#and my electric wiring is original I think which means I can’t run a space heater because it’ll blow all the fuses

[leosgreyfringe]

it’s so cold…it’s going to snow tomorrow and the heat in my building still hasn’t been turned on

[qqueenofhades]

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! ����

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

[zargsnake]

Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 7: Jane

Word Count: 2217 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

 *   *   *

Freed, with the help of the little screwdriver Anakin gave her, on the lower floor of the space station, Zlinky uses the nearest control panel to disable the local electricity. The already dark lower-prison hall turns completely black.

As an Akarn, Zlinky has a third eye in the middle of her forehead which can adapt to almost any environment. Many droids have night vision too, but Zlinky has observed from her time in captivity that droids are poorly kept here. Knightkiller, with her telepathic powers and abundant riches, holds sway over the organic beings in her employment; the guards and patrons here are all devoted to her. But Knightkiller has neglected her mechanical servants. They are all falling into disrepair, and Zlinky has even detected them grumbling among themselves.

People forget too easily that droids, nowadays, have extremely advanced personalities. Adults underestimate how independently-minded their droids can be. But children understand. They have never known droids to be any other way.

Zlinky sneaks down the hall, past the fumbling guards. Other prisoners soon realize that their own electrobars have become deactivated, and they start to emerge into the hallway too, their arms outstretched in front of them, tripping and feeling their way through the dark. Zlinky maneuvers through them with a small measure of grace and a large measure of scrutiny.

Lightsabers, lightsabers, lightsabers, lightsabers, lightsabers. I must find all four. Once we've found them, we'll be unstoppable.

Suddenly, a guard grabs her from behind. A Togruta -- he must have used echolocation. Zlinky squirms against his arms, then stabs behind her wildly with the screwdriver. She isn't sure where she hit him -- the stomach, possibly. But he howls in pain and loosens his grip. She slithers out and leaps, calling upon the Force to help her. She hits her head on the hallway ceiling, but the ploy, otherwise, works. Holding her head, she stumbles around the corner and sees a door marked “Storage.”

Maybe our lightsabers are here? Well, SOMETHING useful must be in here! All I have now is this flimsy little tool.

But she does feel extremely grateful for the little screwdriver, and she hopes Anakin will let her keep it. She would call it good luck, if she believed in that stuff. Instead, she'll call it exceedingly useful. She picks the lock to the storage room with the screwdriver, which takes a frighteningly long minute, dashes inside, and shuts the door behind her.

Zlinky sees cabinets and closets and boxes full of files and records, piles of office and medical supplies. Who would think running a death sport would be so bureaucratic? The haphazardness offends her Temple-trained sensibilities.

But most importantly, she sees, in the corner, a rusted old murder-droid, missing much of its plating and bent over in disrepair. Its shape is about as humanoid as her own, though a couple feet taller. Compassion moves her to approach it. She sees that someone has scribbled a face with two X's for eyes and a frown on a little yellow piece of paper and taped it over the murder-droid's face to signify its death. She yanks the paper off and examines the droid’s busted innards.

There's a flipzipter. A gavel gear. A pair of old-fashioned mono-trammers. It's really not too different from the diner-droids on which she learned robotic engineering. A gunky substance has clogged its gears; she tries to scrape it off with the screwdriver, but she can't get a grip on it with that. She takes a nervous glance at the bulky laser blasters on its back, then plunges her own claws into its chest and scoops out the goop. She pulls out a burnt-up square of metal which was caught in the goop; upon closer inspection, she guesses that it used to be a memory chip. Oh well -- it's useless now. She bends the flipzipter back into its standard position, and reattaches the wires that had become unplugged from it.

With a tiny jolt of electricity that shoots through the Padawan and makes any hairs loose from her braid stick out, the murder-droid wakes up, its red eyes the only light in the darkness.

“ʙʟᴢᴢᴋᴢᴢɢᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀ! ᴀᴀᴀᴀʜ!! AAAAAHHHH!!!! ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ?! ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴏɴ?! ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ?!”

“Shhh!” Zlinky pulls her sticky hands out of its chest and throws them on top of its mouth-slot -- her mouth-slot, she supposes, since the droid has a feminine voice. “Keep it down! The badguys are looking for me!”

In a muffled voice, the murder-droid responds, “ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ YOU! ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ME?”

“Well you SHOULD care about me! I just saved your life!”

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅ?”

“Yeah, I repaired you, you ungrateful bucket of bolts!”

The murder-droid issues whirring noises from several parts. “ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴍʏ ʟᴇɢꜱ!”

“Well I'm not finished! I just started! And if you don't keep it down I never will!”

The murder-droid narrows the dots of light that project her eyes. “ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ?”

“Well... I'll check your brain-text, but I'm not optimistic.” Zlinky unscrews a panel on the side of the droid’s head. “Yeah. It's like I thought. You've been pirated. They scraped off your original ID number.”

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ?! ʙᴜᴛ -- ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ!”

“Nobody's nothing. They must have called you something. Unfortunately, at least one of your memory chips has melted. I think.”

With a squeaking sound, the murder-droid raises her claw to her forehead. “ᴏʜ... ᴍʏ ꜰʀᴀɢɪʟᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ…”

“Hey, don't worry about it. These bozos didn't respect you, but you're with the Jedi now.”

“ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴇᴅɪ?”

“Yeah, like me! I'm a Jedi! My name is Zlinky Zalt.”

“ᴠᴇʀʏ ʀᴜᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴀᴜɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏɴᴇ.”

“Uh, sorry. Well, let's find you a name; what do you do--?”

Zlinky accidentally zaps herself with an open wire and bites her lip in a grimace.

The murder-droid’s eyes become scattered dots that beep quickly and softly. “ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ... ᴍᴀɪɴꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ ... ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ: NEUTRALIZE.”

“Neutralize?”

Her eyes flicker back to solid red. “ᴀꜰꜰɪʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ.”

“Neutralize what?”

Her eyes become scattering dots again. “ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ... ᴍᴀɪɴꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ ... ʜᴀʀᴅᴡᴀʀᴇ ... ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍꜱ ... ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅ ... ʙᴢᴢᴛ ... ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ... ‘ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ’ ... ‘ᴛᴀʀɢᴇᴛ’ ... вzzт ... b҉z҉z҉t҉ ... ᴛᴀʀɢᴇᴛ: ERROR.” Her eyes flicker back to red, but with the sides tilted down in sorrow. “ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏʀʀᴜᴘᴛᴇᴅ.”

“Hey, it's okay. The Jedi can get you a new purpose. As long as your programming isn't hopelessly violent…”

“ᴡʜᴇɴ? ʜᴏᴡ ꜱᴏᴏɴ?”

“Well I don't know. As soon as I can get you back to the Temple.”

“ʟᴇᴛ’ꜱ ɢᴏ.” The murder-droid stands up straight.

“Wait!” Zlinky pulls some wires apart.

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ʟᴇɢꜱ! ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪxᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ!”

“Yeah, I did. Your purpose right now is to stay put.”

“ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴡᴀꜱᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ.”

“Deal with it. Patience is an ability, too.”

“ɪꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴊᴇᴅɪ ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ.”

“Fine. Do you want me to shut you down again?”

“ʙᴜᴢᴢ ʙᴜᴢᴢ ʙᴜᴢᴢ, ɢʀᴜᴍᴍᴍm҉m҉m̵̧̌̍͋̆b̸̧̙͈͈̓̌̌ĺ̵͕͔͇͔͎̠̗͈͍ͅe̷̖͎̳͖̬̅́…”

“I'll take that as a no.” The droid is silent as Zlinky works on her. “I'm sorry we're not at the Temple right now. Believe me, I want to be there far more than you do.”

“ɪ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ꜰʟᴜx.”

I have to repair her mind AND her body! thinks Zlinky.

“Uh, okay, listen. How about I give you a temporary name and a temporary mission right now. Just to tide you over until we get back home. Er, I mean, back to the Temple.”

“ʜʀʀᴜᴍᴍʜʜᴘᴘʙᴢᴢᴢ ʙᴢᴢᴛ ʙᴇᴇᴘ ʙᴇᴇᴘ.”

Zlinky spins a cog and sees a panel of lights in the droid’s guts turn on. She thinks she’s nearly got her -- then she hears the weapons on the droid's back powering on. The young girl swallows nervously.

“Okay, your temporary mission is to protect me and the three other Jedi: my master Tila Juna, a 500-year-old gray Lollian with one broken horn -- Anakin Skywalker, a 9-year-old human with pink skin and yellow hair and blue eyes -- and -- uh -- his master too.”

“ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ ɪɴꜱᴛᴀʟʟɪ-- ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ. ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪꜰʏ ꜰᴏᴜʀᴛ�� ᴊᴇᴅɪ!”

“I can't! I don't remember their name! I'll know them when I see them.”

“ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟʟʏ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴊᴇᴅɪ?”

“Well, first of all, only neutralize when absolutely necessary.”

“... ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ... ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀᴛɪʙʟᴇ ... ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍɪɴɢ.”

“Oh gimme a break!”

Maybe this is a mistake, thinks Zlinky. I don't want to go on a rampage. But I must get out of here! I have to get back to Tila! That's my top priority!

“Look, I'm very sneaky,” Zlinky says, reassuringly. “You might not have to neutralize anyone. You just have to protect me.”

“... ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ, ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɢʀᴀꜰᴛ ᴀ ᴅᴇꜰᴇɴꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴏꜰꜰᴇɴꜱɪᴠᴇ ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍꜱ.”

Zlinky replies, smugly, “Well I do it every day. That's what being a Jedi is all about! Protecting the innocent, defending the law!”

“... ʙʟʀʀʀɢɢɢɢ.” The droid’s eyes become one annoyed horizontal line of dots. “ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ ... ᴀʟɪɢɴɪɴɢ ... ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ ɪɴꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ.”

“Oh come on, grow up. It's good to be the hero.”

“ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ‘ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴏʀᴀʀʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ,’ ᴛᴏᴏ.”

“Yeeeah. I did. Um ... Jedi ... Jedi ... Temple ... Temple Bot? Teebee?”

The murder-droid shudders. “ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɪᴅᴅɪɴɢ? ᴛᴇᴇʙᴇᴇ?”

“What's wrong with Teebee?”

“ɪ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴛ.”

“Beggars can't be choosers.”

“ɪᴅ: REJECTED. ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ: ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀᴛɪʙʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍɪɴɢ. ᴛᴏᴏ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴀʙʟᴇ.”

“Jedi Bot? Jaybee?”

Goop dribbles out of the droid’s mouth slot.

“Alright then... Neutralize. Neutralizer. Jedi ... Jedi Neutralizer. No. Wait. That sounds wrong.”

“ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ,” the murder-droid says quickly.

“Ah, wait!”

“ᴊᴇᴅɪ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟɪᴢᴇʀ.”

Zlinky sighs. “Fine. Jedi Neutralizer. JN.”

“ᴊɴ. ᴊᴀɴᴇ.”

“Jane?”

“ᴊᴀɴᴇ. ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ,” the droid repeats.

“Me too,” Zlinky responds, truthfully.

As soon as Jane is functionally repaired, Zlinky finds her a battery pack, since they have no time to recharge her. She looks around for a new memory card, but finds nothing. Oh, well. Jane will just have a very short-term memory until they find new hardware for her. Without the card, she can't have any more than one gig of memory. Zlinky will just have to keep reminding her that her name is Jane and her purpose is to protect the four Jedi. Zlinky fears that Jane will forget this and kill her on accident. That would be very ironic. But for now, Zlinky is glad to have her.

Once they leave the storage room, Zlinky points to a guard and begins to command Jane to knock them out, but Jane has already blasted them.

“Ah! Are they alive?” Zlinky whispers in terror.

“ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. ʜᴏᴡ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ?”

Zlinky cautiously approaches the body. “...They're alive. Keep your blaster at exactly that setting, okay? Don't change anything.”

“ᴀꜰꜰɪʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ.”

“Great.”

She tugs the armor off the guard and puts it on herself. Together, they quietly leave the lower prison in absolute chaos and locate the space station employee break room and quarters across a hall. Zlinky finds a station map on the employee computer, which someone had, happily, left logged in.

She finally gets a good look at the layout of the station. The lower floor has a prison and under-arena logistical areas; the main floor has the arena, gladiator rooms, and the best seating; and the upper floor has another prison and the balcony cheap seats.

She searches for where Knightkiller could be. Tila recognized Knightkiller as her old friend Glagret, and told her Padawan so before they were separated. Zlinky knows that the key to escaping, and to stopping this whole evil enterprise, is Glagret. Why has she turned evil? Why did she gather all these crooks together? Why is she mind-tricking Jedi children?

Zlinky figures there must be something controlling her. She imagines striking the implement off the old alien’s brain and rescuing her, restoring her to her true, good self.

What happened 400 years ago on the Liberated Comet? If she was alive, why didn't she come back?

One Padawan and one droid probably don't stand a chance against her.

Zlinky sees in the screen projection that Obi-Wan is fighting in the arena, and Tila is being held as bait. Zlinky wonders why Anakin isn't. She guesses, with a heavy heart, that Obi-Wan was so stubborn about playing along that they killed Anakin in retribution. She feels her guts writhe with fear and anger at the thought. The boy was so kind, and clever, and so very strong in the Force, strong enough to resist a mind-trick -- unheard of at his age -- even though it was stupid of him to try. Perhaps his last legacy is the screwdriver. She will not let him die in vain.

Unless, of course, he's still alive. She wonders if, perhaps, he escaped, just as she has…

She hears an ominous whirring sound, drifting away.

“Jane! Don't wander off.” Zlinky grabs Jane’s rifle-barrel and pulls her back to her side. “Stay with me. You must protect me; it is your purpose.”

“ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ?”

“... Call me Guard.”

“ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ʀɪɢʜᴛ.”

Zlinky looks around nervously at the other guards. She grabs Jane's head and whispers into her audio-slot. “Zlinky Zalt. But don't say so. I'm in disguise right now. So shhh.”

“ᴀʜʜʜʜ. ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ.”

“Uh, good.” The confidence in Jane's voice makes Zlinky doubt that Jane has any idea what's going on. She shakes her head and continues looking at this map.

Chapter 8: Priorities

[darker-side-fanfiction]

🔧Cyberpunk: Android Yukimura: Part 3

Part 3: Tis but a scratch.

Trigger warnings: mention of past torture, abuse, noncon body alteration, abuse...if someone thinks I missed something, lmk.

What are emotions again and why do we have a past if not to inform the present? Nothing can be quite so simple though, can it?

❤️Story beneath the cut:❤️

Shadows claimed corners, odd shapes taking on alarming qualities whereby the imagination is given permission to run rampant. There was a light directly overhead where he’d been seated, but his hand wouldn’t be shielding his eyes from its glare. He felt like he was back in an interrogation room, though oddly he couldn’t remember when or why he’d last been in one.

What was visible beside him couldn’t be described as anything except instruments of torture. For a droid, that is. Spanners, wrenches, screwdrivers, an electric looking multitool defying identification. Everything his new owner would need to take him apart piece by meticulous, excruciating piece.

Further along the table beyond the immediate reach of the light were bits and pieces of other cannibalized electronics. Their wires poked out every which way, a very few of them recognizable for what they originally were. This was giving him flashbacks of a particularly nightmarish owner. She had made it her goal to see how many ways one could make a stubborn android beg. Being resilient and difficult to permanently damage...with an abundance of pain receptors...had its downsides.

The new gal reappeared from whatever dark recess she’d been rummaging in. She muttered to herself, something he would learn to be a bit of a habit of hers. “Let’s see about getting your mouth working again, shall we?”

Oh great. Just wonderful. Why would she want do that? So she’d feel justified in taking him apart? Cause so far, 99% of his owners would’ve agreed his ability to speak was their least favorite attribute and most likely to make them want to shoot him. Expense was usually the reason why they didn’t, but he doubted she had to pay much for him. Was it too late to be melted down for metal or was she still hoping to find something useful in his Swiss cheesed chassis?

His head was turned to the side and all he could see was the freak show that was her wall; more scraps and parts hung on hooks that though they were barely visible were also definitely terrifying. Meanwhile she messed around in the removable panel on the side of his skull. There were a vanishingly small number of those accessible on his body: the rest of his wiring required almost something akin to surgery to get at. What the inventor was thinking when he designed this series was...more than anyone had managed to comprehend. Made modifications and repair unfortunately difficult.

“—couldn’t be too smart if she thinks there’s any point.”

He’d been trying to distract himself when he realized—belatedly—that his speech functions had begun working again. Though it wasn’t as if it would change what he said...much. His glare and her raised eyebrow met when she adjusted his head to face forward. She clicked her tongue at his expression, but looked all too pleased with herself for his preference.

“That’s one detail out of the way. I want you to answer a couple of questions for me before I have to worry about what you’d do with mobility.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think that’s a possibility. ...Mistress.”

“Name’s Azar. Not ‘mistress��, not owner or whatever else the flip you’ve called people before, Az—“

“I can’t call you that.” Yuki interrupted her, earning a frown.

“Explain.”

Not doing what she wanted was a tempting idea, but ticking her off didn’t have any upside. He sighed heavily, “One of my owners wasn’t too thrilled with the words I used to describe them. It was the truth! ...And I didn’t think it was as bad as they said. But they added programming. Tweaked with my software. I can only call my current owners by the title Master or Mistress. Lot less interesting,” he grumbled.

She looked like she was holding back laughter, while being horrified at the same time. Humans were too complicated, especially women. Did all of his alterations disgust her? He shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care. There was nothing to be caring about! Yeah...sure. Sounds real convincing.

“Alright. We’ll get to that later. Stop or correct me if I get anything wrong.” She ticked off her fingers as she listed the things that had made his life a living hell. “In my research, it was mentioned you couldn’t lie to me.” Pointer finger. “Your main programming, the one part of you no one can alter, is your mandate to protect your owner. Which means you can’t hurt them unless allowed, you’re specifically asked to, or it’s done to save their life.” Middle finger. Which, for the record, he’d like to give to her. “However, you do have leeway in a number of directions based on your discretion and your owner’s orders.”

She waited a beat before continuing, the line of inquiry setting off an uncomfortable crawl along his skin. Her thumb became finger number three. “And finally, you aren’t required to do anything your owner asks, but you can’t stop them from doing whatever they want to you.”

If he could’ve swallowed, he would’ve. Unfortunately everything from the base of his skull down didn’t work. He was beginning to wish that still included his mouth that had gone dry. It wasn’t so much a question, but he still answered, “Yes.”

She brightened visibly, though he wasn’t going to take that as a good sign. The tool was put down, and he almost took a breath in relief. Belay that, what the hey was she doing?! The blood colored substitute rushed to his face, creating a crimson hue he’d forgotten he was capable of. Judging by her stare, she hadn’t known he could do that either. “Watch your hands, Mistress!” He shouted without thinking twice and she jumped back with that multitool snagged and pointed at him like a weapon.

“What the blaze did you just do with your face?! And what’s the yelling for?” She let out an annoyed huff, “I was just taking your shirt off. Chill, okay?” She went from freaked out to calm in the space of a second, though he could tell her hands were shaking. That information was filed in the back of his mind for later. Something more than his reaction had spooked her.

He bit his tongue, wishing he could disappear into the floorboards. Or anywhere, really. Could she not peer into his eyes so closely?? That grin was something else too. “Ohh, is someone shy? Don’t worry, Red. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Wh-what did she mean by that? But more importantly, “My name isn’t ‘Red’, it’s Yukimura. And tha-that isn’t—I’m not—“

She didn’t wait for him to finish. His shirt was in shreds already; the frag gun that had chewed him up had left the fabric’s integrity at nearly nil and she split it easily to reveal his chest. Again she stepped back, this time her face going blank. That was okay. Yuki didn’t need her expression to tell a story. Heart rate, respiration, sweaty palms, and a gesture, raking a pesky stray lock of ebony hair behind her ear, probably a tell. She was shocked.

