#and it’s so obvious our governments do not care. and will never succumb

[mostlykind]

how do you stay hopeful when every powerful force is against you, and mainstream media yields to their wants and needs, when every step forward is met with brutalisation forcing you 10 steps back, and sympathy is only extended to the oppressor

[darkdevasofdestruction]

The Idiot ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky

In which the reader is the last Russian princess from our contemporary times and Fyodor is there to watch, observe, analyse and write a novel while being the reader’s sort of guardian/mentor, all while reader finds herself in an impossible, almost-Anna Karenina-like situation that drives her to desperate decisions.

And yes, I’m very much basing this story Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot” novel, Tolstyi’s “Anna Karenina” and Katyusha, both the Russian song, and the “Resurrection” novel from Tolstoy that has Katyusha as an unfortunate, yet important character.

Also, a little nod to our dear Ana Lesko for her song “Anicyka Maya”, which will serve as a cute little nickname for our dear reader, although the song is Romanian, and it’s about a seductive woman. 

Other nicknames will include: Kiska ( kitten ), Zaika ( bunny ), Kroshka ( little one ), Krasotka ( gorgeous ).

I’m not Russian, I don’t know about Russia’s culture, history and language as much as I know about my own, obviously, but as ex-commie & ex-USSR, we still have a shit ton of similarities. Nevertheless, I will try not to get into too many details that will compromise authenticity.

Luxury, glamour, wealth, gold, jewellery, diamonds, class, facades, masks, masquerades, social gatherings, lies, marriages, politics, horses, deals, gambling... These represent some of the few words people from everywhere around would describe the royal family.

Why do some still exist, anyway? Shouldn’t they have just completely disappeared at the same time with the Romanov family? ...Stupid cartoon movies and their resurrection of Anastasia...

Nobody truly cares about these rich rats who worked naught for their wealth, and would never understand the struggle and poverty of the normal citizens of Russia...They just live in their abnormally huge palace, having more servants than the population of Moscow and eat at one meal more than normal people do in one week altogether.

How utterly ridiculous.

Their lives are all perfect, they marry themselves to keep that ridiculous purity and their infinite wealth in the family...How atrocious!  What about charity? Kindness? Altruism? Helping out the common folk?

All these thoughts, and you’d think a very bitter and vindictive, very poor and malicious person came up with, and yet, the reality was rather distorted. 

From the top stair of the palace, in a dark room, sitting on the windowpane, a gorgeous young woman cast her dull eyes over the snowy city and the people hurrying down the roads, hoping to go home before it got too late and cold.

Maybe they were poor and hateful, and rightfully so, she’d say, but perhaps they can also be deemed happier, if they can take into account their freedom...As much as the government provides them, at least - Yet even so, even the poorest person held more freedom than this caged bird, forever trapped and shackled by fate from the second she was born...As if she had any choice, that is.

Perhaps she deserves this treatment, this hatred, this...Manipulation from her own family, who only see her as a political and financial pawn, planning her marriage from the second she first cried into this world... Like a martyr, she will accept all torture and live on, never knowing what ‘living’ truly means, only imagining it by reading all day and all night long, or when she plays the piano one of the many songs she learnt.

As the grandfather clock rang to 7 times to announce dinner time, Y/N dressed in a simple, yet elegant dress, put on a pair of classy black stiletto shoes, and went down to the luxurious dining room, sitting in her usual seat, only for a brunet stranger dressed in white to grace the sight with his unexpected presence.

She didn’t dare speak to him, yet her eyes couldn’t leave his form, no matter how her meek demeanour made her hung her head to avoid showing anything other than her demure expression.

Thankfully, her parents arrived, along with the waiters that served the food, so it saved some of the awkwardness of the unknown.

“Y/N, darling, this man here is Fyodor Dostoevsky. He is here as a writer, wanting to learn more about us and about people in general. As a compromise, he agreed to be your personal guard...Considering the other one was a sacrilege to our dear daughter...What a lecherous man, making advances on you...But, anyway, let us toast to the success of this young man’s writing career!” the mother raised her champagne, and the four of them clinked glasses. “I thank you for the unique opportunity to learn and understand society and people better. May you live a long and prosperous life.” this new stranger held a charming smile on his face, trying to impress and buy everyone’s trust. “Do you have yet any idea about the theme of your novel? Or, perhaps an idea for a title?” the father asked, making the brunet shake his head softly. “No, not yet, unfortunately. I prefer to study hard, and only then, when I am educated enough, to allow the flow of creation to take over me.” this Fyodor nodded in acknowledgement, while the girl kept completely silent for the duration of the dinner, waiting for everything to be over so she could escape back to the little faux haven she created and called ‘safe’. “Y/N, show Mr. Fyodor to your room, he will be sleeping there for now on. The butlers already brought a spare bed there, so it’s alright.” the mother waved her hand dismissively, and the girl could only bow quickly and go back to her room, making sure to point out what each of the rooms represent, before reluctantly inviting him to her bedroom. “Please, make yourself at home, Mr. Dostoevsky. I hope it will be comfortable and to your liking. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to tell me so we can make your stay as great as possible.” she spoke to him in a soft, meek voice, not daring to make eye contact in any way. “Call me Fyodor, no need for formalities. We are going to room together, might as well become friendly. What don’t you tell me about yourself? Your hobbies, your interests, your dreams, your aspirations.” the brunet paced around the room, observing all of her personal objects, which, turned out, except for jewellery, books, a small, pink Gloxinia, and a pickup with 1920s British vinyls, there was nothing to represent her...Which was, in its own way, an intriguing peculiarity. “I...Like reading, flowers, music...And I wish I could get a dog and learn how to play the violin too. There aren’t many interesting things about me...I’m not special or anything out of the ordinary. I am not allowed to put myself out there in any way, so this is the little I could do to express who I am.” so tried to be as vague as possible, fidgeting on her feet uncomfortably, knowing that the punishment for embarrassing the family would be grave, should it be known. “Hmmm...I see, I see...Ah, you’re a Tolstoy reader, I see. Anna Karenina...Very interesting, yet tragic, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, picking up a book that was supposed to be hidden. “N-No! Don’t take that out of there...Nobody can know I have it. I was strictly forbidden from reading it...Please don’t tell anyone I have this book.” the princess snatched the book from his hands, hiding it further back in the bookshelf. “Ohh~? Why would you not be allowed to read a Russian book? You’d think the Russian princess would be urged to read Russian literature.” he stepped in front of her, picking her chin and raising her head slightly to allow him to look deep into her fawn-like eyes. “Because of the ending...And the controversial decisions Anna made, some of them even contradictory to her own beliefs, and yet, she made her own decisions, at some point in her life. When your fate is decided from before you are born, having opinions is the worst enemy of a puppeteer...Wouldn’t you agree?” she muttered, walking away from him, taking her nightgown and walking towards her bathroom.

This made the man think more about how dysfunctional this supposed perfect royal family actually was. The illusion of a flawless individual, living together, forming a flawless family, a flawless life, in a flawless palace. 

Perhaps facades aren’t as obvious to see through, or understand, for while the parents are completely bland...This girl...So much potential locked away in a timid chest of massive oak wood, embellished with overly expensive jewellery, clearly unwanted. She could be a genius, shining in her happiness, glowing like her dazzling smile, and yet, there she is, eclipsed by chaff, when she could be burning brighter than the morning Sun.

Those parents of hers think he wants to be here and get dazzled by the infinite stream of diamonds that keep flowing around the whole place - And yet, perhaps they are the ones living in mental poverty, considering they believe financial wealth and fame is the sole reason for being alive - To uphold a certain kind of status that they worked naught for, but received hereditary, from one lazy deadbeat to yet another generation of useless people for this society.

They truly are like the plague, incredibly rare nowadays, but completely fatal once you fall grasp to their dark claws that drag you to hell to succumb to their completely fictional utopian world that they create only amongst themselves, as if whatever lives beyond these golden walls is putrid and deserves to rot to pieces.

As his mind wandered farther and farther away down the country, snowy roads he created with his own imagination of thoughts, he heard the bathroom door softly open, and the angelic creature garbed in a thin - Possibly silk, snow white nightgown - Stepped back into their now shared room, and just as before, her demeanour resembled that of a small, frightened fawn, or a bunny.

When you have to deal with such a pure being that could completely shatter, it’s difficult not to impulsively break down all walls around and snatch her away - It’s close to impossible not to attempt to test all existing boundaries and see the limits where she would break...Or, almost, at least. 

However, abstinence makes for a great suspense and greed...You want more...And more...And the more you wait, the harder it is to resist, but the satisfaction you get when the frail creature trusts you enough to eat from your own palm, and you finally claim it as yours...

It’s Heavenly.

“Sweet Dreams, Fyodor.” she spoke softly, putting on a Tchaikovsky vinyl and picking up a book, getting in bed and reading it, the only light still open being a dim lantern on her nightstand. “How would you like to show me around the city tomorrow?” the brunet asked so casually that it shocked the girl enough to drop her book on her lap. “O-Oh...U-Uhmm...I’m not exactly to go out of this place unless it’s for Christmas shopping...I’m sorry I can’t properly do as you wish...” she quickly took her book back, hiding her face to hide her embarrassment and disappointment. “Well, then, what a gorgeous coincidence, isn’t it? In barely two months, Christmas shall come, and then, you can properly show me around, correct?” the man mused, the ghost of a smirk playing on his face. “..You’re right! My, you’ll get to see the beautiful fairy light and Christmas decorations all around the city! I can’t believe it, you truly chose the perfect time to come here. Oh, and, the ballet, the opera and the national orchestra are going to perform...I believe The Nutcracker is going to play this year...And Traviata. It should be beautiful, don’t you agree?” Y/N asked with a soft smile on her face, sparks gleaming in her eyes, and for the first time since he’s met her, it felt like she was finally alive. “Yes, yes, I would have to agree. And if you are there with me, the experience will be even better.” he hummed, teasing the poor girl who had no idea what else to say to such bold affirmations. “O-Oh...W-Well...Th-Thank you...I-I think...Your presence there will also make the going out more interesting...And nice.” she offered a comeback that pleased the man well enough. “Good night to you as well, Printsessa.”

What a lovely young woman, he thought, as he closed his eyes and let his mind fly at different aspects of life and of humanity, trying to decipher each and every person he met that day and wondering if his assumptions were correct, as they always are.

Morning came by faster than expected as a shy ray of of Sun creeped inside the room through the window, but Fyodor was already awake, writing at the desk rather rapidly - Most likely, he had some inspiration hitting him, so he proceeded to pour out his conflicting thoughts on the paper, all while stealing a peek from time to time at the girl sleeping peacefully, almost as if she was a Disney Princess.

The way the soft light caressed her face had him take the stray streak of h/c hair and pull it back so it won’t tickle her awake, while also being allowed to watch her peacefully inhale and exhale, a small smile on her face...Perhaps she was having a beautiful dream? Was that why she told him to have sweet dreams? Were her dreams her only lovely escape from this horrible reality she was forced to live in?

There were so many mysteries yet to be unveiled, but all in due time, as Fyodor noticed the gentle flutter of her lashes, and with a grace only reserved to a Swan Princess, she raised and stretched with a sweet hum, and the brunet man watched as his eyes felt absolutely blessed seeing such a beauty...

If people complained that Disney Princesses weren’t relatable, since they have messy hair when they wake up, just like Anna, they clearly haven’t seen how perfect Y/N looks, even as she blinks her sleepiness away.

“I see you slept well, Printsessa. Good morning.” she heard him speak, and she noticed it wasn’t as en garde and...It almost seemed...Pleased to see her. “Fyodor...You woke up before me. You should have woke me up. Please wake me up next time, I wouldn’t want you to feel lonely or upset. This place is like a piranha tank...Thread carefully, otherwise, you’re like a little animal who fell in.” she quickly got up, rushing through her daily routine so she could be by his side, not only because her parents assigned her to that, but also because this Dostoevsky man is the only little thing that could rip her out of her completely dull routine and show her a little bit of insight into what could be something out of her imagination entirely. “Aww, the little songbird wishes to spend time with me, how adorable. Very well, Printsessa, what is it that you want to do today? My job here is to observe and write, after all.” he asked, crossing one leg over the other, resting his chin on his fist, watching her with intense interest. “Oh, well, I have to practice the piano today, but other than that, I have nothing in my schedule.” she explained, guiding him to the music room that very much resembled a whole orchestra surrounding a place - Not too small, yet not too big either - Meant for ballroom dancing. “I bet the national orchestra isn’t as fancy as this place is.” he mused, walking up to the cello and tracing his fingertips across the chords. “...Do you know how to play it?” she asked, walking up to him, having the curiosity of a baby fawn exploring the world. “Would you like to hear?” he asked, sitting on the chair and expertly hugging the cello, he grabbed the bow and teased the girl with a mischievous look in his gleaming purple eyes. “Oh, yes, please, if it’s not too much to ask! It would be absolutely splendid.” Y/N clasped her hands together, grinning widely as she stepped a few feet away to give him enough space so he could start playing. “It would be my pleasure, Printsessa.” and with the nod of his head, he started playing the famous Sugar plum fairy song, making the girl gasp in surprise at how gorgeous it sounded.

She crouched to reach the perfect eye view of the bow gliding along the chords, her mouth slightly agape and she gazed with absolute wonder, not even realising when the song was over, for she was much too mesmerised.

“Well, Printsessa, how did you like it?” he rested his arms on the curves of the cello, leaning forwards for a better look at her. “That was better than even our national cello player! It was absolutely stunning, woaw...Just...You left me speechless! You’re...You’re...You are...Perfectly splendid!” she clapped for him rapidly and incredibly enthusiastic, making him chuckle in amusement at her cuteness. “Why, thank you, Printsessa. How about you entertain me now, little Anicyka Maya?” he carefully put the Cello in its place, stepping in front of her and caressing her porcelain skin, quenching his thirst for discovery by seeing her rosy cheeks. “Well...I can’t say I’m anywhere as great as you are...But, sure. I hope you will like it.” she looked down, fidgeting with her fingers as she hurried timidly to the piano, and taking a deep breath, cracking her fingers, she liter her fingers skillfully dance over the keys, as her voice followed every word of the song called “Katyusha”. However, she wasn’t expecting him to applaud and whistle to her, congratulating her for being such a beautiful nightingale. “You clearly underestimate your hard work and talent. Perhaps we should play together one day. I’m sure it would put a smile on your parents’ faces.” Fyodor bowed to kiss Y/N’s hand, only to hear the door opening. “Yes, Mr. Fyodor, we would quite like to hear the two of you dueting together. Since Y/N will have to perform both dance and a song at the piano, as a Christmas tradition, it will show how much she’s improved...If at all. I have to tell you the truth, Mr. Fyodor, over the past few years, she has been exceptionally disappointing...Well, perhaps you coming here will prove to give her a jolt in the right direction.” Y/N’s mother came out of nowhere in the music room, almost as if she was stalking the pair, and Fyodor could see how the Princess’ behaviour changed 180 degrees, and from the excitable and lively young girl, she went back to hide in her guarded shell, trying to protect herself from the numerous blows everyone throws her way.

And just as he expected, once they started playing, despite throwing in one or two intentional mistakes, while she had none of her own, the mother reprimanded her daughter, while praising him. He thought, at first, this was going to be some kind of tough love encouragement and determination she was trying to give the girl, but truly, it was nothing more than unrealistic dreams of an already flawless performance.

This family was nowhere close to being the perfect, or the most loving one, that was without a doubt. But being so horrible to your own daughter, humiliating her in front of a complete stranger, making her tremble softly while trying her best to keep herself from bursting into sobbing fits, was a whole different kind of cruel and unnecessary malice.

For some reason, Fyodor felt a certain kind of warmth in his chest...But not the same kind of warmth he feels when he is around Y/N, but something...Similar to fury. To rage. He was sure he never felt such a personal sort of offense, despite not being him that was belittled.

A terrifying sort of justice bubbled inside him, and he smirked, thinking about just one sole thing.

Crime and Punishment.

Fyodor hoped dearly that it would be only the maternal figure that was the problem, yet it seemed to be much worse, and the toxicity levels that kept vibing all over the place seemed to be equivalent to that of Chernobyl at the time of the explosion.

All throughout the week, he noticed the dirty looks all the staff was giving the Princess, possibly because she was being a shy and quiet pushover...But it went completely beyond his understanding how these servants would even dare be so rude to her, considering she is always so sweet to them, always forgives their mistakes and shares her whole allowance with them in equal parts...

But they complain it’s not enough. They complain others get more, or less, but clearly, they don’t care about that, they just want more and more money...They are greedy jackals who don’t care about the life or soul of a poor little lady who just wants to be happy...

But perhaps happiness isn’t meant for royalty.

A week until Christmas, and Fyodor was ready with the quick draft, and he left it on the desk for Y/N to read, and he couldn’t help but admire and drink in each and every emotion she would express on her lovely face with every word she read, every action, every chapter that stirred more and more conflicting feelings and thoughts battling together - Conflicts that she was trying so hard to hide, no doubt feeling his burning, hawk-like stare on her, analysing her as if she was a new specimen under a microscope.

She was great at hiding what she truly felt, yet her eyes betrayed her inner self, the sparkling of nostalgia and sadness crawling out, shrieking at the top of her lungs to be discovered and taken out of this well of darkness she was drowning in - She wanted to be saved, she was at her breaking point, and clearly, she was afraid. 

Afraid of life. Afraid of people. Afraid of her family. Afraid of this society. Afraid her own self. Afraid of her actions.

And most of all.

She was afraid of spiritual, mental and emotional imprisonment.

As Christmas approached with rapid footsteps, Fyodor could notice how Y/N stiffer, more silent, flinching more, keeping herself in check, alone, barely speaking to anyone...Clearly, she was being stressed out and afraid of the consequences of screwing up anything.

Perhaps, the problem here was the fatalist and completely out of her control destiny she was thrown in, and she knew from the very beginning that, no matter how flawless her performance was, she would still be reprimanded and punished, so she resigned herself to this kind of treatment...The same as every year.

“It’s so beautiful outside...And it’s snowing...! So soft and cold...It’s almost numbing you entirely, but the beauty of Christmas still melts down even the most frozen of hearts.” she spoke with such sadness dripping from her tongue, that Fyodor felt the need to take his fur hat and put it on her head before taking a hold of both of her hands, rubbing them together and kissing her knuckles. “It’s not the day or the decorations that are supposed to move a person, but the kindness and altruism of people. From what I’ve seen in the past weeks, the only consistency in this place is the beauty of your heart and the cruelty of everyone else that keep eclipsing you. You deserve better than this, kroshka.” the man spoke simply, waiting to see the way she’d react. “...I didn’t choose this life, nor did it choose me, yet here I am, trying to keep my head above the water in a whirlpool. I have all my life planned and written ahead of me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. From the very beginning, since before I was even born, they knew they will sell me out to some old, rich man, just so they could benefit, but they cared naught about my well-being, as long as I could keep him entertained in any way possible. The least I can do is try to enjoy the little things...Even if they are nothing more than just that...Little things.” she admits to him, taking away her hands and holding them to her chest, too afraid to trust her own heart. “You let the servants make a mockery out of your kindness. You let your family humiliate you in front of everyone. You let common folk bash you, even if you tip them greatly...Tell me, krasotka, have you read the draft to my book yet?” they continued to stroll down the cobbled streets, looking up at the snowflakes gently dancing in the light of the lamposts, as Fyodor carried most of her shopping bags that held Christmas gifts for everyone but herself. “Yes...I did...But I did not finish it. I was much too afraid to read the ending of it.” she nodded to him, biting her lip nervously. “Afraid? Why ever would you be afraid of reading some words made of ink on a piece of paper?” the man frowned in confusion and interest, hearing such a peculiarity of an answer. “Because...Because I know that Prince Myshkin actually represents me...And how life treats me...So I’m afraid the ending will hint to Anna Karenina’s ending...And I don’t want that. I don’t...That’s why I’m afraid...I’m scared that...I’m scared that I won’t be able to endure this madness anymore, and sooner, rather than later, I will shatter into an unrecognisable version of myself that not even I will decipher...And I will do scary things that I would otherwise be afraid of even thinking about. You know I read the book, I wouldn’t put it past you to tease me like that.” she smiled ironically, shaking her head to stop herself from shuddering at such a dreadful thought. “Congratulations, Printsessa, you are surely insightful. However, I must advise you to read it, and keep in mind that you are not entirely wrong in your thinking. While the ending isn’t identical to Tolstoy’s novel, it isn’t on the complete opposite spectrum either. What you read is one of the possible outcomes of your life, should you choose to remain a passive onlooker and let everyone control you, like a little, pretty doll. Should you, however, choose to take fate into your own hands and finally make your first choice of your life...I can promise you, you are going to be much happier.” Fyodor kissed her forehead before leading her back to the palace so she could take the day off...For tomorrow, she must perform.

