoints are met with intrigue not detest.  America is better when we try to find solutions, rather than simply attacking our neighbors.  In a fantasy world, it might be nice to envision a way where one opinion or one side of an issue worked for everyone, but because that’s never been true at any point in history, America needs to embrace the fact that there are two sides to every issue, and we’re better off if we can consider both. 

[bigskydreaming]

So this is kinda a Bobby Drake post but its also kinda not because its more of a just in general musing on characterization and what distinguishes between a character being written as in character and as wildly OOC. So its actually rooted in a lot of Dick Grayson thoughts I’ve been having lately, as well as being relevant to some Scott McCall musings.

Its a Martha Stewart Home Living pot-pourri thingamabob! Something for everyone! I think. I don’t really know what pot-pourri is or even how to spell it and I don’t really know why the fuck I pulled a Martha Stewart reference out of my ass in the year 2019, like, none of these things are like any other thought I’ve ever had ever, like...who am I right now. Whatever. Shut up. My metaphor absolutely works and this isn’t just my brain on sleep deprivation. I like, totally get symbolism.

OKAY! RIGHT! ACTUAL CONTENT OF THIS POST:

So, the only adaptation Iceman’s had just a very minimal presence in was the 90s X-Men animated series. He only appeared in one episode, in one of the later seasons, and most people talk about that episode as though Bobby was wildly out of character because he told no jokes, yelled quite a bit, and told Scott to fuck off a lot, which is also what he did in a flashback scene to when he quit being an X-Man years before the show started, and retired from the hero life to settle down with Lorna.

Except the thing is, that episode is actually WAY more true to his overall characterization than Frosted Flakes in the X-films ever was, or also, pretty much any time Bendis writes him or other writers use him in similar ways to him - like that thing where Bobby stands in the background and says one-liners and also occasionally does something with his powers whilst monologuing about what he’s doing and how.

Because Bobby absolutely is that cheerful, determinedly optimistic heart of the team at a lot of times (sound familiar, lol)....but like.....he also historically has a decades long history of being written as the team hothead when for instance its just the original five and there’s not one of the X-Men’s other resident hotheads available to fill the role of the impulsive troublemaker who second guesses Scott’s decisions in order to make Scott actually think things through. Like the thing in the cartoon about Bobby quitting the team and storming off because he was fed up with Xavier constantly lying to them all and keeping secrets from them - that was lifted STRAIGHT from the original run of the comics, where he did precisely that, for precisely those reasons. Bobby was actually the X-character calling Xavier on his bullshit long before Scott started being written that way, ironically enough....

In fact, during Simonson’s original X-Factor run, it was pretty much ALWAYS Bobby filling that role going against the grain and questioning their official decisions and making everyone else think things through. Because at the time, Warren was pretty much entirely focused on his Archangel issues, Hank was dealing with his continuing physical mutations, that also had a side effect for awhile of giving him a host of mental health issues that interfered with his ability to reason through things as intelligently as he usually did....

And Scott and Jean were of course constantly getting bombarded with Sinister drama and trying to raise their kid except oh no, an evil fox person from a thousand years in the future has kidnapped him and infected him with Minecraft and now this giant asshole who looks like the bastard lovechild of a Transformer and a Smurf is quoting the Book of Revelations like he’s standing on a NY street corner wearing a sandwich board and ringing a damn bell. They all had shit going on, so it was actually Bobby who the kids staying with them (Rictor and Tabitha and Rusty and Skids and Wiz Kid) usually went to first when they had problems or like, Julio got kidnapped again or shit like that. 

Point being, there are many many instances and entire runs of different books between the 60s and the early 90s where Bobby is a happy go lucky jokester, its true....but he’s equally depicted as this guy who runs pretty hot and he’s not going to blindly follow orders that sound fucking dumb to him, he’s going to ask Scott to break it down for them or go back to the drawing board because “why are we pretending to hunt other mutants again and just leaning into the anti-mutant hysteria? Guys? Is it just me or does this all seem really fucking dumb and counter productive?” Like he makes jokes when he can afford to spare the spoons for that, but he knows how to be serious when the occasion calls for it.

Its just after the big Blue/Gold relaunch in the 90s, writers just....stopped writing him this way. But given that the cartoon was written and aired....in the early 90s....those previous decades of Bobby being written this way WERE the source material they were going off of at the time.

So that character most fans EXPECTED to see when they watched the cartoon in later years and saw he was guest-starring in an episode - like yeah, that is very much his characterization and always was.....on his good days. But like everyone (and certain other faves of mine, lmao) he has his bad days too, and guess what counts as a bad day? 