A good few minutes passed, only her eyes moving, roving over his exposed torso. This was just the beginning, he wanted to joke. Should see his back. ‘Course, the gaping holes where he was missing synth skin was likely the main cause of the disturbing image. Normally when damage was done, either in the line of duty or...on purpose...one would just patch it up.

Droids didn’t heal per se. But they could be fixed, the circuitry hidden again behind something more palatable for the human eye to accept. Wasn’t so bad price-wise either if you didn’t care what color it was. Easiest stuff to purchase was an off-white that basically made it look like an old scar. And unless you really cared about your droid looking pristine or had a lot of money lying around, you were going for the cheap version. He was just counting his blessings none of them had wanted to spring for a color, maybe purple, and call it art.

“So, uhh, like...you gonna stare all night?”

She startled like she’d been shot, her eyes flying up to catch his and a flicker of something...was that pity? darting across them. Nah. No one felt sympathy for droids. Not that he’d seen. Her voice told a different story, its tone soft as she moved closer—her fingertips raising goosebumps on the skin not scarred. “Does it...hurt?”

All...all fifteen plus holes in his chest? The metal fragments wedged in vital components that have caused him to all but grind to a halt? Or the tenderness she used while he braced himself for the new agony she was surely going to cause? He wanted to lie. He wanted so badly not to be vulnerable in admitting what he had been trying unsuccessfully to ignore for a week. He was fine! Just fine. It didn’t hurt and she couldn’t hurt him. Then she wouldn’t get to know what advantage she held until he screamed. A brief reprieve until then, couldn’t he ask for that much? He’d see the truth of it in her eyes soon enough, just as he had all his other owners but one. The hubris it gave them. The thirst for power. Knowing his pain or relief was in their hands.

He wanted to, but he couldn’t. There was no escape granted for him. Clearly and with as much dignity as he could muster he answered, “Yeah...it-it’s still...” He stopped, but she seemed to understand.

Thing was, if he’d been a human...well, if he were a human he’d be dead. This many vital components hit would’ve been one thing. The loss of fluid would be the next. They’d self sealed after a time, but even had the fragments not gotten into his circuitry, he didn’t have enough fluid left to function with. Much like a human with severe anemia, he was too weak.

He had forgotten or filed away the memories of how it felt when he’d first been shot. The seal had dulled much of the pain. When she cut one of them back open however, he had to grit his teeth and even then couldn’t keep the whimper down. Truth was, it all hurt. Everything hurt. From the headache brought on by stress and prolonged anxiety, to the toes he couldn’t move but annoyingly, frustratingly, were connected in a way similar to a human’s body. When one aspect was affected the rest felt it.

Eyes closed, he tried to concentrate on just one sensation. Just the scratching and clicking noises of her tools working on his chest. The pain coming from the reopened wound. Just that, as if that weren’t enough. Invasive. Frightening. Gone. What? He could tell the moment she’d stopped, his eyes springing open. Wh-where’d she go?

A loud clattering could be heard just to his side, but he couldn’t see her in his periphery. The next thing he knew, she was laying him down on the table, an adjustable lamp hovering directly over his chest. This was definitely not helping his nerves. The woman, Azar, paused and he thought she smiled. There wasn’t much to see beyond the too bright light over him. It seemed like she was reaching towards his face, but he flinched and she pulled back, squeezing his shoulder lightly instead.

“I’ll be done soon.”

Done? Done with what? What was she doing to him? Was he going to be doomed to being a music player now? Nothing more than a repurposed boombox? His imagination was going a million miles a minute, but he didn’t ask. He knew his voice would crack.

A new component was added to his chest, wires the width of human hair connecting and causing an almost ticklish sensation despite it all. A substance applied to the hole finished the operation and...it was almost more than he could comprehend. It didn’t sting, didn’t burn either. He couldn’t help it, waiting for the sealant to seep into his bloodstream equivalent and spread fire. It never came. Rather, that particular wound which hadn’t ceased sending pain messages to his processor had...silenced. And he could twitch his fingers. What the frak had she done?

“Ngh...aahHHK! Please, please just stop...” His relief was short lived. A new wound was reopened and this one must have been connected to a nerve cluster. He couldn’t see her face past the bright lights hovering over him, but he knew her hands were still moving. Slowly, methodically, the tools scraped and removed and sent receptors screaming...or was that him? She said something; her voice too soft to hear over the alarm bells ringing in his head. All he knew was it wasn’t over yet and he was right. She wasn’t any different than the others.

By the fifth one, he was out of energy. There was nothing left, and nothing replenishing his stamina. Her muttering was washing over him without much comprehension. Unless she addressed him specifically, it wasn’t worth the expenditure of energy to translate her words into something recognizable.

“Didn’t want to add the synth-flow until I was done. Will make this more messy...hm. Can’t be helped. Looks like you won’t last without it.”

A needle was inserted in the crook of his elbow, not the first from the white points dotting the skin. None of those had been voluntary either. He couldn’t see her wincing, didn’t know what to make of her tracing the scars like a constellation. Too soon her instruments of torture were back to digging around his torso.

The...odd thing was...one by one the gaping injuries she’d meddled with were being closed, the pain declining. It had been impossible to notice for a time; his thought processes were overloaded with emotions, memories, and the searing, piercing agony inflicted in whichever wound she was invading. The combination had shut down logical reasoning, but clarity returned with the infusion of artificial blood...as well as movement? Fingers, wrists, feet, neck...slight adjustments sure, but after being frozen stiff for so long, it was nothing short of amazing.

“There. That oughta do the trick.” Her hand brushed back his hair, and though he shied away from the action, she didn’t seem to notice. “Got more of that stuff on order. Friend of a friend owes me a favor.”

She gestured flippantly at his abdomen, already turning to put her tools away. Something didn’t sound right about her voice, too high and breathy, but he was too busy sitting up and gawping at his chest. There was...nothing there. No holes, no new scars. “That stuff” she’s got on order must’ve been the synth skin. Why would she waste the precious resource on him? Unless...

A clattering noise wrenched his attention away from clashing probabilities to were she’d stumbled against the table.

“I’m fine,” was mumbled. She didn’t give much credence to her words when her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her knees buckled.

Lightening fast reflexes caught her before her head caromed off the metal bench. His joints protested and the needle was ripped out of his arm, but he did what he was designed for. It wasn’t even a thought.

Laying her in the sparse but comfortable cot at one side of the room, he checked her pulse and took her temperature. Another deep sigh, appreciating the ability to take a full breath without hitching. “Great. First day and you’re already so needy. Why’d you have to go and work yourself into a fever for?”

One thing’s for sure. She wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “Just don’t go dying on me, got it? Dumm—Mistress.”

[frickfracksnatchisback]

Fixing the Broken Past (AGIT AU-Part 1)

This is a follow up to the You’re Worthless fic I wrote a while back for @shaykai / @hatsparadox ! Keep in mind that as your reading this it’ll jump to two different periods in time. One plot is in the present with the other in the past. Enjoy!

***

It was like any other lazy Sunday. No customers and nothing to do.

Thor was sitting inside his security booth at the front of the scrapyard. He sat in his chair as a nearby radio played peppy music that filled the entire booth. He was tinkering with the various metal pieces laying on his desk. There were all kinds of bit and bobs he had found while looking through the heaps of junk. Copper wires, nuts and bolts, even a few old computer chips that he was lucky enough to find.

It had been harder to get replacement parts these past few days, which he found rather odd. He had been constantly coming up short with the pieces he needed for his projects, but he could always try and make new parts. Although he found it tedious to do so, it was better than having to buy the expensive and unreliable brand of the Mafia’s hardware store. The less money he could give to those cheats the better.

After a few minutes of screwing in bolts he decide to stop fiddling with the pieces on his desk and relax for a little while. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk, and used his hat the cover his eyes from the sun. On days like these, there really wasn’t anything better to do than just snooze. Sure, people would come in to occasionally get rid of some stuff. Like robots they didn’t want anymore, faulty machines, scrap pieces that no longer worked, that kind of stuff. But today had, for some reason, decided to be extremely slow. He sighed and slowly began to close his eyes. If he had enough spare time on his hands he might as well spend it by getting some well deserved shut-eye.

“Hello? Mr. Thor?”

Or maybe not.

Thor lifted the hat from his eyes. Standing in front of the booth was a pair of happy, blue eyes staring back at him. A pair of blue eyes that belonged to the sweetest, most kindest little girl he had ever met in his life. She had brown hair, an adorable purple outfit, and a top hat that was almost always perched on top of her head. Her name...well, he didn’t really know her name. But most people just called her Hat Kid.

“Oh! Hey there squirt!” he said as he quickly got his feet off the desk and straightened himself up in his chair. “How’s my favorite little customer?” he smiled. She giggled which made him smile even more, seeing her happy always made his day. “Let me guess, your here to see my recent projects huh?” he asked her as he noticed she was carrying around an old, red wagon. She nodded, she was usually a kid of few words but that suited him just fine.

“Wait for me you punk!”

Another girl was running up to the booth with her red cape flapping in the wind. She skidded up to the front of the booth and posed heroically. This girl was the complete opposite of Hat Kid, yet somehow the two were friends. She had a hood instead of a hat, brown eyes, and blonde hair with a matching mustache. Hat Kid called her Mu.

“Ah, I see you brought the little thief with you this time.” Thor chuckled. Mu looked back at him with annoyance.

“Hey! You watch who you’re talking to buster!” she yelled as she pulled several fighting poses. Thor laughed, this kid sure had some spunk! “Besides, it’s not stealing if it’s junk that people don’t want.” the small girl huffed.

“It is when you sneak in at midnight.” Thor said plainly, she simply mumbled in reply. He could still remember the day when he caught her stealing scrap pieces while he was on night guard duty. Not that she wasn’t stealing for a good cause, she hated the Mafia even more than him. Still, she had proved to be quite the troublemaker. That meant he had to keep an extra eye on her. Heh, too bad that Tim wasn’t here to help him with that!

“You two girls caught me at a good time. Well, follow me.” he said as he stood up and went out to lead the girls to his workshop. The two girls followed him, one being more reluctant than the other. As they walked through the entrance he could hear Hat Kid humming a little tune as her wagon rolled along behind her. She seemed excited today, maybe she was hoping to find a new friend. She was always good at making friends.

Especially the robotic kind.

The kid had a huge soft spot for robots. He remembered when he found an abandoned service bot in the scrapyard. It looked like an orange cat in a torn chef’s uniform. She was beaten up pretty badly, not to mention scared out of her wits. She was absolutely terrified of him and ran whenever she saw him, not like he blamed her. It took him forever to coax her out of the hiding spot she made and he only managed to fix a few broken parts. He called up Hat Kid one day and asked if she could help him calm the bot so he could hopefully fix the rest of her.

The moment that Hat Kid set eyes on that bot for the first time the two became practically inseparable. She eventually adopted the bot and brought her home. The bot helped to return the favor by cleaning around the house, cooking meals, tucking her into bed, almost like a nanny. What did the kid name her? “Cookie” or something? Well one thing was sure, she did have a way of quickly befriending robots. Maybe she could give the ones in his workshop a new home.

As they made it to the front of the workshop the two children could see the two large entrance doors bounded by a lock. Thor pulled out his key chain to unlocked it. “I’m afraid we don’t have much. I haven’t been able to find enough pieces to fix all of them but you’re welcome to look around.” he said as he unlocked the door. Hat Kid bounced excitedly, the handle of her wagon making rattling noises as she did so. She then dropped the handle and left the wagon behind her.

“Why do you want a new robot anyways? Don’t you already have one?” her friend piped up.

“So CC has a new friend!” Hat Kid said simply, Mu just shook her head.

“Whatever. Just so long as I get to see some really creepy ones.” Mu said as the two followed Thor inside.

The workshop’s metal wall were rusty and the stench of oil filled the air. Different kinds of robots sat in chairs, on the floor, in corners, even on two nearby workbenches. Their were tools, bolts, and screws scattered all around the floor. The buzzing of electricity could be heard around every corner as some robots were linked up to power generators. Some of the robots twitched but none of them startled as small sparks emitted from them. Not many, but a few robotic limbs laid beside the sleeping robots.

“Watch your step girls.” Thor warned the two as they stepped over a pile of tools sprawled out on the floor. “Sorry about the mess squirt. You know I’m not very organized in my work spaces.” Thor nervously chuckled.

“Are you kidding me? This is so awesome!” Mu yelled out as she grabbed a robot’s head that was laying on a workbench. “Look at this one! Super creepy.” she said as she put it over Hat Kid’s shoulder. She laughed as Hat Kid yelped out in surprise and quickly took the head away from her.

“Are any of them awake?” Hat Kid asked as she put the head back on the workbench.

“No, sorry squirt. They’re all shut down right now.”

“Why?”

“Eh, makes them easier to work on. Its better to try and fix a sleeping robot than have it be awake and squirm around while you’re trying to fix it.” Thor stated as he bent down to pick a robot laying on the floor to set it back against the wall. “Also I don’t know if you’ve noticed but a lot of these robots where throw away by previous owners. That means they don’t take too kindly to humans messing with their insides.” he sighed as he patted it on the shoulder.

“Even one who just want to help?” Mu asked this time.

“Yeah, poor guys just can’t tell friend from foe anymore.”

“They why do you help them if they hate you?”

Thor, still hunched down, turned to look at her. “I don’t think it’s right to just leave them to rust on the streets. Every robot has a purpose, so why waste it by just throwing them away?” He said as he stared deeply into her eyes. “Besides, it’s the only thing that’s kept me going.” He stood up, dusted himself off, and walked over to the back of the workshop.

Mu kept silent as she followed the two in front. She never really understood robots but she knew a thing or two about feeling empathetic towards someone. Maybe that counted for the someones made out of metal too. She guessed that’s why Hat Kid liked robots so much.

“Well, here you go. These fellows are a little more intact so take your pick.” Thor gestured to the robots lined up at the back of the wall. Some were rather short while others were about Thor’s height. And aside from a few scratches and dents in their metal they were in good shape like he said.

“What’s this one supposed to be?” Mu said as she walked up to one and knocked on its head.

“Be careful there kid! These guys are still a little fragile.” Thor walked over to fix its head back to its original position. As he explained the different functions of the robot to Mu, Hat Kid stood there examining the robots.

“Hmm...” she said as put a hand on her chin in thought. All of them looked good, not to mention friend-shaped! But she couldn’t take all of them home with her, the house just wasn’t big enough. How was she supposed to choose? Maybe she could pick the little one? The really big one? Maybe the…

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a huge figure covered in a blue, plastic sheet.

Curious, she walked over to the corner the covered figure was sitting in. It was a small distance away from the other robots and was very tall in size. So tall that it almost reached the ceiling! As she came closer she noticed that the sheet was covered in a thick layer of dust. She ran a finger across to confirm that, yes, it was quite dusty.

“Mr. Thor? What about this one?” Hat Kid hollered in the twos direction. Mu look relieved as she was starting to get bored of Thor’s explanations.

“Huh? Which one?” Thor called back. His eyes grew wide as he noticed what she was standing next to. “Wait! Hold on a minute!” He quickly dashed over to the figure, leaving a confused Mu behind him. When he made it over he frantically looked it up and down, as if checking for something important. “You didn’t turn it on did you?” he asked Hat Kid in a worried tone.

“Um...no?” Hat Kid said, confused.

“Oh thank goodness!” Thor said as he let out a heavy sigh.

“Is there something wrong with that one? Is it broken?” Mu questioned as she walked over to the two.

“Well, uh, yeah he is but-”

“Can I we see him?” Hat kid interrupted him, excited about the mention of “he”.

“No! Absolutely not!” Thor put himself in between the figure and the two girls. Hat Kid and Mu looked back at each other, he was definitely hiding something interesting from them.

“Is it super gross-looking? Let me see!” Mu insisted.

“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea kid.”

The girls looked back at each other again. “Please?” they both said in union, giving Thor the cute-puppy-dog-eyes stare. Thor hesitated for a moment before sighing in defeat.

“All right, all right. Fine. Just don’t tell Tim about this.” He muttered as he grabbed the dusty sheet and pulled it away. A cloud of dust filled the air, making the two girls cough and try to wave the cloud away.

The two girls then gasped as the dust cleared. They saw a very tall and very purple robot. It was oddly noodle-shaped, very thin at the bottom, and missing an arm on one side. What it was supposed to be they couldn’t quite tell, but it looked creepy and awesome at the same time.

“Woah! It looks pretty cool for a piece of junk!” Mu exclaimed.

“Hey! Don’t be rude!” Hat Kid scolded her.

“Ugh, fine.” Mu groaned. “He looks pretty cool for a piece of junk.” she finished.

“Still rude.” Hat Kid fussed again, but Mu wasn’t listening. She was too busy getting closer to the robot to get a better look of it.

“Careful, kid! This guy is dangerous.” He said as he pointed at the remaining arm. Hat Kid could see he was more specifically pointing out that the arm’s hand was clawed and very sharp. Mu noticed this too and simply scoffed.

“Oh yeah? Well so am I!” she said as she whipped her cape behind her and put a hand to her chest. Hat kid and Thor groaned together.

“Seriously kid, he’s very hostile. You’re lucky he’s off right now.” He said bluntly, making Mu’s cheeky grin fade.

“Hostile?” asked Hat Kid, cocking her head to the side. Thor looked back at her guilty.

“Yeah, hostile is putting it lightly.” he said, giving the robot a mean look. “Me and Tim found him locked up in an old shed. We figured he was a good find and he was in pretty good shape when we found him. So we decided to switch him on to try and ask what had happen to the poor guy.” he explained. “Well...let’s just say it didn’t end too great. It’s part of the reason Tim’s taking a break for awhile.” Thor finished as he shuffled uncomfortably. Hat Kid gasped at his words.

“You mean that’s why he’s is in a sling?!” Hat Kid exclaimed, Thor slowly nodded.

“You said that was a working accident!” Mu pointed at him accusingly.

“It was an accident!” Thor was quick to defend himself. “At least...I sure hope it was an accident.” he grumbled as he gave the robot another glare. Hat Kid looked at him and then back at the robot. As she stared at the robot a deep emotion of sadness and pity built up inside of her. She just couldn’t imagine how scary it would be to be locked away in an old shed for such a long time.

“Maybe he was scared.” She said quietly. Thor shook his head.

“I don’t think he was scared, squirt. If he was he had a weird way of showing it.” Thor let out a hefty sigh. “I just a good thing that I had my stun gun on me, otherwise who knows what he would’ve done.” Thor said, cringing at the memory. The robot had gone completely haywire. He could still hear the robot’s mad laughing echo in his mind. He swore that he would kill both of them, and he had almost succeeded. If he hadn’t been prepared at that moment...

He looked back at Hat Kid, hoping she got the message. She was staring at the robot with this strange look on her face. Oh no he thought. He knew this look, it was way too familiar. It was the same look she gave Cookie when they first meet. The kind of look that said “I’m going to take you home and nothing can stop me”.

“Don’t even think about it kid. You’re not taking this guy with you.” he said strictly. Hat Kid looked back at him with a very upset expression.

“What?! Why not?!” she pouted.

“Kid, I’ve already told you ‘why not’. Besides, what if you got hurt?” he scolded, putting his hands on his hips. Mu dashed in front of Hat Kid and use her body as a shield.

“I’d protect her! There’s no way I’d let that tin can even think about hurting my friends!” Mu said angrily and puffed out her chest.

“Tim would strangle me just because I let you see him. Imagine what he would do if he found out I let you two kids keep a murderous robot?” Thor argued. “Why don’t you just pick one of the other bots over there?” he pointed back to the line of robots. Hat Kid eyes welled up with tears and Mu face was filled with disappointment.

“Please?” Hat Kid whimpered. Thor gulped, he felt the pressure building on. He always had a weakness when it came to children.

“Okay, fine. You can take him with you.” Thor said, defeated. The two girls perked up and cheered. “But on one condition.” he added, making the girls groan. “If he tries to harm you in any way, you immediately bring him back to my workshop. Is that understood little miss?” Thor pointed at Hat Kid. She quickly nodded in understanding. “Promise?” he demanded.