But the author wasn’t lying, Y/N realised as she spent the last hours past curfew to finish the book, and she realised that while Myshkin didn’t kill himself, he was still dead inside, and just like the catatonic state he was stuck into, she has been living a life of complete comatose herself.  Fyodor was right all along - A life without choices is not a life, nor is it one without freedom and happiness - And maybe, for the first time in her life, she would make the most difficult decision the universe threw at her, and that was to choose between Duty and Happiness, something every royal member, especially women all over the world, who were seen as nothing more than political and decorative objects meant to create heirs and nothing more, had to pick, and dutifully chose to sacrifice themselves to keep the family and the nobility going.

But not anymore....

“You look beautiful today, my little zaika. This velvet colour of your dress, the way it highlights you stunning silhouette...And this jewellery...And your hair and make up...You are above and beyond the most beautiful person to ever grace this life. How are you going to enchant us today?” Fyodor pat down his white suit so he would look completely impeccable...Or, perfectly splendid, as Y/N would say. “Does it truly matter, in the end? Nobody but you will pay attention, and at the end of the day, I will only hear critiques. It’s the same every year, so there is no point in bothering to stand out, have any particularity or give a name. It just...Is. So...Let me get this over with so I can go to my room and pretend this day never happened...Again.” she muttered, hooking her arm to his, entering the big ballroom together.

A ton of people were there, not only family, but enough family ‘friends’, all of them incredibly rich, with a combined fortune great enough to buy the whole Russia somehow...And all eyes were on her. She didn’t mind. She was used to the nervousness and the either critical or lustful stares she received - But only during these kinds of events, and because she was a Princess, otherwise nobody would have cared about her existence or her feelings...

Nobody...Except for Fyodor.

Until the time of his arrival, nobody cared about her, nor did they bother trying to understand or talk to her, and yet, here he was, always by her side, and frankly, she fell in love with him. She, for the first time in her life, cared naught about everything surrounding her, and she thought solely about him and their time spent together. That is all that mattered to her.

So, with that in mind, and a warm heart, she performed the Waltz of Flowers flawlessly at the piano, along with a few other songs, adding some festive ones. Fyodor was absolutely captivated by the spells she put on people whenever she radiated with such pure gentleness, just like Christmas’ true angel.

Her fingers glided so gracefully over the keys, as she hummed along the music, not even bothering to look at the sheet, for she new everything by heart - But somehow, it all sounded even more magical than before, and nobody could tell why.

But Fyodor knew, and he smiled, figuring out her trick. And he was going to call her out for that when this whole charade was over.  But for now, he allowed himself to enjoy bathing in her radiating warmth, for she was shining brighter than the Sun itself.

By the time she finished her little repertoire, she did a pretty courtesy and walked to the man in the white suit, taking a glass of red wine and sipping from it, that gentle smile never leaving her face.

They exchanged no words, but there was no need for that, as the look in their eyes spoke more than anything else, and they danced the night away, together, in graceful and intimate waltzes, or swaying together, keeping their hearts glued together, beating in sync and feeling each other’s heat.

She might not have wanted to end up like Karenina, but she wasn’t too far away from her situation, and she knew very well, should she leave with this man, she was going to break down every rule, and find an identity for herself, after all these years.

But happiness is emphemeral in the life of a Princess, and just before the Christmas Ball ended, her parents dragged her to the table of this old man, so they would share gifts. This old man, who so happened to be the man chosen to be her future husband, and had fewer hairs on his head and teeth in his mouth than her age.

Most of the gifts were pretty basic - Jewellery for women, cigars, fedoras, watches for men...But for her...She received some of he oddest gifts so far - And yet, she thought life couldn’t surprise her anymore.

Several little outfits, fit for babies, were neatly folded in all boxes, sans one - The sole box being a small, velvet box, which revealed a sapphire ring that expressed the definite bond of marriage that must be officiated very soon, through papers and a church ceremony.

Frozen was the clock, frozen was the time, and frozen was life itself, for the shock was great - Being put on the spot is scarier than the anticipation and fear of venturing into the unknown - Yet here she was, with her supposed fossil of a husband, with several babies promised to be born, and a very angry author, watching the disgusting exchange of pleasantries between the elder people.

He noticed Y/N doing a little courtesy, excusing herself with a nervous smile, and rushing out of the ballroom, the clicks of her elegant heels giving away her location at all time. Following her, he saw her on the edge of the rood, barefoot, her back to the empty space, as she hummed, looking up at the clouds pouring snow, and swaying to her tippy toes occasionally.

“You sure like the feeling of being alive, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be staying there after being faced with such a disgusting situation.” he pointed out, clasping his hands behind his back and carefully stepped towards her. “Life is full of surprises. But it is not called life, unless you have a say in the paths that you go down by. Today, I realised what I have to do in order to achieve true bliss and happiness...Something ethereal, although utopian in its quintessence. I have to make a choice. And right now, I’m making it.” she smiled, extending her arms to the side, resembling a Goddess, as a few stray tears streamed down her face - But they were tears of relief, not of fear, anxiety of depression. She was happy. “You said you didn’t want to choose the path of Karenina, nor of Myshkin, and yet, there you are, on the brink of death, as the way to show that you are no longer a caged bird. Is it truly worth it, in the end?” Fyodor asked, frowning at the delusional words she was spewing. “Death is but the beginning of a new adventure, and with me falling, I will find out what freedom is, unlike all the other Princesses before me. It is not death I’m choosing, nor will I regret it as soon as I step into this free fall hazard, like Karenina, and, as you can see, I chose to wake up from my catatonic state, unlike Myshkin. I know what awaits me as soon as I reach the ground...But do you?” Y/N hummed in amusement, watching the conflict painted all over his face - And it was for the first time that Fyodor showed such confusion and inner turmoil, that much was obvious to her. “Stop this, Y/N, I don’t understand your reasoning, but don’t kill yourse- “ but he couldn’t finish his sentence, for the girl uttered just a few words - Words that changed even the rotation of the Earth around the Sun - And as she pushed herself on the tips of her toes, she embraced the cold wind of Winter being her guide down to the ground, as she watched the snowflakes following her down.

And she smiled.

Because love won, and life won, and she knew she chose correct - These weren’t the times to choose everyone else over herself anymore, and nor is she a saint, a martyr, an angel, or some perfect Christian role model.  She was just a woman thirsting for happiness and for the tangible sensation of life and of flying, and with this jump, she got completely wasted.

The secure embrace of a white angel made sure she lived for another day, but not quite, for her guardian angel jumped to save her, yet had no idea himself that he wasn’t the only special one, after all, and just as they were going to reach the ground, time seemed to stop, and they reached the ground gracefully and softly, like two linked feathers.

She lay down on the crystal blanket of snow, laughing mirthfully, almost with a childlike charm, as her long hair was sprawled all over her, and Fyodor’s arms were fiercely holding her, and he looked down at her, his eyes wide in understanding.

“I didn’t choose death. I chose life. I chose love...I chose you, and I chose me. I knew you had an ability too, and that you were confident in it, so I was sure that, should you choose to, you could jump from the roof of the palace to save me - Which you did. I never really have the opportunity to use my ability, but it’s rather useful in some situations, if I can say so myself. So, by the way you’d respond to my feelings and actions, I’d know whether I chose right or not...I think we both know the answer now, don’t we?” she grinned mischievously, extending a hand to his face to caress it gently. “That’s the most idiotic, most reckless thing anyone has ever one...And yet, you strategised everything, as if we were pieces in a game of chess. How did you get the courage to reach such a conclusion?” his voice was low, like a murmur, trying to understand her impossible, labyrinthine mind. “Life offered me a Christmas gift today, and that was serendipity, so, I used it. Everything else was a perfect strategy of a game of chess I played myself - The White King versus the Black King - And, was far as my luck and the universe brought about, I believe I won. But you must still answer back, otherwise, the magic will vanish.” Fyodor noticed a smirk growing on her face - One that somehow resembled his, and he almost felt conflicted seeing her mimicking him in his demeanour, in a way...But he also felt incredibly proud. “I cannot take you with me, Y/N. The part I walk is dangerous, it could even be fatal, and I would rather you not walk down a boulevard of broken dreams. You just now achieved happiness, don’t throw it out of the window. It a world full of crimes, I choose to be both the justiciar and the executioner of the unworthy. In a world of crime, I shall inflict punishment upon the evil-doers and paint this world red with the blood of the guilty.” he wanted her, he truly didn’t want to leave without her, nor did he want to leave her alone, here, with these hyenas, but could he really have it in his heart to endanger her so? “Fyodor, my darling, it matters naught for me whether I live or die, as long as the journey is by your side, and I’m not shackled anymore. I want to see, I want to hear, I want to touch, I want to taste, I want to smell, I want to learn. Everything. Without exception. There is a whole world out there, open, waiting to be explored and unveiled, and I shall be its explorer. As long as I have you by my side, I will surely be fearless. Being a hero, being a villain, or anything in between is of no concern for me...However, I cannot deny that I would be rather...Interested in seeing you deliver the sentence down to...Some specific people.” she giggled, winking at him, as she obviously hinted towards her kin and the unlimited amount of gossips she has heard about so many people, over the years.

With a wide smirk on his face, Fyodor Dostoevsky helped Princess Y/N on her feet and gave her a passionate, fire-like kiss, before picking her up bridal style and making their way to her room, so she would start packing and leave at the earliest convenience.

There may still be a bit of official work to do at the palace, and as his ability is called, there is no crime without punishment, he was going to make sure of that. Until then, there was one thing certain, and one alone, that was going to guide the both of them to a path of exciting uncertainty and thrill.

“I love you, my dear Y/N.”

[colonel-insomniac]

Symphony (The Other Planet)

do i hear a spinoff? Yes, i sure do. Anyways, @pawsomelybuggy and @my-blood-is-maple-syrup surprise :). check out “I hear a symphony” by Cody Fry!!

enjoy

“I used to hear a simple song…” 

Ezra and Pon had just lost Kai. The trio was split to a duo, and neither Ezra nor Pon knew what to do next or how to retrieve their friend, if they even could. All of what Kai meant to Ezra threatened to spill over; but he felt that he had to hold himself together for Pon’s sake, who had sat in the same position, staring off into space for about an hour at this point. He wasn’t sure what to do about that, so he elected to let Pon grieve, or mourn, or do whatever it is that he needs to do to be as okay as possible. Until they can find a way to save him, that is.  

It’s so hard, though, when it feels that the light and soul of the universe is gone. Who knows what could be happening to Kai at this very moment? He could be in pain, or….

No. It absolutely could not be the alternative. Ezra doesn’t know what would happen if Kai was… gone, other than that he would completely fall apart. He’s scared to think what’d happen to Pon if that scenario came true.  

“That was until you came along…” 

With everything that’s happened so far, Ezra’s honestly surprised he’s even still here. He’s survived those days on the battlefied, he’s survived fleeing an alien government, and he’s survived being captured. So of course, his luck would turn on him now, of all times; but instead of it being him that got hurt of affected by his sudden lack of good fortune, it had to be Kai. Kai with the big green eyes, and even bigger heart, Kai who didn’t deserve to be hurt. 

Ezra glanced away from the inky black night and towards Pon inside the cave they sought shelter in. As he blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim light the fire that had been created provided, he saw Pon staring at the rock wall opposite from him. His eyes were haunted, so filled with crushing sorrow that Ezra would go as far as to say that they had nearly reached a point of being devoid of any emotion. He watched as a tear slowly slid its way down Pon’s cheek, the silence between the two palpable. 

Ezra carefully sat down, trying hard to not disturb the silence for Pon, and watched the flickering fire as it quietly crackled. Somehow, it resembled Kai in that moment, ever burning spirit and unwilling to be bested. Selfishly needed, but not appreciated until taken away. 

“Now in its place is somethin' new…”

Pon sniffed, and broke his staring contest with the wall. “How do we get him back?” His voice cracked, desperate to bring his best friend back to the safety of their group, matching the rampant emotions filling Ezra’s head. 

He takes a moment to think over the inquisition. “Well, let’s think for a moment. If you were going to take someone and hide them, wouldn’t you take them somewhere no one would expect?” Pon nodded, seemingly understanding the gibberish flowing from Ezra. 

“Well, where would be the one place where it would seem annoyingly obvious to take Kai?” Saying his name feels like admitting a dark truth that Ezra hopes is not true in any way. But now is not the time for sorrow, and tears, and fear. He swallows and blinks hard, trying and failing to dispel some of the emotions building up. 

After a few moments to ponder over the question, Pon’s eyes light up, sparking with the slightest hope, and he mutters “the abandoned building.” Ezra nods, standing up and offering Pon his hand.

Ezra gathers his will and wipes any trace of emotion off his face as Pon quells the fire. Ezra sighs, thinking how they are going to pull off breaking into what is now a governmentally protected building. 

“I hear it when I look at you…” 

The snow is somehow colder than it was when they had been walking the opposite way, as though the world knew what was happening and was so in shock that it could no longer function. Ezra knew how that felt; much like how the exterior of his body felt numb from the biting cold, he felt numb internally. As though nothing but the next worst outcome could shatter him into ever lasting motion. 

The trek was quiet. Neither knew what to say to the other, how to comfort the other. Pon sighed every so often, a sound so crushed and devoid of everything but the tiniest sliver of hope, and Ezra moved silently, his gaze emptily trained in front of them. 

He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t have nightmares-- and the daytime equivalent-- of his time on that dreadful field watered with the blood of humans and Azurellians. Blood mixed symbolically, as though none of this really even matters. Not that that thought is shocking to Ezra even in the slightest. 

Really, though, his nightmares varied. Sometimes, he was the one who got mutilated, other times, people he has come to care about, or his parents. Thankfully that last one only happened once. And when it was just him who was getting hurt, it was different than when it was someone else who was getting hurt. On his own, he could just wake up, check his body until he was sure what happened wasn’t reality. But when it was Kai, or Pon, he sat in a state of worry until he could check on them to make sure they were alright too. And while he may not have had many friends back on Earth, there was nothing he could do to see if they’d been hurt or not. All he could do was tell himself they hadn’t been taken here as far as he was aware. 

“With simple songs I wanted more…” 

A twig snapped under his foot, and both boys jumped, startled out of their respective thoughts. Pon cast a wide-eyed look at Ezra, who attempted to convey that stepping on the twig was completely an accident. Ezra glanced down at the snow, figuring it was better to train his eyes on that, in order to keep the illusion of invisibility. 

The building drew near, lights on and with an air of life to it that had not been there when they had originally sought it out with Kai. Pon grabbed Ezra by the arm and steered him away from the building, something urgent in his steps. Once they were approximately five minutes east of the building, Pon let go of Ezra and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “When we get in there and get him, you absolutely cannot try to sacrifice yourself. No matter what happens, you are our ticket off this place. You do not jeopardize that if you want Kai to survive.” Ezra nodded, frightened that Pon had somehow known exactly what he was planning to do. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he questioned why Pon had only mentioned Kai getting off this planet. Surely Pon knew that Ezra cared for his well-being as well, right? 

Pon had started walking again, so Ezra had to dash to catch up, silently noting the tense posture the boy in front of him had taken. “Pon, you do know I care about your well-being too, right?” Ezra isn’t totally sure if he should be offended by the look of shock on Pon’s face at that statement, regardless of how quick he was to cover it. 

Pon nods, and swallows uncomfortably. “Well, I guess I do now. And same to you, in case I haven’t made that clear.” Ezra nods, biting back all the things he wishes he could say in that moment. They’re too close to the building for him to be able to do that, though. 

Suddenly, Ezra has an overwhelming urge to smack himself in the face. They got all this way, and neither of them discussed how they would even enter the building. Or at least Ezra hasn’t, Pon starts heading towards the back of the building. When they don’t find an open window, Ezra’s already picking up a rock, feeling its weight in his hands. “You aren’t thinking of breaking that window, are you?” Pon whispers, surprise etched onto his face. 

Ezra nods, features grim but determined. “We need a way in, and unless we have some way to disguise ourselves and sneak in, this is the only other option.” Pon hesitates before nodding, stepping back so that Ezra can get to work. 

“I don’t know that there’s a quiet way to break glass, but…” he mutters, trailing off. Suddenly, Ezra stands a bit straighter, shrugging his coat off quickly and removing his black t-shirt underneath. The rock gets wrapped in the shirt before sailing through a window on the first floor. While the shirt muffled the sound of breaking glass, it still was loud, and the duo quickly clambered through the window to avoid the guards, dashing up a set of stairs outside the room. Hearts racing, they slide into the attached bathroom, unkempt and dirty from the years of not being used. Pon locks the door behind him, huddling in a corner with Ezra. The lights are off, and Ezra can barely see, but he doesn’t hear any footsteps. 

“Perfection is so quick to bore, you are my beautiful, by far…”

Kai felt as though this timeline was endless. His hands were tied behind his back, his legs to the legs of the chair. If Pon and Ezra didn’t come back for him, well he could hardly blame them. His head throbbed and he ached basically all over, cuts and bruises littering his body from the authorities attempts to get him to give them any information. He refused, of course, and faced the repercussions. 

He craved to succumb to the endless, inky black of unsconsciousness, for a moment’s peace, but it seemed as though he would never really know peace. Kai numbly glanced around the bare white walls, into the window that allowed him to view the hallway. Something inside of him was filled with a crushing dread that he wouldn’t make it out of here. 

Kai dropped his head, so his chin touched his chest, and closed his eyes as he started humming a quiet tune. Some pretty ideation of his mind, somewhere better,, and brighter, where he could just be. That’s all he wants to do, is to live. Or well, wanted. He just wants to close his eyes...so bad. 

His eyes are on their journey to being closed when a loud bang makes him jump. Kai’s body feels shocked, before the pain from moving sets in, and he groans, barely holding back a sob. 

“Our flaws are who we really are…”

The next time he opens his eyes, Kai wishes he could rub at them because he swears he sees Pon standing in front of him, glancing at the door. Kai has a feeling Ezra is on the other side of that doorway, taking care of the guards that had been ensuring that he’d be kept within the room. Pon finally looks at Kai, and his eyes well with tears of guilt, and Kai knows Pon felt guilty about Kai being the one who had been taken and not Pon. 

Kai blinks, and promptly screams when he manages to drag his eyes open again. Where Pon had once stood, he now lies, red liquid spilling out from inside him. Kai tugs against the ropes restraining him from tending to his friend, desperately trying to break free. His heart feels like it has both stopped beating, and is beating too much, and in the back of his mind, he’s aware he needs to slow his breathing. But all he can think of is Pon, the bright eyed boy who had willingly been his friend all these years. 

The red makes its way to staining the ends of Pon’s hair, and Kai can do nothing besides frantically attempt to escape his restraints. Ezra darts inside, but halts at the sight of Pon collapsed on the floor. Dropping down next to him, Ezra places two fingers against Pon’s neck, watching his chest for a couple seconds. “He’s breathing but we need to hurry.” He pulls out a shard of glass from his back pocket, and Kai doesn’t want to even begin to think where that came from. Not that he can, anyways. 

“I used to hear a simple song, that was until you came along…” 

It takes a moment for Ezra to slice through the ropes that bind Kai, but once he’s free, Kai immediately drops down beside Pon, hissing at the lightning rod pain that electrocutes his body. Kai places a shaky hand against his best friends cheek, whispering his name as he tries not to cry. Ezra glances between the two friends and the door, and quickly scoops Pon in his arms, turning to Kai. “Are you able to walk?” The taller boy’s gaze is filled with sorrow, pain, and concern, but Kai painstakingly struggles to his feet, pausing to regain his breath, biting down on the inside of his cheek before nodding. 

It’s apparent that he can barely walk, and he winds up with Ezra wrapping and arm underneath Kai’s to provide enough support to where the shorter boy could walk. Luckily, they don’t manage to run into any guards, though it had been a very narrow escape, as Kai could hear the rushing footsteps above him. 

They don’t make it back to their original cave, but they do find an abandoned underground bunker, where Ezra lays Pon down on the bed gingerly, helping Kai to sit next to his friend, before exiting the room to give the two privacy while he pokes around the bunker. 

Ezra had ripped off a part of his jacket to tie around Pon, and luckily it hadn’t soaked through yet, but Pon’s short and raggedy breaths worried Kai to no extent, “I‘m not gonna make it.” Pon whispers in the thick silence. 

“You took my broken melody, and now I hear a symphony…”

Kai shakes his head as best as he can, not wanting to believe a word of it. “No, you can’t leave me alone.” As much as it hurt, Kai let the tears roll down his cheeks. 

“Not alone, you have Ezra.” 

“Pon, I can’t do this without you, I need you to be okay.” Kai gingerly placed his head on Pon’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I’ll try.” Pon whispers, his breath evening out. 

Ezra returned with bandages and rubbing alcohol in hand, stopping abruptly at the sight of the two sleeping. His heart seized as the thought of them both being gone flitted through his head before he focused in on the steady rise and fall of Kai’s chest, and the slightly less stable breathing from Pon. 

Though he felt bad about rousing either of the boys, he decided to allow Kai some rest, and gingerly nudged Pon awake. 

“And now, I hear…”

“Ezra, I’ve been thinking,” Pon whispers, glancing at Kai’s sleeping form before training his gaze to the ground. “If I don’t make it, please don’t let Kai feel guilty. He has to know I—we —would never have left him there.” 

Ezra swallows. What do you say to someone who knows they’re basically dead? “No, you won’t die?” 