Coming home to find out that secret government agents have kidnapped your girlfriend and when tracking her down to rescue her discovering that no, wait, actually she was not kidnapped at all, that was a job offer and she accepted and just....did not tell her live-in boyfriend that hey, I’m gonna go be a superhero again but like...for the government which is completely the opposite but whatever, look the point is don’t freak out or think I was abducted or anything because that’s definitely not what happened here, I just dumped you and started dating my new team leader Havok and forgot where I put my Dear John letter. (You want to talk OOC in that episode, it wasn’t Bobby that was unrecognizable, it was Lorna).

But like, that’s a BAD FUCKING DAY. That’s a day where it would be utterly bizarre for Bobby to be acting the way he often does, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, trying to make light of situations and buoy spirits, which he can AFFORD to do, because usually he is not the central focus of big team-encompassing plots....its rarely him tied directly into the angst of the story, freeing him up to be the guy who focuses on making sure the morale of the teammates more directly affected by the angst doesn’t like....dip into the negative integers.

But you just flat out can’t do that with him in a story where THE ANGST IS ALL HIS, its CENTERED around him, because if he was right in the thick of all that and wisecracking and acting like this was any other mission, its no big deal....he’s going to come across as the world’s most immature, shallow and emotionally insensitive dumbass, because there is a time and a place for that, and that time and that place is not when you think your girlfriend has been abducted by the government and then find out that nah dude, she just disinvited herself from your relationships, whoops, sux2BU.

So if you take any given scene from that one episode and hold it up for comparison against say, a comic written in the last five years where he himself has relatively low stakes in whatever adventure he’s having.....those two characterizations are going to look COMPLETELY at odds. Like one or the other has to be WILDLY OOC because like, the two depictions seem like they’re depicting two entirely different men.

But they’re not. They’re just depicting one man in two entirely different contexts. We all take our cues from the situations we find ourselves in and our physical and social location and environments. We’re all totally different people on our best days than we are on our worst days. But these are all just....different facets of any given individual because we’re all fucking complicated little contrarians who often don’t even make sense to OURSELVES let alone outside perspectives. We each contain freaking multitudes. We are a million different things over the course of our life, and snapshots taken twenty years apart often are gonna look like we got a personality transplant between now and then...because we’re not MEANT to skip over twenty years of in between continuity and act like that doesn’t make all the difference in the world. The journey IS just as important as the destination.

And I guess the point of this particular post is that....IMO the key to strong characterization is recognizing that any character can theoretically be capable of just about any response or action or choice....in the right situation. None of us, no matter how well we know ourselves, can actually say we know for sure how we would react if suddenly dropped in a situation we had zero prior experience with. So I think where a lot of writers get turned around when writing characterizations is they go into a plot, an outline, a narrative, with their mind focused on the characterization they want to show, the way they want to depict a certain character.....instead of letting the situation, the scene, the narrative, inform that character’s actual characterization in this specific context.

If you try and FORCE a certain behavior with a character because you’ve rounded up and that’s the over-all characterization you personally enjoy best with that character, so that’s what you want to write....without fully taking into consideration how the stressors and other aspects of the situation they’re in that are UNIQUE to that situation, that are things they perhaps haven’t encountered before or dealt with often...and thus are things that would be MOST likely to prompt or provoke an unusual or more extreme response from a character than they would normally show in most other situations....that’s when characters get bent out of shape and end up most OOC, I think.

Because writers try and squeeze specific attitudes or reactions or behaviors out of characters caught up in a scenario where those attitudes are just....not appropriate responses to what’s happening around them. And thus they end up coming across as 2-Dimensional, more aggressive than the actual situation calls for, or more immature than the gravity of the actual situation warrants...they end up coming across like they’re a name card placed on top of a situation rather than a character immersed in all three dimensions and existing fully as PART of the situation...because the writers aren’t LETTING them. They’re not letting the character actually engage with what’s happening, react in the moment, have an unexpected response....because they’ve already decided what they want the character’s overall ‘feel’ to be before the actual situations were even written in the first place. 

And written like that, a character is never going to feel real. They’re always going to feel like an afterthought, like something hastily thrown on top of the otherwise completed project as a last minute addition you want to at least make sure is THERE because it just occurred to you that crap, I totally forgot to include this totally crucial element, and you don’t want it to seem like you just completely forgot that thing existed.....but that slapdash shot taken from halfway across the court when the buzzer’s already started ringing and you’re late to school with absolutely no more time to make changes...like....its still usually not gonna do anything to help improve your grade, because just because you threw it in at the very last possible second doesn’t mean that its presence is actually contributing anything to the entire project...especially not when compared to all the other elements you took your time thinking through and carefully integrating into their proper places.

[robert-c]

A Right Not To Be Offended?

Frankly I’m amazed that I should have to write about this. It is an absurd idea, but it is one that I’ve seen used in one form or another for decades. I think it’s time someone called it out for the bullshit it is.