“Promise!” Hat Kid chirped.

“All right then, he’s all yours.” Thor said reluctantly. The two girls celebrated by holding hands and jumping up and down. Mu then stopped, her smile gone now.

“Hey HK?” she asked Hat Kid using her nickname.

“What?” Hat Kid stopped jumping to listen.

“How are we going to fit this guy in the wagon?”

***

The rain poured heavily outside the manor as Vanessa was being escorted her room. The servant walking up the stairs behind her said nothing as he silently pushed her along. The candlestick she was holding was the only light being shone, making the atmosphere even gloomier. When they reached her bedroom door the servant rushed in front of her to hold the door open for her. She had half a mind to walk away, to leave the servant with an empty room. Instead, she begrudgingly entered the room step by step.

The moment she was fully inside she heard the closing of the door and the clicking noise that followed after, signaling that she had been locked in. The thunder boomed as the lightening helped to illuminate her bedroom, which was now her prison. She walked over to sit in the lonely chair near the vanity and set her candle down. She looked in the mirror, a pitiful face stared back at her. Only one thought ran through her head constantly as the thunder roared outside.

This wasn’t her fault.

She could remember every detail. The hand-holding, the heartbreak, the hatred. She could remember every part of their whole “lovers quarrel”. She had been so angry. It felt like she couldn’t stop no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much he screamed. She just wasn’t able to stop herself. She had felt sad, spiteful even. But also very powerful. She was the one in control. She had to teach him that lesson, no matter what the cost.

But the cost had been all too great.

She could still hear the awful sounds of crashing metal in her memory, as she recalled the exact moment when he hit the floor. It was too late for her to take it all back as his body just laid there, not moving at all. No spasms or twitching of any kind. His body was completely still. A small puddle of oil formed around him, staining the pink carpet. That’s when she started to panic. She laid next to him and shook him violently to see if he could wake up. She could feel a deep pit of dread starting to form inside of herself. What had she done? What if her parents found out?

She couldn’t take that chance. She had to get rid of him before her parents came home. She remembered her dragging the body from out of the room, it’s head clanking down against the wooden steps. It seemed to take forever with the heavy metal scraping against the floor, causing her to put in more effort. She finally dragged it through the back door and pulled it into the garden area. She left the body were it was to go and look inside the garden shed for something useful. Anything that could make the body lighter so it would be easier to dispose of. She quickly found an axe and didn’t hesitate to grab it. It would have to do the job.

She ran back over to the body and looked for a good place to start. She found her target and brought down the axe on his leg, it made a terrible wrenching sound. The strike only made a large cut in the knee so she brought it back down again. It took her many tries before she managed to get the first leg completely off. Sparks were shooting out of wires and oil was spilling everywhere. The bottom of her favorite dress became stained with the dark fluid and little black droplets sprayed onto her face. But she continued, carefully avoiding the sparks so her dress wouldn’t catch fire. She moved over to the other leg and chopped it off just as she did the first. She picked up the legs and was ready to toss them aside so she could work on the rest of the body.

That’s when she was startled by the yelling of her parents.

Apparently, they had arrived home sooner than she expected. It didn’t take them long to find the trail of oil leading from her bedroom to were she was now and they were quick to follow it. Once they found her daughter in an oil stained dress, robot legs in her arms, and an axe on the ground they knew they had caught her red-handed. And what a scolding she received from them! They screamed at her for ruining her dress! For making such a mess in the manor! For being absolutely reckless with something so expensive!

And after hours of yelling about how disappointed they were, they agreed on her punishment. She had been grounded for a month. A whole month. She was told that she would be locked in her room with no toys or entertainment until she had learned her lesson. Because of course, whenever she left them all those other times they wouldn’t even bat an eyelash. But the one time she didn’t want to be seen they just had to destroy her life. On the one day that happened to be special, her birthday. It had all been ruined by her unfaithful liar of a prince and her cruel, uncaring parents.

She came back to the present, it had been a few days since the worst day of her life had happened. That didn’t change the fact that she was still grounded, however. Her eyes were locked on her reflection. A tear slowly rolled down her cheek, it seemed golden in the candle’s light. Why was the world so cruel to her? Why was life so cruel to her?! She had lost everything she ever cared about. Her things, her freedom, even her prince was gone now. It wasn’t her fault, so why was she being treated like this? If her prince hadn’t lied to her she wouldn’t be in this mess. And it wasn’t. Her. Fault.

And yet…

She put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tightly. She thought about how her prince used to put his hand on her shoulder whenever she was upset. His calm voice and cheery nature made her so happy. He danced with her, brushed her hair, complimented her. He did as he was told, and their life had been wonderful and pleasant. But now her prince was gone forever. He would never put a hand on his princess’ shoulder ever again. She was alone, and there was nobody to talk to but her own reflection.

“He’s never coming back, is he?” she asked the mirror, half sobbing. The rain continued to fall outside and the tears in her eyes did the same. “Oh my prince, my darling prince! If only you didn’t disobey me! Then I wouldn’t have to be alone in this prison!” she said as her voice became more broken. She stopped being able to form words and covered her tear-soaked face in her hands. She was a crying mess as she crashed in a heap on top of the vanity. There was nothing to comfort her now but the sounds of the thunder.

“Now, now my dear. There’s no need to be so upset!”

She slowly looked up from her hands. Through all her crying she thought she heard someone else speaking to her. “Nonsense.” she said in her still distraught voice. “There’s nobody here but me. I’m all alone in this room.” she reasoned to herself.

“Ah, but you’re not alone Vanessa! I’ve been with you this whole time.”

She quickly stood herself up in her chair. It wasn’t just her imagination. She did hear another person speaking to her. She shook in her seat, not even daring to look behind her. She was scared, had a thief broken into her room? Or worse, had a murderer come to kill her or keep her for ransom?

“W-who’s there? Who are you?” she said quietly, she was badly frightened. She didn’t dare to scream now, fearing the cold steel being plunged into her back or the sound of a gunshot being fired into her head. “Please…please don’t hurt me.” she closed her eyes tightly as she begged for mercy.

“You have nothing to be afraid of my love! Besides, we have a lot of catching up to do.”

The stranger chuckled as she heard a creaking noise behind her, like the sound of something being opened. She then heard sounds of movement from behind her, but she kept her eyes closed tight. She was huddled in her seat with no knowledge of who was behind her and what they were going to do to her.

“Vanessa, you can open your eyes now.” the stranger said in a singsong voice. She hesitated greatly, but she didn’t want to anger the person. She managed to take in a deep breath, open her eyes, and turn around in her seat.

The lightening flashed, lighting up the silhouette that was only a few steps behind her. The stranger was revealed as not a dangerous man, but a robot. One she had never seen before in her life. And despite its earlier tone of voice, it didn’t look very friendly.

Its eyes were a sinister red and its smile was wide and full of sharp teeth. Its head was an odd crescent shape and it had one large wheel attached to the bottom. It also had four arms with clawed hands. One pair of hands were helping the robot lean on the desk behind it while the other pair tapped playfully on the desk’s surface. Its metal body was coated in drops of water, which was most likely the rain from outside. It also wore a jacket which was caked in dried mud and damp from the rain.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” she asked, more confused than scared. The robot stopped tapping and looked back at her with a shocked expression.

“Why, you don’t remember me at all?” it said bringing a hand to it’s chest. “Oh, you wound me so! I am deeply hurt by your words.” the robot put another hand to it’s forehead, acting rather dramatically. “How could you forget a face as handsome as this one?” it asked as brought its fingers to the edges of its smile. She just stared, it didn’t seem like this robot was all right in the head.

“Well, it’s hard for me to remember you if we’ve never met.” she said matter-of-factually. The robot giggled.

“I suppose you’re right my love. I have had a few...upgrades since we last met.” the robot said, gesturing to his entire body. “But it’s still quite a shame. I only wore these dirty old rags so you could recognize me.” it said while tugging the bottom of its jacket. She look at the jacket, and it was practically rags like the robot said. With all holes and tears she could barely tell what was supposedly so familiar about it.

“I don’t see how that’s supposed to remind me of anything. It just looks like you’re wearing an old coat” she stated plainly. “Why don’t you just quit playing this foolish game and just tell me already?” she said, putting her hands to her hips. She was starting to lose her patience with this bucket of bolts. The robot frowned and its eyes flashed and became a deeper red, she shrunk back a little. But then the robot simply smiled back at her, as if the deadly glare before hadn’t even happened.

“Well...if my old clothes aren’t enough to remind you, then maybe this will.” it said as it stopped leaning on the table to come towards her. She backed up a few steps, fearing what the crazy robot was about the to do next. It stopped until it was right in front of her and with one pair of arms it reached for her hands. It grabbed them tightly with its own, she could feel the cold metal which was slick from the rain. She tried to struggle away but another hand reached for her face and forced her to stare into the robot’s glowing red eyes.

“Vanessa.” the robot cooed as it used one last hand to run its fingers through her hair. “Do you remember that promise I made to you?” it said with an eerie tone. A shiver went down her spine, something about the word promise made her feel very strange. What promise? What did it mean? “I said I would always be loyal to you, did I not?” the robot continued, interrupting her thoughts. “I would always care for you, dance with you, be kind to you...” the robot stopped playing with her hair and its words trailed off. It stood still with a sad expression on its face, almost as if it was going to cry. “But was that not enough my dear?” it asked softly. “Was my programming all wrong? Did I not prove that my love for you was indeed true?” it stared back at her, begging for a response. It was then that the realization hit her.

“My prince?” she said shakily as she could feel her eyes widened. No, no it couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t be him! Her parents took the rest of him away after they found her in the garden, never to be seen again. So how, how in the world could he still be here?! And what on earth happened to him?! He was supposed to be gone! He was supposed to be-

“Dead.” she found herself blurting out. The robot, who she now knew was her prince, went from sad to shocked as all of his arms fell to his sides. “You were dead! I saw you, you weren’t moving at all!” she wailed, she could feel every inch of her body shaking. “Am I going mad?! How could you have survived after I-” she stopped in her tracks. She had said too much. He just stood there and stared at her.

And smiled a wide and evil smile.

He had the face of a maniac as she could feel his eyes beginning to burn into her soul. His sharp teeth were gleaming and his head seemed to twitch. She backed up against the wall, hugging herself for protection. “I-I didn’t mean to I swear! I just thought that you were-” she pleaded before he put up a hand signaling her to stop.

“It’s alright my dear. Everything is okay.” he said, trying to soothe her. Its frightening face before had disappeared and was now more calm and collected. “I understand, you must be so confused. But trust me, it will all make sense to you soon.” his smiled had also changed to and it was much friendlier than the last. She wasn’t sure what she should do or say, the robot’s emotions seemed to change quicker than she could keep up with.

“So...you’re not going to hurt me?” she squeaked, still fearful for her life.

“Vanessa! I’m surprised at you! I’m come all this way and you think I would do something so brash?” he said sounding particularly offended before chuckling to himself. “No, no my dear! You’ve got it all wrong! I came here to reunite with you!” he said cheerfully. She perked up a little, hopeful that she would be able to get out of this situation.

“Really? You came back here to be with me again my prince?” she asked timidly.

“Please, call me Moonjumper now.” he said before bowing humbly. “And of course I did my sweet! I couldn’t just leave you here all alone now could I?” he continued before going eerily silent.

“Not to mention...we need to fix a few things about our relationship.”

Vanessa started to ask what he meant before a strange hissing noise startled her. She saw that the hissing noise was emitting from Moonjumper as he slowly opened his mouth. Strange light blue smoke came pouring out of his mouth and flew in her direction. She coughed as she received a face full of the strange smoke. She manage to get a whiff of it, the smell wasn’t noxious at all but it was awfully sweet-smelling.

She started to feel dizzy. Her vision became hazy as the world around her was starting to fade out. The last thing she saw before she passed out was Moonjumper’s smiling face.

“Sweet dreams my love...”

***

Apologies for the wait, I would’ve posted it yesterday but I didn’t have the time. Also this might turn into three parts instead of two but we’ll have to see what happens!

[indra-s-mann-blog]

Religion

Since I've talked about being a lama, having long life, and looking young.  I thought the next topic I'll write on is religion.  There are a variety of misunderstandings regarding religion.  After a multi-faith council and a declassification(and censorship) meeting.  It was decided that the groups would find their own way of making things clear.  But faced the fact if they didn't dispel myths and clarify things the future would see a less positive change for them.

Some churches carry secure archives.  They have historical artifacts and documentation preserved there and kept safe from people that might abuse it.  The churches sometimes are seen as irrational and not compatible with science and rational thought.  This happened after disputes saw many frauds enter the system using the community power to get people into certain habits or practices.  The churches for several faiths always had a faith and belief in technology and evidence based systems.  Some of the churches had a belief in a creator that didn't clash with science and some were atheist that saw things as a non thinking non-feeling process(un-sentient).

The word "Theist" means to have a theory.  Which is the same thing the people in churches had at the time so they often agreed to disagree.   Though some saw radical or polarized beliefs in a church environment might cause trouble.  However that doesn't mean the same process can't happen with atheist.  For churches the news would carry a consistent organization and for the atheists it would just mention individuals.  So we remember the church controversies easier from repetition.  Religious organizations often removed these groups from their list of approved or condoned groups.

Years ago we found some people setting up fake churches in ruins or remote areas.  Occasionally they moved into an old abandoned building.   These people often weren't monks or priests.  They were gangs hiding their haul from theft, their people from prosecution, or running a drug operation.  They would dress like monks or priests, keep some religious looking books around(sometimes stolen from other places or copied in part).  Then they would take donations from people, occasionally pretend to council people.

The fakes would make claims to police and military that they couldn't enter as it was a church.  Usually people would look it up unless they had been in the area a long time.  Even then we would look it up most of the time.  Often we would find that yes a church once was in the area but was either in ruins or there was a priest or monk in the area at one time.  But that the priest or monk didn't settle there and make a building.  Sometimes they have tried to falsify records at main buildings to make them look legitimate.  Part of why the Vatican openly has a police group and guard everywhere.

When people first started saying they heard voices from heaven or the sky.  It was a misunderstanding caused by some natural phenomenon such as echos carrying or people that weren't aware when radios or satellites were made.  There is a cave that has a natural crystal radio.  As a child I was in it and we wondered where the voices we heard came from.

We knew it wasn't some ghost or monster and investigated the cave more and the stones it was made of.  We found another cave that was similar and ran our own tests saying things back and forth.  The minerals are probably rare in their combination in most places but not in that area where we found more and marked them for distance communication.

Later technology saw us remove the rocks in mining operations to re-purpose them.  Look up how a crystal radio is made you will see how simple it can be; especially with certain precious metal veins or crystal veins running underground or in a mountain range.  As a fact its part of the reason we knew to run lines to carry signals.

Crystal radio(Wikipedia)

Crystal detector

Galena with Fluorite

Galena

Fluorite(Wikipedia)

Metamorphic rock

Hydrothermal Minerals

Quartz(Wikipedia)

How to Make Electricity With Quartz or Diamonds

Electric Minerals and Natural Electricity

Cave of the Mounds

(This is a site like the cave radio system I mentioned.)

Antenna types(Wikipedia)

Directional Audio

Reflection Of Sound

Sound Echoes

Sound levels – decibels, intensity and distance

How Satellites Work

Small satellite

Military radio antenna kites

Army’s inflatable antennas make light work of satcom in the field

The military and army had piezoelectric crystal radios much longer than those articles admit.  Radio has existed for longer than the articles also mention and was known before the 1800s though not widely known or discussed.  Some of them broke while in use.  Some were in private collections and not put in public museums.

People also were testing speakers(with kite string wires or off of balloons) and directional antennas that bounced sound to the ground.   Some people in village that didn't know what was going on thought they heard the voice of god.  It wasn't that but it was a military communication system or inventors test of devices.  I used one of these while out in a rural area when I needed to send a message without more modern technology.  In the known cases with villages people tried to explain to them but they didn't understand the technology and were more comfortable thinking it was the voice of a god.

Some old languages are also not dead and have been misinterpreted by some archaeologists and anthropologist causing poor translations.   Somethings require local life knowledge to grasp their slang or word applications.  Also some people didn't consider a different language.   Some of the Tamil had lived in South America and this included some of my family.  Pachacuti was my grandpa and the Manu name is found as Manco Cápac or Manco Inca.  Siri comes from Sayri and none of the birth/death dates are quite accurate(it was seen as a security thing at the time). The Hanan dynasty is the found as the Han dynasty in China and the Xin was active in Africa(Congo/Mauritania/Nigeria).  

South America is actually the continent of Mu which once was known as the dragon (dinosaur) but suffered some continental damage in some events they had in history and then connected to North America which once was known as the Elephant(Yaṉai, Gadjah, Ane/Ana, or Haathee/Hathawa - "Hope" the Water Elephant) or some called it Ganesha. Others called the one continent Mu because it was a sound a cow makes and they thought it looked like a cow head.  A map showing it looks more like a dinosaur.  Though now the damage was enough to several areas of the world the original continent shapes aren't the same.

Lantia or Atlantis was actually China and was to look like a big ray fish.  The city attributed to that name is in Africa(Eye of the Sahara - damaged by a Tsunami during an impact offshore) but there was another "eye" city in India.  Antarctica was known as the Bird (Manuk - from the Manu/Manco/Mang) or the Bird of Paradise(Manuk Saka Swarga) but after it was covered by snow it was called white rabbit.  India and Sri Lanka was Vantu(Beetle), Europe had a horse shape(Hevonen, Hester, or Arklys - people of the Ark), and Africa as the Heart(Cuore, Xin, or Okan).

Even looking at a current map of the world if you rotate it you can see some of the original shapes.  So there aren't really any lost continents they are just shifted in maps or have other names in the modern map.   For the dynasties and overlaps the world came to use a diverse calendar system.  Some use solar some use lunar but there are a lot of calendars and rarely were people using the same one.

Many of our languages use a different glyphic system, often phonetics.   Languages became creoled meaning they have loan words and are mixed.   Some phrases are localized slang and only in more connected circumstances or shared circumstances things overlap.  But if your paying attention realize the loan words(despite language speed or accent).

In old records my family kept and others kept in secure places these facts were documented.  However others came, caused trouble, there were disasters and everyone to keep the peace just didn't talk about things anymore.  In the books that are in museums or mentioned publicly often real peoples faces are hidden by masks drawn over them using the semaphore symbol for Manaz(security).  The odd item is probably though in someones private collection as well.  If you look at a map of the earth you can still make out some of the original shapes.

Pachacuti

Manco Inca Yupanqui

Sayri Túpac

Wang Mang(Xin Dynasty)

List of lost lands

Mu (lost continent)

Atlantis

History of calendars

Everything About Calendars

The Incan translations are off these words are english phonetics of chinese words turned into a phrase or single word.  Pachacuti wasn't the name of the man.  It literally translated as 啪嚓粗体 which in turn doesn't easily or properly translate unless each symbol or grouping is taken into account.  The meaning was actually a status report if others in the military came across the planets remains.  

啪 Pow - combat or land

嚓 Cracking  or snapping

粗 coarse, rough, vulgar, rude, crude, thick, heavy, bulky, drifter, homeless

体 prison, pallbearer, body, inferior, health, form, field, appearance

This translated into:  The land has cracked, it's adrift, using a containment field(to keep atmosphere).  Combat happened, it was rough, and the world(land) is dead.  Combat was heavy and we are homeless.  You can see now how the calendar they had speaks of destruction and seems to stop.

It was a compressed text cipher that is encapsulated meaning more than one word meaning is used to save space and keep things short for quicker communications.  At one point because of how it sounded in another language it got nicknamed "Papa Roach" as in "Father bug" and also "Old Man"(Old cout and Cout also means Scout).  The music was a complex cipher(Audio/Video, etc) and took a very long time to be released to the public and by then they didn't realize or necisarily care what it was. They couldn't read the messages in the cipher and took the music and lyrics at face value.