He settles for a grim nod, briefly explaining that hopefully cleaning the wound would prevent it from getting infected and increase his likelihood of survival. He hands Pon a clean white strip from his coat’s inner lining to bite down on as he uncaps the bottle of rubbing alcohol. 

Lifting Pon’s clothing out of the way of the wound is harder than he’d thought. It was a mix of trying not to get frustrated, and trying to remain gentle. At long last, the skin is finally separated from the cloth, and Ezra glances at Pon before giving Pon his free hand when Pon extends his.

With a nod from Pon, Ezra pours the clear liquid over the wound. Pon lets out a muffled groan, shifting in pain, clutching Ezra’s hand. When the other boy pulls the liquid away, Pon is left gasping for air, barely noticing when Ezra wraps gauze bandaging around the wound. 

“Do we have to do this to Kai?” Pon is instantly protective, not wanting to impose any pain on his friend. Ezra glances at Kai, whose eyebrows are scrunched together. 

Ezra knows he should say yes, because they really ought to, but he too cannot bring himself to allow more pain to come to Kai. He mutters all of this to Pon, who nods, relieved. After helping Pon lie back down, Ezra waits until Pon sleeps before sitting just in front of the bed, resting his head in his hands. 

Pon never wakes up again, his body cooling by the time Kai wakes. The short boy feels instantly numb, but later breaks down sobbing in the bathroom, where Ezra finds him seated in the tub, clothed as water cascades down around him. 

They wind up bringing Pon to Earth with them, neither wanting to leave him on Azurelle, both facing a desire to allow him to rest somewhere he truly wants to be. 

“A symphony…” 

Kai visits Pon as often as he can, plays him all the music he’d discovered since the last time he’d been to the sunny field. Kai talks, telling Pon how much he still misses his best friend, still expecting to see Pon walk through a doorway, like nothing ever happened. Kai cries, wishing Pon was there to cry with him, or comfort him. 

One day, Kai is laying curled in his bed, too sad to move. On days like these, Ezra makes sure to ask Kai what he would like. Today, Kai wants to not be alone in his silence. Ezra holds Kai silently, not on his phone or watching television, and Kai’s reminded of how much the other boy cares for him. 

Both get startled when they hear a knock on the front door of their tiny apartment, followed by a voice that sounds eerily similar to Pon. Kai can’t find the will to move, fearing he’ll be disappointed, as though this is a trick of his minds innermost desires. 

[black-wolf066]

AU where Five dies young in the apocalypse part 3

[Part 1] [Part 2]

[A03 link if it’s easier to read]

Our Place to Call Home

Being homeless had never truly bothered Klaus after he had left the academy behind him. Especially not when he had chosen it of his own free will.

At the ripe age of seventeen years, four months, and twelve days old (“Yes Ben, I remember the exact date I left. No one can forget that week of utter fun; no matter how hard one tries.”), Klaus hadn’t had very many choices laid out for him to pick from. It had been either leave everything behind for the streets (where he had a better chance of making it on his own) or stay and deal with a cruel man who had never cared for him—or any of them for that matter—and never hesitated in reminding him of his uselessness in that household.

Sure, leaving would have entailed wandering into the unknown, with food, shelter and his next fix not ever being a solid guarantee, but staying hadn’t exactly been an option for him either (not after Five, and certainly not after Ben—still so very fresh in his grave at that point in time). Staying would have required him to accept the knowledge that Reginald would end up killing him—or his remaining siblings—with the missions the old man continuously forced them on.

In the end, the streets were the lesser of two evils in Klaus’ opinion.

(As he crept out late in the night with nothing more than a knapsack, three hundred some odd dollars pilfered from Luther’s shoe box hidden under the floorboard beneath his bed, and the clothes on his back; Klaus spared one fleeting thought to the rest of his brothers and sisters; hoping they too would be smart enough to leave before it was too late.)

Once out there, he—and by extension, Ben—had finally been free to do whatever he had damn well pleased. To go wherever his feet led him, without a single care in the world. Sure it hadn’t been easy; some days worse than others (a fight here, a drug deal gone south there, the lack of food or a warm place to sleep when the nights would get too cold), but he had finally been handed the reigns  of his own destiny and nothing anyone could do or say would have stopped him from enjoying that high (not even a concerned Ben dogging his every step).

It took plenty of trial and error on his part (but Five wasn’t the only one capable of adaptability in the family), and plenty of months honing the skills he had learned for a different purpose then what they were originally intended for. Nevertheless, Klaus had made his new lifestyle work.

And for seven blissfully, foggy years, it did work.

Then Five up and died, came back from the future (“Called it!” “Congratulations, you’re not a complete idiot.” “Hey! I could deal without the sarcasm, Five-y, but I’ll still take the compliment!”) to haunt him, and suddenly Klaus’ blissful little world went up in figurative smoke and flames.

His lifestyle, he knew, was no longer a viable option; not with his resolve to stay relatively clean for Ben and Five’s sake. Not with the streets being a vixen of temptation he would succumb to the longer he was out there, and certainly not with the end of times looming like a distant gale in the background of what his life had apparently become.

God, no one told him being a responsible adult would suck quite this much.

(***)

“Sorry, occupancy is full.”

With a tired sigh, Klaus turned on his heel and left the shelter for the park.

“You could try another one rather than just giving up, you know. It’s not even that late out.” Five griped.

No, it wasn’t late at all, but Five didn’t know the streets like Klaus and Ben did. Five didn’t know each and every shelter within the city limit or that that particular establishment didn’t have a very reputable reputation to begin with. Herman Housing was usually the homeless’ last pick; the staff habitually rude and ill-tempered, the food border-line questionable, and the water from the showers leaving one feeling dirtier then when they first walked in. So, if Herman Housing—of all places—was full at this early hour of the day, then there was no point in wasting his time and energy trying for a bed somewhere else.

He was too tired and grumpy to communicate any of this information to Five.

Ben—bless him and his knack for knowing just what he’s thinking—voiced this for him.

“Well, you still can’t just sleep out here on the bench, Klaus.”

“Watch me.” He flopped back dramatically in his seat for added effect and grinned as Five looked for all the world like a riled cat.

“Klaus,” Ben cut in sharply before the argument could start. “You saw the news at Griddy’s. A blizzard’s coming and it’s going to be bad. Just go to Diego or Vanya, please—you know they won’t turn you away.”

No, they wouldn’t (not with the incoming threat of four feet of snow looming on the horizon), but his wounds were still fresh from their blatant dismissal when he tried to tell them Five had finally showed up to haunt his pathetic ass. It shouldn’t hurt, not when none of them every really believed him to begin with (even before Ben), but it did and still does. Ghosts were his thing after all, it shouldn’t have been that hard to believe. Sure, the drugs fundamentally nulled his powers almost completely, but his siblings should know by now that nothing he put in his system would stop Ben—or Five or any of them—from manifesting if they wanted too. His siblings were just that right side of stubborn pain in the asses that Klaus hoped none of the other spirits ever caught on too or he’d really be in trouble.

As the temperature continued to drop, and his brothers continued to pester and hound him like the mother hens they freaking were; he threw up his hands in defeat with a frustrated “Fine, I’m moving, I’m moving, you happy?”

He went to Diego.

(***)

The next incident, was just two weeks before Vanya would begin writing her book (not that Klaus would know that). It was just a normal night, the chill not as biting despite it being the dead of winter, when Klaus’ past actions finally came to bite him annoyingly in the ass.

He fought as hard as he could—he can honestly say that he did try—against his ruthless ex-drug dealer, but hand to hand combat had never been one of his strong suits growing up, and even if it had been; eight pitted against one simply wasn’t a fair fight (and a little over kill if you asked him). Being nimble and light on his feet also didn’t help when his exits were being blocked at every turn.

He managed to take out one fellow and roughed up two more before he was down for the count; knocked out cold and still being beaten and shaken down for what little money he had left in his pockets.

Ben and Five watched it all happen fearfully and angrily; helpless to do anything but be silent witnesses as their brother was beaten black and blue in the alley he was chased into.

When he eventually, and thankfully, awoke the next morning, he didn’t go to the Emergency room despite their concerned prompting (“You could be bleeding internally, Klaus!” “Don’t care, Ben, still not going.” “You’re a dumb-ass, you know that?” “Why thank you, Five.” “That’s not a compliment asshole, go to the damn hospital!” “Nope.” “You are insufferable!”). Hospitals were as bad as graveyards, and Klaus avoided them both like they would give him the plague.

Instead, in the early hours of the morning, with the streets and sidewalks still quiet with the sun not yet out to wake the living; he shuffled and limped his way slowly and blurrily towards Vanya’s home; her apartment being closer than Diego’s place of current residence or an emergency room either way.

Vanya took him to the hospital anyway.

(***)

Within a span of five months after the incident, bouncing from homeless shelter to endless homeless shelter (occasionally crashing at Diego’s or Vanya’s when the nagging got to be too much) and applying for whatever aid the government would be willing to give him; found Klaus with his very own studio apartment to call home.

The building was washed out and unkempt, the neighborhood he was located in looking as though it had never seen what better days even looked like. The apartment itself made even his old room seem bigger, but it was affordable with the temporary grant given to him (and would continue to be affordable once he found a job to better sustain himself) and that was enough for him.

No matter how small, it was his, and between the three of them, they filled it with everything their father would have hated. With bright colors, tacky furniture (that was cheap, and well used, but still comfortable to sink into) and wacky patterned curtains, pillows and throws, that shouldn’t normally go together but somehow Klaus had made work (despite Ben’s and Five’s obvious doubt before seeing it themselves).

Ben finally had the library of his dreams. It wasn’t nearly as big as the one back at the mansion, but it was an ever growing collection that Klaus continued to enable (sure he had to hold open the books for Ben to read, but if it made the book-worm happy, he was willing to do it; a small price to pay for all the shit he’s put him through over the years). There was even a section for Five’s theory and mathematical volumes and an even smaller section for Klaus’ own collection (nothing noteworthy, just a few comics and fictional works of fantasy and romance).

The rest of Ben’s knick-knacks were just as random and odd as Klaus’, but the Polaroid camera and the photo albums Klaus began to fill up for him; were definitely among Ben’s top favorites.

In the beginning it was hard to figure out what Klaus could bring home for Five to make him feel included. Five’s interests geared more toward having to be tangible to do them (much to his displeasure). That still didn’t stop Klaus from buying the chalkboard easel he later found at a second hand store, and on days when Five would get restless and fidgety, Klaus would humor him for a few hours and write whatever complicated and convoluted equations he wanted written out on that very same easel (“No Five, I’m not writing on the walls.” “I don’t care if there isn’t enough space left on the chalkboard, you aren’t gonna be of any help when I have to paint over it now will you?”). He ends up buying another chalkboard and a white board to appease the irritable gremlin.  

The dart board he had found not long after, had also been a nice addition as well; it wasn’t as nice as the one Five had back in his old room, but it still played a melancholy homage it (to the fonder memories Five had of challenging Ben or Diego or Klaus during their down time between training—more so Ben and Klaus, since Diego’s power was essentially cheating).

Ben and Klaus also learned—along with Five himself it would seem—that the forever stuck thirteen-year-old held an interest for anything nautical or tropical in nature; having seen him eye certain pieces every time they’d walk into some of the antique stores Klaus liked to frequent.

The spyglass, the random colorful sea shells, the oceanic themed paintings, and the little anchor shaped paper weight— the metallic object situated on Five’s side of the bookshelf—went without much fanfare, but that was okay, the smile on his brother’s face when he placed them in their home was reward enough.

Their place might not be much worth noting—maybe even a little crazy, and a little over-crowded with nonsensical junk to the outside looking in—and though his brothers really didn’t need the space or any of the knick-knacks Klaus continued to buy for them; it was their home regardless.

It was the home the three of them were making for themselves and it was enough.

(Oh, and they bought a coffee machine that Klaus honestly has no idea he will even use, but said why the hell not anyway ‘cause fuck you dad!)

[qqueenofhades]

bruh those are the ancestors to white people in europe anyway, it really doesn't change a damn thing to the whites lmao

Hi there. I’m guessing this is about my post from a couple days ago, about the ancestors of the people who built Stonehenge? That has unexpectedly gotten pretty popular, which is cool. I’m not entirely sure what you’re getting at here, tbh, but I’m guessing that you mean it doesn’t matter if the people/culture of prehistoric/BC Europe was multi-coloured/multi-racial/nonwhite, because the white supremacists still won’t care or notice or change their beliefs about Europe Being White ™ to start with. And to some degree, you’re right. People who are absolutely convinced that Europe was always white are not going to change their minds because of one article on the internet. I’m not even going to try. But also, there’s still value to be had in knowing this, circulating it, and pointing it out.

First of all, Stonehenge (as I noted in the post) is a famous symbol of “Englishness” or “British culture” and so forth, one of the most visited monuments in England, and every year, it’s a major gathering place for nu-pagan and druidic and New Age rituals and so forth. There are elements of that culture which are right-wing and white supremacist and neo-Nazi, and discovering that Stonehenge was in fact built by the descendants of people who came to England as Mediterranean and Middle Eastern migrants is… fitting, even if it won’t be acknowledged by said white supremacists. But the thing is, as Sirius Black would say, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. There are plenty of people who aren’t active white supremacists, who aren’t even necessarily right-wing – ordinary mainstream, non-evil, next-door-neighbor kinds of people, whose basic and underlying belief is that Europe is/was historically white, that people of colour “don’t have a history” or have never made lasting contributions to civilisation, so on and so forth. This is obviously nonsense. But the level of historical education is so low that it is passed on, especially in Western school systems and their attendant racial and imperial roots, as received wisdom. Making information that contradicts that belief available is not going to solve that problem by itself. But (as is noted on my blog) I’m a historian. This is the kind of thing I do.

Next, there’s the case of Derek Black, the son of the founder of Stormfront and godson of David Duke, former Grand Wizard of the KKK. He was the heir of the entire modern American white nationalism movement, and was prepared to succeed as its leadership. Then he went to college, started studying medieval history in order to support said white nationalism, and he… couldn’t find anything he had been taught, about what was supposedly present to justify a historically white Europe. Derek eventually fully renounced his family’s hateful belief system and became a left-wing activist (and is a PhD student working on medieval Islam). You can read more about that entire saga. What it came down to was that even the most indoctrinated white supremacist was able to encounter information that challenged and eventually deconstructed his beliefs, and while that is not going to happen with everyone, the need for historical education remains central. It might be tempting to just throw up our hands and figure there’s nothing anyone can do, and as I said, I am not expecting that to happen in all or even most cases. But the narrative has to be established. We have to make the information available and to engage in this kind of work anyway. Derek Black’s father complained that he was exposed to so much “multiculturalism” at his liberal college that he finally “succumbed.” Medievalists have recently engaged in all kinds of wrestling with our social and moral responsibilities and the fact that the discipline has in fact often been used to produce similar white-supremacist narratives. And we still have a lot of work to do, trust me.

There’s also what I call the “misogyny crutch” in well-meant liberal media, TV, and film (especially historically themed ones). How many times have we seen a character quickly and lazily coded evil because they mistreat women and/or are racist? This isn’t in dispute; we know these things are bad. But it also means that if we’re allowed to think that sexism and racism and misogyny and homophobia and so forth only exist in obvious and irredeemable villains, we are spared the need to wonder if it exists in ourselves. In that same vein, most people, and even most white people, aren’t Nazis. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t hold the same kind of inherently or passively racist beliefs. So if they look at my dashed-off Tumblr post and see the faces of Whitehawk Woman and Cheddar Man, the ancient Britons who are decidedly not white, maybe they notice that, and it makes them think. It is not going to Fix All Racism, but hey. It’s there.

Basically, there is never a bad or wrong time to destroy “Europe Was Always White!!!” It needs to be demonstrated as a lie often and loudly, especially by people (such as me) who are white themselves. People of colour should not be the only ones who have to say it. We should never assume that it’s obvious or that it’s unimportant or that it can just be assumed. We have to talk about race, especially in terms of a political and social environment that is re-weaponizing white supremacy and translating that to the government of Western countries (as it has for most of post-Columbus history). So no, maybe it doesn’t change a damn thing. But at least we will have started the conversation and not let toxic lies pass unchallenged. And that, if nothing else, is all we can do.

So yes.

[beinglibertarian]

No, Paul Krugman, This Shutdown is Not a ‘Big Libertarian Experiment’ – The Lowdown on Liberty

With the government shutdown now entering its fourth week, it seems that it’s left many political pundits clamoring for an excuse to wash their party’s blame from the situation. Perhaps the most glaring example came from Paul Krugman’s recent New York Times column, “Trump’s Big Libertarian Experiment.” The Nobel-prize winning economist has never been shy about his contempt towards libertarianism, and this column only demonstrates he’s come closer to full-blown lunacy. Because, as I’ll explain, no, this shutdown is not a libertarian experiment.

I know many who may be unfamiliar with libertarian philosophy like to think our only concern is hatred for the state, and that anything not inherently pro-government must be essentially libertarian-esque, but that’s not quite the case. Libertarianism, at its core, is a much deeper philosophy, one that centers around the recognition of private property rights and a strict adherence to consent and the non-aggression principle (NAP). And already in Krugman’s first paragraph we begin to see his claim of tying this to libertarians unravel, as he admits that while conservatives often echo libertarian rhetoric, they’ve never actually followed through on any of their policy.

Nonetheless, now that it’s Trump who’s allowed a government shutdown (something every president has endured going back to Gerald Ford, but never mind that inconvenient fact), this somehow makes it a libertarian experiment. In other words, what we’re expected to believe is that although these politicians have ignored the advice of libertarians for decades, in most cases doing the exact opposite of what we espouse, now that people are seeing the negative side of their policies as government checks dry up, it is suddenly a libertarian’s wet dream. The obvious contradiction in that claim should be glaring.

It’s not unlike when we complain about silly, little things like endless wars and deficit spending; issues Democrats and Republicans can’t be bothered with, and we’re inevitably told to move to our utopia – Somalia. What Krugman is implying here is that a nation operating in complete contradiction to libertarian thought (poor regard for the protection of property rights and an inclination towards aggression against others as a political solution) can likewise come crashing down and somehow, this demonstrates it’s exactly what we’ve always wanted – or at least the negative consequences are our fault.

Not so fast though, Krugman.

Because as history shows, it wasn’t libertarians who advocated for any of this. We never lobbied for the government to expand to the point of hiring 800,000 workers that even they deem to be “non-essential.” Neither did we advocate for a massive, $4 trillion annual budget, requiring an ever-expansive debt ceiling just to keep it open, the very reason this experiment of a shutdown began in the first place.

You know who did though? Paul Krugman. With his commitment to Keynesian economics, he has rarely seen an instance of deficit spending he hasn’t liked. Unless of course Trump is in office with a Republican congress; then he’s almost downright libertarian on the deficit.

Ironically, one of the few policy agreements he actually does have with libertarians – a disdain for farm subsidies – is somehow pointed to as a strike against libertarians. Never mind that our use of the term “crony capitalism” here is the exact same as Krugman’s description in his own writing; I wouldn’t hold your breath for Krugman to share any fault now that the checks are no longer being mailed out to the farmers though. I suppose we can overlook the fact that it wasn’t even libertarians who initially enacted those subsidies back during the New Deal; a policy Krugman argues, if anything, didn’t go far enough in its spending, calling it only “modestly expansionary.” And I also suppose we ought to ignore the countless politicians who’ve fought to keep these crony policies in place, including the progressive darling, Bill Clinton, who saw to it that farm subsidies ballooned to $30 billion in 1998 by classifying it as “emergency aid.” Never mind that there weren’t any libertarian representatives behind it; now that people have been made dependent on them and are suffering in their absence, it’s a downright libertarian utopia!

And God forbid we use these libertarian critics’ own argument against them. Who was it that derided Sears’ CEO, Eddie Lampert, for running the company into the ground while still receiving a bonus check? Calling him an “Ayn Rand devotee.” Oh, that was Paul Krugman. While laying off 30,000 people and keeping your bonus is quite immoral, should we expect the same outrage from Krugman in the face of twenty-five times as many federal employees losing their checks as his friends in the Washington elite keep the money flowing in? Of course not. “Blame the libertarians!” goes the broken record.

It’s at this point, however, that Krugman spills the beans about his true agenda all along. As it turns out, he admits that libertarian ideas aren’t a “real” force within the GOP. (who knew?!) Rather, he surmises it’s only a cover story for Republicans’ true plan to distribute wealth to their rich friends – arguably the truest statement made in the entire column.

Now, what libertarian critique would be complete without a fallacious argument about food being poisoned?

Krugman decides to end his column with the oldest of libertarian strawmen: the insinuation that without the Food and Drug Administration working tirelessly to inspect our food, we’d succumb to the whims of greedy capitalist producers who only wish to poison us. Oddly, you’d think a Nobel economist would grasp the concept of how unlikely and unprofitable it is to intentionally kill off your customers – seeing as how we’re told relentlessly capitalism only cares about profits. What’s more likely is that in the absence of any real arguments comes an appeal to what political hacks do best: fearmongering.

So, does the prospect of contaminated food smell like freedom to us? No, not any more than your attempts to pass blame make this shutdown any sort of “big libertarian” experiment.