Let’s get something clear from the start. A right has to work for everyone, if it only applies to certain people then it is a privilege and more often than not an element of oppression (since others are denied it). So if I have a right to live (not be murdered) then everyone else must as well; and all is equal – I don’t get to kill anyone with impunity and likewise they don’t get to kill me. If I have a right to speak my mind, without being censored by the government, then so has everyone. While understanding that there are certain exceptions (inciting riot, violence etc.) still the same standards can be applied to everyone, regardless of their opinions.

Here is where we get off the track. Forces, usually on the extremes of the political spectrum, like to insist that certain behaviors or ideas (or movies, or books, etc.) should not be allowed because they offend the beliefs of “X” group. Implicit in all of these arguments is that there is some sort of right “not to be offended”.  But how could such a right be equally applied?

In short, it can’t; as any open minded person would have to conclude with just a little thought. What someone holds fervently dear, may in fact be offensive to me. Any attempt to fairly and equally apply such a right would have everyone censored for virtually everything, as surely it would be offensive to someone. At this point most people will then try to claim that is what “political correctness” is trying to do, but I notice that the extreme right is often more successful in the actual banning of media. So is the answer, as some would like us to believe, that we need an “official” culture? If there were such a thing as a right not to be offended, it would be almost essential. I’ve heard way too many people actually embrace this idea, without even so much as a worry that it essentially represents the establishment of a state religion, in direct contradiction to the Constitution. I encourage you to read the Constitution. You will not find a “right not to be offended” mentioned anywhere in the document.

I recently completed our company’s annual Code of Conduct and Anti-Harassment training. I can see why so many of the “anti-PC” forces feel like they should have a right not to be offended. The language used in both the law and the common explanations uses the adjective “offensive” a lot; in regards to language, actions and environment. However, it isn’t really the same thing as banning a book or movie because it offends your beliefs. The prohibited behaviors are offensive to the concept that in our public lives we get to be treated based on our talents, our contributions, our abilities, on our role as good citizens – not on the presumptions people make about us based on our race, gender, religion etc. The idea that harassment included crude and lewd jokes might not have been necessary were it not for the fact that these and other intimidation tactics were skillfully and deliberately used to prevent women (and others) from having an equal chance to prove their abilities. Those who think others are “too sensitive” aren’t defending a different ideology as much as they are their “right” to say rude, crude and prejudicial things to people in a work environment.

My father was a firm but fair businessman. Long before there were laws about this sort of thing he told his employees he didn’t want them talking about religion or politics at the work place. His reason was simple – whether I agree or not with what they’re saying doesn’t matter, we’re here to get a job done and we’ll all work better together at that if we don’t keep looking for differences to divide us.

Every excuse for why this gender or that race couldn’t perform a certain job, or people of that religion couldn’t be trusted is simply unsupported bullshit, to use the technical term. For one thing, human beings are more diverse than that and I’ve never met anyone who is everything good or bad that their stereotype would imply – and that includes extreme right wingers.

It is past time for us to remember those words that eloquently summarized what the right to freedom of expression means – “While I disagree with what you say, I will defend to the death your right to say it.” That doesn’t mean that I will say nothing against what someone says that I disagree with, nor does it say that I think they should get a pass in the “court of public opinion” when violence seems to spring from their words and ideas.

The idea of freedom of expression has been blurred with false impressions of what amounts to a “right not to be offended.” If someone thinks homosexuality is a terrible wrong, that’s their personal business, so don’t engage in homosexual acts. But why do they feel they should get to regulate whether or not a gay couple holds hands, or kisses in public? Then we bring in the children. So what if they see there are people who believe and act differently from their parent’s teachings? If they are to grow up to be good members of a free society they will have to learn sooner or later that not everyone agrees. Helping the parents pretend that there is no dissent is the same thing, or at least its first cousin, as embracing a state religion or philosophy.

While I don’t see the reverse as often as some would like us to believe, I would agree that expecting everyone to be as comfortable with gay public displays of affection as I am is also unrealistic and unfair to the idea that we all get to have our own opinions. Personally I’m happy to see any people happy with each other and I honestly don’t care what their genders or sexuality is. Love is lovely. But that’s me. The key is what is legally prohibited. I’m not trying to legislate acceptance, just the lack of legal prohibition.

So if there is no right not to be offended, then we could all just “get along” and leave others to their own fates; confident that if they are doing wrong in the eyes of our conception of “God” that they will ultimately get their just deserts without our intervention. That does leave us with a pseudo “official culture” – one that says whatever we believe we don’t get to impose it on others. Thus there is a sort of “official” culture of tolerance, as that is the only version of a “state belief” that allows everyone to believe as they wish.

This naturally leads us to the question of what sort of behaviors should be illegal, and why. Sounds like the subject of another post.

Before we move on to that idea, I do want to share some thoughts about what makes the idea of a “right not to be offended” so popular. I’ve given this a lot of thought over my life, and while there may be other explanations as well, I think it comes down to a few things.