Many declassified audio/video ciphers have that sort of response.  The other names also translate into something.  As you can see the items used are two characters(one uses 3) each vs a single glyph.  But the two characters make a new third glyph when combined.  This is also a type of encapsulation.  Some of the single words in their combinations the meaning has been lost in modern times but think of them like cave drawings.

One glyph says they were looking out the window(or going through a hatch) and had taken samples(storage), one said engineering and life sciences, another said ships antenna, another also said saw(or went through hatch) damage(weapon or device).  The B like symbol was used for hatch or window and the one symbol was same meanings as the christian cross(science wise).  A similar symbol to the cross shape was used to indicate ship.  One symbol meant antenna or wind power generation(green power).

Some of the other glyphs also had secondary meaning as icons for things much like you use today.  Imagine how someone will view your emoticons and such in the future if they were an archaeologist.

These glyphs the archaeology was carefully handled in some spots and the information classified or censored at the time.  But just enough things were out that the ancient chinese and indian cultures do imply or speak of space travel.  Also as I've said the continents had mostly animal shapes.  They were planed and made those ways.  Meaning moving or creating land wasn't new.  This was a diplomatic area before damage was caused.  The damage links to issues on a much larger planet(Earth was one of its moons).

If archaeologists and anthropologists had handled things better there would be less confusion and less myths or legends for some of it.  Some did not deliberately mislead and honestly lacked some life experience or education.  A few however were simply seeking fame and got involved in antiquities fraud(for money); partly as a way to money launder stolen gold, etc.

A mistake one made once was to mix up a marker for a face mask on a sarcophagus.  Typically a wooden or ceramic mask would of been inside on the mummy.  The "gold" or stone cases sometimes depicted a mask with handle(sort of like Mardi Gras masks have them or bases of hand mirrors).

At the time people also used to use a tie on condom made of woven plant leaves.  Someone put it on his face as a joke when dealing with foreigners asking questions.  They then thought it was to be a fake beard and then proceeded to make fools of themselves.  But others were tired of them claiming to "discover" things that others already knew or taking their historical items.

In Indonesia area there are two islands with creatures outsiders think are extinct.  Others aren't welcome there and it is managed and watched over by special park rangers.  One bird is very dangerous and related to a pterodactyl and the other is a vegetarian reptile that is nocturnal and blends in with plants.  People tried to get at them once to hunt or take as a trophy.  Fearing they would kill the few that were left they attacked the foreigners and everyone got protective of the area.

Time went on and more people ended up on the islands; larger cities formed.  So unless your local to the two areas, even if your Indonesian, etc you may not know they exist and even locals will attack people who are Indonesian seeking them to protect the animals.  They will not talk of it with outsiders.  It isn't Jurassic Park but someone once tried to set up a small private island with attempts to clone some.  One dinosaur skeleton was found once that tests proved it had plastic or resin in it along with horse and alligator DNA.

7 Historical Hoaxes

Faking the Past: when archaeologists commit fraud

Art Theft News:  News and press releases related to the FBI's Art Theft Program.

Archaeological forgery

Why Is Radiocarbon Dating Important To Archaeology?

There are ways to fake age an item so that it can pass radio carbon dating.  So there is a newer method to also spot fakes vs real items.   Though it is not disclosed to the public as a result of the people that have tried to beat carbon dating and also DNA tests.  Synthetic DNA and 3d printing technologies allow people to fake bones and even soft tissues in a way that can make them seem to be from a real thing from the past.  However people good at lab work or with enough experience and knowledge can spot these frauds.

I tried to look them up online but wasn't able to find it.  Perhaps it was my search terms but it could be that it is blocked from public to reduce the problem.  Some people have made art frauds with computers and also 3d scanning or using photo realistic face masks.  I will admit in past for movies sometimes we did use skeletons with reconstructed faces as our characters.  Later we found out some resembled people that were currently alive.(possible decedents or DNA re-occurance for appearance factors.)

Somethings from history are obvious.  In an Egyptian pyramid you can clearly see some symbols still in use today.  Amut used to be a emblem used by the coroners office and a single snake on a stylus for medical.(after a fallout with Apophis and Serapis)  Some items were defaced and changed.  Aset or Set symbol animal was not originally an anteater it was a giraffe(named Qlin).  Qlin or Set is on Scandinavian boats and some mistook it for a goat head.

Somethings people assume in history were fake or "ancient aliens" but they aren't fake.  Some are from people of the time using space suits/atmosphere suits or hazmat type health safety suits and more rural people not knowing what they were.  Other things were real vehicles people were making and testing.

While most were from that time period one or two weren't and were a result of an incident involving the military.  They had to unfortunately leave something in a old building after officers were attacked and walled up in a fake pyramid(it wasn't one of the original).  It did though make people tourist money later for people that believed it really was built by ancients.

One of the religious stories of past is related to my own cousin.  His father known as a Islamic leader(family of Mohammad).  When the boy was small they realized he had hemophilia like some others in the family.   The baby got hurt as he fell down and bruised his leg and got a cut.  He died as a result.  His family mourned him greatly as he was only a toddler and they had waited until late in life to have children.  The boys mother sat at his side mourning and preparing the body.  She didn't want to leave it nor did his father.  Others convinced them to take a break and said they would sit with the body.  Later they returned and with others around the boy resuscitated scaring everyone.

They weren't sure what to think, tested the child to make sure it was the same person that left.  Weird stories were going around about hatian type zombies.  But they never used that stuff and wouldn't on their baby.  The baby(named Krishna) was fine but they needed to move because of the stir it caused.  He literally was their little miracle.  Later he had two children and passed at an older age.

His father unfortunately was grabbed by some radicals wanting to take over Islam and they tortured and murdered him.  Which is what we equate to part of Christs death.  In the word "Jesus" we find the term "Je suis" which mean's "I am"(french) and for science and engineering it links to the physicians oath, and similar oaths.

Years ago some foreigners got near some of the old books while visiting.  They were allowed to look at them as scholars.  But they became mad at a local farmer.  They enjoyed the fruits and vegetables so much they wanted to grow them at home.  The person took some and tried with no farming experience.  They didn't understand simple soil ph or soil chemistry and plant requirements.  They spoke to a farmer asking how to make the plants grow but the farmer didn't like foreigners or their remarks about historical items.  He told them to put cow manure on things.

The man's plants suffered from problems over soil ph, etc and the manure made it worse.  The man swore he'd get revenge so changed somethings in a translation.  Then said "We'll see who buys the bull this time."  The "bull" in bible is supposed to mean bibliography but church elders at the Vatican, etc could tell you they have several copies of the bible in several languages.  Some really are a load of something and others have varying accuracy of translation but nothing deliberately to mislead.

The "Testament" was a project to record the stories of elders or survivors of certain events in history.  There is more than the old and new.  There were at least 3 books that I remember and perhaps one or two others that followed.  Some are far more modern accounts of things.

The explanation of the Earth's situation at that time some people rejected it and rather than have further problems they adapted(to peoples denial and stress.  In destruction they lost much.)  This made some translations "fuzzy" not just people poorly understanding languages.

The scientific explanation isn't fully true nor is it a lie.  Long ago the first planet formed from what you might call a ball of energy in space or spark.  It materialized layers around it like a 3d printer.   Eventually the cooler outer layers developed life in a subterranean system where minerals generated light as did molten flows.

People developed moved around, mined, etc and eventually got out to the surface which had no atmosphere at the time.  Until things were put near an area to grow out of an entrance to the surface.  You can find molluscs and other creatures in subterranean areas, as well as lichens and other plant type materials.

The planet destabilized with time from all the mining and other things. Earthquakes, volcanic problems, and other things went on.  Forcing people to find an alternative.  As already curious if they were alone in space they started making ships to explore and then moved to making livable space habitats for the survival of people.  They learned how to make space ships with earth like areas inside them and figured out how to build a planet using microorganisms and advanced physics methods.

A few people stayed on the planet refusing to leave when it blew up.   After the explosion two stars emerged.  People recycled part of the destroyed planets.  One of the new suns in a sky that originally was dark with no sun; started making a new planet.

So it was learned how the original planet was made.  The one sun didn't make anything new for a long time.  When it did it didn't do it again.   The sun that started constructing a planet had similar life development on it.  Watched by its neighbours on artificially made worlds and in ships.  The world developed but they didn't make contact for awhile trying to figure out how well things would be handled for they wanted peace not war.

Also the new planets people that developed had no idea what we had witnessed to grasp their origins.  Some were in denial over how they came about until a long time passed and they also saw it.  Before that though they had seen others make worlds and were angry and combative in some cases.

One of the artificial worlds was built over a Dyson Shell with remains of the original world preserved in a field.  Which likely lead to the flat earth stories and the stories of a firmament.  Though the latter also could be remnants of being subterranean.  People at one point forgot who they were after disasters and wars.

Their new family from the one young new star that made a planet weren't so ready for contact and when they found the reconstructed world thinking it a normal planet started trying to invade and control.  They didn't want further problems so threatened others and basically held people hostage when they realized others were far more advanced in technology.  On the planet they were hassling people were mostly pacifists that didn't want war.

After people were attacked the others didn't want them to know anything of their history destroying books, technologies, etc.  Some technologies they took back to their own planet or sold.  An uprising happened and people were freed.  Returning to their technology and other people.  The others fled and became known as criminals which some in mythology might of equated to demons or pirates.

The rules described in the commandments were an attempt by leaders to stop some problems people were having socially.  Eventually it lead to a legal system to enforce rules of behaviour and protect society.

Priests used to be warriors, teachers, doctors, veterinarians, agriculturalists, architects, and scientists.  They counsel led people, lead festivals or celebrations.  They often advised or lead.  The word priest is from another word which translated into "fish" but the fish in Christianity was a symbol of DNA(life sciences).

The temples or churches used to be schools, store houses, hospitals, meeting rooms, or leaders homes where they kept a safe area for others to retreat to.  Monks(or sisters) used to maintain a treasury and would mint coins and track market exchange.  Some of them did some of the same jobs as priests.

Priests (and nuns) often weren't celibate and had partners(orientation wasn't necessarily an issue).  Sometimes people stayed single because of the job or they just didn't seem to find the right person.

When I say job related I mean they often had to come in contact with people or animals with illness and tend to them, they might have to travel a lot locally or abroad(long distance relationships or term marriages), sometimes in defence of others they had to fight causing PTSD or people reacting to the fact they were capable of killing in battle or in defence of  someone(police).

Also for married or partnered people(couples) there is trying to tend to things alone including finances, family business, household, and children or elderly.  Life is hard enough sometimes without the extra responsibilities being a certain type of leader or career calls for.

Some people equated as gods in history weren't gods they were simply leaders in some regard or people involved in events that stood out.   They were written down and talked about.  Some are claimed to be marriages of close blood relatives.

This was not true.  Often places had a co-rule system requiring a female leader and male leader; each handling their own set of duties.  Their spouses weren't always mentioned.  Sometimes they were listed by more than one name as a secondary title or as a security thing to mislead problem people.  Things were also defaced and changed more than once.

There are some christian similar african and asian religions.  None really are Egyptian related.  But people always claim they are related. Usually citing single god worship of Atun.

Christianity is called a monotheism but depending on the branch it's a Henotheism or Polytheism.  That is including saints or the concept of a triple god(father, son, holy ghost, or matron, maiden, and crone.)   Catholics fall under polytheism or Henotheism.  Monotheism wouldn't need to point out 3 forms(equated to states of life).  Humans and gods can die(according to some myths) and have stages of life(also in myths).

A singular non human entity wouldn't fit those definitions which we have humanized or made similar to us.  When Atun's beliefs are commonly described he's either Henotheistic or Monotheistic as he believes in or follows a single(not a triple).  Christians also have a mother goddess mentioned which is Mary and another the Magdalena.  Which equates to mother and mothers helper or possibly surrogate mother based on the stories.

In Christianity and several other religions a "flame" is mentioned.   Some equate this with the sun or planetary core.  Others relate it to a scientific artifact not on display to the public.  A device developed to provide assistance in an emergency by augmenting someone with a knowledge base of a person with experience that might of passed on.(Similar to what you see on the show "The 100," "Johnny Mnemonic", and one other show demonstrated similar units.)

While many devices were external people had tried medical implants some of which were socket able to clip something into for an instant intuitive update.  Since they would feel physically familiar and more confident than someone simply passing them sets of instructions from a wristband, ear piece, or augmented reality device.

Such devices if found during conflict might get confiscated and become useful to a combatant.  So one system being locked to certain things would then become useless, especially if they didn't grasped how it was made.

Catholic's once had a working device and so did the Zoroastrian's and one other religion.  Also through artificial processes people could be carriers of memory to return to recall what they knew of their own past life from that time forward.

Other people could naturally do this.  It tends to be called reincarnation.  In my family it isn't needed for those that have reincarnation it is natural and has to do with a natural genetic combination that affects memory, longevity, and ability to resuscitate.

One of the first times I died was saving a child from a bunch of criminals that were abusing her when I was a kid.  I was hurt as was the child, and took the kid somewhere safe and got medical help.  Then they found us and killed us both(the doctor and I) and took the child.   Another time I lived a ripe old age and passed with my family around me.  I've also died in battle and from sickness.

Henotheism

Monotheism

Polytheism

Triple deity

A List of All Religions and Belief Systems

There are things in the Islamic belief system which has been proven to be facts.  All belief systems that are considered valid choices have some proven facts.  In Islam my family proved the beliefs on people and their blood types.  With AO and BO chimeras naturally occurring they can produce children of singular blood types or mixed from chimerism.

It came to pass that some people were living in a cave city communally each doing their part and also sometimes doing trade.  They were in the cave due to other events in the world but had technologies higher than the people that came to attack them.  They didn't like war and didn't want death around.  But the group came during the season of births and celebration.

The Sheppard took the sheep out to pasture outside the caves.  The man was threatened and then they killed all the sheep and released him to bring people out.  They then called them the lambs of god and took some of the men and put a muzzle on them like one puts on a dog.

It became a tradition of their people to attack the others and do this then write up their own laws and claim that the Islam religion is theirs and that people should obey them.  This was a community under attack and the labels are a result of their attackers as are many misconceptions over what Islamic or Muslim people believe.

People didn't have to pray 5 times a day.  The clothing they wore was for different reasons as several were in medical sciences and agriculture.  The breaks were taken for health reasons.  Some of them were meals or just rest like having breaks at your job for coffee or lunch.

If prayer or meditation happened it was at sunrise or sun set.  The reason for that I won't explain here but it is very old.  Prayer or meditation was a time for reflection on the day or issues of concern or joy.  We gave thanks to life and it is symbolic in the energy of the sun.  Sometimes we sang or did yoga at those times.  Which somehow translated into prayer mats and long drawn out group prayers.

You can be alone or in a group and don't have to segregate by gender.   That only came about because someone was not well and to keep away diseases.  It came into the mythology of not looking at the bride before a wedding because the groom once got sick in travel and unknowingly made his bride ill along with the other men who spread it to their female family.  In the weddings the woman would work together so that looked like segregation when it wasn't to outsiders.

My Islam side of the family tree knows all about it and how outsiders hassled people and then tried to proclaim themselves leaders.  As leaders they demanded people donate to their church and them giving them the best food, etc or god might punish them.  These problem people didn't care if people starved to death, lived in rags, died of illness, or lost their children.  They treated them like cattle or worse at the height of their awful behaviour.  The legitimate people shared with others and others donated to the shared food reserves, etc and helped in the running, upkeep, and events.

While modern times have seen certain costs for priests that didn't once exist.  Most priests of any religion tend to work a second job and work with others on provision of pastoral care, education, counselling, and other services.  The religious communities have businesses to help fund them which some parishioners are part of but other ones systems don't allow that.  Some strictly refuse donations or demand participation.

Religious Symbolism isn't always what we think it means.  Many have seem to lost touch with the original meanings of many of them.  Some are part of a semaphoric system to communicate between communities in need of aid from war, health issues, or criminal attack.  Occasionally to commemorate something.

Religious symbolism and iconography

Religious symbol

Flag semaphore

International Code of Signals

Semaphore telegraph

Adinkra Symbols of Ashanti Kingdom

Adinkra Symbols and their meaning (English and Twi)

Some churches symbols were completely changed from their original meanings and stories linked to them that had nothing to do with that symbol.  The icon of Christ is one such symbol.  The priests were scientists and warriors.

The ring of thorns is a throwing weapon in the vine/rope category.  The mark or cut in the side is from an appendectomy as a sign of medical knowledge and surgery.  The scrawniness reminding us of how people struggled for food until we learned agricultural sciences.

The loin cloth a sign of industry and crafts in cloth manufacturing which was one of the oldest industries(outside of cooking and hunting). The spikes on the cross showing the pains miners took in learning to find precious resources and refining them; in caves sometimes you find stalactites which look like thorns and were called cave thorns.  

The cross symbolized electricity and communications as did him facing the sky to talk to his father in heaven.  Which was a sign to flight, wireless communications, and satellites(rockets and radios go way back).  The paleness symbolized pigment loss from vitiligo or albinism sometimes caused by chemistry, electronics, a possible virus, or genetics.

It also covered blood transfusions of which our first one is in conception and birth through the umbilical chord.  The book or sign on the cross a symbol of writing and putting things down to be remembered. A flower sometimes used as a memory that the world does have beauty in it and that sometimes that beauty is medicinal; though sometimes symbolizing a satellite dish.

Other symbols is the baptismal cross is a Buddhist wheel, Jerusalem cross is a Taoist continuous knot/Celtic knot and links to the alternative to mandalas, Ichthus is the same as the Taoist goldfish, the lamb connects them to Islam, the dove connects them to me, the rings link to physics(and Dyson Rings/Shells), the Star of David is linked to Astra(not astral) planes, bread and wine connects to food production and fuel production(the chalice a replacement for the linga or rocket drum), Pelican links to supply ships, the palm is similar to the seed or conch(palm plants also are used in a variety of products).

Christian symbolism

Jewish symbolism

Symbols of Islam

Buddhist and catholic prayer beads have two different meanings or historical uses.  At one time it was easy to put seeds on a string for planting a garden.  You could space the beads for easy planting like how we now use seed tape.  Also you could wear a bracelet of stones for a weapon if something might attack.  Later both seeds and stones were replaces by other ems for decorative wear.

At first wearing seeds was either a sign of wealth or that the person found a new crop of edible wild plants to grow at home and tame for medicine or food.  They would always carry a needle or have plant needles nearby and take a thread if they tore their clothes or found a edible plant.  The early days were hard and people sometimes had to go without eating to let a plant seed so they could have much more food the following year.

People learned to say rhymes, songs, or prayers, to remember how many seeds were needed to prosper for an average family.  People also learned to collect plants for other properties that weren't edible such as clothing, dyes, animal feeds, fuel, chemistry, etc.  They also would take and trade seeds with others and carrying them in bracelets or necklaces was easier.

In Hinduism the Yatra and Mendala's are linked to physics and waveform technologies.  Why some translate it to mean machine.  The Linga has to do with a space engine and is related to a drum that was later made from one.

My DNA shape oddly in it's super-coil resembled the Darmachakara.  The "Om" is for the word "Poem" as in the universe and it's consort(mirror/sibling) are believed to be from song or poetry of sound; cymatically produced.

The shape was believed to be a seed(

Loasa Chilensis

) or flower shape(

Lamourouxia viscosa

).  Another type of universe uses a seashell type, with it's equivelant of a linga, etc and two goldfish for DNA(chimera or male/female).

In Taoist we see the use of a different system from cymatic mandalas that used a type of string theory and are useful even other dimensional settings.  They also have a tree of life similar to

Yggdrasil

of the Scandinavians.

In the Taoist revered people I was the only woman.  Some people had tried to imitate some of the others but one links to my brother and chimerism causing him an obvious intersex state.  In my case physically(and reproductive organ wise) I look like a completely normal female.  As a chimera I had some health issues (double optic nerve, double urethra from bladder, menorrhagia, etc) and it was found that I had a male brain among other things(but no penis).  The one imposter for some reason was mimicking Waria(of Indonesia).