The post No, Paul Krugman, This Shutdown is Not a ‘Big Libertarian Experiment’ – The Lowdown on Liberty appeared first on Being Libertarian.

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[thaimassagegreenock]

The race to save lives in Scotland

[wpts_spin]

Greenock is {a town {and|&|as well as an} administrative centre|an administrative centre {and|&|as well as a} town}{ in|, part of} the Inverclyde {council|} {area|region} in {Scotland|the West of Scotland}, {just west of Glasgow|forty miles west of Glasgow} {and|&} {used to be|} a former burgh {within|with in|located in} the {historic|} county of Renfrewshire. {Located|Situated} in the {west|} {central|} Lowlands of Scotland, it {forms|is} part of {a contiguous|a continuous|an} urban area with Gourock {to the west|further west} {and|&} Port Glasgow {to the east|lying further east}.

The {2011 UK Census|UK Census of 2011} {showed|indicated} that {Greenock had a|Greenock's} {civil|} population {of|was} 44,248, {which was|} {a decrease from|lower than} the 46,861 {recorded|returned} {in|during} the {2001 UK Census|UK Census of 2001}. It {lies|is situated} on the {south|southern} {bank|shores} of the {River|} Clyde {at|by} the "Tail of the Bank" {just where|where|close to where} the {River|} Clyde {expands|opens|opens up} {into|in to} the Firth of Clyde.

{News|News reports|Stories} {and|&} {helpful|useful|interesting|important} {updates|up-dates|posts|tips|info|information} on {Greenock|Scotland|our local area Greenock|the Greenock area|the town of Greenock}.

[/wpts_spin]

First Minister Nicola Sturgeon recently said in Holyrood and in interviews that the rollout of the vaccines, initially one, then two and now three, was a race – a race against getting as many at risk and vulnerable people as possible vaccinated against the existing and new, vastly more infectious variant of the Covid19 virus. It was never seen as a race against England, Wales, Northern Ireland, or any other country, but a race against the virus itself using all the resources at Holyrood and NHS Scotland’s disposal.

Yet the UK government and Scottish Tories have decided to make the rollout a race, competition to prove that the devolved administration can’t achieve without the broad shoulders and deep pockets of Westminster. To do this they have derided the efforts of the Scottish and Welsh Governments, pointing to lower numbers vaccinated as a percentage of population, whilst they have run with vaccinating the low-hanging fruit – the easiest people – to ramp up the numbers so they can crow about their success.

Nevertheless In Scotland 5.2% of the population has received a first dose whilst London, where vaccinations should be easier to achieve, has only managed to vaccinate 4.3% of its population.

Stewart McDonald MP has asked Facebook and Twitter to take action against new secretive campaign group ScotlandVaxFACTS as it’s spreading “disinformation and misinformation” about the Scottish Government’s Covid vaccine rollout. A Manchester-based PR Marketing & Communications manager who previously worked with the LibDems is behind the new group which McDonald said has all the “hallmarks of a political Astroturf disinformation venture”.

Unlike NHS England, Scotland is prioritising its vaccine rollout according to the JCVI (Joint Committee on Vaccination and Immunisation) guidelines – with care home residents and staff the number one priority. A slower method for sure due to the logistics but one that reduces deaths, even with only the first vaccination. Immunising 1000 people who are unlikely to succumb to the disease is less effective than immunising 500 who are.

The First Minister said today (19th January) in Holyrood:

“We made a deliberate decision, in line with JCVI advice, to focus firstly on elderly care home residents, because we know they have the greatest vulnerability to becoming ill and dying from this virus. Making sure this group benefits from the protection of the vaccine as quickly as possible is likely to have the biggest and most immediate impact on saving lives. However, vaccinating in care homes, for obvious reasons, is more time-consuming and labour-intensive than doing so in the community. This is why overall figures are, at this stage, lower than in England – where more over-80s, generally, but a lower proportion of care home residents, have so far received the vaccine.”

The Guardian is reporting that deaths in care homes in England have hit the highest level since mid-May, with a 46% jump in coronavirus-related deaths in the past week. In the week to last Friday, 1,260 Covid19 related deaths were reported to the Care Quality Commission, up from 824 and 661 in the previous two weeks. This vulnerability of those in care homes is exactly why the Scottish Government is following JCVI guidleines in rolling out vaccines to care home residents as a priority.

The Guardian is also reporting that, “the [UK] government has acted to help care homes accept Covid-positive patients from crowded hospitals by underwriting the risk posed by them spreading the virus.” Apparently, “Insurers were refusing to cover care homes offering to become “designated settings” for discharged Covid patients – also known as “hot homes” – which have been set up in some areas to try to keep infection out of other care settings. Until the end of March those homes will now be covered by the UK government for clinical negligence and employer’s and public liability where they cannot obtain commercial cover.”

How well does this sit with NHS England not prioritising vaccinations for care home residents? Deaths could well increase rather than reduce as the Scottish, and JCVI approach is designed to achieve. This is prompting questions of whether England has prioritised high rollout numbers over the horrendous –

death rate 1507 in England according to the latest figures compared to 71 in Scotland with 30,371 new cases of infection in England and 1106 in Scotland.

The First Minister giving an update on the pandemic.

The First Minister went on to say today that more than 90% of care homes residents had now received their first dose of vaccine with a number of health boards, such as Dumfries and Galloway, having reached 100% of their care home residents. More than 70% of care home staff and frontline health and care workers have also received their first dose of the vaccine.

Progress is also being made in vaccinating the over 80s. with between 15% and 20% already having had the first dose. The First Minister said they were on track for all over-80s and everyone in JCVI groups 1 & 2 to have been offered the first dose by the start of February, and by the middle of February the first doses for all over 70s and for all those who are deemed to be clinically extremely vulnerable should have been completed.

First doses for the over 65s should be completed by the beginning of March, with everyone on the JCVI priority list receiving their first doses by early May. So in around three months’ time, approximately 3 million people will have received at least the first dose of vaccine. This is the majority of the adult population and includes everyone over 50 and many younger people with underlying health conditions. The rest of the adult population will follow after that as quickly as supplies allow.

The vaccine supplies of course come via the UK government. When the Scottish Government published, at the behest of Scottish Tories, their document detailing expected supply of the vaccines now and into the future, the UK Government had what the First Minister described as “something of a hissy fit” and insisted the document was taken down from the Scottish Government website as it insisted it breached supplier confidentiality. “At the same time,” said the First Minister, “Tories are briefing and spinning misleading figures on supply to slam Scotland’s vaccine rollout. Supplies are allocated to Scotland and are then drawn down and we vaccinate as quickly as we possibly can.”

Over 100,000 people a week now being vaccinated in Scotland, and that number is expected increase from now on and, assuming the expected supplies of the vaccine are received, 400,000 people a week should be vaccinated by the end of February. Some GPs and others in both England and Scotland are complaining that supplies are patchy. Vaccine manufacturers are under enormous pressure to supply to very many countries. Pfizer is moving its manufacturing to a different plant in order to increase production so supplies of its vaccine will be interrupted for a brief period until the new plant comes on-stream. This is making prediction for rollout even more difficult.

Even with vaccination we are not out of the woods as there will still be a second dose to be administered and the vaccine takes some time before giving protection – a protection that isn’t 100% so masks, social distancing and regular hand washing and sanitising will remain necessary. But we will get there and our lives will gradually become less isolated. As the First Minister says, there is now light at the end of the tunnel.

[wpts_spin]

[/wpts_spin] [wpts_spin]

{This|The above} {article|post}[/wpts_spin] "The race to save lives in Scotland" was [wpts_spin]{first |initially|originally} {shown|published} {here|on this site}.

{I|We} {hope|trust} {that |}you found the {above|{post|article} above} {useful|of help} {and/or|or|and} {interesting|of interest}. {You can find similar content|Similar content can be found} {on our {blog|main {site|website}website}|here} {Thai Massage Greenock|thaimassagegreenock.co.uk|}. {Please let me have your feedback|Let me have your feedback} {below in the comments section|in the comments section below}. Let us know {what|which} {topics|subjects} we should {cover|write about} for you {in future|in the future|next}.

[/wpts_spin]

source https://thaimassagegreenock.co.uk/the-race-to-save-lives-in-scotland/

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Read the Trump team's pathetic anti-Comey talking points

Top Takeaways:

President Trump feels completely and totally vindicated by Former FBI Director James Comey's opening testimony and is eager to move forward.

Director Comey's opening statement confirms he told President Trump three times that he was not under investigation. The testimony also confirms that President Trump did not impede or engage in obstruction of justice of the investigation.

President Trump knew firing Director Comey would be detrimental to his presidency, but he knew it was the right thing to do for the country so he did it anyways.

Director Comey lost confidence of both sides of the aisle, and the president was justified in firing him.

Director Comey and his deputy have even admitted under oath there was no obstruction.

Director Comey has a long history of blatant contradictions and misstatements.

There is no evidence of collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia.

While investigating the Clinton email scandal, Director Comey succumbed to political pressure from the Obama White House – this is far worse than anything President Trump is rumored to have said.

The Left and the media are using the Russia investigation as a means to obstruct the President's agenda. It is time to get back to the real issues.

We are pleased the investigative process is moving forward and are confident that when these inquiries are complete, there will still be no evidence to support any collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia. Meanwhile, President Trump is going to continue to pursue the agenda that got him elected.

Director Comey's Opening Statement Confirms He Told President Trump Three Times That He Was Not Under Investigation:

President Trump feels completely and totally vindicated by Director Comey's opening testimony and is eager to move forward.

According to former Director Comey's prepared testimony, he will confirm what Democrats and the media have been denying for weeks: That Director Comey did in fact tell the president three times that he was not under investigation.

The testimony also confirms that President Trump did not impede or engage in obstruction of justice of the investigation.

President Trump Knew Firing Director Comey Would Be Detrimental To His Presidency, But He Knew It Was The Right Thing To Do For The Country So He Did It Anyways:

President Trump stated in an interview with NBC's Lester Holt that he knew firing Director Comey might lengthen the Russia investigation and could bring him bad press, but he knew it was the right thing for the country so he did it anyways.

Director Comey Lost Confidence Of Both Sides Of The Aisle, And The President Was Justified In Firing Him:

Over the course of the past year, Director Comey lost the confidence of Democrats, Republicans, and President Trump.

Firing Director Comey was perfectly within the right for the President to do.

In his staff farewell letter, Director Comey said, "I have long believed that a President can fire an FBI Director for any reason, or for no reason at all." He was right.

Even left-leaning attorney Alan Dershowitz stated, "There is no legitimate basis for concluding that the president engaged in a crime by exercising his statutory and constitutional authority to fire Director Comey."

Democrats have been tripping over themselves on the issue of whether Director Comey deserved to be fired.

Many high profile Democrats said they lost confidence in Director Comey over the past year, or said it was time for him to go. Their flip-flop on this issue to now criticize the administration for firing Director Comey is something to behold:

Sen. Schumer said in November, 2016 that he lost confidence in Director Comey.

Rep. Pelosi said in November, 2016 that Director Comey may not be the right fit for the job.

Sen. Feinstein said in October 2016 that Director Comey's letter to Congress was "appalling."

Sen. Wyden said Comey's actions during the 2016 campaign were "continued leadership failures."

Rep. Hank Johnson said in January that Director Comey "should pack his things and go," expressing concerns that Director Comey "will continue to erode the credibility of the FBI."

Rep. Maxine Waters stated in January that Director Comey "has no credibility."

President Obama adviser Valerie Jarrett reportedly urged Obama to fire Director Comey last year.

Sen. Kaine called Director Comey's actions during the campaign one of the "lowest moments in the history of the FBI."

Director Comey And His Deputy Have Admitted Under Oath There Was No Obstruction:

The public record is definitive that the President never obstructed an FBI investigation.

In fact, acting FBI Director Andrew McCabe testified in the days after Director Comey was fired that "there has been no effort to impede our investigation."

And, Director Comey himself testified under oath on May 3rd that, in his experience, he had never been told to stop an investigation because of a political reason.

Both of these statements seem to contradict the New York Times report about Director Comey's memos.

Many have pointed out that if Director Comey really did feel like his investigation was being impeded, why would he not do something about that and raise a red flag? It doesn't add up.

Director Comey Has A Long History Of Blatant Contradictions And Misstatements:

To prove he was not right for the job, look no further than the story that came out last week claiming Director Comey acted on Russian intelligence he knew was fake during the Clinton investigation.

And last month, the FBI was forced to correct false testimony from Director Comey regarding basic facts about the Clinton investigation.

Not to mention the numerous examples of mishandling of the Clinton investigation during 2016.

There Is No Evidence Of Collusion:

Through the haze of unsourced rumors and anonymous leaks, one thing has remained constant, Democrats and Republicans agree there is still no evidence of collusion between the Trump Campaign and Russia.

Former Senate Intelligence Committee Chairwoman Dianne Feinstein said she has zero evidence of any collusion between the Trump campaign and Russian agents.

It's not just Sen. Feinstein who has said they've been presented with no evidence. Top former Obama intelligence officials and members of Congress briefed on the matter from both sides of the aisle have all said the same thing.

While Investigating The Clinton Email Scandal, Comey Succumbed To Political Pressure From The Obama White House – This Is Far Worse Than Anything President Trump Is Rumored To Have Said:

Reports of what President Trump purportedly said to Director Comey are not remotely close to "obstruction."

Nothing makes this clearer than comparing these reported comments to President Obama's repeated and pointed public comments concerning the FBI investigation of Secretary Clinton, which were never investigated as potentially obstructive by Congress or the FBI.

During the pendency of the FBI server investigation, President Obama's administration publicly stated in January 2016, that Secretary Clinton "is not the target of the investigation" and "it doesn't seem to be headed in th[e] direction" of an indictment; and in April 2016, President Obama said that Secretary Clinton "has not jeopardized America's national security" and "would never intentionally put America in any kind of jeopardy."

These unprecedented comments unequivocally signaled to his subordinate officers President Obama's conclusions regarding Secretary Clinton's conduct.

Of course, a short time after President Obama's April comments about the lack of intent, Director Comey used that exact basis for unilaterally announcing that "no reasonable prosecutor" would charge Secretary Clinton even though the relevant statute did not even require intent.

The New York Times also reported that President Obama's Attorney General Loretta Lynch instructed FBI Director Comey to stop calling his investigation an "investigation" and instead call it a "matter," which he immediately began doing.

In this context, and in any context, it is obvious that none of President Trump's purported statements constituted obstruction alone, and especially, in the context of President Obama's far more extensive comments about the Clinton investigation that were never investigated as obstructive.

The Left And The Media Are Using The Russia Investigation As A Means To Obstruct The President's Agenda:

The Left and the media are using the Russia investigation as a means to obstruct the President's agenda. They are refusing to talk about the real issues.

A study done a few weeks ago found that 89 percent of broadcast network coverage of President Trump has been negative.

It's time to get back to the real issues. This week, President Trump has been focusing on infrastructure improvements, health care reform, and improving the economy, but the media fails to give equal coverage to these important issues.

Conclusion:

The bottom line is this - Both sides of the aisle have stated that Director Comey needed to step aside. And, both sides of the aisle agree there is no evidence the Trump campaign colluded with Russia.

The other thing everyone agrees on is the leaks coming out of government agencies are deeply troubling and pose a grave threat to our national security. The leaks need to stop.

We are pleased the investigative process is moving forward and are confident that when these inquiries are complete, there will still be no evidence to support any collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia. Meanwhile, President Trump is going to continue to pursue the agenda that got him elected.

https://boingboing.net/2017/06/07/rnc-talking-points-comey.html

[ifninomiko]

[AU 5+] Providence Ascendant:  The Reign of the Mary Sue Islands

@gladdecease​  My hand slipped ... nine times.  

It’s just so long that it needs a ...

1.  Woodstock 2008:  

Providence was destroyed and the citizens that used to live there were made homeless.

The X-Men don't take them in.  How could they?  Thousands of people, majority non-mutant? They dump them on the US government and wash their hands of it.  In the wake of the Super Hero Civil War, though, the US government doesn't want the refugees of Providence (and why should they after Cable's shenanigans?).

As the chosen spokeswoman for those refugee citizens, the former Providence immigration secretary (NPC Margaret) hunts Wade down and demands that he do something about it.  

(dramatic Optimus Prime voice over)  And so began the war  So begins the Great Siege of the X-Men.

Wade can be really annoying when he doesn't mean to be.  When he means to be, he's a downright menace.  When accompanied by thousands of displaced people, with no where else to go, who like him way more than they like the X-Men ... it's Woodstock 24/7 on the lawn of the mansion.  Calls to legal authority to have them moved are completely ignored.

It's inevitable that the X-Men succumb to peer pressure.  They raise the remains of Providence and gets it reassembled enough to float. After which, the annoying lawn pests promptly move out and take up residence on their floating dump.

Victory is sweet ... and kind of smelling like fish.  Well, that's what soap's for.

2.  Be Fruitful and Multiply:  A population of one can be destroyed.  A population of many is harder to get rid of. 

Genosha was a good example of how keeping all of one's eggs in one basket was a bad idea.  If a giant murderous robot appears, it would be good to make it chase after many targets instead of being able to focus on only one.  So after the repair of Providence ... Wade gets the flight engines repaired and then starts construction of more ships.  With more ships, they stop being the island of Providence and become the archipelago of Providence.

(There's also the fact that people have kids and immigration is a thing.  Unless the population of Providence remains static, they either have to take land from other countries or they have to build their own.  This is a two birds, one stone solution ... even if Wade didn't think of the second reason until after he had implemented on the first.)

3.  Two National Industries:  Wade pays for more islands with blood money and the power of tourism.  

“Welcome to the archipelago of the sovereign nation of Providence.  Home of not just the best food in the Pacific but also the best tourist experience money can buy.  Relax in the unique environment of a floating city, the home of the future.  Spend your days drifting on the South Pacific, visiting ports in Indo-Asia, and enjoying the hospitality of the most Zen place on Earth.  End your journey with a gentle flight through the stratosphere and an day's orbit around the Earth.”

4.  Faith in the Fourth Wall:  When discussing Providence, Wade likes to call them the Mary Sue Islands.  

The more special snowflake Providence is, the better its chances.  Monarchies and benevolent dictatorships always get a leg up.  Just look at Wakanda, Latveria, and the Inhumans.  He knows how these things work and he's totally doing this on purpose to thwart the awesome cosmic power of the Marvel writers, who he knows are just waiting to make his islands another Genosha.  

5.  These Islands have Three Dads:  One day, Wade asks Tony Stark what will happen to his AIs when he dies.  This eventually kicks off the great collaboration between the archipelago and Stark Industries in creating the living islands of Providence.  

After taking a few cruises on the archipelago and getting a feel for the people who had chosen to make their home there -- the people who had sat on the X-Men's lawn until they got what they wanted, the people who had cleaned up and repaired the original island, the people who were dedicated not just to the ideal that had started Providence but the islands themselves -- Tony agreed to allow his AIs to be integrated into the ships.  

Tony will never tell Wade, but it wasn't just for the sake of his AIs (who, with proper care and maintenance, can live forever).  It was also for Wade's sake (who would also live forever).  Human or machine, immortality wouldn't be as bad if they weren't alone.  

+6.  Reunited At Last:  When Wade first sees Nate, he punches that asshole in the face.  Then he has to grab him (and then he hugs him) because of the baby and Wade had completely forgotten about the baby.  Nate doesn't give him shit about it because stab his eyes, what happened to Providence?!

+7.  The Fly High Life:  To Nathan, its almost a shock how much has changed.  He's on Providence, a ship he had left at the bottom of the ocean ... and it's only the crown jewel in a sea of glittering gemstones, the flagship of a fleet.  

The original 25 living ships are now 200 and they have five times as many AI-less escorts.  This is an aerial nation, housing normal humans and mutants, the living ships and their citizens living peacefully together.  They float on the ocean, fly in the clouds, or drift through space ... whatever suits their moods or the needs of the fleet.

+8.  Little Book of Grudges:  This isn't a war torn dust bowl ruled by a mad tyrant.  This isn't a helpless village.  This isn't a desert with one lone man and a child.  This. Is. Providence.  When Nathan's enemies come, they find that Nathan has more allies than he knows what to do with.

+9.  Better Offers than Paradise:  Wade wants Hope and Nathan to stay. 

Let the past be in the past.  It's obvious that whatever importance Hope might have had back in the twenty-first century to mutant kind ... that need was temporary at best.  Life and mutation have found a way.  The population of Providence is proof of that.  

This could be their home.  The whole of the future isn't perfect ... but that too can change with time and Wade has the luxury of time.  He'd like to spend some of that time with Nathan and Hope.  

Nathan doesn't take him up on his offer.

+10.  Meddlesome Kids!:  Nathan and Hope return home a few months after they left.  

... but Nathan skips backwards first.  Just far enough to tell his Past Self in the belly of Providence preparing to destroy it ... not to destroy it quite so thoroughly.  

... and it wouldn't hurt to drop a word or two in Stark's ear ... that the future is brighter because of his children.

(Nathan Summers can't help but meddle.  He's an interfering old so-and-so.)

The reconstruction of Providence is well underway.  The future is secure.  