Fear of being wrong. There is a kind of comfort in certainty – no matter that certainty is mostly illusory, and that we often cling to it despite the facts. Certainty removes something from our conscious thought. Not having to be confronted with the fact that others disagree allows us to be ever more confident in our certainty. There is no longer a need to examine, or question. It is a settled issue. This is actually a form of “mental laziness”, but rather than “call names”, let’s just accept that in an effort to lower our “mental work load” there is a temptation to assign as much as possible to the “solved, once and for all” category.

Fear of loss of power. While the fear of being wrong can lead us to assign a lot of our thinking to the “solved” and “certain” category, this motivation goes far beyond that. It can get so extreme that it goes beyond merely avoiding those who think differently. The chance of encountering someone or something that might cast doubt on our conclusions gives rise to a sense of powerlessness. No one likes to feel that way and the usual counter move is to try to exert more power over the people or situations that make us uncomfortable. Often it involves hiding the fact that it is our self-doubt at the core of these feelings. As a result, it’s a need to “protect the children” from “those ideas” (preserving our power over them as well), or some claim that the very foundations of society (rather than just the foundations of our own beliefs) are in danger.

It is a sad bit of irony that the efforts to protect us from the tyranny of some “dangerous new idea” most often impose a tyranny of their own, much greater than any fabricated from fears of new ideas.

And that should circle us back to another article on what should be illegal, and why.

[kcwcommentary]

VLD5x06 – “White Lion”

5x06 – “White Lion”

Though because of how these seasons were released this episode is officially a season finale, I don’t know if I’m supposed to truly see it as a season finale or as a mid-season finale. I wonder how the writers’ room blocked out the story progression which of the two they decided to write this as. Especially compared to the rest of the episodes this season, this episode is decent.

Allura and Lotor present the compass stone and the plan to use it to go to Oriande to Team Voltron. Coran reacts with disbelief, and I don’t know why Allura doesn’t then cause the stone to project the map to prove to him it is real. Lotor is open to everyone about how his goal is that if Allura can master Altean alchemy, he wants her to help him make his ships capable of entering the rift (which here he’s calling a “quintessence field”) to get to the quintessence therein. They somehow have the stone interface with the Castle’s systems to upload? data about Oriande to the Castle.

Per the map, Oriande is located in reference to three specific planets. Coran apparently recognizes it as some area of space where ships disappear “and are never heard from again” (this latter part feels like an empty attempt at adding tension to the moment).

They wormhole to where they’re going and find a lot of destroyed ships there. There’s a massive, white, glowing area where they’re at, but they act like they don’t see it until after they’ve been there a little while; if they could see the destroyed ships, then they most definitely could have seen the much, much larger bright thing that those ships surround well before they could see the ships. Pidge identifies the object as being a “white hole.” I’m not sure why Hunk responds, “Take that theoretical physics!” since theoretical physics is what has predicted the existence of white holes.

After reciting something he read carved somewhere, Lotor says they have to enter the white hole. I laughed at Hunk’s interjection, “We’re navigating by cave poetry now?” Allura proposes that, to avoid the destruction that befell the other ships there, they wormhole into the white hole. Since this show has had the production of wormholes be connected to Allura’s space magic, they’ve never had the usage of them require any form of astronomical calculations to ensure the wormhole goes to the right place, so it fits the show that she could produce a wormhole into the white hole. Allura seems to believe in herself and in Voltron. Shiro calmly seeks to be reassured by Allura. Others, Coran and Lance especially, freak out.

The form-Voltron animation suddenly happens. That was a transitionless transition.

It is weird to me that the show in its early days established Allura as being necessary for the Castle Ship to open wormholes. But since the show decided to rearrange characters and put Allura in the Blue Lion, she can’t be on the Castle Ship to open wormholes now, so they had to clumsily handwave the established rule of Allura creates wormholes to say that Castle stores some of Allura’s energy in it and Coran can use it to open wormholes when she’s not there. It functions as a reminder to me that Allura’s connection to the narrative was not designed for her to be the Blue Paladin, despite the show putting her into that position.

The wormhole only takes Voltron slightly closer to the white hole, so I don’t quite get why the story has them use a wormhole at all. The wormhole didn’t really add anything to the development of the plot. As Voltron slowly gets closer to the white hole, giant eyes glow in the white center and the image of a lion forms. It blasts Voltron. Voltron blasts back but hits nothing. Seeing this, Coran freaks out and yells at Lotor, “What have you done?” before being shocked to see Lotor now has Altean facial markings. Lotor thinks for a moment and describes them as “the mark of the chosen,” and then identifies the White Lion as a guardian. He advises Voltron to pull back, saying only Alteans can get past the White Lion. The Lion then blasts the Castle Ship, which sustains significant damage. The White Lion also blasts Voltron into separating into the respective Lions, which lose power. Shiro tells everyone to abandon their Lions and return via jetpack to the Castle.