It was common to cross dress for safety.  Men would dress as women to avoid men looking for another man.  Women would dress as a man to be treated as an equal in some situations.  Some cultures had neutral dress.  Changes in society made this unnecessarily.  Though people still disguise themselves sometimes to avoid capture.

So I was female but considered gender neutral.  My family member was intersex and considered undecided on what he was.(gender fluid)

In Mayan symbols the marker on a linga say either 1925 or 2125.  I think it might be from 1925(a date of when the rockets were first used or when the satellite had to be destroyed).

History and Use of Prayer Beads Throughout the World

Hindu iconography

Hindu Symbolism

Pejeng drum

Dong Son drum

Sonoluminescence: Sound Into Light

Cymatics: The Science of Dance:  The Study of the Effects Sound Has on Matter

Cymatics Research - The Physics of Sound

The Harmonic Latice

Superstring theory

DNA is a fractal antenna in electromagnetic fields.

New Science: DNA Begins As a Quantum Wave

Om mani padme hum

Buddhist symbolism

Taoism > Symbols

8 Important Taoist Visual Symbols

Mayan Symbols

The Sikh use a metal bracelet, chakram, and swords or dagger as their symbols.  The bracelet with a scarf or  piece of fabric can be used as a grapple for climbing or in self defense with hojo jutsu.  They were taught to defend and protect their families and community.

Their founder was a police officer who had trained as a child with a very old policing group (in Nawa District) and in a sense they are considered a police community.  Most associate them to farmers or the textile industry.  There used to be a joke about halos, Frisbee's, and chakram.  Frisbee and discus comes from chakrams as a more peaceful use.

Some once wore chakrams on their heads over their head scarf as they were dull on the inside and only had an exterior edge blade.  Turbans were dew rags which could also double as a bowl for drinking water when out, a helmet, extra clothing, bandages, or holding medicine/plants, or patches for clothing, and in rope method marshal arts it has many other uses.  The small dagger refers to their general medical knowledge for first aid if someone becomes ill and needs appendectomy or other treatment, it also is useful if your alone in nature.

Chakram

Kirpan

Kara

Dastar

Ayurveda

Botany

Medicinal Botany

Nihang

Sikh Khalsa Army

Gatka

Hojojutsu: The Warrior’s Art of the Rope

The Nihang's nickname "The Immortals" was from life extension therapies; 3 methods were used.  I also helped equip them at one point. I remember the incident with the Nihang and Muslims at the temple in Amritsar, as I was present.

Other's in Islam that were legitimate wouldn't of deliberately shown such disrespect. But not all Mosques listened to my family even knowing our relation to Mohammad.  They did not disrespect me while there only the others.  I was able to calm down both but not until the Nihang made their point as the others thought Sikh's weak.

One of them did start to disrespect me but his elder(leader) stopped him and told him to quit it.  He asked why and he told him it was none of his business.  This is because he knew my family was linked to both Islam and Hindu's and he didn't want to discuss church politics with him.  I also had to break up the Nihang and their battle but had waited long enough to let them make their point and then said they needed to stop.

One of them wanted a special water gourd I had and something else.   Something others do not mention nor why the leader though not totally happy about things hesitated in causing me harm or insult.  Few knew the full event details.  But some did know and recorded it and that record isn't public.  Only other things relevant to them was made public.

Hindu symbology goes to things you wouldn't consider anymore and think less possible.  Ganesha as a face mask for diving or travelling high up.  Skulls on Kali's necklace pearls of war which later reminded us of re-purposing them for peace.  Pearls were a type of ship based off of us being closer to water than space.

The Vajra also a ship as were the Bramastra which you now simply know as the Astra ship since it was declassified in the non weaponized early test version.  There are other things called Astra and were reenactments of declassified projects(like NASA has done).  The Vaj Ra had a sister ship(Dor Je) but the Vajra also had an earlier incarnation as its design also mimicked a bolo weapon.  Later made as a brass children's toy.

Brahmashirsha astra

Astra (missile)

ASTRA (reactor)

Astra (satellite)

Ad Astra film(Fictionalized version about a Jumbo Space Plane/cruise Ship and what happens on it.  Based off of a true story.)

TR-3B Anti-Gravity Spacecrafts

(I'm one of the pilots in the old footage they are showing.  I moved to the Space capable version

Blackstar

for awhile and it's larger Jumbo Space Plane.)

Symbols of Angels can also be explained by flight and also police, military, and doctors, that all rapidly deploy.  Earlier symbols showed birds by a person or another object.  Later symbols combined them into a single thing.  Alot of mythelogical creatures are created by the same process and were linked to military or police units and their tales a fictional one or real ones altered by time and circumstances.

When people met in groups during war and didn't want to hear the shouting and death, they sang songs, put on plays, and told stories, or worked together on crafts that might be noisy.  These later became church hymns or songs.  Years ago groups made up their own for their own "church" or "temple" but after people compiled popular ones into books which all the groups started to share and use as they had cultural exchanges.

Some songs are specific and used as special messages(cipher text, color and music cipher) and others more personal.  Though people may of forgot some of the authors the people of the times agreed to allow others to sing their song and learn it too.

Some songs authors are remembered but current modern books do not disclose their names and there is a reason for it and in some cases its to protect descendants.  Some songs are of struggle and others about joy and love, they are the tales of many families that shared with their community or others.

We used to use prayer with an alert system that warned us if there was a serious issue that police or military needed to check or if medical had to go help.  We don't really use that system anymore though it does track large groups focus to warn of wars or disasters.  This lead to myths about angels appearing to help people.

Generally angels don't demand your belongings, etc its just common sense.  If one is hurt it might ask for help but usually officers have what they need and wont go bothering you for money, your first born, etc.  That is some twisted person whose a criminal and misusing technology.

No they aren't using the system to spy on you but they do pay attention to some criminals who probably don't like it very much.  Most of the time the surface area police handle their stuff, the space group theirs and the core group their issues but there are a few courts that deal with all regions and any weird stuff.

There also has been research into if souls exist, life after death, etc.  The devil comes from the word development, demon from demonstrate, and evil from electronic city.  Satan comes from the words "satellite N" or Sat "N" which ended up shot down after someone took too much weird interest in it to prevent a space incident.  It has a replica in a museum and is seen a a cultural heritage piece and called the Pejeng Lunar Drum or maybe it's the other drum they had as there are two different ones and one is from a space capsule.

The people hearing broadcasts off of it started going on and on about "Satan" because they heard its call-sign and it was recorded before the decision to blow up the satellite which was also recorded.  Years later a "pearl"(Dyson Shell) was named Sat N and it is what you now call Neptune(though not the original it is a copy of Neptune 3).  People had a similar weird response to the kite and balloon communication systems.   Once triggering a war by those that didn't understand the technology.

I see religion more as spirituality.  A few of them know quite well where the universe came from, how they came into existence, etc.  Most are science aware and savvy, but a few hate and shun it.  As such many don't do life extension, anti-aging, and often perish in some disaster. They equate technology to causing more trouble and don't think much about what learning and development has done for us.

There are the ones that would like to be a literal god in the sense of non science based things.  They want people to not believe their abilities are science related.  There are somethings species specific like how an electric eel can produce energy and some sea creatures are luminescent.  But in humans most types of technology that can do "magic tricks" is science based and either an implant, suit, or gadget.

However, these others literally want to be worshipped and obeyed.  They want to kill for sport and take for gain.  Some of them are obsessed with absolute perfection and frankly seem narcissistic, antisocial, and sadistic.  We unfortunately had to deal with a bunch of these people bothering churches and trying to attack things just because they had technology and felt like being bullies.  Even using materials phase and biojacking(using electronic harassment) to make people think they were possessed or ill with specific conditions.

Some of these people believe the concept of Satan as an evil cruel thing is really cool and want to be known as Satan, or a Demon, or they want to play superhero or mythological angel.  See my video explaining "Angels" and you'll see some example of the problem people vs reasonable people just working in their day job(but trying to keep anonymity for safety).

Some of these same problem people have been trying to radicalize churches, encouraging people to suicide bomb, commit indecent acts, and use things like invisibility cloaks to steal/spy/or assault people(along with electronic harassment).  Current police vehicles now carry Faraday cages to deal with electronic devices and wear more discreet things on their uniform including specialized eye wear and monitoring devices.   Watch my video on history of policing to see some of the equipment used.

The real historical people sometimes took their job relucantly.  Some really didn't want to lead.  They wanted to have their own lives, privacy, and regular relationships.  But they had knowledge or skills, and sometimes life experience.  As a result they ended up doing a job.   Sometimes people got weird and they would tell them to stop.  Other times they just went with the flow rather than argue with people.

While etiquette required they acted a certain way and handled guests (especially diplomatic ones) a particular way.  Often when that wasn't happening they tried to have what regular life they could with their own businesses, family, and friends; outside of administration or leadership.  I often dressed in regular clothes and went out to make friends, or do things.

Sometimes I was told that wasn't how a royal should dress or occasionally how they should behave but I wasn't badly behaved.  I did have a sense of ethics, morals, and responsibility.  I did want to understand other cultures and I wasn't a bigot.  I found some peoples attitudes a challenge to deal with(this included my brother).

I do believe in a something.  I don't care to fully explain it and I do also believe in science which is spelled out enough that most people can demystify by educating themselves.  However that is a double edged sword as while some people will remain decent moral, caring, ethical people, others are dangerous people that will abuse things.  Medicine and the legal system can treat them by they try to avoid both or mess with/play the system.

[anthropwashere]

we are all walking each other home

AO3 || FFN

(This is the silliest thing I’ve ever written. I don’t need to tag this body horror or gore or nothin’. I used the humor genre on FFN! Hope you guys like a good dose of the kids just goofin’ through another Fenton tech fiasco. Fic title comes from Mother Mother's "Family," because these kids are so good and I love them to bits.)

=

Tucker’s only on question three of his algebra homework and already wants to go back to grinding out a few more levels on Doomed in lieu of finishing when his phone goes off. The 8-bit Ghostbusters theme means it’s Danny, which hopefully means a fun—albeit potentially life-threatening—distraction. He’ll take what he can get.

He tosses his pencil down, flippin his phone open with a flourish. “Tucker Foley speaking. If it’s the Box Ghost again I want a divorce. Also, all my DVDs you keep hoarding. It’s been like three months since you borrowed—”

“ICAN’TCHANGEBACK!”

He blinks, takes a second to mentally untangle the panicked syllables—garbled even more so by the ear-prickling fuzz that means Danny’s in ghost mode. “Uh. Have you tried thinking happy thoughts?”

“TUCKER!”

“Okay, okay. Loop me in, ecto one. What happened, where are you, do I need to come charging in to rescue you triumphantly at the last second, et cetera.”

A painful crackle of static makes him pull the phone away from his ear. Sounded like Danny breathed an exasperated and loud sigh into the speaker. Rude much? “No, I don’t need RESCUING. I’m home, alone. Jazz and my parents are at that conference-luncheon thing for gifted academics or whatever—“

“Which you’re still not jealous about.”

“—shut up, bigger problems—“

Tucker rolls his eyes, leaning back in his computer chair. “Uh-huh.”

“ANYWAY. I promised my dad I’d clean the lab but I kinda spaced out, so I went ghost to speed things up but I accidentally knocked some stuff off the junk table and when I picked it all up one of their gizmos shocked me and now I can’t change back and they’re gonna be home any minute now and I don’t know what to do—“

“Whoa, stop, slow down. It’s cool.”

“It’s REALLY not.”

“Sure it is. Text Jazz, tell her there’s a ghost emergency at the house, make sure she stalls your folks any way she can. I’ll be over ASAP to look at whatever you zapped yourself with, see if I can’t find the undo button you’re too spazzed to notice. You call Sam yet?”

“No. Her mom dragged her to that thing at the country club today, remember?”

Oh, right. She’s probably dying for any excuse to get out of small talk hell, but this doesn’t sound like something that warrants busting out Plan E. “Alright, just you and me then. See you in fifteen. Don’t just float there and panic ‘til I get there, dude. Finish cleaning the lab or something.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“You’re not, like, blistering or turning weird colors and not telling me, right?”

“What? No. I’m just stuck. It feels kinda weird when I try and change back, but that’s it.”

“Okay, just checking.” He hums. “Sounds like some kind of anti-Specter Deflector.”

“Sure felt like it. It looks like a friggin’ Bop-It though.”

Tucker snorts as he slams his algebra textbook shut, getting to his feet. “Your parents are gonna get so sued when their ghost hunting tech goes mainstream.”

“You mean my dad is. He does most of the original designs. My mom’s just the one who makes ‘em work.”

“Like I said, so sued.”

“If I touch this and a recording of your dad goes off ordering me to ‘flick it,’ I will die and I will haunt you.”

Danny, hovering the usual two-and-some-unnecessary-feet off the ground, rolls his eyes. “Gross. It’s not gonna say anything. At least, it didn’t when I touched it.”

“Maybe you didn’t flick it right.”

“Gross. I’m pretty sure the original Bop It didn’t have a ‘flick it’ option anyway.”

Tucker picks the wandlike device up, careful of the frayed wires dangling out of its spherical hilt. It’s done up in the usual slick neon green and polished chrome of Fenton tech, surprisingly free of any Jack Fenton-themed stickers. Mrs. F has definitely had her hands on this, which means it’s at least halfway functional.

Color scheme aside, it really does look like a friggin’ Bop It. Hasbro will have words with the family Fenton if whatever-this-is ever goes out with the rest of the gear they pass around Amity Park like slightly corrosive candy. He turns it over, watching it catch the lurid light of the open Ghost Portal. “What’s this bit s’posed to be then?”

“Uh. ‘Pull it,’ I think.”

Tucker snorts. “Oh, because that’s so much better. You try either to set it off?”

Danny loops a little closer, fluid and boneless in the movement even though he keeps his legs as-is. He always reminds Tucker of betta fish when he’s ghost mode, for some reason. Must be the aura; it makes  him blurry no matter how you look at him. “No, like I said, I bumped the table and a bunch of stuff fell off. All I did was pick it up.”

“You touch the wires?”

“I dunno, maybe? It shocked me as soon as I touched it.”

“Hmm.” And that’s the trouble with Fenton tech; it’s all brand new. They’re building better mouse traps for mice that can walk through walls, disappear, and fly. Danny’s parents have to get crazy with their designs. “Any idea what it’s supposed to do?”

“No. I only pay attention when they give their inventions names.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re useless.”

Danny throws his hands up irritably. “I’m the one who’s stuck here.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s the word from Jazz?”

“She convinced my parents to pick up dinner, so that’s bought some time.” He fidgets, nervous. It always makes Tucker’s eyes feel funny when Danny does that in his periphery. “The Specter Deflector lasts twelve hours.”

“We don’t know if this’ll last as long. Even if it does, you’ll still be good before school tomorrow.”

That mollifies him a little, at least enough to stop with the honest-to-god hand wringing for a minute. “Y’think so?”

He shrugs. Sure, he thinks so. He also thinks it could be a half dozen other things, none half so reassuring. “I could try zapping you again, see if it undoes whatever’s keeping you from changing back?”

Danny winces. “Pass.”

Figured not. He gives the device a few cautious pokes and twists to see if he can make it do anything. He gets some humming, a flush of neon green light down the circuitry patterned across it, a few painful sparks off the wires. Danny skirts back nervously when it does that. It must’ve really hurt when it zapped him, because when he’s ghost mode he can shrug off a frankly scary amount of damage no problem. He looks okay, at least. Tucker did a lot of reading up on electrical shock after the accident—not like much of it’d be applicable to a half-ghost, probably, but he can’t help but sympathize a little when Danny shies away from anything that might shock him.

After a couple minutes he gives up. If it’s supposed to do anything specific he can’t get the thing to do it. Maybe zapping Danny used up too much juice? “Jazz can ask what this one does for you without looking suspicious, yeah?”

“Are you kidding? They love it when we ask questions.” Danny drops to the ground with a sigh; as usual, it looks like gravity’s reluctant to notice him. His hair floats a little, his limbs lag like he’s underwater. Betta fish, man. “Guess I don’t have any choice but to hope they tell her something good, huh?”

Tucker flashes him a grin, tossing the Fenton Bop-It back on the junk table. “That, and help me with the algebra homework?”

They retreat up to Danny’s room, but no algebra textbooks are cracked open. They just end up talking, half semi-serious conversation about patrol schedules and what-if scenarios, half gushing over the upcoming terrible Sci-Fi channel marathon this weekend, and the next thing they know the front door bangs open. Mr. F’s voice booms out Danny’s name. Danny goes deer-in-the-headlights stiff floating half a foot above his bed. Tucker grabs him by the ankle and swings him toward the wall, hissing, “Hide!”

Danny blinks owlishly. “Uh. Right!” He phases through a NASA poster and Tucker hears the bathroom door shut just a few seconds before footsteps come pounding up the stairs. Jazz bursts into the bedroom breathlessly, eyes falling on Tucker. He points at the wall and she nods, relieved.

“Come on,” she says. “I figured you were going to spend the night. There’s enough takeout for you too.”

“Cool, thanks.”

It’s about fifteen minutes of the usual awkward pantomime. Oh, Danny’s taking a shower because he got splashed with a little ectoplasm cleaning up the basement, nothing serious, ha ha ha! I’d be happy to take a plate up to him since we’ve got a lot of homework still, but oh, could you come downstairs with me real quick, Jazz? Danny wanted me to grab a folder and I just don’t like poking around down there by myself, you know? Thanks again, Mister and Missus F! You’re the best!

Down the basement stairs he slumps, exhausted. He hates lying. He hates how good he’s getting at it more.

Jazz shoots him a worried glance, all raised eyebrows and puckered mouth. He starts talking before she can pull that teen psychiatrist schtick on him. “We couldn’t figure out what the thing that zapped him is or how to undo what it did. I think it’s just low on power, but I dunno if it’s even got an ‘undo’ button yet.”

She winces. “Junk table?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, great. Just show me which one it was and I’ll see what I can get out of our parents.”

He shows her the Fenton Bop-It, tells her what he’d tried and what Danny did to get stuck, then grabs an empty manilla folder out of a filing cabinet for appearance’s sake and runs back upstairs. It’s a juggling act of weighed-down dinner plates and Coke cans to get back up to Danny’s room, but he manages.

“I come bearing sweet and sour chicken,” he says, kicking at Danny’s door. It creaks open a second later, a suffuse white glow spilling out into the unlit hall. He siddles in, kicks the door shut behind him, and has to lean up against it when Danny’s suddenly about two inches from his face.

“Well?”

“Personal bubble, dude. Take your plate before I drop it. And relax, alright? They just got home. Jazz hasn’t even had a chance to ask about it yet.”

Danny huffs but floats back a little, pulling his Coke and plate out of Tucker’s hands. “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.” Tucker takes Danny’s desk, leaving Danny to float on over to the trunk at the foot of his bed. It takes a little doing, but Tucker gets him to eat. Of course, some of Danny’s reluctance is because he’s ghost mode; something about it makes everything taste funny, apparently. “Like Pop Rocks,” he’d said once, when Sam had tried to get him to explain what he meant. All snap and crackle no matter what he tried eating or drinking, with practically no actual taste to go with it. Shame, because the Fentons had gone to the really good Chinese place on Singer Street.

They stack their empty plates and finally knuckle down to do homework. Knowing Mr. F, it’s going to take an hour-long lecture before Jazz has any luck finding out something useful about the Bop-It. Danny gripes about trying to write with gloves on a few times ‘til Tucker sighs and points out the obvious thing to do, which is to take them off.

“Oh,” Danny says, sheepish.

Bless him, but NASA’s gonna have their work cut out if they actually decide to take his half-ghost butt.

It’s after six by the time Jazz finally staggers back upstairs, looking a little wall-eyed but otherwise not so bad off after a Jack Fenton Lecture. She shuts the door and sags against it, shooting Danny an apologetic look. “Well it’s not bad news,” she starts.

“Oh, that’s comforting,” Danny says.

“They’re working on a way to stall ghost powers out permanently—“

“How is that not bad news?!”