(Nathan is a little bit smug that he had something to do with it ... but mainly he's proud.)

Nathan takes the present Wade up on his future self's offer.

Skip a little bit to the left, into a world where the light casts a longer shadow ...

+11-AU.  Protection Racket:  Having a secret fleet is dead useful when the aliens invade.

The building of the extra islands would make Providence enemies that it couldn't afford.  So Wade builds them underwater. 

The rising of his ships from the ocean to surprise attack the alien incursion is one of those things that make a really nice headline.  Folks are pretty grateful for the last minute save.  Extra points for showmanship.

Wade's offer to use Providence as a Earth Protection Force also makes good headlines.

(The best hands are our own.  Right, Steve?)

His willingness to space the Avengers when they try to knock his ships out of the sky ... is not a nice headline.

His willingness to burn down capital cities when their governments make aggressive moves towards Providence ... the headlines keep getting worse, really.

And after that ... well, it's just a few short steps to the total domination of Earth.

... but at least they're safe from aliens.

+12-AU.  Summer Children:  Wade has different, but equally crazy, quirks.  He loves his inanimate island ships like they were his own children.  He is very serious about it.

He is ecstatic to introduce Hope to her two-hundred brothers and sisters!  One of them is even named Hope too!  They're gonna love her!  And Nate!  Who doesn't love Nate?

And Evan!  They're gonna have to make a state visit and see Evan!  Nate would be so proud!  Look how nicely Evan has grown!  And look at his passel of adorable children that Wade gets to dandle on his knee!

+13-AU.  Raise the Cable Banner:  Wade wears red and black, but the colors of Providence are blue and silver.

+14-AU.  Long Live the Eternal Emperor:  The strangest thing about the future isn't Providence or Wade, it's Evan.

En Sabah Nur rules the earth.  A benevolent, eternal dictator married to the Queen of the Underworld.  (Wade's rules of flouting the laws of Marvel continue!)  Wade makes a state visit so he can introduce Nathan to his grandchildren and Hope to her cousins.  

Evan calls Wade 'Father' with fondness and exasperation in turns.  He embraces him as though they were really bound by blood and he welcomes Nathan with every evidence of joy at his arrival.  He asks them to stay and confides that his Father could use the company.  (This future is surreal in the extreme, is all that Nate can think.)

Evan's wife is publicly fond, and privately pragmatic.  ("Evan's father can crush us beneath his boot heel, Summers.  He destroyed his enemies and gave the land to my husband to rule ... and he has far more ships now than he did then.  So it behooves me to ensure that he always looks upon his adopted son with favor."  Nathan is almost glad to see the dark lining in all these bright clouds.)

... but then she's ancient, raised in a time before democracy was a speck in a Greek's eye.  She doesn't grieve for liberal notions of republics or representative rule.  Her only nostalgia is for the days when she could kill a slave for failing her (now sadly forbidden). (Nathan is somewhat disturbed by how likeable she is for an elder demon.)

[jeichanhaka]

The Robbed That Smiles

Chapter Eight

“That could’ve gone better.” Stephen Strange muttered as he portalled himself and Thor from the government office, neither of them having wanted to fight against people who weren’t their enemies or at least shouldn’t be. The sorcerer sighed.

“We tried things your way, wizard. This country’s government doesn’t even care that my brother is innocent this time. They just want the Tesseract.” Thor growled, furious as he stepped out from Strange’s portal; it took a moment for him to notice the alarm in the sorcerer’s eyes. Or the way Strange tensed, his gaze darting over their surroundings. “Wizard, what is…”

Strange raised his hand in a be quiet gesture, shushing the thunder god. His own gaze roaming over the room - the main room of the Sanctum where he entertained and evaluated guests, especially those he’d considered less than secure. A secure location, safe. It wasn’t however, where he’d expected to portal into - his destination had been the Sanctum library. “This isn’t right.”

Irritated at being shushed, Thor started to criticize his colleague, but faltered as he watched Strange. Watched as the sorcerer armed his magic, the glint in his eyes one of a warrior expecting an assault. It immediately made Thor brace for an attack, expecting an enemy to lunge out at them.

“The Sanctuary spell’s been broken.” Continued Strange, observing the Sanctum cautiously even as he strode forward; his senses keen for any sign of an enemy as well as his fellow sorcerer Wong. His gut and the state of the Sanctum warning him of a dangerous threat.

“...I thought you said that was impossible.” Thor glared at the sorcerer, his concern immediately switching to what this meant for his brother. It was less worry for his brother - aside from his fellow Avengers, none of the Midgardians would be able to really harm Loki - and more worry about what the mischief god might do if pushed. What his brother might construe as reasonable self-defense, the Midgardian government would likely consider cause enough to demand Loki be imprisoned. Or exiled.

“It is. At least for the soldiers who were waiting outside.” Strange hurried into the hall, quickly noticing the signs of struggle. And the humanoid body lying comatose just below the window at the end of the corridor. Immediately he approached the unconscious stranger, not needing much to realize that whoever it was, was incapacitated due to the Sanctuary spell. That fact however did nothing to lessen his concern. The spell may have worked, but the stranger’s location meant one thing. “...it was breached from inside. Whoever broke the Sanctuary spell, did so from inside the Sanctum.”

“What are you saying, wizard?” Bristled Thor, immediately assuming his colleague was about to blame his brother. After all, nearly every Midgardian he met today had done likewise, whether justified or not. “If you think Loki…”

“Relax. I know it wasn’t your brother.” Strange interrupted the thunder god and continued searching the upstairs rooms. “There are security safeguards in place to inform me if he tries and succeeds at breaching any of the Sanctum’s defences. It wasn’t him. I’ve set similar safeguards for Miss Lokki, as well.”

“Then who…” Thor’s brow creased, but before he could say anything more, or voice a suspicion that hissed in his thoughts, Strange noticed the physical breach through the Sanctum wall. Straight through his sleeping quarters, and adjacent to the library. It took little time for the Midgardian wizard to check the breach and notice the monk, lying unconscious in the wreckage outside.

“Wong!” Strange hurried to his friend and fellow sorcerer, Thor following behind him until a noise drew the thunder god to a different direction.

Tense and worried about Loki - both his brother and his brother’s female doppelganger - Thor quickened towards where he heard the noise. The sound was that of someone in pain, whimpering and breathing heavily. Somewhere in his subconscious he realized it was a stranger whimpering, but that mattered little - despite the fact that the stranger would likely be one of the Sanctum’s attackers.

“Are you….” Thor coughed and covered his nose, stricken by the stench greeting him as much as by the cowering man’s whimpers. His eye widened gawking at the stranger, his gut burbling at the bloody sight of the Midgardian’s fingers. It tightened and his breath hitched as the god noticed the cuts on the stranger’s cheeks and the severely frostbitten skin around the man’s throat.

“Loki...” He subconsciously muttered, though whether he meant his brother or his brother’s female counterpart, not even he was sure. At least after his initial assumption passed - shoved aside when the stranger started struggling to breathe; The frostbite damage taking its toll, along with the shock, as the numbness caused by the cold wore off. It took just a handful of seconds for the stranger to succumb to his injuries. “...what have you done?”

“Nice to see how quickly you assume I’m at fault.” His brother’s voice interrupted and the mischief god appeared suddenly behind Thor, the magic that had obscured him from view dispelled. Scowling down at the thunder god, who’d knelt to check on the Midgardian’s injuries, he waited and stood regally over Thor, arms behind his back, the look on his face immoveable. After a moment he shrugged. “He and his buddies attacked - what do you expect I’d have done?” Loki inquired peering down at his brother, whose face reflected an inner conflict. It wasn’t difficult to follow his brother’s thought process - here was a dead Midgardian bearing injuries that couldn’t be attributed simply to combative self-defense. But could to him. “Judging by your rather obvious displeasure at me, things didn’t go well meeting with the Midgardians.”

Thor sighed, his brother’s observation reminding him of what agent Morfield had said about the Tesseract, as well as what Strange had quickly realized: That the Midgardians were right about the artifact’s presence, but were going after the wrong god for it.

“If it’ll help you could tell them this...person…” Loki gestured to the dead stranger while keeping his full contempt for the worm hidden from his face. “Endangered a pregnant guest of the Sanctum.”

The thunder god’s eyes widened, alarm filling him, though it was tempered by his experience with his brother’s lying. “He attacked Sis?”

Loki sighed and rolled his eyes. “Selfie’s fine. I’m just giving you a way to help mitigate things for me. Regardless of what the Midgardians think of me or why they refuse to see sense with this statue nonsense, accusing one of their mercenaries of endangering an unborn child will certainly work to my...our advantage.”

“Sis wasn’t attacked then?” Asked Thor, completely unsure of his brother’s verity. On one hand his brother sounded truthful but on the other his gut screamed at him otherwise. It didn’t help matters when Loki simply shrugged dismissively in response and repeated his explanation. “Loki...if Sis was hurt…”

“If Miss Lokki was endangered, the suppression cuffs I placed on her would release and allow her to freely use her magic to protect herself.” Strange interrupted, having finished helping Wong and questioning him about the identity of the Sanctum’s attacker. The moment his friend and colleague had mentioned Mordo, he was shocked. Although he had expected to have to deal with his ex-colleague at some point, he never expected the man to aid the government’s move on Loki. “More importantly,” He continued after checking on the dead stranger, noting the man’s injuries and ascertaining that the stranger was truly deceased. “Where is Mordo - the third attacker? And the soldiers who were waiting to ambush the Sanctum, where did they go?” Turning his attention to Loki, he asked the liar god who simply shrugged. A response that satisfied neither Thor nor Strange.

Thor grimaced sternly at his brother. “Loki…”

“I have zero idea what happened to the Midgardian soldiers. I was dealing with -” Loki gestured to the dead man lying on the floor. “This thing while whatever happened between them, shield-boy, and that other wizard happened.” He paused, mulling over something before asking Strange directly. “Seriously, just how many wizards does Midgard have?”

“Enough.” Replied Strange, leering at Loki and expressing through non-verbal communication his unspoken threat. That there were enough sorcerers on Earth to deal with the mischief god, either to banish him or seal him away if he became a problem. Loki just shrugged and rolled his eyes, dismissing the nonverbal threat. “What happened to Mordo - the ‘other wizard’ as you so eloquently put it?” Strange asked, sardonically emphasizing the word ‘eloquently’ - which prompted the silvertongue god to scowl at him.

“No clue. Now, if we’re done, I’ll just…” Loki paused and rolled his eyes when Thor reached for his arm, the thunder god’s hand going right through the mischief god’s illusion. “...Really?” He shook his head at his brother’s annoyed yet still surprised look. “You’re pissed off. The Sanctum is...well…” He gestured around at the Sanctum, emphasizing its current condition. “Did you honestly expect me to stick around to be blamed for shit?”

Thor gaped and then started to refute his brother’s assumption, only for Loki to scoff.

“Sure you wouldn’t.” Said the mischief god sarcastically. “Remind me how long it took before your Avenger buddies convinced you I was lying about leaving the Tesseract in Asgard three years ago? A week?” Loki spat, giving his brother a look that exactly matched the attitude and irritation in his words. It soon morphed into one of curiosity as Strange and Thor both reacted at his mention of the Tesseract. He glanced from one man to the other, gauging their reactions, his brain quickly zeroing in on a possible reason. “Don’t tell me that this - that the Midgardians wanting to imprison me is all because of the bloody Tesseract.” Loki growled, becoming more furious with every word. “I should’ve bloody fucking taken it then, if this is what I’m to deal with for the rest of my bloody....”

“Hate to interrupt the quality family time,” Stark interrupted through one of his iron suits, having sent it to the Sanctum to check on things. It arrived just seconds into the mischief god’s tirade, in time to catch mention of the Tesseract. “But there are more pressing concerns to deal with now other than debating whether the liar god lied or not.”

“And what…” Strange started to ask, stopping when Loki dispelled the projection of himself without another word. He scowled, but also rolled his eyes, at the huffyness of mischief god’s exit. Thor, though, didn’t share the same sentiment and nearly rounded on the sorcerer for it.

“Wiz…”

“Now isn’t the time for this.” Stark cut across Thor. “Tell me Rogers is with you. Or that he’s somewhere nearby.” The inventor implored, before groaning when both Thor and Strange shook their heads. “Fuckin…” He muttered, before telling his fellow Avengers to come to the tower asap.

~0~

It was dark. And the space around him felt heavy, the air - it was difficult to breathe, difficult to do anything but gasp repeatedly for air that barely satisfied his body’s need for oxygen. His heart raced in his chest as Rogers realized this, and it took all his willpower to not go into a full-blown panic and thus lessen the effectiveness of his breaths even further.

He floundered around in the darkness around him, reaching out for any sort of handhold or structure or rock, etc. Anything to help him get his bearings and give him some idea where he was. The only thing he could tell was that he was on some surface - he was standing after all, even if he couldn’t see what it was he was standing on. Nor could he see any walls around him, but understood from the claustrophobic feeling in his gut that he was in an enclosed space. Yet when he reached out - there was nothing.

“Hello?” He called out roughly, as it was a struggle to get in enough oxygen with the air so heavy. It took him a few gasps afterwards before he managed to continue. His legs felt shaky and his heart thumped harshly. “Is anyone here?”

There was no answer and he started to step forward, his vision still overwhelmed by the heavy blackness surrounding him. Before he made it a step - barely seconds before the foot he’d lifted forward to begin his walk landed back down onto whatever surface he was standing on - someone grabbed him. By the shoulders, stopping his movement forward.

His reaction was immediate. Grabbing for the hands of whoever it was, he pulled them off him and spun around. Ready to face whoever or whatever it was that had grabbed him. (The hands he’d pulled off his shoulders felt strange, inhuman but humanoid, as well as cold and hard.) It took him a moment to realize that he could see nothing of the thing that had grabbed him. His hand was still clasped around their wrists, but he saw nothing. The darkness was that absolute.

“That way is death. You do not want to go there.” The creature spoke, its voice human but with an odd tone and cadence. The sort that was produced using computers. It was then that he realized whatever had grabbed him was some sort of robot, with the inhumanness of its limbs being due to being made from metals and plastics rather than flesh.

“Then where?” He asked and then took another few gasps for air, his head starting to throb from the low oxygen.

“Please refrain from speaking. The space-pocket you are in does not contain enough oxygen rich air to sustain conversation.”

“Space…” Rogers barely managed to say before the robot shushed him, repeating its warning. Feeling lightheaded and with a headache pounding full blast inside his skull, he decided to heed the machine’s warning. Though he had so many questions he wanted to ask.

“Good. Now step towards me. I will guide you. Just do not let go of my arms.” The robot replied and proceeded to do as it said it would; Rogers felt uneasy just going along with the stranger - the chances it was leading him into danger were high. But considering his only alternative was asphyxiating in the low oxygen environment, he took the gamble that if the robot led him to danger, he could fight it off. Unless the robot was leading him into an even worse environment.

His stomach clenched as he considered that possibility, and he nearly ripped his arms away from the robot - the machine had clamped onto his wrists on their way forward, perhaps out of some sort of AI foresight. He stopped when the first waff of oxygen-rich air hit him and he sucked in a breath immensely relieved. The light was the next thing he noticed - it wasn’t bright or shining, but he could finally make out his own hands and the barest outlines of his surroundings.

Including the robots hands, which were more human-like than he expected. As he continued forward, following his guide, he noticed how realistic the robot was. Realistic skin, limb portions, muscular composition - everything was uncannily real, and when they were in full light, he could see no evidence that the creature was anything but human.

He stared at the robot or android, his curiosity piqued. Five and a half foot tall, sporting dark umber hair, skin a mix of snow and ochre, and dressed in a leather and tweed outfit, the android stopped walking and motioned forward. Rogers barely even noticed. “How…”

“Hey! Hey!! Tin-can!” Someone called out, shouting until the android turned towards them.

“My name is not ‘Tin-can.’ It is Fen. Address me as such or not at all.”

“Whatever.” The person muttered before barraging the android with questions in regard to the man’s colleagues: questions along the lines of how long they would be unconscious and if the first aid applied to them was sufficient. Rogers just listened quietly behind the android, unnoticed by the man, until it clicked in his head who the other human was.

“Wait.” Rogers interrupted the other’s barrage of questions, stepping into the other’s view. “ You’re one of the soldiers that attacked the Sanctum.”

“W...You?! How…the flipping hell are you here?!” The soldier exclaimed and tensed, instinctively shifting into a defensive position while glancing for his firearm. The item in question lay on a bench table about thirty feet away, too far to be of use even if Rogers was a normal human.

“Relax. I’m not here to fight.” Rogers held up his hands in a gesture that matched his words, emphasising his lack of hostility. “I’m as clueless as you. I don’t even know where or what this place is.”

“This is the Arboretum.” Replied the android, Fen, while pointing to the trees, shrubs, and ferns. Many of which, on closer inspection weren’t actually there. Enough were real to account for the oxygen rich environment, but most others were illusionary. The ‘sun’ too was fake, nothing but a light source suspended high above them. “The ship is yet to be named.”

“...Ship?” Rogers asked, despite already having a guess to what the android meant, and when Fen unshuttered a window showing the dark, star-spattered expanse surrounding them outside, the Avenger simply stared out. “Space. We’re in space.” He muttered while Fen left, the android heading towards where the injured soldiers were. The uninjured soldier followed closely behind, barely bothering with the Avenger.

Rogers approached closer to the window, staring out at the stars in awe, his eyes scanning for any familiar constellations or such. Any hint suggesting that they were in space around Earth and not in a vastly foreign part of space as he feared in his gut. The more his gaze searched the expanse, the more he realized he recognized none of the stars or the constellations they made up.

He tensed, his thoughts on Mordo and what the sorcerer was doing - although the man had been truthful when saying the soldiers he’d portalled away weren’t dead, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a threat. Mordo had known about the female Lokki after all, despite the Avengers keeping a lid on that fact about the woman. Keeping it secret from the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D, and only revealing it to a few of their own number. Mainly only those Avengers who’d been in New York the day Lokki appeared.

No one else should’ve known her identity.

(Even if S.H.I.E.L.D or any other government agencies knew of the goddess’ presence, Stark had crafted an explanation for Lokki’s sudden appearance, along with a false identity. It should’ve taken a while - at least a few weeks longer for anyone to see through it. Even longer, considering how focused the government seemed to be on Loki.)

Rogers grimaced, giving up searching for familiar constellations and instead reaching for the communicator Stark had made for and given to each of the team. It was only as he pressed the transmit button and got only static that he remembered it had gotten damaged recently. During a mission. Just that morning he’d been planning on giving it back to Stark to repair, only to be distracted helping Thor. 

“I’m not sure if any of you will get this.” Rogers spoke into the communicator anyways, not confident on it reaching his fellow Avengers, but figuring it was worth the try. “I’m on some ship, in some part of space that I have no idea where. Some wizard who attacked the Sanctum portalled me here. Along with some US soldiers.” He paused and walked towards a more secluded spot, something about his environment making him feel uneasy. “The wizard is after Lokki - the female one. He knows about her. Considering her pregnant condition, she should be guarded.”

He concluded his message, the uneasy feeling grown stronger. To combat it, he walked around the Arboretum and then through a doorway behind one of the few real trees. At first he thought it headed to a corridor, but it was simply a walk-in closet or storage. Albeit one with a computer and small desk tucked in the far corner. There was another door beside the desk, locked. That wasn’t what caught his eye - or rather his ear.

It was the computer. Its monitor was pitch for some reason, but the speakers were on and their audio clear, if a bit low. Straining to hear the audio, Rogers leaned in and held his breath. The voice unmistakably that of Stark.

-“...if the worst happens. If none of us make it. If he kills all of us, then…” There was a pause, Stark’s voice lowering a bit. “Lokki, you need to...”-

“What are you doing here?” Fen interrupted, the android’s voice drowning out that of Stark’s. “This area is off limits to all but Lokki. She will be furious if she sees you here on her return.” The android ushered Rogers out of the tiny room, its voice too loud for the Avenger to make out anything else on the recording. And its strength beyond what the man expected. “If the Arboretum is not to your liking, perhaps the Library or the Lounge will be?”

“I…” Rogers stopped resisting; Stark’s voice and words echoing in his ears, along with the android’s. He may not have caught all of the recording, but he understood much more than just a minute ago. Just from listening to the pronoun the android used. “This is her universe. Miss Lokki’s.”

“This ship belongs to Lokki, yes.” Fen replied and tilted its head, not understanding Rogers’ emphasis on the universe being Lokki’s. “The universe belongs to no one.”

“That’s not what…” Rogers tried to explain, but the android just hurried off after pointing briefly towards a set of doors that the man assumed led to the aforementioned library and lounge. He sighed and glanced towards the makeshift medic area where the android was once again dealing with the soldiers. Partly tempted to see if he could help, he considered going over, but decided not after overhearing the android tell the uninjured soldier that his fellows just needed to rest. That there was nothing else to do.