Coran gets some power restored to the Castle, but he says it won’t last long, that they’ll eventually run out of air. Lance responds with, “Maybe we can decrease our breathers by one,” while glaring at Lotor. Precisely how is Lotor expected to have known the White Lion existed? Also, the existence of the White Lion should prove to everyone that they are on the right track in trying to get to Oriande, which they weren’t necessarily sure of before.

Lotor even apologizes to everyone and points out his and Allura’s Altean marks are glowing, indicating they alone are able to enter Oriande. Lotor says the White Lion won’t hurt them, and Lance responds, “Before, you thought it wasn’t going to hurt us!” Uh, no Lotor did not. He didn’t know about the existence of the White Lion until the moment everyone knew about its existence. I know the writers think they’re doing something interesting by having Lance being aggressively anti-Lotor, but it would be nice if the writers could at least pay attention to their own writing in the process.

Coran tries the “it’s too dangerous” argument with Allura, who rejects it. Lance then yells some more and gets called down by Shiro. Shiro even points out (something no one else has acknowledged) that unless Allura is able to do this, they won’t be able to restore the Castle Ship and leave here.

Allura and Lotor take “personal transport crafts,” which I initially thought meant a shuttle pod, but they’re using the space jetskis the show has had Allura use before. The fact that she and Lotor use them invalidates the show having Voltron have to use a wormhole earlier. (Thank you, episode, for proving me right that the use of the wormhole was narratively meaningless.)

Allura and Lotor successfully make it to Oriande. Now, the show has established in this episode that the facial markings glowing and admittance by the White Lion are supposed to be indicative of some kind of approval. How then is Lotor a villain if he’s been approved to enter here? The show eventually uses Lotor and his colony as proof that Lotor is villainous, which means he would have to be villainous right now, but he’s literally marked as “chosen” and the White Lion admits him. So, either the show’s sudden 180 to have Lotor turn into a cliché villain at the end of season six is not supported by the story being told in this episode, or this episode’s declarations about the importance of the “mark of the chosen” and the White Lion are meaningless.

While Allura and Lotor are on Oriande, everyone else is in the power generator room of the Castle, though only Pidge, Hunk, and Coran are working. The show continues having Lance be jealous of Allura, which is not the least bit interesting. Maybe Lance’s jealousy of Allura could have been interesting if it wasn’t so constant and if there was any kind of resolution of him realizing all of his jealous behavior in the series was inappropriate. Even though I strongly dislike jealous-Lance, he is clearly in emotional distress in this scene, and the show plays it as supposed humor by having his words and the words of team-Pidge-Hunk-Coran match up but with different meanings. Pidge’s repeated “We are/he is not talking to you” does nothing to make me like Pidge. I know team-Pidge-Hunk-Coran are busy, but come on! This show really does not know how to write behavior for characters who’re supposed to be friends.

Upon Pidge’s prompting, Shiro takes Lance into the hallway. (Why did Shiro need to be told to do this?) Lance clearly needs some emotional support here, as he slams his head into the metal wall and dejectedly says, “You don’t need to babysit me.” Shiro doesn’t engage with Lance over what’s bothering him, so the story doesn’t have to risk letting Lance grow as a character any.

Instead, we divert into Shiro asking Lance about the weirdness that happened between them in the psychic space in 5x03 “Postmortem.” I guess, at least they’re following up on that now. Shiro tells Lance he can’t remember what happened then. Lance asks if Shiro is okay, and Shiro says he feels “confused. It’s like I’m not myself.” Of course, the show is increasing the hints that Shiro is a clone. This should be an important scene, but I don’t feel it does enough for the narrative. The only thing it gives us is that Shiro is indeed continuing to think about what happened. Lance tries to be supportive, saying “We’ll get through this.” So, the scene doesn’t really advance this plotline any. That the clone is concerned by this, though, is further evidence that the clone, despite what the show eventually has everyone say about him, is not an “evil thing.” He’s clearly bothered here by that event.

Out of nowhere, the narrative of the episode then shifts to Ezor, Axca, and Zethrid waiting around for Haggar to “do her magical pondering,” as described by Zethrid. That line kind of made me laugh. Zethrid likes the idea of potentially replacing Lotor as emperor, but Axca shuts that down, saying “No one is replacing Lotor.” Sounds like she still has some loyalty to him, despite not being in his service currently.

Allura and Lotor are climbing a mountain on Oriande. Lotor tells her about how much he envies her having grown up with Alfor. He says he “always wanted to be an explorer and learn about the universe.” He talks about how when he was put in charge of a planet and running a quintessence mine. He talks about how he did not govern in the traditional dominating way of the Galra. He talks about how he only ran the mine such that they extracted quintessence at a rate at which it could be replenished. And yet the EPs expect us to think Lotor is a villain here. Lotor tells her that Zarkon ordered him to destroy the planet and that he refused and that’s when Zarkon destroyed the planet himself and banished Lotor to the fringe of the Empire.