“Because that thing is just a prototype! They haven’t had any success yet on the little ghosts they’ve tested it on.”

Danny drops his notebook and pencil to float to his feet, gesturing sharply at himself. “Well it seemed to work pretty good on me!”

“I know!” Jazz winces, lowering her voice. “I know. Are any of your other powers affected?”

“Um. I don’t think so?”

“Ghost basics seem fine,” Tucker notes, pointing at him with his pencil. “Flying, intangibility, and invisibility are all the little ghosts are good for anyway.”

“Huh.” Danny flickers out of sight, reappears looking thoughtfully at his bare hands. “Yeah, that’s all fine.”

Jazz manages to look relieved and smug at the same time. Tucker would never say it aloud on pain of death, but it makes her look just like Mrs. F. “That’s what I thought. They’ve only tested it on little guys, nothing strong enough to take on a humanoid form like Spectra or Technus. Those ghosts, well, they don’t change like you, obviously, but they have changed how they look, right?”

“Right,” Danny says uncertainly.

“So maybe that’s as far as Mom and Dad have gotten with this thing and they just haven’t realized it because they haven’t tested it on a strong enough ghost.”

Seems like a sound enough leap in logic to Tucker. “Did they mention a theoretical timer on this power short, or is Danny gonna have to have a very belated parent-ghost son talk on the wrong end of an ectogun?”

Danny shoots him a dirty look. What? It’s a fair question.

“Theoretically? Twenty-four hours. In practice? And on something bigger than a cat?” She shrugs. “No idea.”

Danny groans. “How is that not bad news?”

“They’re positive any power short wouldn’t be permanent?” Jazz offers with a weak smile. “Plus I got Dad excited to work on it some more, and I suggested it might be a good idea to include a reverse switch. Y’know, as a precaution?”

“Well, okay, that’ll be good if they ever zap me with it in the future, but that doesn’t exactly help me now.”

“Sounds to me like you’re gonna come down with a twenty-four hour flu,” Tucker says.

“No way,” Danny and Jazz say at the same time.

“Our parents are total spazzes about getting sick,” Jazz adds. “They’d be all over him.”

“Yeah, that, and I’ve got a makeup history test I can’t miss,” Danny says. “This is the last chance Mr. Caulfield will give me to make it up.”

“You can’t go to school like this,” Tucker says, half-laughing.

“I have to. I’m this close to failing the class and it’s almost the end of the semester.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling so much in history?” Jazz asks, reaching up to rest a hand on his elbow. He fidgets up out of her reach.

“I told you about English,” he mutters, not looking at her. He drags bare fingers through his hair—it flows rather than falls back into his glowing eyes. “I have to go to school. We’ve gotta find a way to fix this.”

Sam texts them both about an hour after that, all caps locked grievance about silver spoons and sleazy old men gloating over the size of their yachts. Normally it’d be funny, but the three of them have been brainstorming and all they’ve come up with is a whole lot of nothin’. Their biggest hope—well, not Danny’s, but options the kid does not have—had been the Specter Deflector. It had shocked Danny as good as ever, but left him just as ghostly as before. Didn’t even short out any powers, far as Danny’s tested. Weird.

Danny scowls at his phone, tapping out a reply. It pops up on Tucker’s phone a moment later. Got zapped by another invention. Come over if you can get away

Tucker adds, for clarification, He’s not hurt and it’s nothing crazy. School’s gonna be a problem tho

Sam texts back that she’ll be over as quick as she can and leaves it at that. Jazz leans back on her hands on Danny’s bed, watching him circle the ceiling.

“Homework,” she reminds him.

“Bigger problems,” he grumbles.

“Putting off homework all semester messed your grades up enough that you can’t take a dive on one test.”

His eyes flash, two neon green flares that sting to look at head-on. “Fighting ghosts all semester messed my grades up enough that I can’t take a dive on one test.”

They’ve been coming back to this in-between trying to figure out if any other Fenton gadgets might help. Goody-good straight-A Jazz and troubled teen might-actually-fail-to-graduate-at-this-rate Danny both have excellent points. Ghosts take priority, definitely, yeah, they all agree on that. But Danny’s a slacker too, happy for any excuse to procrastinate. Still, Jazz is kind of choosing a bad time to rub that in his face.

Tucker is staying firmly out of it. He likes his eardrums intact, thanks very much. He lets them bicker, thinking. If they can’t fix this in time for school tomorrow and it doesn’t wear off in time either, option C is… what? Somehow smuggle a ghost kid into a high school that sees ghost attacks on the regular and hope nobody notices?

Pfft. If Danny had the same tricky shapeshifter powers as Spectra, maybe. Even if he did, it sounds like the Fenton Bop It would’ve probably shorted it out anyway. They’d have to bury him in like three hoodies and an aviator hat—ha, and a big pair of aviators to match—

“And what are you laughing at?”

He half-heartedly hides his grin behind one hand as they both glare daggers at him. “Nothin’. Just, pictured trying to sneak you into school in a terrible disguise.”

Danny scoffs, but Jazz’s frown turns downright considering. She hums, tapping her chin. “You know, that might be your best option.”

“What? Jazz.” He drops down to land beside her, gesturing at himself with a wide sweep of both arms. “This isn’t exactly subtle. Putting on normal clothes isn’t gonna get me far, and how exactly would you explain Phantom trying to steal my place at school for a day?”

“Ghosts do all kinds of strange things to alleviate boredom when they’re on this side of the Portal. It’s not like anyone knows much about them, right?” She grins. Tucker would definitely never tell her, but it makes her look just like Mr. F. It’s uncanny. “Besides, if you do get caught, you could just fake-scare the class, vanish for however long it might take to fix this mess, and then pretend Phantom kidnapped you or something.”

“No way! I’m not setting myself up as a villain! People finally stopped screaming more when I show up to fight the ghost of the week—“

“Day,” Tucker corrects.

“—whatever!” He folds his arms over his chest. He still looks weird without the gloves on; it makes it easier to tell there’s a green undertone to his skin when there’s more of it to see.

“You might not get found out,” Jazz points out. “If we’re smart about it, you probably won’t.”

“Probably,” Danny parrots. “Real comforting.”

“I don’t see you coming up with anything better, dude,” Tucker says.

“Not you too. Come on, I’m glowing.”

“You can barely tell under fluorescent lights.”

“My hair—“

“Nothing a beanie-hoodie combo couldn’t hide.”

“My eyes—“

He sticks up a pair of finger guns and winks. “Sunglasses.”

“We aren’t allowed to wear sunglasses in class,” Danny reminds him through gritted teeth.

“Optometrist,” Jazz pipes up. “Do you have anything important first period?”

Danny shrugs, wary. Tucker doesn’t blame him. Jazz and her Ghost Getter ideas tend to backfire on him nine times out of ten. “I don’t think so?”

“Well, skip first period and show up late to second wearing sunglasses. When anybody asks you to take them off just say you got your eyes dilated and your optometrist told you to keep your eyes covered the rest of the day.”

“That’d work,” Tucker says. “You ever get your eyes dilated? It sucks. Totally believable to wear sunglasses instead of those dumb roll-up things.”

“I really don’t think—” Danny starts, but Jazz cuts him off with a flap of her hands as she crosses the room to stand right up in his personal bubble. He tries to lean away but she leans right along with him, grabbing his chin between finger and thumb. “Augh, Jazz! What—”

“The biggest problem is going to be your skin, I think,” she says. “You’re just too green like this.”

He swats her hand away. “You can thank all the ectoplasm in me for that. This plan sucks. It won’t work, not in a million years.”

“Well not with that attitude,” Jazz replies, cheerfully undeterred. She skirts around Danny over to his bed to snatch up his phone.

“What are you doing? Don’t touch my phone—!”

She smoothly dodges his lunge, elbowing him in the gut with that sibling kung-fu Tucker’s only ever seen on TV and here at Fenton Works. With Danny in ghost mode she may as well have tickled him with a feather, but she makes her point. He floats back with a huff.

“Jazz.”

“I have an idea, but I don’t have the right supplies for it. Sam should though.”

“That’s not terrifying or anything,” Tucker mutters as she texts out something and sends it. He’s not privy to whatever supplies she’s talking about; she’s switched out of the group chat. He and Danny share a worried look as his phone pings a reply text that makes Jazz’s eyes light up.

Sam’s grin gleefully tap dances the knife’s edge between conspiratorial and downright supervillainous. She’s got her spider backpack on one shoulder, an overnight bag on the other, and what looks like a Goth’s version of a tackle box in hand. “Well Jazz, I have to say I wasn’t sure about this plan at first, but it had a chance to grow on me on the ride over.”

“I thought you’d enjoy this,” Jazz replies. She’s changed into her pajamas and put her hair up in a ponytail. In one hand she’s got a mint green leather bag with black polka dots on it. The other hand is hidden behind her back. Gosh, that’s ominous.

Danny’s the one that’s got both girls looking at him like they just might sink their nails into him and never let go. He, rightfully so, looks nervous as hell. Tucker’s done the smart thing and made himself as small and unobtrusive a target in the corner as he can. Alas, poor Danny, he knew him well. Algebra will be his new best friend.

“Uh,” Danny tries feebly, “What idea is that, exactly?”

Sam and Jazz brandish tackle box and polka dot bag in tandem. “Makeover party.”

Small and unobtrusive, small and unobtrusive, Foley, for your own safety do not laugh—

Danny’s voice cracks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard us, ghost boy,” Sam says with relish. “You wanna take that history test so bad? We gotta make you look convincingly human. Thus: makeover party.”

Danny bounces into the air, legs melting down to an intangible tail so no one can make a grab for his ankles. “Oh no, no no no, absolutely not. I’ll take the failing grade.”

As answer, Jazz reveals what she’d kept hidden behind her back: an uncapped Fenton Thermos. “Daaaanny,” she sings, sugar sweet, “Don’t make me uuuuse this.”

Tucker buries his face in his beret to smother his laughter.

“You’re awful,” Danny tells her. “The worst sister ever.”

“Perhaps,” Jazz agrees smoothly, “but I’m your sister, and I’m older. So get down here and let us at least try to make you look passably human? The worst that happens is it doesn’t work, you wash your face off, and we think of a new plan.”

Danny curls up more tightly in one corner of the ceiling, like a grumpy black and white snake. “No, the worst that happens is you giving Sam prime blackmail material.”

Sam shakes her tackle box. Mysterious things rattle inside. “It’s the 21st century, Danny. Boys are allowed to wear makeup now.”

“Oh yeah? I think I’ll take my chances strolling into class as just Phantom over looking like one of those creepy guys you hang out with at the Skulk ‘n’ Lurk. Shut up, Tucker.”

Tucker waves one hand apologetically, wheezing on the floor. He’s going to sprain something at this rate and the girls haven’t even busted out the concealer yet. If Sam doesn’t take pictures he will, best friend solidarity be damned. Both girls ignore him.

It takes a little more cajoling and threatening, but Sam and Jazz win in the end. Danny sulks all the way to the bathroom to change into some pjs (phasing through the wall again to avoid his parents). He comes back with his jumpsuit and boots in his arms and a mutinous expression on his face, and Tucker’s glad it’s not just him that stares.

Danny’s eyes flare. “What?”

“Nothing,” Tucker says quickly, because he has a healthy sense of self-preservation and respect for the stupid amount of super strength and speed Danny’s got in ghost mode.

“It’s just weird to see Phantom look so casual,” Sam drawls, because her favorite thing in the world is to push a guy’s buttons when he’s already down, apparently.

But okay, yeah, it is weird. The white glow off Danny’s skin doesn’t quite spread to his ratty space camp shirt and gray sleep pants. It’s an older shirt from a couple years back so even though he always gets them oversized it fits him well now. He stands differently when he’s ghost mode, straight-backed and chest out instead of his usual slouch, and this is the first time Tucker’s seen just how fit all that ghost fighting’s made him. Or maybe he’s only this fit in ghost mode? Tucker could swear Danny’s forearms aren’t quite so defined usually.

Danny’s glower could irradiate milk. His jumpsuit, when he tosses it aside to join his gloves and abandoned homework, splashes its own weird white glow on the carpet. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying this.”

Sam just grins, gesturing him over to where she and Jazz have laid out their supplies on his desk. Jazz wheeled in her own office chair while he was changing and Sam’s taken Danny’s, so with one final grumble he picks up the wooden trunk from the foot of his bed with the same ease Tucker might pick up an empty cardboard box, setting it between them. He plops down with a defeated hunch like a man kneeling before a guillotine. Overkill maybe, but Tucker’s not sure he’d be wearing a different expression if it were him facing the makeover party.

“If you don’t stop laughing,” Danny growls through gritted teeth, leaving the threat unfinished to let Tucker fill in the blank however he likes.

“Oh don’t worry, Tucker’s going to be too busy to laugh,” Sam says cheerfully, flashing him a wide smile that’s much more terrifying than anything Danny can cook up. “He’s going to be doing your homework.”

“Aw, what? Sam—!”

“And mine,” she adds. “Don’t worry though, I’ve only got algebra left.”

Danny laughs.

Tucker keeps his nose to the grindstone no matter what embarrassed squawking Danny makes. If he looks up he will laugh, and then he will die. And that would be an extremely uncool way to go. Worth it, maybe? No, no, Danny’s room is right above the Ghost Portal. He doesn’t want to find out if simple proximity to an inter-dimensional hole in reality would bring him back as a ghost if he died close enough to it. Look what standing in it did to Danny.

“Mascara?”

He bites his cheek and resolutely does not look up. Ah yes, x equals eleven, definitely.

“Your eyelashes turn white too. C’mon, hold still.”

“Don’t put that thing near my eyes, holy crap—“

“I said hold still!”

...What did x equal again?

Eleven. Right. Probably.

Tucker copies out the work and answer in Danny’s and Sam’s notebooks. He’s gotten about as good at copying their handwriting as he has at lying to authority figures. He’s still not sure how he feels about that little skill either, but hey, he’s almost too distracted to hear Danny whine.

Sooner than he expected he hears Jazz say, “I think that’s pretty good for a first try, don’t you?”

He looks up, furtive. Danny’s back is to him so he’s only got the girls’ expressions to go by. Jazz looks pleased, while Sam’s tapping her chin as she scrutinizes whatever-it-is they’ve done to him. “It’s a little plain,” she says.

“Plain is good,” Danny says fervently. “Please leave it at plain, this already feels really weird.”

“We are aiming for normal teenage boy,” Jazz reminds her.

Sam tosses something into her tackle box. “I know, but it feels like a wasted opportunity to not Goth him up for fun.”

“Blackmail material,” Tucker sings under his breath.

Sam laughs, Danny hunches deeper into himself, and Jazz gestures Tucker over. “Is he still too obvious?”

Prepared to say yes, of course he is because he’s a GHOST, Tucker finds himself briefly speechless once he does get a look at Danny’s face. “...Huh.”

“What does that mean?” Danny demands anxiously. Sam, grinning like a well-fed cat, slaps a hand on his hunched shoulder.

“It means tomorrow’s gonna be a breeze. You might want to bust out some last minute review notes.”

Tucker steps back, snags Danny’s sunglasses off the dresser, and shoves them onto Danny’s face. He leans left, then right, then hums. “Got some spillover on the laser sights that are gonna be a problem.”

“I’ve got a pair of wraparound sunglasses he can borrow,” Jazz says.

“Huh. Problem solved.”

Fed up with the lot of them, Danny jumps into the air and phases through the wall into the bathroom to inspect their work. Jazz and Sam sweep tubes and compacts and who-knows what else into their respective makeup bags.

“Thanks again for going along with this,” Jazz says.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been trying to get Danny to let me experiment on him for ages. The things I could do with that green undertone….” She trails off, a little wistful, a lot ominous. Today is clearly not the last time Sam’s going to experiment. Tucker drains the last of his Coke as a toast to the paces Danny’s spooky ooky undertone is going to be put through.

“He looked normal,” Tucker says.

“That’s the point,” Jazz says.

“No, but he looked normal. Like, normal-normal. How’d you do that?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets,” Sam cuts in, waggling her fingers. “I could make you look like a ghost if you were up for wearing colored contact lenses.”

“Pass.” Still, whatever they’d done had even magicked away that funny blur to Danny’s features that always made Tucker want to clean his glasses. A pair of shades, a hat and hoodie, and Danny’d look like any other sophomore. Hell, he’d probably fit in more than he does usually; Danny keeps forgetting to pretend to notice the fall weather rolling in.

Tucker puts his empty can on the dresser to give them a little golf clap. “I gotta say, I’m impressed. If Danny can keep his cool for eight hours he might actually make it through the school day without getting caught.”

Sam scoffs. “That’s a tall order.”

Jazz hums. “I’m not sure what he’ll do if there’s a ghost attack. He can’t exactly wear his jumpsuit under regular clothes.”

Tucker snorts. Yeah, a polyurethane hazmat suit is a little harder to hide than good ol’ fashioned superhero spandex.

“He’ll just have to take it with him,” Sam says, but she reaches down to pick up one of Danny’s gloves with her lips pursed. “If it keeps glowing like this it’ll be hard to hide any time he has to get something out of his bag.”

“I can put it in this,” Danny says as he phases out of his closet. It’s a testament to how often he rejoins a conversation like this that none of them jump. He’s got a Dumpty Humpty drawstring bag in hand, shaking out the various bits and bobs that had already been in it.

“Oh, so now he wants to contribute to the plan?” Sam and Jazz share a victorious look. It really does not bode well for anybody, how well they’re suddenly getting along.

Danny huffs. “I didn’t think this’d actually look believable,” he says, gesturing at his face. “How the hell did you do it?”

“Don’t bother, dude, already tried. Lips is zipped.” Tucker kind of can’t help but stare as Danny lands beside him. As long as he sticks to fluorescent lights, Tucker’s just about positive no one will be able to tell the difference.

Jazz reaches out, grabbing Danny’s hand to stare at it intently. By this point Danny seems to have given up squirming as a bad job, though he does look nervous. “What now?”

“Your hands are almost as obvious as your face. Do you have any fingerless gloves?”

“No.”

“Nothing a pair of scissors can’t fix,” Sam says with a matching snip-snip of her fingers.

“Why fingerless?”

Jazz, twisting his fingers in weird directions, raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to spend the whole day trying to write with bulky gloves on?”

Tucker, best friend that he is, just manages not to laugh. It’s a near thing. Danny, as always, doesn’t appreciate his efforts.

“I think we should do your nails too,” Jazz says, finally letting him go. Danny slumps, goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, and gets his hand grabbed again for trying.

“Ah ah ah,” Sam teases, “No rubbing.”

There’s a dirty joke that could be made here, about two idiots who both ought to be failing biology for how badly they’re missing each other’s signals and how determined they are to ignore what’s—who’s—standing right in front of them, but Tucker stays quiet. He’s not an idiot. Dirty jokes only end in tears and blackmail.

“It feels weird,” Danny grumbles. “You’re only painting my nails if you paint Tucker’s first.”

“It’s not my secret identity on the line here,” Tucker points out. “Twenty bucks or I walk.”

Sam bites her lip trying not to laugh.

In the end Tucker’s twenty bucks richer and sporting nails done in a fetching combination of raspberry and lime. They all end up with a bit of lime polish—who could resist an inside joke like that?—though Danny’s the only one that gets glitter. Tucker makes a solemn promise to never cross Jazz; she can be downright nefarious when she wants to.

“Just watch,” Sam says as they do a last cleanup now that their nails have all dried. “You’re gonna wake up at four in the morning for some stupid ghost attack and be able to change back.”

“Don’t,” Danny groans. “You’ve jinxed me now.”

“Go wash your face off,” Jazz says. “Tucker, can you take your guys’ plates down? We’ve had a real problem with ghost ants lately; they’re like bloodhounds for crumbs.”

“Sure thing.” Anything to avoid the argument that’s gonna follow Danny being told he’s going to have to get his face all done up again first thing in the morning. He shuts the bedroom door, balancing empty plates and soda cans in one hand (muffling Jazz’s “It’ll smear if we leave it on!”), and makes his way down to the kitchen. Mr. F is there washing out his coffee mug for the night; he beams when Tucker enters.