“This is just great.” Rogers muttered with a tinge of sarcasm, wondering if he should walk around the Arboretum - perhaps try to reenter the room with the computer again - or instead explore other parts of the ship. Despite the android’s more-than expected strength and such, he knew he could make it back to the room quick enough to glean much more from the recording. Perhaps hear the whole thing and maybe figure out more about the frost giantess, like what exactly happened to her universe or how she got to theirs. It’d be useful and he could reach it before the android could stop him. But…

‘Fen is helping the soldiers, if I distract him and something goes wrong with one of them…’ The Avenger sighed, quickly deciding to wait until the unconscious soldiers were better before risking distracting the android. ‘Maybe I’ll find something elsewhere on the ship that’ll be useful? Perhaps something that’ll help get us back home.’ He thought while pushing the button on one of the doors, judging it to be the library due to the book design etched onto it.

“Grrrr.” A sharp growl the second the door opened caused Rogers to bristle and freeze, even more so when the growling became a roar. Not a long or loud roar, but a menacing one. His eyes quickly searched for the origin - and nearly jumped out of their sockets when they found it.

A bristling bear, with grizzled fur and coal eyes, glared at him from three bookshelves away. It growled at him, watching him and waiting.

“Oh boy.” Rogers muttered, smiling nervously at the creature. His brain gone blank from the combination of shock and confusion seeing the bear. The last thing he’d expected was encountering a bear in a library on a ship in the middle of space. “Lokki certainly has interesting taste in pets.”

“Grahhh!” The bear roared viciously at the word pet and stood on its hindlegs, making itself much more menacing.

“Sorry! Not a pet.” Said Rogers on reflex, not realizing until the bear settled down and he sighed in relief that the creature understood him. “Wait...you understand what I’m saying?” He asked, to which the bear replied with a softer growl that seemed to be saying ‘yes.’ To clinch it the creature moved its head clumsily in a nodding gesture. Afterwards it started walking away down one of the aisles, not giving Rogers any more mind. “What in the….” He shook his head and mumbled before deciding to leave the library and try the lounge, not keen on reading with a bear sauntering through the aisles like some sort of beastly librarian.

He was just about to exit, his hand centimeters from pressing the button controlling the door, when a shockwave rippled through the ship.

[shirlleycoyle]

Introducing The Mail, a Newsletter and Zine About the USPS

For years, Motherboard has cared deeply about election security. We were the first to talk to Guccifer 2.0 (and the first to suggest he wasn't actually a lone Romanian hacker) after the Democratic National Committee hack in 2016. We've written countless stories about the insecurity of voting machines, which have been regularly left online when they weren't supposed to. Now, in a nation racked with a pandemic, much of the 2020 election will be conducted using an old but historically reliable technology: Physical mail. 

A lot of people have been talking about the United States Postal Service lately, including us. It is a key link in a safe and fair election this November. It delivers bills, medication, packages, and other vital mail during a time when we need affordable, reliable delivery more than ever. It is also in a financial crisis, has a new boss who is changing all the rules, and its future is in jeopardy. The United States Postal Service is both critical infrastructure for a functioning democracy and society, and a potential election attack vector.

That's why Motherboard is launching The Mail, a weekly pop-up newsletter about the United States Postal Service, written by me, Aaron Gordon, senior staff writer at Motherboard, that will run from now until the end of November on Substack. Every week through the election, I will bring you a new story about the USPS that will give you the context you need to understand the news deluge about this agency.

The main newsletter itself will be free, but we're going to have a paid tier as well ($8 per month). Since we're writing about, well, the mail, we're going to be making three printed zines (one a month) that we'll mail out to paying subscribers. The zines will be put together by the entire Motherboard staff, and will focus on digital security, hacking, internet ephemera, labor, and will generally be intended to inform and delight. Paid subscribers will also get access to extra digital updates and posts while we're running the newsletter. 

There's so much more to the USPS than what makes the news. Trump may be heating up the rhetoric, but the USPS has been undermined, hobbled, and maligned by elected officials of both parties for decades. The version we have today is a Frankenstein of corporatization with Congressional oversight created after a momentous yet overlooked 1970 labor victory that has, ironically, resulted in the post office being in many ways a worse place to work than it used to be. And a poisonous 2006 law saddled the USPS with debt from which it hasn't recovered. A bipartisan austerity push in the wake of the Great Recession has further eroded many of the labor victories from previous generations. 

This is not just the post office's story, but America's story. For decades, there has been a broad bipartisan trend to increasingly privatize schools, libraries, transportation, prisons, the armed forces, and health care. What has happened to the post office over the last decade is, in the words of historian Philip Rubio, "part of a general attack on public institutions." Writing in 2019, Rubio presciently warned, "the USPS as a threatened institution is the canary in the coal mine for American labor and government services." 

Mail delivery has already succumbed to privatization in some obvious and other hidden ways. If we're not vigilant, even larger domains of this critical public good could become a for-profit enterprise.

So there has never been a better time for Americans not only to defend and unite around the post office, but to decide what kind of post office, and what kind of country, we want to have.

It's time to talk about the Post Office because it is the thing that binds us together, both metaphorically in terms of its mission—to deliver every piece of mail every day to every American, a mission under attack by the new postmaster general—and because it is one of the few things, if the polls are to be believed, Americans overwhelmingly approve of.

There is plenty of nuance in the post office story and, like any institution with hundreds of thousands of people, it is impossible to easily summarize. But, like much of our work at Motherboard, this project has a point of view. The federal government has a role to play in the everyday life of all Americans by ensuring the safe and secure delivery of information as legislated by the people who founded this country. Earning a solidly middle-class life while serving fellow countrymen is not a market inefficiency. And, after countless hours of research and hearing from hundreds of postal workers past and present, I firmly believe there is a fundamental incompatibility in the post office's basic structure as it currently stands, and that it cannot do its job well as long as this continues. 

So subscribe to The Mail, and let's figure out together what the United States Postal Service is and what it ought to be.

Introducing The Mail, a Newsletter and Zine About the USPS syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[bountyofbeads]

Unfit for Office

Donald Trump’s narcissism makes it impossible for him to carry out the duties of the presidency in the way the Constitution requires.

George T. Conway III | Published October 3, 2019 | The Atlantic | Posted October 3, 2019 |

Part 2 of 2

Indeed, Trump’s view of his presidential powers can only be described as profoundly narcissistic, and his narcissism has compelled him to disregard the Framers’ vision of his constitutional duties in every respect. Bad faith? Trump has repeatedly used executive powers, threatened to use executive powers, or expressed the view that executive powers should be used to advance his personal interests and punish his political opponents. Thus, for example, he has placed restrictions on disaster aid to Puerto Rico in apparent response to criticism of him and his administration; directed the Pentagon to reconsider whether to award a $10 billion contract to Amazon because its CEO owns The Washington Post, whose coverage he doesn’t like; threatened to take “regulatory and legislative” action against Facebook, Google, and Twitter, because of their supposed “terrible bias” against him; tried to get White House staff to tell the Justice Department to try to block the merger between AT&T and Time Warner in order to punish CNN for its coverage; attacked his first attorney general for allowing the indictment of two Republican congressmen who had supported him; and ordered the revocation of the security clearance of a former CIA director who had criticized him.

And now, in just the past two weeks, we’ve seen the pièce de résistance of bad faith, the one that’s brought Trump to the verge of impeachment: Trump’s efforts to use his presidential authority to strong-arm a foreign nation, Ukraine, into digging up or concocting evidence in support of a preposterous conspiracy theory about one of his principal challengers for the presidency, former Vice President Joe Biden. As one political historian has put it, Trump’s use of his Article II authority to pursue vendettas is “both a sign of deep insecurity … and also just a litany of abuse of power,” and something no president has done “as consistently or as viciously as Trump has.”

Profit? Self-dealing? Look at the way Trump is using the presidency to advertise his real-estate holdings—most notably and recently, his apparent determination to hold the next G7 summit at the Trump Doral resort in Florida. Ultra vires? Trump has made the outrageous claim that the Constitution gives him “the right to do whatever I want as president.” Consistent with that view, he has repeatedly suggested that, by executive order, he can overturn the Fourteenth Amendment’s guarantee of birthright citizenship—an utterly lawless assertion. His core constitutional obligations flow from Article II’s command that he faithfully execute the laws, yet he has told subordinates not to worry about violating the laws. According to one former senior administration official quoted in The New York Times, Trump’s “constant instinct all the time was: Just do it, and if we get sued, we get sued … Almost as if the first step is a lawsuit. I guess he thinks that because that’s how business worked for him in the private sector. But federal law is different, and there really isn’t a settling step when you break federal law.” Federal law is also different, one might add, because he’s in charge of upholding it.

Facing the approach of the 2020 election with not a single new mile of his border wall having been built, Trump, as reported in The Washington Post, has urged his aides to violate all manner of laws to expedite construction—environmental laws, contracting laws, constitutional limitations on the taking of private property—and “has told worried subordinates that he will pardon them of any potential wrongdoing” they commit along the way.

A duty of diligence and carefulness? Trump is purely impulsive, and incapable of planning or serious forethought, and his compulsion for lying has enervated any capacity for thoughtful analysis he may have ever had. He apparently won’t read anything; he himself has said, in regard to briefings, that he prefers to read “as little as possible”—despite occupying what David A. Graham calls “one of the most demanding jobs in the world” precisely because its “holder is expected to consume, digest, and absorb prodigious amounts of information via reading.”

And then there’s the question of honesty. Fiduciaries must be honest. The Framers understood, based upon the law of public officeholding in their time, that “faithful execution” of the laws requires “the absence of bad faith through honesty.” In the private realm, fiduciaries owe a duty of candor, of truth-telling; the standard of behavior was once memorably described by the renowned jurist Benjamin Cardozo as “not honesty alone, but the punctilio of an honor the most sensitive.” Today, in my own practice area of corporate litigation, corporate officers and directors, as fiduciaries, owe duties that include a duty to disclose material information truthfully and completely. Trump, whose lawyers wouldn’t dare allow him to speak to the special counsel lest he make a prosecutable false statement, couldn’t pass this standard to save his life.

Trump’s incapacity affects all manner of subjects addressed by the presidency, but can be seen most acutely in foreign affairs and national security. Presidential narcissism and personal ego have frequently displaced the national interest. Today, the most obvious—and stunning—example is his conduct toward Ukraine: While trying to pressure the Ukrainian president to restart an investigation against Biden, Trump ordered the withholding of vital military aid to that country, thus weakening its ability to withstand Russian aggression and undermining the interests of the United States. But the list goes on: Last summer, in a narcissistic effort at self-aggrandizement, Trump told the Pakistani prime minister about a conversation he had with the Indian prime minister—leading India to deny, indignantly, that any such conversation had ever taken place. Trump reportedly even lied about trade talks with China—announcing that phone calls had occurred that never occurred and that the Chinese denied took place—in an apparent attempt to pump up the stock market and take credit for it.

Trump’s penchant for vendettas also doesn’t stop at the water’s edge—American interests be damned. When confidential cables sent by the United Kingdom’s ambassador to his government were leaked, and were revealed to contain uncomplimentary (but obvious) observations about Trump’s ineptitude and emotional insecurity, and the dysfunction of his administration, Trump went on an extended Twitter tirade against the ambassador, calling him “wacky” and “a very stupid guy,” “a pompous fool,” and ultimately declared: “We will no longer deal with him.” When reports surfaced that Trump was interested in having the United States purchase Greenland from Denmark, and the Danish prime minister understandably described talk about such a purchase as “an absurd discussion” in light of Greenland’s position on the matter, Trump canceled a visit to Denmark, and then attacked the prime minister, calling her comments “nasty”; for good measure, he also attacked some of America’s NATO allies.

At the same time, Trump happily succumbs to flattery from America’s enemies; he received “beautiful … great letters” from North Korea’s dictator, Kim Jong Un, and therefore “fell in love” with him, and rewards him with kind words and meetings even as North Korea continues to develop new nuclear weapons and delivery systems. Of Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin, Trump once said on television: “If he says great things about me, I’m going to say great things about him.”

Putin, of course, did more than say great things about Trump, which brings up what was, until the Ukraine scandal surfaced, the most significant way in which Trump’s extraordinary narcissism influenced his presidency—the Russia investigation. Trump made that investigation about himself, and in the course of doing so, committed what appear to be unmistakably criminal acts. At the outset, the Mueller investigation wasn’t about what Donald Trump had done during the 2016 U.S. presidential campaign. It was primarily an investigation about what the Russians had done to interfere with that election and to help the Trump campaign. At its core, it was a counterintelligence investigation—an effort to protect the country, to defend our democracy. An effort to find out exactly what a hostile foreign power had done to attack the United States, so that our nation could fight back, and so that it could take measures to ensure that such an attack never happened again.

Read more: What the Mueller report actually said

But Trump didn’t see it that way. The Mueller report repeatedly describes Trump’s self-obsession, and his disregard for the national interest. Trump viewed “the intelligence community assessment of Russian interference as a threat to the legitimacy of his electoral victory.” He is said to have “viewed the Russia investigation as an attack on the legitimacy of his win.” He thought it would “tak[e] away from what he had accomplished.” The Washington Post has now reported, moreover, that in the Oval Office in May 2017, Trump told the Russian foreign minister and ambassador that he was unconcerned with Russia’s interference in the 2016 election.

And so, contrary to his obligation to act in the nation’s interests rather than his own, and contrary to the criminal code, he repeatedly tried to obstruct the investigation—and therefore, ironically, put himself in the crosshairs of the investigation. Thanks to Trump’s narcissism, the special counsel was forced to devote an entire volume of his report—some 182 pages of single-spaced text—to Trump’s repeated and persistent efforts to derail the investigation. And persistent, Trump was. He tried to get Attorney General Jeff Sessions, who had recused himself from the investigation, to violate ethics rules and unrecuse himself, so that he could get rid of the special counsel and limit the investigation to future election interference only. Trump tried to get his White House counsel to have the acting attorney general remove Mueller on a ridiculous pretext, prompting the counsel to threaten to resign. Trump tried to encourage witnesses to refuse to cooperate with the very government that Trump himself heads. As I’ve argued elsewhere, in his efforts to derail the Mueller investigation, Trump “did much more than this, but all of this is more than enough: He committed the crime of obstructing justice—multiple times.” Trump even obstructed justice about obstructing justice when he tried to get the White House counsel to write a false account of Trump’s efforts to remove Mueller.

All in all, Trump sought to impede and end a significant counterintelligence and criminal investigation—one of crucial importance to the nation—and did so for his own personal reasons. He did precisely the opposite of what his duties require. Indeed, he has shown utter contempt for his duties to the nation. How else could one describe the attitude Trump expressed when, sitting next to Vladimir Putin in late June, he was asked whether he would tell Putin not to interfere in the 2020 U.S. presidential election? Trump smirked, wagged his finger playfully at Putin, and said, “Don’t meddle in the election.” Putin smirked too. The Russian president was in on the joke—the punch line being how Trump treats America’s interests versus his own.

What constitutional mechanisms exist for dealing with a president who cannot or does not comply with his duties, and how should they take the president’s mental and behavioral characteristics into account? One mechanism discussed with great frequency during the past three years, including within the Trump administration, is Section 4 of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment. That provision allows the vice president to become “Acting President” when the president is “unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office.” But it doesn’t define what such an inability entails; essentially, it lets the vice president and the Cabinet, the president himself, and ultimately two-thirds of both houses of Congress decide.

Certainly it would cover a coma. Had the amendment been in effect in 1919 through 1921, it presumably could have been used to deal with President Woodrow Wilson. A severe stroke had rendered Wilson paralyzed on the left side, but he could still speak, and he could still sign documents with his right hand. Nevertheless, although Wilson had “relatively well preserved intellectual function,” the stroke rendered him “subject to ‘disorders of emotion, impaired impulse control, and defective judgment.’”

Sound judgment, of course, is what a president’s job is all about. And as Jeffrey Rosen has explained, “nothing in the text or original understanding of the amendment” would prevent the vice president, the Cabinet, or Congress from deciding that Trump has disorders of emotion, impaired impulse control, defective judgment, or other behavioral or psychological issues that keep him from carrying out his constitutional duties the way they were meant to be carried out.

The problem is one of mechanics. Section 4, quite understandably, was designed to be extremely difficult to implement. The vice president and a majority of the Cabinet can determine that the president isn’t able to carry out his duties; if so, the vice president immediately becomes acting president. But if the president doesn’t agree—and you know what Trump’s view will be, no matter what—then a constitutional game of ping-pong starts: The president can certify that he is capable, and he can reassume his authority after a four-day waiting period, unless the vice president and the Cabinet, within that period, recertify that the president can’t function. (As a new book on Section 4 explains, this waiting period exists in part because “a deranged President could do a lot of damage if he could retake power immediately,” and, in particular, he “would also be able to fire the Cabinet, which would prevent it from contesting his declaration of ability.”) If that happens, the vice president continues as acting president, and the whole matter gets kicked to Congress, which must assemble within 48 hours and decide within 21 days: If two-thirds of both houses agree that the president can’t function, then the vice president continues as acting president; if not, the president gets his authority back.

No matter how psychologically incapable of meeting his constitutional obligations Trump may be, that route is virtually certain not to work in this case. Would a vice president and department heads who have shamelessly slaked Trump’s narcissistic thirst at Cabinet meetings by praising his supposed greatness, and who of course owe their jobs to Trump, dare incur his wrath by sparking a constitutional crisis on the basis of what they must surely know about his unprecedented faults? Doubtful, to say the least. They would know full well that, if their decision weren’t sustained by Congress, the first thing that Trump would do after reassuming power would be to fire every department head who sought to have him sidelined. (He can’t fire Vice President Mike Pence, of course.) Which brings up the ultimate question upon which successful invocation of Section 4 would turn: whether two-thirds of both houses of Congress would vote to remove Trump. That’s harder than impeachment, which requires only a simple majority of the House in order to bring charges of impeachment to a trial in the Senate (which in turn can convict on a two-thirds vote).

And so it turns out that impeachment is a more practical mechanism for addressing the fact that Trump’s narcissism and sociopathy render him unable to comply with the obligations of his office. It’s also an appropriate mechanism, because the constitutional magic words (other than Treason and Bribery) that form the basis of an impeachment charge—high Crimes and Misdemeanors, found in Article II, Section 4 of the Constitution—mean something other than, and more than, offenses in the criminal-statute books. High Crimes and Misdemeanors is a legal term of art, one that historically referred to breaches of duties—fiduciary duties—by public officeholders. In other words, the question of what constitutes an impeachable offense for a president coincides precisely with whether the president can execute his office in the faithful manner that the Constitution requires.

The phrase high Crimes and Misdemeanors was dropped into the draft Constitution on September 8, 1787, during the waning days of the Constitutional Convention. The discussion before the Convention’s Committee of Eleven was extremely brief. The extant version of what became Article II, Section 4 provided for impeachment merely for treason and bribery. George Mason objected, and proposed adding “maladministration.” Elbridge Gerry seconded Mason’s proposal, but James Madison objected that it was too vague. Gouverneur Morris chimed in, arguing that having a presidential election “every four years will prevent maladministration.” Mason moved to add, according to Madison’s notes, “other high crimes & misdemeanors (against the State).” The motion passed, eight to three. And so, as a result of that brief exchange, Article II of the Constitution of the United States provides that “the President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the United States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for, and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.”

As Yoni Appelbaum has observed in this magazine, “constitutional lawyers have been arguing about what counts as a ‘high crime’ or ‘misdemeanor’ ever since.” One of the most compelling arguments about the meaning of those words is that the Framers, in Article II’s command that a president faithfully execute his office, imposed upon him fiduciary obligations. As the constitutional historian Robert Natelson explained in the Federalist Society Review, the “founding generation [understood] ‘high … Misdemeanors’ to mean ‘breach of fiduciary duty.’” Eighteenth-century lawyers instead used terms such as breach of trust—which describes the same thing. “Parliamentary articles of impeachment explicitly and repetitively described the accused conduct as a breach of trust,” Natelson argues, and 18th-century British legal commentators explained how impeachment for “high Crimes and Misdemeanors” was warranted for all sorts of noncriminal violations that were, in essence, fiduciary breaches.

Just as the Framers viewed the presidency as fiduciary, they understood the offenses that might disqualify the incumbent as breaches of that fiduciary duty. And that may well be why the discussion of Morris’s suggestion was so brief—the drafters knew what the words historically meant, because, as a House Judiciary Committee report noted in 1974, “at the time of the Constitutional Convention the phrase ‘high Crimes and Misdemeanors’ had been in use for over 400 years in impeachment proceedings in Parliament.” Certainly Alexander Hamilton knew by the time he penned “Federalist No. 65,” in which he explained that impeachment was for “those offenses which proceed from the misconduct of public men, or, in other words, from the abuse or violation of some public trust.”

What constitutes such an abuse or violation of trust is up to Congress to decide: First the House decides to bring impeachment charges, and then the Senate decides whether to convict on those charges. The process of impeachment by the House and removal by trial in the Senate is thus, in some ways, akin to indictment by a grand jury and trial by a petit jury. In other ways, it is quite different. As Laurence Tribe and Joshua Matz explain in their recent book on impeachment, “the Constitution explicitly states that Congress may not end a presidency unless the president has committed an impeachable offense. But nowhere does the Constitution state or otherwise imply that Congress must remove a president whenever that standard is met … In other words, it allows Congress to exercise judgment.” As Tribe and Matz argue, that judgment presents a “heavy burden,” and demands that Congress be “context-sensitive,” and achieve “an understanding of all relevant facts.” A president might breach his trust to the nation once in some small, inconsequential way and never repeat the misbehavior, and Congress could reasonably decide that the game is not worth the candle.