They eventually get to the ornate, white, glowing pyramid. The White Lion meets them in the door and indicates they can enter and follow him. The make their way to a room with huge Altean statues. Lotor identifies the statues as representing “the life-givers, the first to unlock the secrets of Oriande.” That phrasing suggests Oriande existed before these Alteans. Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought that ancient Alteans created this location on Oriande?

The statues animate and start to attack until Allura brandishes the compass stone. One statue takes the stone from her, and she and Lotor proceed further into the pyramid. The White Lion stands at the center of the room and disappears. The door closes, and the ceiling starts to descend. That ceiling: No, thank you! That’s a trope that creeps me out. Allura recognizes the dual pedestal, for lack of a better word, in the center of the room that’s reminiscent of her control mechanism on the Castle Ship. She points it out though after looking around the room for “a clue, something a trained Altean would recognize” at Lotor’s prompting. I would think that the White Lion literally standing at the pedestal would have been enough of a clue that they wouldn’t have to have looked around like they did, but whatever.

Allura touches the controls, everything starts glowing.

Lotor then stands on a field of white and clouds, the White Lion walks toward him. Allura then stands in the same kind of location and the White Lion comes at her too. Lotor gets bitten but says, “I will never yield. I will gain your secrets.” He says, “Victory or death!” and magically draws a sword out of nowhere. Does he actually have a magical, teleporting sword, or is this all just a manifestation of his mind? He slashes the White Lion, which disappears, and he’s deposited back at the pyramid’s entrance. This is the only thing from Lotor this season that could hint at him still being a villain. Even if this is supposed to show us he’s still a villain, the way the show has had him behave and present information about his life in other scenes throughout this season is starkly contrasted from villainous thought and behavior that all those moments still feel discordant with the idea that Lotor is secretly a villain the whole time.

Allura meanwhile, says, “No, this isn’t the way. I seek the secret of life. I give my own.” The White Lion jumps into her.

She then opens her eyes to be floating in some glowing, starry space. She asks where she is, and a disembodied voice says, “You have returned to the realm of your ancestors. The Alteans and the life-givers who came before.” What is this mysterious space? Is this supposed to be the inside of the rift? That would explain why the rift has so much quintessence if it’s supposed to be the realm of the life-givers, who apparently are different than ancient Alteans if we go by what this voice says (“Alteans and the life-givers,” as in they’re separate things). That wouldn’t explain why quintessence in the rift is poisonous or where the rift creatures come from though. I think it would have been super interesting if the rift between realities had been this realm of the life-givers though.

Allura says she wants the knowledge of the alchemy that created Voltron. The voice says that this realm is Allura’s “home” and that “the secret is already within” her. Granted, this is all undefined magic, but “the secret … within” means there’s no skill required, and it’s really cliché. But I’m still willing to go along with such a thing in a story if it’s used well. Unfortunately, I don’t think this show does. It works nice in revealing some character detail for Allura. In some ways, she’s always had a supplicating side of her personality, which is made prominent here. I like the statement that she doesn’t have to be given anything by the forces this voice represents. I’m the kind of person who vastly prefers characters to have their own power rather than to gain power because some other entity gives it to them (it’s why clerics and warlocks don’t satisfy me in Dungeons & Dragons). Had the show further developed the idea that there’s this “home” for Allura outside of the universe, and that she was going there at the end of the show instead of dying, maybe that ending wouldn’t have felt like the show killing her character.

Everything grows bright white again.

Back on the Castle Ship, they’re low on oxygen when Allura and Lotor return. Allura reboots and powers the ship’s system. It’s obvious Lotor feels disappointed, but he tells Allura in front of everyone, “Oriande was for you, not for me.”

The music turns ominous, the camera focuses on Shiro, and then we see Haggar watching Allura and Lotor through Shiro’s perspective. Haggar then goes to the bridge of her ship and tells Axca she has their next destination, “a place I’ve been searching for my entire life.” The story of Allura and Oriande in this episode was relatively interesting, I really wish the show hadn’t tainted it by bringing annoying, uninteresting Haggar into it here at the end. Since this was released as a season finale, this functions as some supposed, dramatic, high-tension cliffhanger ending. Not every ending has to be a cliffhanger. Not every ending has to be a reminder of the villain’s existence. But if you’re going to keep ending on a villain note like this, at least make the villain someone interesting. Haggar is not that.

[rose-gold-romantic]

Whatever It Takes:Chapter Three

A Loki x Reader based in the Tesseract fic universe! Avengers: Infinity War follow-up fic. Next in the Tesseract fic series. Links to Tesseract, Lokasenna, What Heroes Do, and Fidelity. Also to my AU Feel You.