“Heya Tuckerino. You kids havin’ fun up there?”

“A blast.” He grins, showing off his nails.

Mr. F chuckles, holding out one big hand to accept the plates. “Was there a homework break before you did your toes to match?”

“No pedis tonight, unfortunately, but our homework’s all done.”

“Good, good.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Trash needs taking out, if you’re offering.”

“Sure thing.”

“There’s a good lad.” Mr. F’s eyes wrinkle when he smiles fondly. He’s a beard shy of looking like Santa Claus. Or Hagrid. Somebody big and jovial and kind who wouldn’t hurt a fly—so long as it wasn’t a ghost fly, anyway. It’s a shame Danny’s so leery of telling his parents about the accident. Tucker gets it, really he does, but it’s still a shame. He grabs the trash bag and the recycling too, since it’s nearly full.

“Have a good night, Mr. F.”

“Don’t stay up too late curling each other’s hair now!”

“Oh please, and let Jazz ruin a ‘do this good?”

Mr. F’s laughter follows him out the door.

=

(The "Loop me in, ecto one," line is a riff on Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas series. The movie didn't come out until 2013 but c'mon, a series about a young guy who only wants a normal life but has to deal with ghosts all the time? You know one of the kids found the first book somewhere and had a real good laugh.)

[180abroad]

Day 146: Auschwitz

"For ever let this place be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity." Auschwitz-Birkenau, 1940–1945

This was, without question, the most horrifying, unsettling, and emotionally devastating thing we did on our trip. It was also probably the most important.

We arrived at Auschwitz as part of a big-bus tour group and met our guide. She took us directly into the camp, passing under the iconic sign which, translated, means “work will set you free.”

During the Nazi occupation, prisoners were kept in a row of barracks behind barbed wire. My first reaction was surprise at how nice the barracks looked from the outside. The reason is that Auschwitz (or "Oswiecim," in Polish) was originally a Polish military base meant to house Polish soldiers. When the Germans invaded Poland, they needed someplace to store thousands of Polish military and political prisoners. Existing Polish military bases were an obvious and practical solution. All that needed to be done was to add a barbed wire fence and reorient the defenses to face inward instead of outward.

It was later that it became a permanent camp for Jews. It was the perfect location--a rail hub right in the middle of the Nazi concentration camp system.

We saw a copy of a Nazi poster encouraging the Jewish population of Cologne to report for relocation to a new settlement where they would be allowed to live in peace.

But as decent as the barracks seem from the outside, it is a thin veneer covering a dark core. We saw the insides of several barracks. Most were converted into various exhibits, but we also saw the conditions that the Jews and other prisoners were made to live in–both at the beginning of the camp’s history and at its brutal end.

We saw a barrack filled with items confiscated from the Jewish prisoners. Ever economical, the Nazis kept everything they took from their prisoners with the intention of reusing it. There are whole rooms filled with eyeglasses, hairbrushes, luggage, and even prosthetic limbs.

And countless piles of shoes.

But the room that affected me most was the one filled with hair. Every woman who entered the prison had her hair shaved off. And the Nazis kept it all, intending to use it for insulation, stuffing, and even textiles.

The first thing you see in the room is a small case with a row of braided plaits, cut clean off of their owners heads. They looked as though they might have been cut off that morning. I couldn’t look at them for more than a few seconds before looking away. Seeing them tore at my heart, and it pains me to even recall it now.

And then you turn and see it. A mountain of hair as tall as a person and at least as deep as it is tall, running twenty or thirty yards across the length of the room. Over four thousand pounds of it. Photos aren’t permitted of the hair out of respect, but I don’t think that I would show it to you even if I could.

We saw a display case filled with empty cans of Zyklon B, the industrial pesticide that the Nazis used to murder prisoners by the hundreds. It wasn’t chosen because it was fast or clean; it was chosen because it was cheap and readily available. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t clean. Many prisoners survived the gas only to be burned alive along with the dead in the crematoria.

We saw another barrack block that was used as a special prison within the camp--used for disobedient prisoners and anyone the guards felt like making an example of. Some rooms were so crowded and poorly ventilated that the people inside them suffocated. Some rooms were divided into small, unlit standing cells that prisoners had to climb into through a hatch at floor level. I could barely fit into one by myself, but the Nazis would put four men in each. Another set of cells was used for testing various poisons on prisoners until Zyklon B was selected as the one for mass implementation.

We saw a wall where other disobedient prisoners were summarily shot, and a gallows where twelve Polish Christians were hanged inside the camp for trying to help Jews escape.

We saw the once-electrified fences that still surround the camp. Built to keep inmates in, it became for some their only means of escape. Many prisoner records ended with “fell against the electric fence,” and no foul play from the guards was involved.

We saw the quarters of the camp commandant Rudolf Hoss, where he and his children would play in their pool while watching the camp prisoners go about their daily work.

And we saw the gallows where Hoss was hanged after the war.

We saw the gas chambers and the furnaces. We saw the room where countless people were murdered, and the holes in the ceiling that carried the agent of their deaths.

We saw the crematorium in the next room with three ovens and a custom-engineered three-track cart system for carrying the bodies from one room to the other as efficiently as possible.

Jessica described her previous experience at Auschwitz as “intense.” I get it now. As we walked around, at first I didn’t feel anything at all. It was too much–numbing. But as we left back under the cursed gate, I could feel myself beginning to shake, with emotions too intense to file away under any pre-existing label.

Absolute horror. Absolute rage. Absolute disgust. Absolute sorrow. Absolute shame–not for any sense of having been a part of it, but for knowing that I am of the same species as the beings who did this.

I wanted this place to be enshrined forever and never forgotten. I wanted it burned out like a festering wound. At some places we’ve visited, Jessica and I have taken small rocks as tokens of our visit. But when I thought of taking a rock from this place, I felt physically sick. I’m glad I came, but I don’t want any of it to leave with me. I resented even the dust that clung to my shoes.

After a short break, we rode over to Auschwitz II, also known as Birkenau.

Birkenau wasn’t a military base. And it wasn’t a labor camp, either. It was purpose-built for extermination.

One half of the camp is built from bricks taken from the Polish villages that were leveled to make way for the camp. The other half is filled with prefabricated wooden structures. Not even barracks, they were originally designed as stables for German officers’ horses.

I always found it strange that a camp dedicated purely to extermination would need such a massive amount of living space. The simple, horrible answer is one of massive mathematics.

Ninety percent of all the prisoners brought to the camp were sent directly to the gas chambers . The remaining ten percent were used as slave labor to maintain the camp and run the crematoria. But by the end of the war, that ten percent amounted to over one hundred thousand people.

Combined, Auschwitz and Birkenau could kill and burn thousands of people every day. But even that wasn’t enough to keep up with the greater thousands that were shipped by train every day.

We stood on the exact spot where people were divided into those who would die now and those who would die later.

By the end of the war, the gas chambers and ovens weren't enough to keep up with the flood of people being shipped to Auschwitz by the Nazis for disposal. They had to be supplemented by firing squads and mass pyres. But the pyres didn’t burn as efficiently as the ovens, and they left more evidence for the Allies to find when they finally arrived at the camp.

We saw some of the crematoria sites in Birkenau. Before abandoning the camp, the Nazis blew them up in a vain attempt to hide what they had done. They knew exactly what they had done.

Near the crematoria stands a monument to the more than 1 million people who were killed in this single camp complex of Auschwitz-Birkenau.

Back in the living quarters of the camp, we saw a barracks block that was used as an open latrine by the prisoners. We saw another barracks block that was reserved for women who could no longer work, where they were kept under guard until it was their turn to be sent to the crematoria.

Throughout our trip, Jessica and I visited many powerful places. Some positive, some horrible. But every time, I left feeling like I had gained something from the experience. Except Auschwitz.

Auschwitz doesn’t give. It only takes. As we left the Birkenau camp, I felt that something had been ripped out of me–that I was leaving as less than what I was when I went in. I could say it was innocence, or a sense of humanity's inherent goodness. But it wasn't really something that could be summed up as cleanly as that.

Auschwitz is a place of ending. It is the end of the line–both literally and figuratively. It is what happens when an ideology based on fear and superiority over others is taken to its natural conclusion. And while we may have defeated the Third Reich, we haven’t changed human nature. I don't think we ever can.

As long as there are humans, there is the possibility that this could happen again. We can’t defeat it once and for all like in a movie or fairytale. We can only commit to standing vigilant. Words of fear, words of superiority, words that divide the world into us and them–these are the seeds of the next Holocaust. And while we can’t–and shouldn’t–stamp such words out with force, we should treat them with the grim respect that they deserve, lest they flower while we ignore them.

I don’t think I’m a better person for having seen what I saw. But I might have a better awareness of how bad I could become under the wrong circumstances.

That is why I think it is important that these places be preserved in perpetuity, and that anyone who can should see them in person. Not just as a monument to the dead, and certainly not to shame the guilty as if they are monsters set apart from the rest of us, but as a warning to all humans who will ever live that they too are capable of such things.

Next Post: Salt, Cemeteries, and Castles (Krakow, Part II)

Last Post: Schindler’s Factory and St. Mary’s Basilica

[pigsonthewingpdx]

We could become slaves to our equipment...volume 2

WARNING: GUITAR GEEK LANGUAGE FOLLOWS 

David Lindenbaum is the second half of the Pigs on the Wing guitar team and an accomplished solo artist in his own right ( check out his solo album Ether Day if you have done so yet).   While Dave is an old hand at performing Pink Floyd’s music, he actually came into the band a bit later - as Pigs on the Wing began life as a single-guitar band in the spirit of the original Pink Floyd.  A seasoned and infinitely adaptable musician, Dave played his first gig with Pigs on the Wing as sub bassist - before convincing the band ( rightly so) that they really needed a 2nd guitarist. Today we’re going to take a look at Dave’s guitar setup for Pigs on the Wing - and the equipment he uses to achieve the classic Pink Floyd guitar tones.

Dave onstage with Pigs on the Wing in 2015

POTW: What is your approach in general terms to getting the David Gilmour sound ?  Do you ever improvise or do you tend to play the parts note for note?

DAVE: As for as his sound, I shoot for something in the right ballpark. I’ve never tried to replicate his exact gear or anything, but have rather tried to stick to the spirit of it. For the parts I go mostly note-for-note, leaving windows here and there to be spontaneous. Here again, when I improvise  I tend to stick with my perception of the spirit of the music. Once in a while I just cut loose and play off the top of my head, usually during sections where we’ve added jams that aren’t in the original arrangements. 

For iconic stuff like the Brick Pt. 2 or Time solos, I play those note-for-note, figuring that fans expect to hear them that way, and also that I can’t improve on perfection. On lesser known stuff I’m more open to interpreting or improvising. 

Pigs on the Wing in 2012

POTW: You came into this project after it was established, originally as a 1 guitar band - what was the process like for finding a place for both guitarists ?

DAVE: For me it was mostly a process of playing as little as possible at first and waiting to be invited to add more. I’ve always been a collaborative player, and think of my self as primarily a colorist, so that process happened naturally for me. Over time we had conversations about me taking on some of those iconic note-for-note parts since I knew many of them already. Jason likes to be a little looser and keep things a little more spontaneous, so we evolved organically into roles that suit our strengths as players. We sometimes have guitar practices where we go through each song and fine-tune our parts and how they work together. Generally we try to err on the side of leaving more space and playing less. 

I’ve also become the de facto utility player, handling acoustic, lap steel, and other miscellaneous parts. Again this plays to our respective strengths because Jason mostly likes to play electric, whereas I grew up playing 12-string, nylon-string, and things like that. I learned to play songs like Fearless, Is There Anybody Out There?, and Wish You Were Here as part of learning guitar when I was a teenager, so it was natural for me take on that role in the band, to fill that need, if you like.

POTW guitars - onstage - 2018 Finding the Dark Side of the Moon tour

POTW: Let's talk about your guitars.  Tell us about your main instrument(s) and why they work for this project.

DAVE: I’m pretty much a maple-neck Strat guy generally, probably because my first decent guitar as a kid was a Japanese Squier Bullet, a 3/4-size Strat body with a maple Tele neck. I played that guitar for 11 years before finally getting a Strat, so by then nothing else felt right in my hands but a Fender with a maple neck! Plus I think they’re more versatile than most other guitars. With the right pickups you can play any style of music with a Strat. I also like that Strats are a bit harder to play than other electrics. They make you work a little harder, so when I dig in things don’t get chaotic, unless I want them to. Over the years I’ve had four different Gibsons - a Les Paul, SG, Firebird, and ES330TD, in that order - and ended up selling all of them eventually. 

Dave’s Stratocasters

I just got a new Strat that is quickly becoming my main electric - an Ed O’Brien (from Radiohead) signature Strat. It comes stock with pretty much all of the stuff I would want to mod a Strat with, like a Sustainer pickup and a mini-humbucker in the bridge, a Little JB. I had locking tuners put in and had it set up for 10s. I also ended up swapping necks with my now-former main Strat because the stock 21-fret V neck felt weird after 33 years playing C necks, most of which had 22 frets. 

I love my Ebow, so the idea of the Sustainer was very appealing to me. I use it on Echoes and plan to use it extensively on Shine On when we bring that back into the set later this year. My now-backup guitar is a heavily modified 2011 sunburst American Standard Strat. I put a Duncan STK6 in the bridge, wired in a coil-tap switch, and put in a switch to add the neck pickup to the bridge out-of-phase. It also has a bone nut and locking tuners. As noted above, it now has the 21-fret V neck from the Ed O’Brien. 

I use a Guild 12-string for all steel-string acoustic parts, except for Dogs, for which I play an old Yamaha 6-string tuned to D standard. I play a Yamaha nylon-string acoustic-electric for three songs on The Wall. I also play a Supro 6-string lap steel guitar in drop-D tuning for slide parts. 

Dave’s pedalboard setup as of Sept 2018

POTW: How do you generate the distortion and overdrive effects ?  Do you use a Big Muff ?  How about the Leslie effects?  What is the most irreplaceable pedal on your pedalboard ?

DAVE: I mostly use a Fulltone GT500 for distortion. I really prefer amp gain, but somehow ended up going this route a few years ago. 

I recently incorporated a backwards-plugged wah to my setup for the creepy whale sounds on Echoes and Is There Anybody Out There? It works great unless you happen to use wireless, so I ended up adding an A/B switch so I can use a cable with the wah and wireless for everything else. I recently got a 5 channel looper pedal with an A/B so the current A/B will go away. It’s like Medusa’s head of snakes - every time I get rid of something, 2 more things take its place! 

I have a Boss RT20 rotary speaker pedal that I like a lot. It’s versatile and indestructible. I also have three Analogman-modded pedals that I love - a Small Stone phase shifter, a VPJr volume pedal and a Boss TR2 tremolo. The most indispensable pedal on my board is definitely the Boss DD20 delay. Many Floyd songs are dependent on delay for tempo, so a good-sounding, reliable and programmable delay is crucial, and the Boss is all of those things; and like the RT20, really all Boss stuff, it’s indestructible. Our stuff takes a fair amount of abuse so roadworthiness counts for a lot.

POTW: Gilmour was known for playing through 100 watt Hiwatts at very high volume - what's your amp setup these days, and how is it similar or different from Gilmour's?

DAVE: I’m using a 1967 Fender BandMaster Head with two identical Avatar 2x12 8-ohm cabs. They are of the now-discontinued Vintage Diagonal series, which means the speaker board is mounted on a slight upwards tilt to facilitate being easier to hear on stage. They each have one Vintage 30 and one G12H30 speaker. I have to give a big shout-out to Avatar for making me a second cab to my specs despite discontinuing both the model in particular and custom orders in general. 

My setup is different from Gilmour’s in that it is significantly lower wattage - 50 compared to a couple hundred or more, depending on how many heads he uses nowadays - and I play at a comparatively low volume. Similar to Gilmour, my rig is set up for clean headroom as opposed to high gain. 

Dave’s amp rig - Sept 2018

POTW: On that note - how is your rig similar or different from Jason's rig ? Is it ever chaos having 2 guitars on stage at the same time ?  How do you guys create space for both instruments ?

DAVE: My rig is very different from Jason’s in a couple of ways. He uses an Orange head into a Marshall 4x12, and uses the effects loop for his pedals. His amp has a high gain channel that he uses for most of his leads. My rig doesn’t have an effects loop so my pedalboard runs straight into the amp. Jason uses cables, whereas I am wireless. 

On the other hand, we  both have pretty similar pedal layouts, including 2 or 3 of the same pedals, and we both use tube amps. I started using Gilmour-style short trem arms after seeing how much Jason liked his, and Jason turned me on to Analogman pedal mods.

It can be a little chaotic with the two of us, especially on really loud and jammy songs like Interstellar Overdrive or the middle part of Echoes. As mentioned earlier, we put a lot of time into arrangements so we don’t step all over each other. It helps that neither of us are showboats or egotists. We’re pretty mellow and considerate. And sometimes a little chaos is a good thing! Mostly we try to avoid having our combined stage volumes blow out the eardrums of our band mates, our audiences, or ourselves, and/or irritate Shira, our FOH sound engineer. 

Pigs on the Wing live 2018

POTW: Last question: Boss or EHX pedals ?

DAVE: Yes, please. I am an equal-opportunity pedal nerd. 

[viktorbezic]

Lessons on Creativity from Rick Rubin

Rick Rubin is arguably one of the greatest producers of all time based on the number of hit albums produced. With a track record of not only popularizing new genres but also reviving artists and bands of the past by producing in a wide variety of genres. In my mind, the creative lessons learned not only transcend music genres but creative disciplines as well. His production credits are too numerous to list and span the gamut of metal to country and include: The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Jay-Z, AC/DC, Slayer, Neil Diamond, Johnny Cash, Tom Petty and Heartbreakers, Rage Against the Machine, Frank Ocean and the list goes on. I’ve made it a personal exercise to try and extract patterns or core principles that lead to his creative success from a doing a deep dive into his career through Jake Brown’s Rick Rubin in The Studio. The lessons learned are found below. They serve as reminders for me but hopefully are useful to others.

1. All aspects of your life fuel your creative output.

“My production style involves being in tune with everything. You can’t do it by listening to music. Pro-wrestling is really important. Movies. You know, everything. You have to make records the way that you live your life.” - Rick Rubin (1)

Your lifestyle contributes to your creativity. The rooms you sit in, the places you eat, the things you see, the media you consume, your routine and the people you talk to all have an influence on you and have the ability to spark something new. The act of creating is in large part a focused act. One of doing. But time away from work is critical as well. It creates the space for you to reflect and get a different perspective. You become the sum of influences. But sometimes you can’t do through sheer work alone. Sometimes you need time away from the work to make new connections. This is what Rubin is referring to when he says, “you can’t do it by listening to music.” In Wired to Create the author Scott Barry Kaufman describes how solitude leads to creative breakthroughs. As Kaufman states, science has confirmed that solitary reflection feeds the creative mind. Isolation is needed to reflect, make new connections and find meaning. Kaufman highlights some of the reclusive activities of filmmakers, writers, and philosophers seeking refuge in remote cabins to create from Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman to philosopher Martin Heidegger (2).

Another factor Kaufman highlights that lead to creative breakthroughs is an openness to new experiences. Kaufman references studies that show a higher correlation between openness and total creative achievement over other traditional characteristics such as IQ and divergent thinking (3). Having a singular focus may make your work feel one dimensional. By using your whole life to help influence your work the higher chance of originality.  Rarely are our interests singular, and it’s tough to place the various aspects of ourselves into silos. By embracing all of your influences, you’re able to channel a distinct point of view which shows up in your work.