So the congressional judgment in the impeachment process necessarily includes the number and seriousness of offenses, and even extends well beyond those calculations. Congress must also, in particular, weigh the chances of recidivism; that possibility is precisely why the Constitution provides for removal as the principal sanction upon conviction on impeachment charges. As Charles Black Jr. explained in his classic 1974 book on impeachment, “We remove him principally because we fear he will do it again.” Or as George Mason put it during the Constitutional Convention, “Shall the man who has practised corruption … be suffered to escape punishment, by repeating his guilt?”

In short, now that the House of Representatives has embarked on an impeachment inquiry, one of the most important judgments it must make is whether any identified breaches of duty are likely to be repeated. And if a Senate trial comes to pass, that issue would become central as well to the decision to remove the president from office. That’s when Trump’s behavioral and psychological characteristics should—must—come into play. From the evidence, it appears that he simply can’t stop himself from putting his own interests above the nation’s. Any serious impeachment proceedings should consider not only the evidence and the substance of all impeachable offenses, but also the psychological factors that may be relevant to the motivations underlying those offenses. Congress should make extensive use of experts—psychologists and psychiatrists. Is Trump so narcissistic that he can’t help but use his office for his own personal ends? Is he so sociopathic that he can’t be trusted to follow, let alone faithfully execute, the law?

Congress should consider all this because that’s what the question of impeachment demands. But there’s another reason as well. The people have a right to know, and a need to see. Many people have watched all of Trump’s behavior, and they’ve drawn the obvious conclusion. They know something’s wrong, just as football fans knew that the downed quarterback had shattered his leg. Others have changed the channel, or looked away, or chosen to deny what they’ve seen. But if Congress does its job and presents the evidence, those who are in denial won’t be able to ignore the problem any longer. Not only because of the evidence itself, but because Donald Trump will respond in pathological ways—and in doing so, he’ll prove the points against him in ways almost no one will be able to ignore.

[dirty-paws-art]

Wip rusame/amerus

Note: Asha, you asked for this. Here it is. 

Tension. A string pulled taught. A branch near breaking. A leaf fallen onto the water, and clinging to the surface to keep from sinking into the depths below. 

And with the click of a clock hand, the tension breaks. The string snaps, the branch breaks, and the leaf tumbles down into the stream. 

It’s honestly impressive how a cold war could lead to personifications physically fighting this much. When America thinks of it, he can recall not even physically fighting Germany in World War Two as much as he has gotten into fights with Russia. 

Speaking of; why was he in the snow, on his back, with a busted lip now? That’s right. 

The war was over. A good few years after the joint Apollo Soyuz mission. A good few years after the night America and Russia had spent together that was unlike any night any two countries had ever shared before. An international space docking mission. 

It was January, 1992.

And despite what had happened merely a month ago, he had to admit Russia still had a mean right hook.

“You know you are trespassing, da?” the deep voice rumbled from next to America’s head. Russia laid opposite of him in the snow, supporting his own bleeding nose that had by now stained that scarf he always wore.

“Yeah, I know big guy. Though I was half afraid you weren’t going to be alive," the American admitted in a way that made it sound as if he didn't quite care if Russia was dead or not. Though by now the taller man knew what was ignorance on America's part and what was a carefully constructed tone of conversation. 

“Oh please, Amerika. I was alive long before The Union, and I will be alive long after. My people are strong. And the government does not make them russian, their blood does.” 

America was silent for a moment. Being a country of immigrants doesn’t lend well to that “blood” born unity. He had always had to spark unity in other ways. Like landing a man on the moon. 

“I guess it does. You still look like shit.” 

The platinum blonde next to him snorted good naturedly. 

“That I do. Though we all seem to have our turns like this; falling. Like the Nazis. And now me. Question is who is next, the great America or the wise China” 

“Tch… almost wish Yao was the one in your place. You’re much more entertaining of a super villain. Yao is just financial schemes and manipulating the numbers. You can't punch math!"

“You know, when you speak like a little brat not having his way it is all the more worrying that you’re the one with the power," Russia complained, to which America laughed. 

"Though at the same time, I believe that is the closest to a compliment I will ever get from you. And in turn… I suppose I am happy it is you, and not the old blood of Europe who outcasted both of us. The power that would turn around and build to enemies up instead of destroying them is the one to grow the greatest. Though whether or not that was out of charity or manipulation I still do not know. It is always hard to tell with you." Russia spoke, thinking of how Germany and Japan were both treated by America post WWII. 

“You done sucking my cock, ruskie? I already got enough of that from Churchill.” America deadpanned, looking up to the soft and snowy sky, referring to the speech given by the British man shortly after wwii closed. A long time ago to humans, but moments to them. 

Russia gave a hearty laugh that shook the thick coat over his chest, and the two fell into silence as they stared up at the sky, dusted with clouds but the stars were still visible through them, out here in the russian countryside. Fields of rough and dead brush bowed under the weight of the snow, and tall winding branches from trees held the powdery white substance up towards the sky like an offering to general winter. 

“I guess part of what hurts the most about losing is the thought that I’ll lose relevance in what I care about," Russia finally speaks up. 

“Like Germany did?” America asked, thinking of how himself and Russia had torn through the German countryside looking for any scrap of information on the V2.

Russia nodded silently, and the blonde American could hear the snow shift. 

“... and space. That matters to you most?” 

The russian shrugged this time, “I’m not sure if space is too large or too narrow of a description, but yes. Nothing has made me so passionate as fighting to explore the stars did.”

America smiled a tiny bit, “Made us both pretty damn passionate, huh?” 

“Yes. Passionate is a good word for it.” Russia nodded, and they both fell quiet again, watching the sky full of stars.

… 

"Well, it's no The Plaza but it's quaint," America announced, dumping his gun on the table Russia had set his coat and scarf on a moment before. 

"'Quaint' is not a complement," Russia told him, lighting a fire in the fireplace of the small cabin. 

America laughed and dropped his bomber jacket over an old chair, then he draped himself over the Russian's broad shoulders so he could hold his hands close as the fire ignited. 

Russia blinked and glanced back as he tossed another log on top. The American pressing himself so close to the Russian seemed casual -almost everything about the American was- but it wasn't in the slightest. It was calculated. Just like the castles in his aforementioned empire city, with the ritzy Plaza Hotel. 

The platinum blonde closed his eyes, feeling the warm chest against his back and the warm biceps over his shoulders. And for a moment he felt like melting ice in the summer sun before his eyes snapped open and he froze back up. 

"I'm not having a repeat of the mission. I… for once in my life felt safe with it," the Russian said, America knowing exactly what 'it' was, "but I can't take that. Not right now. Not after what has happened."

"We could switch," the American calmly suggested, his warm palms from the fire finding the russian's neck and tracing over the tender scars there. Unlike most nation's scars, which always seemed to become inflamed on anniversaries or when around the cause, these scars always grew more sensitive when Russia was scared. It was just a little fact he had picked up on. 

Russia turned around to look at him, purple eyes widened with surprise. "You just won," he said, "Why would you be alright with that?" 

America frowned, remembering Europe's proclivity for dominating the losers of war. And they called themselves the civilized ones of the world...

"Why not? No one has ever been such an entertaining a fight as you for 'The Boy King'," America smiled, recalling the name England had given America after the gilded age, when his spine had been replaced by corporatized steel. 

"But I've lost. I'll never be able to give you that fight again," Russia protested, though his voice was barely a whisper. 

"Oh come on. Wasn't it you who said that the Russian people will always be their strong and sturdy selves? Even under a different government? I can see you still in space, still in technology; giving me a run for my money," America told him, voice soft for once to match the other's. 

Russia blushed, cold and pale face heating up a rosy red. 

"You'll always be a pain in my ass. I know it," America told him. 

And that was one of the most reassuring things russia could ever hope to hear after falling, and he laughed bitterly at how ridiculous it was. 

But soon America of course had to ruin the moment. 

"Well I guess… tonight you could also make that literal," he joked. 

And the russian's bitter laugh turned into a snort of genuine amusement. 

He turns his head and teasingly presses his cold lips to the corner of America's own. The sunshine blonde went in to make it a full kiss, but Russia daringly turned away. 

America pouted like a kicked puppy, and one could almost see dog ears hanging low, but it occurred to him that Russia had been feeling out of control for a few years now. He was likely dying for that control. 

And for some reason as the winner, America was willing to release that control. Unlike Europe wanting to assert control to it's imperial ultimate, America weirdly had learned that he didn't need that. Well, if the philippines, Panama, and Cuba had taught him anything.

He was to be the world's police force, not its king.

And a psychotic part of him recognized that one couldn't rule the world like that. Obvious empires were obsolete. The next generation had to exert its control in other ways. 

But exerting control by losing control? Was he going to let Russia dominate himself as some chess play? Or just in a bizarre act of… what's the word? Not in animosity but in an amicable sense.

He didn't want to answer that thought, so he buried it down under a thousand others as he leaned over. He tugged on Russia's scarf so the other could kiss down into him, and it felt like deja vu from their fist fight earlier that day. His busted lip even began to hurt again. 

Russia closed his snowy violet eyes and pressed down into the kiss, gripping the American by his jaw. 

It was like two spools of thread unwinding. And whoever became undone first lost. And despite their agreement, this race needed to be genuine. America genuinely needed to succumb to the arousal he could find in his uncharacteristic situation. 

Russia pressed down more, more, and more. Until America's back was against the cold concrete floor and the wrists Russia had pinned above his head were inches from the roaring fireplace. 

Something about the dichotomy of sensations was the last yank to his thread, and the spool spun before dropping, empty of string. 

Any taught tension in his muscles evaporated, and he melted under the skilled lips of the Russian with an embarrassingly weak whine. 

As if estimating the breaking of the American, Russia timed it perfectly with a knee between America's legs, and a muscular thigh rubbing against his cock. 

America jerked his head back to gasp as the friction sent electricity through his body. 

And maybe too hungrily, Russia took the opening to attack the inside of America's mouth.

America bit his lip and screwed his burning blue eyes shut, desperately clinging to a ledge above unbridled lust. But every cutting bite and burning hickey chipped away at the stone. 

"I swear to God if anything is visible over my uniform collar," He snarled. 

"Too late," Russia purred against his throat, taking full advantage of the v-neck collar.

 "Fuck, Bush is going to have my throat," America grumbled. 

"Bad choice of words," Russia gently chided him, lapping at a bleeding bite like a cat with cream. 

"Shut tha fuck up," he grumbled, words slurring together slightly. 

Russia simply chuckled and continued on. He removed his hands from the American's wrists and slid them up his chest instead, pulling off his shirt. 

America, every the impatient one, put his freed hands to work and ripped off the russian's shirt. 

"That… was a nice shirt," Russia complained. 

"Just shut up and put your mouth to real use," America snapped, wanting more kisses but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask nicely. 

Russia raised one thick eyebrow at that. He quickly decided he wasn't about to get pushed around. He needed a win. A distraction. SOMETHING good. Even if the short term glee always was drowned out by shame later on for what he participated in, he needed that cropped moment of carnal pride. 

He gripped the American by his wheat blonde hair with one hand and yanked down his own pants with the other. In a moment the American's nose was shoved into a thick patch of platinum blonde hair. 

"How about you put your mouth to use? Your bottom lip is still bleeding from my knuckles. It will probably sting as you try to manage my 'Big Ivan'." 

And no, that wasn't the Russian naming his cock after himself. Rather he was recalling to the Tsar Bomba, or 'the king of bombs'. 

And for a moment, America felt his blood go cold. Even having won, the name of that damn thing made him shudder. As much as he liked to think that every nation in the world felt him land on the moon, he knew that paled in comparison to the dropping of 'Big Ivan'. 

Every fucking nation on the planet felt the earth shake of it's own axis as Russia tested that affront to God. John could barely believe it was real until he saw the reports from his own satellites. 

He tried to recover by smirking up at the other blonde. "I don't suck cock, Rad." 

"Then let this be the first time. Unless you are lying to me," the 'rad' said, chest rumbling as he chuckled. He took his cock and slapped its thick and meaty head over John's eye and the American curled his lip in disgust. 

"Fuck off. I said I'm not doing it!" He snarled, yanking in his hand and hoping to be freed. 

"Hm…" the Russian frowned, rolling his hips forward and feeling his skin press against the other's heated face. 

"Well, if you're not using your mouth to prepare me, I won't use mine to prepare you. Though I think you would much rather we both help out each other. Like friends, yes?" 

John stiffened for a moment, considering his options. This time when he pulls in Ivan's hand, the other's tight grip on his hair loosened. He was allowed to pull back and obediently part his lips and gracefully position ivan's cock so he could take it in his mouth. 

And Ivan immediately grips his hair again and rams into his throat, forcing John to his base. Maybe part of him really is sadistic like they all say, or maybe he just thinks that the American's eyes widened in shock are pretty. 

John's throat twitches as it's abused by Ivan's dick, but surprisingly the other doesn't choke.

A bitter smile curls over Ivan's lips. 

"Not only did you lie, and you do suck dick, but the great and powerful America has been sucking dick often. I wonder who… France? England?" 

Ivan can almost taste the disgust in the glare John shoots up at him. 

"Not England? Okay… don't tell me it was Ludwig." 

The warning graze of teeth is all ivan needs to know he's right, and something bitter twists in his chest. 

He takes two fistfuls of the American's sunny locks and begins to roughly fuck himself into the other's mouth.

"So you can bottom to me once you won, and you've taken it from a damn nazi after you won that war too. What's next? Does Japan use your slut mouth too?" 

John twists under him, starting to try and pull off. 

Ivan isn't done though. "Did even little Italy get a turn? What about Spain and Mexico? Haven't you had wars with them? And hm… I recall that silly little revolution of yours. Did your whore behavior start then? Maybe you fucked England in return for your freedom." 

America had no idea where this came from, but he had enough. He shoved ivan back so hard he smacked into the wall and cracked the wood. 

Ivan grunted as he felt his back hit the wall. He slid down it and wiped at the back of his head, which was now bleeding. 

Before he could do much, the American's muscular forearm was against his throat and he was pinned to the wall, blue eyes burning into his purple ones. 

"Quick question. Who did you fuck when you won that civil war of yours? Because I quite remember a CSA running around." 

"You just couldn't let us have this! You couldn't let us just have a good time!" Alfred snarled. 

"On the contrary. Despite suggesting it, you're not going to bottom without making me the villain. Without forcing me to force you. You want me to dominate you, but you're embarrassed so instead you push me into this role of your enemy. Because that's what you want. You want a bad guy, America." 

John paused, eyes widening. 

"Why can't we just have a repeat of The Mission?" Ivan asked, this time much quieter as he looked down, past the American's forearm. "Except with you trusting me enough to submit, just like I trusted you." 

Ivan didn't know why he was so emotional about this, it was honestly unlike him, but here they were. 

The normally noisy American fell silent to think. But the more he thought the more he realized he didn't want to answer any of those questions in his head. 

He pulled his forearm off of Ivan's now bruised throat, then slowly knelt down in front of ivan. He completely pulled loose Ivan's pants from his muscular hips then let them drop to the ground with a thunk. He parted his rosy lips again and pressed an ever so hesitant kiss to the head of Braginsky's dick. 

His eyes then flicked up to Ivan, who looked a whole mixture of emotions. Relief, surprise, and a daring look of… compassion? Like he was scared to let his ice heart be melted by something other than lust again. 

"If you pull my hair I'll bite your fucking cock off," Smith snarled. 

Ivan nodded, "Noted." 

John slowly started to bob up and down on the muscle, taking it at his own pace as he brought the Russian to a full erection. 

Eventually, the shorter man slipped off Ivan's cock with a pop of lips. And strangely enough it seems he had forgotten just how big ivan is. Let's just say that naming it after the world's biggest thermo-nuclear bomb was by no means to compensate. 

He looked back up to the other man and was surprised to see him somewhat a mess. Ivan had his knuckle in his mouth and was biting down as his hazy purple eyes stared down at alfred. And John could swear he hadn't been blushing that hard before then. 

It was almost a tender moment as their eyes met. Then Ivan decided to get a grip and he knelt down on John's level and pushed the other down so he could get between his legs. 

"Uh… ivan?" He asked as the other tugged on his jeans. Yeah, now it was his turn to go red. 

"Mm?" The muscular man hummed, seeming hard at work pulling John's legs up over his shoulders. 

"Ah… o-okay. I don't really have this done often. So I don't really know-," alfred started, only to get cut off as electricity shot through his nerves. "F-f-fuck!" He groaned, blue eyes rolling back as his body arched off the ground. Seems he wasn't the only experienced one here. 

Smith shoved his arm against his mouth to try and keep his noises muted, but it was hard. The russian's muscle pushing this way and stretching that way made his body twist and turn like a doll being played with. 

His other hand desperately clung to the floor and scraped across it, the concrete scraping up into dust. The scratches grew longer and longer as ivan pushed deeper and deeper. 

And for a split second Ivan's tongue was on the edge of white hot bliss for John when suddenly it was gone and he felt his whole body deflate. He felt a need hit. A desperate want to be filled. 

Ivan pulled back and trailed his tongue over the inside of Smith's muscular thigh and the American shuddered. 

"This is much better. You let your guard down and let yourself be loved, and it feels good. Just like it did for me. So, tell me Amerika," was it just John or did his accent get stronger? "what do you want from me?" 

"Sex," He supplied, but that wasn't enough for ivan. 

He yanked john down by his hips, and he sat up so his own could roll against the blonde's. "What do you want?" He asked again, rolling down and into John. 

"I want to fuck!" The American hissed, moving his own hips as his need grew stronger. 

Ivan rolled his hips forward, the underbelly of his cock rubbing against alfred's own. "What do you want?!" 

John wined but clamped his mouth shut. 

Ivan half smirked and half winced. The battle was on then, and the prize was hearing the proud American beg. 

He positioned his hips and teasingly pressed just a smidgeon against John's entrance, and John eagerly pushed back against him. That was all the confirmation ivan needed. He gripped the other's hips and slammed into him. 

John tossed his head back and cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as his body arched off the cold floor. 

But the moment of blindingly overwhelming sensation faded as Ivan sadistically just sat there in him. 

The American felt his toes curl and un-curl as he waited for movement but it didn't come. 

"Braginsky-," he snarled. 

"Tell me what you want," Ivan ordered.

"I already fucking said I want sex!" John shouted. 

"Wrong answer," Ivan told him, reaching forward to place a balancing hand on John's bruised collar. 

"Nnngh!" The American whined, moving his hips to try and get some sort of friction. "Move, Damn it!" 

"That's not what I need to here," Ivan purred, honestly finding this somewhat cute. 

"Fuck me!" John finally shouted, "Fuck me now!" 

Ivan laughed lightly to himself. America was always so eloquent with his words. 

Slowly he started to roll his hips, and he saw John bite down on his bottom lip and stretch his head back, "Mmm~!" 

Ivan couldn't help the slight flush that came to his cheeks. He didn't really expect it, but John enjoying this -enjoying him- was just so utterly arousing. 

"Braginsky. Pick up the pace, would you?" The shorter man asked, tossing his arms up above his head and basking in the waves of pleasure. 

Russia laughed at the almost flip in demeanor after the other had gotten over his reservations. Not that he didn't have his own masculinity issues when it came to bottoming. But it was almost cute to see America like this, and part of him wondered and hoped he was the only one to ever see this side of the blonde. 

"Of course, Fredka," Ivan nearly sung like a happy song bird. 

America cracked an eye open as the use of his admiral alias instead of his more common one with a captain's rank.

A moment later though, both eyes were forced closed as sweet pleasure shot through his body. 

Here he was, the winner of their nearly 45 year long spitting match, and letting himself be taken by Russia. 

It was bizarre, and honestly not something that had happened before. Despite Ivan's earlier musings… but there was an intimacy between them both that John shared with no one else. 

It was in when they met on the border between their sides of Germany, Ivan with the plans to the V2 and John with Braun and even Germany himself. Despite Kenedy not even being elected yet, let alone having made his speech, it was like they both knew where they would take humanity next. 

And in them passing data between themselves from space launches through the beginning of what would become the internet. Even despite the competitive nature of the space race, their scientists worked together to protect astronaut lives. 

And even in the Cuban Missile Crisis. Himself and Ivan had been put on the phone, and what did they talk about for the most tense moment in all of human history? Ivan talked about ballet. He said he would miss his people's recitals, and alfred agreed. He would miss sitting on the lake with a dog and casting a line and watching his people play in the water. 

So often John didn't want to think. He buried buzzing memories and pushy questions under war, sex, and alcohol. But being with Russia forced him to think; forced him to face things and come to realizations. 

And he was thinking now that it must have taken a genuine challenge for him to ever have this intimacy with anyone. 

It took the ability to not only kill each other, but everyone they cared about too, to force these two personifications to find kinship in their humanity. 