I WOULD LOVE FEEDBACK! Want to be tagged in updates? Let me know!

@malignentmac @fandomsfanman @i-am-supermerwholoked221b @markusstrayya @sincereleygmg @pandaqua​ @person-born-winchester

Just a forewarning, this one has a major POV shift from the past entries, since Reader was Dusted at the end of Fidelity! Keeping with my recent trend in fic titles, it’s named after a track on the official soundtrack. I also constantly watch this Video, and recommend it to hype you up! @malignentmac @fandomsfanman @i-am-supermerwholoked221b @markusstrayya @sincereleygmg @pandaqua​ @person-born-winchester

The days passed with a harrowingly slow pace, every hour feeling as a lifetime. Everyone in the compound was on edge, in their own stage of grief for the fallen, and anxiety for Danver’s return. Over two weeks had gone by, with no answer from Danvers.

Thor had settled in to a pattern that seemed a stronger version of behavior that I had seen before. His sole focus seemed externally to be finding the rest of the Asgardians, but I knew that he was grinding his proverbial axe for a rematch with Thanos. The guilt that he carried with him was nearly tangible, and my attempts at reassurance went without response. Thor would not resume any form of normalcy until Thanos had been brought to justice.

One night, as I continued monitoring the system we had scanning for the Asgardians, the ground began rumbling beneath my feet. I looked up to see Steve and Natasha both running towards the front doors, and I followed suit.

Bruce and Rhodey were already outside, and we slowed to a walk as we watched a spaceship slowly float to the ground, Danvers carrying it as she slowly descended. Pepper Potts ran out to stand with us, tears welling in her eyes. As the ship rested on the ground, the boarding ramp deployed, and two figures shuffled out.

Nebula supported Tony as they came out of the ship, and Steve ran up to help support Tony.

“I couldn’t stop him.” Tony breathed, his body thin, weak, and doubtless shutting down from lack of food and water.

“Neither could I.” Steve replied, frowning.

“I lost the kid.” Tony confessed, his distress evident.

“Tony,” Steve said, his usually calm composure beginning to crack, “We lost…”

“Is um-” Tony’s question was abruptly cut off by Pepper’s embrace.

“Oh my god.” She said, tears now falling in relief.

“Let’s get him inside.” Rhodey said, “We can talk shop in the morning.”

When morning arrived, we all gathered in the boardroom, sitting and standing around the table. Thor continued to seclude himself and sat in a seperate area, the rolls he had once denied now being consumed.

“It’s been 23 days since Thanos came to Earth.” Natasha said, explaining Earth’s predicament to Tony and Nebula. “World governments are in pieces. The parts that are still working are trying to take a census. And it looks like he did… exactly what he said he was going to do. Thanos wiped out fifty percent of all living creatures.”

“Where is he now?” Tony said, sitting in a wheelchair as an IV bag continued to drip, “Where?”

“We don’t know.” Steve answered. “He just opened a portal and walked through.”

“With the space stone at his disposal, he could be absolutely anywhere.” I clarified, capturing Tony’s attention.

“Are you guys sure I’m not dead?” Tony said, gesturing to me. “Last time I saw you, you tried to kill all of us. Now we’re all buddy-buddy?”

“There were several powers at play at that time,” I said carefully, “I do sincerely apologise for the destruction and injury I caused in New York. Thor and I have both come here in hopes of restoring our people’s lives, though our search for the remaining still continues.”

“Speaking of Thor what’s wrong with him?” Tony asked, gesturing to my brooding brother.

“Yea, he’s pissed.” Rocket replied, “He thinks he failed. Which of course he did, but there’s a lot of that goin’ around here, aint there?”

“Honestly, until this exact second, I thought you were a Build-A-Bear.” Tony said, startled.

“Maybe I am.” Rocked mumbled.

“We’ve been hunting Thanos for three weeks now.” Steve said, attempting to re-center the conversation. “Deep Space scans, satellites, and we’ve got nothing. Tony, you fought him.”

“Who told you that?” Tony snarked. “I didn’t fight him. No, he wiped my face with a planet while the Bleeker Street Magician gave away the stone. That’s what happened. There was no fight.”

“Did he give you any clues, any coordinates, anything?” Steve pressed, our hope waning.

“I saw this a few years back, you know.” Tony griped, “I had a vision, I didn’t wanna believe it. I thought I was dreaming.”

“Tony, I’m gonna need you to focus.” Steve said, trying to prevent Tony from derailing the conversation further.

“And I needed you. As in past tense.” Tony said, his tone cutting and bitter. “That trumps what you need. It’s too late buddy. Sorry. You know what I need?” Tony stood up, shoving things off of the table. “I need to shave. And I remember telling you, Cap.”

Tony moved to hit Steve, but not before Rhodey and myself restrained him.

“Tony, Tony, Tony, stop!” Rhodey said, trying to calm his friend.

“Otherwise what we needed was a suit of armor around the world.” Tony continued, his tone harsher with ever word. “Remember that? Whether it impacted our ‘precious freedom’ or not- that’s what we needed!”

“Well, that didn’t work out, did it?” Steve said, his throat constricted and tight.

“I said, ‘we’ll lose’. You said, ‘We’ll do that together too.’ And guess what, Cap? We lost.” Tony spat. “You weren’t there. But that’s what we do, right? Our best work, after the fact? We’re the Avengers, we’re the Avengers. Not the Prevengers, right?”

“Okay, you made your point.” Rhodes stressed, “Just sit down, ok?”

“Nah, nah, nah.” Tony insisted, shoving Rhodey and myself away. “Here’s my point.”

“Sit down!” Rhodey repeated.

“She’s great, by the way.” Tony said, gesturing to Danvers as his breathing became more and more labored. “We need you. You’re new blood.”

“Tony!”

“Bunch of tired old mills!” Tony continued, “I got nothing for you, cap. I got no coordinates, no clues, no plan, no options. Zero. Zip. Nada. No trust. Liar.”

Steve’s face fell, Tony’s continued attacks wearing down his usually collected exterior. As the one-time friends continued to stare at each other, Tony ripped his ARC reactor from his chest, shoving it into Steve’s hand.

“Here, take this.” Tony spat through labored breaths, “You find him, and you put that on. You hide.”

Tony collapsed to the ground, exhausted after the stress of the argument.

“Tony!” Rhodey exclaimed as Steve, himself, and I all gathered around Tony to support him.

“I’m fine.” Tony breathed, “I…” Tony lost consciousness, and Steve and I carried him to a hospital style bed in another room.

Bruce set up a new IV for Tony, and Pepper came in to his room to be with him as Rhodey left and came in to the conference room once more.

“Bruce gave him a sedative.” Rhodey said, “He’s gonna be out for the rest of the day.”

“You guys take care of him.” Danvers said, “And I’ll bring Xorrian Elixir when I come back.”

“Where are you going?” Natasha asked.

“To kill Thanos.” Danvers replied coolly.

“Hey, you know, we usually work as a team around here.” Natasha said, causing Danvers to take pause. “Between you and I, we’re also a little fragile.”

“We realize that this is more of your territory.” Steve said, “But this is our fight too.”

“Do you even know where he is?” Rhodey contested, irritated.

“I know people who might.” Danvers replied, optimistic.

“Don’t bother.” Nebula said from the doorway. “I can tell you where Thanos is. Thanos spent a long time trying to perfect me. Then when he worked, he talked about his great plan. Even disassembled, I wanted to please him. I’d ask, “where would we go once his plan was complete?”. His answer was always the same: To the Garden.”

“That’s cute.” Rhodey scoffed. “Thanos has a retirement plan.”

“So where is he then?” Steve asked.

“Rocket, show them.” Nebula said, and Rocket nodded before leaping up onto the table.

“When Thanos snapped his fingers, Earth became ground zero for a power surge of ridiculously cosmic proportions.” Rocket said, a hologram of Earth appearing above the table. “No one’s ever seen anything like it… Until two days ago.”

The hologram shifted, showing another planet with a shockwave traversing the surface. “On this planet.”

“Thanos is there.” Nebula confirmed.

“He used the stones again.” Natasha said, inspecting the hologram.

“Hey, hey, we’d be going in short-handed, you know.” Bruce cautioned.

“Look, he’s still got the stones, so…” Rhodey added.

“So let’s get him.” Danvers suggested, “We’ll use them to bring everyone back.”

“Just like that?” Rhodey questioned.

“Yea, Just like that.” Steve said.

“Even if there’s a small chance that we can undo this,” Natasha said, “I mean we owe it to everyone who’s not in this room to try.”

My mind raced with the thought of having (Y/N) back with me, holding her again, being able to tell her how much I loved her. My heart ached for the chance, for the idea of being able to rectify the grave wrong.

“If we do this, how do we know it’s gonna end any differently than it did before?” Bruce countered.

“Because before, you didn’t have me.” Danvers explained, her composure cool and collected.

“Hey, new girl, everyone here is about that superhero life. Even the ex-villain over here.” Rhodey said, gesturing over to me. “And if you don’t mind my asking, where the hell have you been all this time?”

“There are a lot of other planets in the universe.” She replied, “And unfortunately, they didn’t have you guys.”

Thor rose from his bench, walking over to face Danvers. He held his hand up to summon Stormbreaker, and it flew across the room, soaring into his hands and missed Danver’s face by mere inches. She didn’t flinch, and instead smirked at my brother with a knowing look.

“I like this one.” Thor said, finishing the roll he had been eating earlier.

“Let’s go get this son of a bitch.” Steve said, nodding.