John was drawn out of his thoughts when soft lips met his own. 

It always caught him off guard what a gentle kisser Ivan could be when he wanted to. 

"Mm Vanya-," John groaned out in the split second between their kisses, and even in the dim light of the fireplace and the setting sun he could see Ivan turn a bright red. 

Ivan ran his calloused fingers through the other's short hair and pulled back to look over his work. 

"You're so different right now, when you're allowing yourself to relax. It's like you've circled from the hard side you show your enemies, back to the carefree side you show your friends. Does that make me a friend?" 

[kristinsimmons]

CMS Quietly Launches an Offensive Against Direct Primary Care

By NIRAN AL-AGBA, MD

Our healthcare system is self-destructing, a fact made more obvious every single day.  A few years ago, a number of brave physicians who were fed up with administrative burden, burnout, and obstacles to providing care for patients started a movement –known as Direct Primary Care (DPC.)  This is an innovative practice model where the payment arrangement is directly between a patient and their physician, leaving third parties, such as insurance or government agencies, completely out of the equation. 

The rapidly growing number of DPC physicians have organized into a group called the DPC Coalition (DPCC); suddenly, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid (CMS) is paying attention.  As of February 2018, there are 770 DPC practices across the United States with new clinics opening each week as brave physicians leave the “system” behind, never looking back. Breaking free from the chains of insurance and government, this group is restoring the practice of medicine to its core, a relationship between a physician and their patient.    

CMS understands there is a problem with the way Medicare services are being delivered to tax payers; it turns out their idyllic version of “high quality” care is not as affordable as they predicted.  All evidence indicates the DPC model is not only capable of generating significant cost reduction, but also saving the federal government billions if administered on a large-enough scale.  As fewer physicians accept Medicare and convert to DPC practices, CMS wants a piece of the pie. 

CMS has chosen to hold focus groups in four cities, two meetings occurred in Boston and Dallas this past week; two more will be held in Denver on February 19th and 20th, and in Seattle on February 21st and 22nd.  One day is for independent FFS physicians and the other is for DPC physicians.  Last week, questions for the groups were reportedly: “what do you think is wrong with Medicare,” “what needs to change,” and “what will make it better?”  I find this approach patronizing as the majority of DPC docs (and many FFS) have OPTED OUT of Medicare entirely.

Two physician organizations supporting the DPC model are the American Academy of Family Physicians (AAFP) and the Direct Primary Care Coalition (DPCC.)  Representatives from both organizations were secretly present at the “listening sessions” last week, however neither organization openly disclosed the CMS meeting to their general membership.  These organizations should work to preserve and protect physician autonomy rather than invite the government to the table and conceal that fact from their membership. 

DPC physicians already opted out of government control.  Why on earth would DPCC and AAFP entertain inviting a third party back into the fold? While some members of AAFP or DPCC might be interested in a Medicare program that incorporates DPC, the vast majority of the small independents are vehemently opposed to this approach. 

Sun Tzu once said all war is based on deception.  Wise commanders take measures to force opponents to react only to the wrong circumstances. Diversionary attacks, feints, and decoys are effective tactics.  CMS has incorporated a new one, raising the false flag — an ancient ploy where ships were permitted to fly the enemy flag, so long as they raised one with their true colors just prior to attacking their foe.

One year ago, CMS introduced their “value-based” care model at the listening session I attended.  Now, CMS insinuated themselves into the leadership at the AAFP and the DPCC before unveiling their Direct Primary Care Prototype pilot program.  DPC physicians are satisfied with their practice model, who asked for a pilot program?  CMS has realized they need one.  They have designed a prototype which requires that physicians re-enroll in Medicare (capture), accept pre-determined payments of $90-120/monthly based on patient age and complexity (control), and entails submission of patient data for payment (capitulation.)   What appears on the surface to be a DPC-friendly endeavor will destroy the system from the inside. 

The DPC movement offers the first successful and innovative alternative health care approach to emerge in years.  CMS is focusing on physician capture, control, and capitulation, yet should not underestimate the fortitude of independent physicians.  We are steadfast, experienced in trench warfare, and refuse to succumb to their demands.  We will continue to fight relentlessly against mounting administrative burdens which interfere with the provision of patient care.   CMS will raise the flag with their true colors before long.  If you own a DPC or micro-practice, do not be fooled by this wolf in sheep’s clothing.  Stand strong and remain resolute.  Government, insurers, and hospitals will try to silence us, but physicians are absolutely essential to the delivery of proper healthcare.  Make no mistake, CMS is the enemy of independent physicians everywhere and our best defense is to have a good offense – leading with transparency to our patients and the public. 

If you are a physician who has been invited to these clandestine CMS listening sessions, have information to share, or wish to anonymously assist Denver or Seattle physicians who have not been invited to attend, please reach out on Twitter to me @silverdalepeds, or contact @IndDrs (Association for Independent Doctors), @IP4PI (independent physicians for patient independence), or @PPA_USA (Practicing Physicians of America.) 

This post was authored in collaboration with independent physicians who wish to remain anonymous.  May the force be with you all in the challenging days ahead.

CMS Quietly Launches an Offensive Against Direct Primary Care published first on https://wittooth.tumblr.com/

[isaacscrawford]

CMS Quietly Launches an Offensive Against Direct Primary Care

By NIRAN AL-AGBA, MD

Our healthcare system is self-destructing, a fact made more obvious every single day.  A few years ago, a number of brave physicians who were fed up with administrative burden, burnout, and obstacles to providing care for patients started a movement –known as Direct Primary Care (DPC.)  This is an innovative practice model where the payment arrangement is directly between a patient and their physician, leaving third parties, such as insurance or government agencies, completely out of the equation. 

The rapidly growing number of DPC physicians have organized into a group called the DPC Coalition (DPCC); suddenly, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid (CMS) is paying attention.  As of February 2018, there are 770 DPC practices across the United States with new clinics opening each week as brave physicians leave the “system” behind, never looking back. Breaking free from the chains of insurance and government, this group is restoring the practice of medicine to its core, a relationship between a physician and their patient.    

CMS understands there is a problem with the way Medicare services are being delivered to tax payers; it turns out their idyllic version of “high quality” care is not as affordable as they predicted.  All evidence indicates the DPC model is not only capable of generating significant cost reduction, but also saving the federal government billions if administered on a large-enough scale.  As fewer physicians accept Medicare and convert to DPC practices, CMS wants a piece of the pie. 

CMS has chosen to hold focus groups in four cities, two meetings occurred in Boston and Dallas this past week; two more will be held in Denver on February 19th and 20th, and in Seattle on February 21st and 22nd.  One day is for independent FFS physicians and the other is for DPC physicians.  Last week, questions for the groups were reportedly: “what do you think is wrong with Medicare,” “what needs to change,” and “what will make it better?”  I find this approach patronizing as the majority of DPC docs (and many FFS) have OPTED OUT of Medicare entirely.

Two physician organizations supporting the DPC model are the American Academy of Family Physicians (AAFP) and the Direct Primary Care Coalition (DPCC.)  Representatives from both organizations were secretly present at the “listening sessions” last week, however neither organization openly disclosed the CMS meeting to their general membership.  These organizations should work to preserve and protect physician autonomy rather than invite the government to the table and conceal that fact from their membership. 

DPC physicians already opted out of government control.  Why on earth would DPCC and AAFP entertain inviting a third party back into the fold? While some members of AAFP or DPCC might be interested in a Medicare program that incorporates DPC, the vast majority of the small independents are vehemently opposed to this approach. 

Sun Tzu once said all war is based on deception.  Wise commanders take measures to force opponents to react only to the wrong circumstances. Diversionary attacks, feints, and decoys are effective tactics.  CMS has incorporated a new one, raising the false flag — an ancient ploy where ships were permitted to fly the enemy flag, so long as they raised one with their true colors just prior to attacking their foe.

One year ago, CMS introduced their “value-based” care model at the listening session I attended.  Now, CMS insinuated themselves into the leadership at the AAFP and the DPCC before unveiling their Direct Primary Care Prototype pilot program.  DPC physicians are satisfied with their practice model, who asked for a pilot program?  CMS has realized they need one.  They have designed a prototype which requires that physicians re-enroll in Medicare (capture), accept pre-determined payments of $90-120/monthly based on patient age and complexity (control), and entails submission of patient data for payment (capitulation.)   What appears on the surface to be a DPC-friendly endeavor will destroy the system from the inside. 

The DPC movement offers the first successful and innovative alternative health care approach to emerge in years.  CMS is focusing on physician capture, control, and capitulation, yet should not underestimate the fortitude of independent physicians.  We are steadfast, experienced in trench warfare, and refuse to succumb to their demands.  We will continue to fight relentlessly against mounting administrative burdens which interfere with the provision of patient care.   CMS will raise the flag with their true colors before long.  If you own a DPC or micro-practice, do not be fooled by this wolf in sheep’s clothing.  Stand strong and remain resolute.  Government, insurers, and hospitals will try to silence us, but physicians are absolutely essential to the delivery of proper healthcare.  Make no mistake, CMS is the enemy of independent physicians everywhere and our best defense is to have a good offense – leading with transparency to our patients and the public. 

If you are a physician who has been invited to these clandestine CMS listening sessions, have information to share, or wish to anonymously assist Denver or Seattle physicians who have not been invited to attend, please reach out on Twitter to me @silverdalepeds, or contact @IndDrs (Association for Independent Doctors), @IP4PI (independent physicians for patient independence), or @PPA_USA (Practicing Physicians of America.) 

This post was authored in collaboration with independent physicians who wish to remain anonymous.  May the force be with you all in the challenging days ahead.

Article source:The Health Care Blog

[friend-clarity]

Why are schools brainwashing our children?

Why are schools brainwashing our children?

Protesting oil pipelines, celebrating polygamy: is the new ‘social justice’ agenda in class pushing politics at the expense of learning?

Cynthia Reynolds

October 31, 2012

http://www.macleans.ca/news/canada/why-are-schools-brainwashing-our-children/

To those who don’t keep up with education trends, certain recent events might appear to be unrelated. In May, a Grade 3 class in Toronto took to the streets with signs and an oversized papier mâché oil pipeline to protest the laying of an actual pipeline in western Canada. Last year, in Toronto, first-graders brought home student planners marked with the international days of zero tolerance on female genital mutilation and ending violence against sex workers, a means to spark conversation on the issues. In Laval, Que., a six-year-old boy was disqualified from a teddy-bear contest because a Ziploc was found in his lunch instead of a reusable container. In Ste-Marie-de-Kent, N.B., in 2009, Grade 4 students were given 10 minutes to decide which three people from this group should be saved from an imminent planetary explosion: a black African, a Chinese person, an Aboriginal, an Acadian francophone and an anglophone.

These are just a handful of examples of the more peculiar by-products of a vision gaining ground among many education architects: an elementary school education rooted in social-justice principles. Increasingly, faculties of education in Canada and much of the Western world are preparing their student teachers to weave social justice throughout the primary school curriculum—in math and science, language arts and social studies, drama and even gym—as well as into a range of cross-curricular activities, events and projects. The idea is to encourage kids to become critical analysts of contemporary issues, empathetic defenders of human rights and gatekeepers of the beleaguered Earth.

But social justice—which encompasses diversity, sustainability, global affairs and issues of race and class—is a broad term with varying interpretations. It can manifest in wildly different ways. In the hands of one teacher, social justice might entail teaching kids to care for the Earth by having them plant trees in the schoolyard. Another might have the same children write letters to the government about the environmental effects of mining, urging it to reform how mining claims are processed—part of an actual Grade 4 lesson plan created at the University of Ottawa.

When it comes to the question of what’s appropriate to broach with young children, conflicts abound. Last month, Toronto parents were incensed to learn that the Toronto District School Board web page promoting health education included a link to an organization that suggested kids explore their sexuality by experimenting with sex toys and vegetables. The board has since removed the link. Sometimes the social-justice push can just come off as old-fashioned political correctness: the Durham Board of Education in Ontario came under fire for discouraging the terms “wife” and “husband” in class in favour of the gender-neutral “spouse,” and the words “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” in favour of “partner.” And in the name of inclusiveness, some school boards include Wiccan holidays in their school calendars. But because there are no clear guidelines, things can also really go awry. In March, a U.K. school banned “best friends” because that made other kids feel left out. In May, a six-year-old boy in Denver was suspended for singing the pop anthem I’m Sexy and I Know It to a female classmate, violating the school’s sexual-harassment policy.

Between the mounting examples of how social-justice education can go wrong, and the passionate defences from those responsible for training teachers, who believe their vision has never been more important, the fight is growing over what’s going on in primary school classrooms. It’s just the newest battle over an age-old question: who gets to decide the best way to educate our young?

What is not debatable is the growing commitment to social justice within our education faculties. Social justice in education is a trend that has come and gone over the past century, but nowadays one can specialize in it at teachers’ college, and there are courses and textbooks instructing teachers on how to approach the subject in the classroom. Its proponents argue that today’s students are especially in need of it: a growing mandate to integrate special-education students into mainstream classrooms requires better understanding from children; a new awareness of the effects of bullying puts the onus on teachers to inculcate empathy in students; and increased diversity in the classroom can fuel intolerance from all sides.

“The classroom has completely changed,” says Rita Irwin, associate dean of teacher education at the University of British Columbia. “We need to prepare teachers to deal with that.” To that end, the UBC faculty of education has implemented its revamped curriculum, which builds a social-justice component into every teacher-education course, so that would-be teachers can follow the same approach in their classrooms. By repeating the themes of tolerance and empathy throughout the curriculum, teachers have a better shot of reaching their students, Irwin argues.

Some advocates make more ambitious appeals for the importance of a moral education. Last spring, James Banks, professor of diversity studies at the University of Washington in Seattle, spoke to an audience of teachers at a symposium in Toronto called “Activism in Education: Pushing Limits in Increasingly Conservative Times.” He reminded them that even well-educated people can be persuaded to do terrible things. He spoke of the horrors of Nazi Germany, and how despite their high levels of literacy and numeracy, so many citizens succumbed to its evil. “There’s more to education than teaching literacy and numeracy,” Banks said. Against the last century’s backdrop of human-rights abuses, war atrocities and environmental devastation, today’s education architects argue, we have a duty to provide a moral, socially conscious education.

The University of Ottawa faculty of education prepares its teachers-in-training to tackle some of those controversial topics head-on. Several lesson plans written by its students are made available for teachers on its Developing a Global Perspective for Educators website. For instance, in a Grade 1 science lesson, students contemplate what will happen to the Earth if pollution continues. In a cross-curricular lesson plan about the effects of mining coltan (a precious metal) in the Democratic Republic of Congo, Grade 4s watch a video that includes explicit shots of dead gorillas. They then create statements for their local news about how mining hurts the animals. In Grade 5, they learn how their Playstations and iPods may contain coltan and how mining it contributes to the creation of child soldiers. A social-studies lesson requires Grade 6 students to analyze the unfairness of global trade, and evaluate the roles of the World Trade Organizationand NAFTA.

That may all sound like a lot to throw at grade schoolers, and the organization’s acting director, associate professor Nicholas Ng-A-Fook, acknowledges the potential for controversy but argues that real-world contention helps engage kids in the classroom—they’re intrigued, they listen, they participate.

Indigo Esmonde, assistant professor at OISE, University of Toronto’s education faculty, raises a common criticism of the approach. “We hear that we’re brainwashing kids,” says Esmonde, who specializes in math education. Esmonde counters that from the time kids are young, they’re inundated with information, with numbers and statistics that can be easily manipulated to push a certain world view. For Esmonde, a grounding in social-justice math, for instance, helps kids learn to question numbers—whatever their conclusions might be. She cites a Toronto school that conducts an annual math-based garbage audit to test whether its school is truly succeeding with its litter-free lunch policy. Sometimes a political motive behind some lessons is obvious, however. For instance, OISE’s website features a Grade 5 math lesson on government budgets that culminates in students writing letters to MPPs advocating changes in spending priorities. Though not explicitly partisan, it juxtaposes the money spent on the war in Afghanistan with the money spent on poverty—and that does suggest a certain point of view.

It raises an important question: in engaging in controversial topics, are children being taught a mix of perspectives? “Social justice” generally entails a strongly progressive bent, and the idea of political manipulation creates fiercely negative reactions among parents. Andy Shapiera, a father of two in Toronto, was frustrated after learning that his son’s Grade 1 teacher had a poster for PETA hanging in the classroom. “What if you’re a family in agriculture and suddenly you have to explain why you kill cows for a living? The schools have no business discussing hot-button topics with kids that age. That’s the parents’ call.” It’s the same reaction some parents had to the TDSB’s Love Has No Gender poster in schools that included, alongside heterosexual and same-sex couples, pictures of relationships comprising two men and a woman, as well as two women and a man. Love apparently has no number either, the message seemed to be.

Not surprisingly, the new educational approach in the classroom and school hallways is starting to cause a small firestorm. Politicians are beginning to weigh in. Earlier this year, Tory MPP Rob Milligan spoke out against the Grade 3 Toronto class protesting the oil pipeline, calling it “brainwashing” and “an abuse of power.”

Middle-school teacher David Stocker has heard those arguments. He is the author of the textbook Math That Matters: A Teacher Resource for Linking Math and Social Justice, for Grades 6 to 9, which ups the political ante with math problems related to such issues as workers’ rights, racial profiling and homophobia. He’s also no stranger to controversy—he and his wife made international headlines last year after announcing they intended to raise their third child, Storm, genderless. Stocker is frank about his political stance. “All material carries bias of some sort,” he writes in the introduction. “Really the question is whether or not we want to spend time educating for peace and social justice. If we do, let’s admit that bias and get to work.”

The issue that critics have, even those who share the political perspective, is about the age group concerned. “Once they hit high school,” says Shapiera, “students are mature enough to have their own opinions without the influence of the school. For me, it’s not so much whether a political issue needs to be discussed, but when.” And when it’s up to individual teachers to make that call, the results can be risky. Jeanne Williams of Edmonton has seen this in action. As a parent of two boys, Williams was mostly pleased with the school-based social-justice initiatives her sons participated in. But as a child psychologist, Williams has also witnessed how it can backfire. She’s treated several kids for anxiety that she says is directly connected to what they learned at the school, particularly related to the idea that environmental destruction will ultimately end the world. “Kids need to feel safe. It’s an important part of the brain growing normally,” she says. “If children feel safe, they’re more likely to grow up to be stronger and self-confident.”

Psychologist Robin Grille, the author of Parenting for a Peaceful World, adds that getting too political in elementary school, where the power differential between teacher and student is vast, verges on manipulation. “You can’t use children as cannon fodder for your cause,” says Grille. “How do you know these young kids aren’t just parroting what their teacher is telling them? How easy would it be to get them to protest, say, abortion? How much are the young truly able to make up their own minds?” That question particularly comes into play in the context of the classroom, where they’re being graded. Grille argues that kids need to develop emotionally before they can develop politically.

There’s another criticism of the approach, articulated by a conservative commentator in Surrey, B.C., on his Just Right blog. “Schools are failing at their primary job, which is to educate,” he notes in a post about social-justice education. That’s a point that crosses political lines: does too much time devoted to social justice divert attention from academic achievement and ironically promote a gross social injustice: students ill-prepared to contend with a complicated and competitive world? After all, an education that teaches kids to think for themselves should surely allow them to apply critical thinking to everything around them, including global issues, social inequalities and the like.

Teachers, too, can struggle with the mandate. With little on-the-ground guidance about how to actually implement a social-justice lesson that won’t incite parents or frighten kids, they can make well-intentioned choices with terrible consequences. Last year, in Georgia, a teacher resigned after families complained about Grade 4 math homework that had kids calculating how many beatings a slave received in a week. The lesson was part of the teacher’s mandate to reinforce a history unit on slavery in America.

For teachers uncomfortable with coming up with their own social-justice lesson plans, a safer option may be using one designed for them, but that’s no guarantee of success, either. For instance, in partnership with the Elementary Teachers’ Federation of Ontario, Springtide Resources, a Toronto-based organization that works to prevent abuse against women and children, has created a package of lesson plans. While few would argue with the organization’s mandate, some of its lessons might disturb parents: in one, Grade 4s read Uncle Willy’s Tickles to initiate a class-wide conversation about abuse; the package also includes a personal safety plan that children fill out, in case they’re ever abused.

Elementary school teacher Rhonda Philpott, who also lectures part-time at Simon Fraser University’s faculty of education, is a social-justice veteran. She’s incorporated that angle into her teaching for more than 25 years, and sees how tricky this territory can be to traverse, especially for new teachers. While some teachers, she says, shy away from the more provocative discussions for fear of antagonizing parents or disconcerting administrators, others jump in without thinking. “Those who insert activities randomly might find that those activities can literally backfire—and both students and teachers may be unprepared for any emotional reactions or resistance,” Philpott says. “You can’t walk into a classroom and just start a social-justice activity. It takes trust.”

Indeed, negotiating the new mandate demands care and sensitivity. “Teachers will have to weigh the potential for conflict against the importance of the topic,” says U of Ottawa professor Ng-A-Fook. “Ultimately, you have to know your students, and teachers may need to collaborate with parents, because you don’t want to offend families or traumatize kids.”