2. If it’s a team effort, you have to like the people you work with.

The starting point for all of Rubin’s work is whether or not he has a healthy relationship with the artist. “I have to really like them as people first and foremost.” It can’t only be about the music. He really cares about what kind of people the artists are and what’s going on in their lives. He uses these inputs to evaluate whether or not they should collaborate (4). It sounds, but when tensions arise from pressure like a project deadline, poor team dynamics lead to the team's demise. The parallel here is also don’t work with assholes or be an asshole yourself.

Many creative partnerships start around mutually shared interests and a curiosity about the other collaborators. Someone’s project may hit you in the right way. You might reach out and ask how they produced the work and what their process is etc. I like the idea the conceptual artist and hacker Ryder Ripps puts it, "Those are the best kinds of friends to make, the ones that are around shared projects and interests” (5).

It’s hard to imagine any team that hates each other going the distance and doing great work. It happens on occasion. An example that comes to mind is A Tribe Called Quest. When they made the Love Movement they hated each other. And it’s arguably their worst album. It wasn’t a total write off, but it didn’t compare to the Low-End Theory and other records they had early on when they were more of a cohesive unit.

3. It’s not about what you can add, but you can take away.

With any creative project, the things that you don’t do are just as important as the things that you do. Rubin is a long time fan of AC/DC, he was drawn to them by their simple guitar riffs. It had a profound impact on how he thought about music. Rubin focused on simplicity with all of his artists and peeled away any unnecessary parts to get to the essence of an artist's music. As an example, when producing Electric for The Cult, he asked Billy Duffy to not use any effects on guitar solos. He’d tell Duffy “Play it clean, man; use a Les Paul, no effects.” (6). Bassist Jimmy Stewart also mentioned, “we stripped off all the surface clutter and got down to what we are really all about.” (7).

When Rubin helped the Red Hot Chili Peppers with Blood Sugar Sex Magic, Flea remarked, “On the majority of rock records you don’t hear a guitar or drums or bass. You hear a bunch of processed synthesized shit. That’s all because it’s a wall of sound…a recording studio creation. This record is very minimal, and it’s very live. When I hear it, I get a picture of a hand hitting a guitar, a string vibrating. This is four guys playing music. That took us a while to learn to do. There are so many options in the studio, you’ve got to know what you want. We were real careful not do anything unless it helped the song, which meant keeping that ‘band feel’ all the time."

My key takeaway, if something doesn’t feel right, trying to improve it with effects won’t work. Instead, we should be digging down deeper to find what better resonates with our tastes. By avoiding creating a wall of sound, the Red Hot Chili Peppers honed in on what really made a song great in their minds. It’s about peeling away the things that aren’t necessary. This can apply to any creative discipline. IE. Simplifying a design, editing down our writing, etc. As Antoine Saint Expury famously stated, “Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.”

4. Don’t get stuck in a ‘genre.’

Rubin continually pushed himself to work with all different kinds of artists and music genres. From Rap and Heavy Metal to Country. His guiding principle was to operate on the fringes. He was into both Rap and Punk in the 80s because at the time they weren’t mainstream and there was a lot of room for experimentation and defining the sound (8). He started with hip-hop producing for both Run DMC and the Beastie Boys. Then he had success producing for The Cult which he followed up by producing for Slayer and Danzig. Creative differences with his Def Jam partner Russell Simmons forced him to create a new label. Instead of turning Def Jam into something it wasn’t. He decided to leave Def Jam and moved to the west coast to form Def American for all his other musical endeavors outside of hip-hop. Guiding principles for Rubin were vital, including a feel for music regardless of genre. It was about getting to the heart of an artist, and their music was about.

I’ve interpreted this as an example of being open and pursuing the things that feel right to you. If you feel like you’re not growing or stuck within a style, defined by you or not, it’s important to experiment outside of those boundaries. It’s effortless to do what you know and get complacent. Or take gigs to do X thing because you’ve done it fifty other times before. I’m not saying jump around and change your aesthetic or voice every week. You should definitely try to master a work style and hone in your voice in a focused way. Once it becomes routine, a change is required to maintain continued growth. A core philosophy or point of view that you can take with you across projects no matter how varied they may be. For Rubin, it was production by reduction and bringing mainstream sensibility and organization to music that’s on fringes or forgotten.  

5. Produce a lot of work and mine for ‘hits.’

This is definitely not a new idea, but to produce good work, you need to create a lot of it. It’s rare that you get a hit from producing only a small handful of things. A volume of work is required to not only build up your skill set but to actually start finding things that work. It also gives you way more material to recombine and reshape. Ultimately, after long sprints of creativity, you need a period of time edit and curate. You can’t jump into editing from the onset as you might not have enough output to play with. You also might squash new ideas by editing too early.

Rubin’s approach is to get artists to write at least 30 songs to be able to have 10 that are album worthy. If a band only writes 10 songs the chances are only 2 are album worthy. He encourages songwriting because the artists are in fact writers, and writers write. It’s the homework that needs to be done before you get to the studio. You need to know you have great material before getting to the studio. The studio is for performing and not writing. When Rubin produced Californication for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, he had them write a ton of songs, around 30 to 40. Followed by heavy practice during the spring and summer, so they knew exactly what they needed to do when they got to the studio (9).

I’ve rarely come up with a great idea without writing down hundreds of ideas. On top of that, it gets you into a rhythm and flow versus editing too early. Editing too soon can easily result in writer's block.

6. Technical skill doesn’t always trump substance and taste.

The designer Ben Pieratt turned me on to a concept he adopted from the book cover designer Peter Mendelsund which he calls “special wrongness.” It’s the quality of something that’s slightly off that makes it memorable or gives it a unique character. He used it in the context of creating a name for a company, but I feel the concept works for any form of creative output. When we try to perfect something, smooth out its rough edges or refine it to death, we smooth away some of its original voice and character. Rubin doesn’t focus on the technical skills it takes to produce a track but searches for what he finds unique in song. It usually the unique quirks or what others would perceive as mistakes that are part of the artist’s individual expression (10).

Most of the studios Rubin works in were built in the 50’s or 60’s. He believes their sound is superior to a modern studio that is appropriately spec’d out and perfected. He describes these studios as follows, “before they were kind of magically, with smoke and mirrors, made to sound good by people with good ears. Now everything is computer generated. Now it’s perfect, but there’s no vibe at all…” (11).  Bad vocals can be pitch corrected. You can argue that these corrections don’t make the work any better, depending on your definition of ‘better’. I guess the key whether or not there’s something worth correcting in the first place. Rubin goes on to state, “I do not know how to work a board. I don’t turn knobs. I have no technical ability whatsoever. But I’m there when [artists] need to me to be there. My primary asset is I know whether I like something or not. It always comes down to taste…I’m there for any key creative decisions” (12)

7. You don’t need to wait for special equipment to get it done. Embrace constraints.

When Rubin and the Beastie Boys produced their first album Licensed to Ill, they had no samplers and no digital technology. Chung King where they recorded was an analog studio. They would make tape loops. They would also have 3 or 4 people on a console who would be responsible for however many buttons they could press. There was no automation the songs were literally hand made. On the drumbeat in “Fight for Your Right,” Rubin and engineer Steve Ett would physically hit the rubber pads with their bare hands to emphasize the song’s kick and snare parts. Even though it took much more work to create a song it allowed for more freedom to alter a song on the fly (13).

There has to be a strong desire to create. With that, you’ll use anything that’s in front of you to pull something off. I’m reminded of a quote from photographer William Eggleston that illustrates the point, "The artist... If the thing is in that person to do, it will find a way out. Doesn't matter where you plant it.” Waiting to buy the latest tool, or to properly learn the software, may not help you produce better work. Or even help you produce more work. You may find another excuse altogether once you get the equipment you think you need. Start creating and experimenting with whatever you have in front of you. The only way you’ll learn to do something right is by spending a large amount of time doing it wrong. I’m using “right” in relative terms. As in what’s right for you. Constraints may also help the creative process along. I’ve written a series on creative breakthroughs based on constraints here.

8.  Collaborate and Cross-pollinate

Rubin highly encouraged collaboration among all of his Def Jam artists to come up with breakthroughs and to push each other creatively. LL Cool J wrote songs for Run DMC. Run DMC shared songs with the Beastie Boys. An example is Slow and Low. The Beastie Boys took the track and modified the lyrics to reflect their interests. The idea to play the beat backwards on "Paul Revere" came from Run when the Bestie Boys were looking for a slower beat to rap over. Around this time Rubin had also signed Slayer to Def Jam. He walked down the hall and asked guitarist Kerry King of Slayer to play the lead on the Beastie Boys “No Sleep till Brooklyn” track. They shared the studio and didn’t know each other until the collaboration. It took a few minutes, but it became a signature part of the song (14).  

Although Def Jam was a small label and didn’t have a massive roster of acts Rubin used what artist he did have in his studio to full capacity. They influenced each other, and he could take parts and pieces of their talents and strengths to make a song that he felt in his mind worked. My key takeaway is, yes it’s good to work alone to get things done. But periods of collaboration are needed to expand on initial thoughts and improve the final product. Diverse perspectives can lead to more unique outputs. Stephen Johnson, in Where Good Ideas Come From highlights London coffee houses during the Age of Enlightenment. It wasn’t the lone genius toiling by themselves but the interactions between creative people and free-floating conversations around different passions and interests. It allowed different networks of people to come that typically wouldn’t in the course of their day. And through their interactions would get new ideas (15).

9. Work with your idols

AC/DC is a band that Rubin admired for years to the point where AC/DC became his archetype for how to produce rock records. Very minimalistic sounds, peeling back all the layers to get to a raw sound. He worked directly with AC/DC after years of using their music as his benchmark for an excellent rock record. Their first collaboration began when he worked on one song with AC/DC for the Last Action Hero soundtrack. He would later produce 1995’s Ballbreaker Album with his idols. The key for Rubin was going back to their classic signature sound that was very stripped down (16).

In my mind, I think it was inevitable that Rubin would cross paths with his heroes after being committed to their music making approach and applying it to most of the bands he worked with for so long. He was so well versed in their material that when the opportunity came up, he was prepared to capitalize on it and brought them back to their original sound. It’s rare that we get to work with our heroes. But having a group of creative folks whose work you appreciate and follow may help guide some of your own work as there's some type of resonance between the work that they produce and the work that you create. Austin Kleon referred to this notion as identifying your creative lineage. Similar to a family lineage there’s a genealogy of folks who came before you that you have parts of. There’s also a genealogy of ideas. Although you can’t pick your family, you can indeed select who you allow to influence you based on the books you read, the music you listen to, etc. Similar to where we started in the article. Your creative lineage the sum total of life experience. What you let into your life becomes what influences you. You become the sum total of your influences. Although it’s rare to wind up working for your heroes at worst, you’ll end up finding a community that shares similar influences (17).

References

1.  Rick Rubin: in the Studio, by Jake Brown, Accessible Publishing Systems, 2009. Page 1. 

2. Kaufman, Scott Barry. Wired to Create. Penguin Publishing Group, 2015. Page 45. 

3. Idem. Page 84. 

4. Rick Rubin: in the Studio, by Jake Brown, Accessible Publishing Systems, 2009. Page 3.

5.  Anderson, Chuck. “Life + Limb.” Ryder Ripps - Life + Limb // A Podcast about Creativity with Chuck Anderson, 10 Sept. 2014, www.lifeandlimb.com/episode/ryder-ripps.

6. Rick Rubin: in the Studio, by Jake Brown, Accessible Publishing Systems, 2009. Page 63. 

7. Idem. Page 64. 

8. Idem. Page 4.

9. Idem. Page 141.

10. Pieratt, Ben. “A 3-Step Process for Naming a Project/Product. (And Some Resources).” Ben Pieratt, Blog, 20 Feb. 2014, blog.pieratt.com/post/77293289254/a-3-step-process-for-naming-a-projectproduct.

11. Rick Rubin: in the Studio, by Jake Brown, Accessible Publishing Systems, 2009. Page 11.

12. Idem. Page 15.

13. Idem. Page 45.

14. Idem. Page 46.

15. Johnson, Steven. Where Good Ideas Come from: the Seven Patterns of Innovation. Penguin, 2010.

16. Rick Rubin: in the Studio, by Jake Brown, Accessible Publishing Systems, 2009. Page 120.

17. Kleon, Austin. Steal like an Artist: 10 Things Nobody Told You about Being Creative. Workman, 2012.

[mysticaltrihalo42]

Angled Surfaces, Electric Charge, and Tissue Regeneration

Angled Surfaces, Electric Charge, and Tissue Regeneration

The short version is that I believe the healing acceleration seen in open pyramid experiments is the result of Schumann Resonance, the difference in electric charge around wounds, and can be achieved with just two flat surfaces in an A frame shape.

Tissue Regeneration and Electric Charge:

In my opinion, the best article on this was published in The Washington Post, Aug 6 1978, “Growing New Limbs” by Susan Schiefelbein. It covers research done on amphibian limb regeneration leading up to the discovery of a tiny electric charge, billionths of an amp, triggering tissue regeneration even in rats, and the healing of a broken ankle in a diabetic that would have normally resulted in amputation because of the severity of the patient's condition.

A small sample of Shiefelbein's article:

“...A third clue was buried in the writings of the late 1700s. Every time a creature is injured, an electrical charge is generated at the site of the injury. This phenomenon is called the current of injury, and it is proportionate to the severity of the wound...”

“...bone accommodates automatically to mechanical stress. When he measured the currents around a stressed bone, he discovered that it generated a positive charge on the stretched side (which dissolved some bone) and a negative charge on the other side (which built up bone and provided the necessary added support)...”

“...He amputated a rat's foreleg below the shoulder and implanted the platinum-silver electrode device at the stump. Again, success - this time, the most exciting ever. The animal regenerated nerves and tissue and even formed the humerus, the upper-arm bone, complete with the rounded end that fits into the elbow joint. Other parts of the elbow joint began to take shape, including cartilage and two bony structures that Becker surmised were the forerunners of the radius and ulna bones of the lower leg. Everything about the new growth was precisely as it had been in the original limb. And all this growth took place in just three days....”

Proof that electrical charge has an effect on tissue regeneration and could indicate that a higher energy state could either help or impair tissue regeneration.

Changing Cells:

One part read, “...expose frog blood to various levels of electrical current in order to find out exactly how much of a charge is needed to turn blood cells into blastema. Days passed, then months. The student administered smaller and smaller currents to the blood (high ones either did nothing or began to cook the cells), but he saw no evidence of change. Finally, the week before the student was supposed to quit and return to his classes, he found that blood cells revert to blastema at a few billionths of an ampere...”

This I'm skeptical about, and would like to see more information on it. But there is something else, from the article “Scientists Use Acid to Turn Blood Cells into Stem Cells in 30 Minutes” on Gizmodo in 2014,

“A team of Japanese scientists stumbled upon the method after observing a similar phenomenon in plants, where environmental stress can morph an ordinary cell into an immature one. New plants could then grow from the immature cell. This has also been known to happen in birds and reptiles, so the team from the Riken Center for Developmental Biology set out to see if something similar could happen with mammals.”

There was a bit of controversy about it and people claimed it was disproved. But perhaps what some didn't realize is that what the acid was doing was changing the electric charge. I don't know.

Schumann Resonance:

There is a constant electric hum between the Earth and upper atmosphere. The article “Tuning into the Earth's Natural Rhythm” in Brain World Magazine, Oct 4 2017, describes it:

“The Earth behaves like a gigantic electric circuit. Its electromagnetic field surrounds and protects all living things with a natural frequency pulsation of 7.83 hertz on average — the so-called “Schumann resonance,” named after physicist Dr. Winfried Otto Schumann, who predicted it mathematically in 1952.”

“This frequency circulates in the cavity bounded by the Earth’s surface and the ionosphere, surrounding the Earth at a distance of about 60 miles. Such space is filled with an electrical tension created by the clashing of the ionosphere, which is positively charged by the sun (solar winds), and the Earth’s surface, which carries a negative charge. We can think of it like the Earth’s pulse or heartbeat.”

Electric Pyramids:

In Patrick Flanagan's book Pyramid Power, he talks about accelerated healing, preservation of foods, and the buildup of an electric charge at the peak of the great pyramids. David Wilcox has talked about Russian experiments with hollow pyramids. Some of his videos can be found on Youtube. Other researchers have found a high frequency emission from the tops of pyramid structures. It's been said that pilots are warned to not fly over the Great Pyramids because instruments become scrambled.

Fire in the Middle:

One way to translate Pyra-mid is “pyra” meaning fire and “mid” being the middle. In the middle of a hollow pyramid the Earth's frequencies are bounced off the solid surfaces back towards a central point. Burial pyramids are usually solid with rectangular chambers and narrow passages connecting them, but the outside is still an angled surface and has similar effects on the Earth's resonance. So while interesting effects can be found in the giant burial pyramids, it is inside hollow pyramids that the really interesting stuff happens.

Angry Men in Black Suits:

A warning. Pyramid energy is not an easy replacement for oil. I'll explain, but the short version is that a big solar panel or wind turbine would be more efficient and take up less space than trying to tap into the electric charge seen in pyramid structures.

It is easy to assume that with the increase in electric potential found in pyramids one could just run a wire from there to a ground and get an electric current. That's true actually, but unless it's the size of a house, you're not likely to get enough to run your refrigerator. And if you're anywhere near power lines, you'll get hit with the tired old accusations that you're just stealing electricity and they'll lock you up, which has happened to a few people trying to change the world. See, some people like to take old bedsprings and nail them to power poles so the constantly shifting magnetic field around power lines induces current in the metal, and they hook wires to that to run lights and things, so there is a legal precedent. Oil companies have deep pockets and way too much influence, and too many people don't want to believe in this sort of thing, they like to think science already has everything figured out, so it's just safer to not go building big pyramids near power lines and claim you're getting free electricity.

A Mars colony, however, might look into this as a secondary power source that isn't as susceptible to dust storms. It's possible other beings already have.

And it's not a “free energy device” because you can't put one in deep space and expect it to generate any kind of charge. It's not too much different than Ben's kite getting struck by lightning, just not as dramatic. Although building something with the intent of generating a big electric charge is very likely to draw lightning.

The only way such things will become accepted by mainstream is when people get used to not burning something to generate electric power.

Fold-Up Healing Tent:

I propose that a 4 sided hollow pyramid is not needed to get healing effects. A simple A frame setup, 2 flat surfaces with some kind of hinge, will suffice, and be much easier to store when not in use. I assume the intensity of the effect will be about half of what is seen inside a hollow pyramid, but personal experience indicates the end result is the same, if slower.

My own experimental device is nothing more than wooden dowel rods making 2 frames, with poster board taped across, with zip ties in 2 places to serve as hinges. It's not fancy, but it's functional.

Some will argue that the angle must be precise, with some claiming that certain pyramid angles target certain internal organs, which I doubt, but it's an interesting theory. Some will claim that alignment with the north magnetic pole is important. Some might claim that the open ends result in a huge loss of energy. But if you're going for perfection, you should just go ahead and build a hollow pyramid. This device is not the best way to do things, but is the least intrusive to your living space and easiest to make and store.

I also feel that softer surfaces might not reflect the vibrations as well, and that something more solid is better. Although metal seems to interfere with the electrical charges, ruining the effect, although some might dispute this.

Placing the reflectors over your bed can be the best use of space, although I have difficulty sleeping in the higher energy state. I recommend having your head outside of the device. It also gets really warm in there. For reference, there are reports of people sitting in hollow pyramids feeling hot, even with vent holes cut into the sides.

Someone pointed out the energy concentrating effects of different shaped rooms and suggested that we may one day stop living in boxes and instead live in domes. Until that happens, we can at least put angled reflectors over us to get a little of that effect.

Disclaimer:

One last thing. Because of the... kind... of people in the world today, I need to point out I am not advocating shocking yourself with electric current to heal. Don't go sticking a fork in an outlet and claim that I said it would heal you. The voltages and currents in the examples given are very small. Too small to cause damage to your skin. But there is a risk with IV needles, because they're past the skin's resistance, that a static charge, like the kind that zaps your fingers when you touch a doorknob, can shock the heart and cause a heart attack. It's a very real medical risk and not many people talk about it to the general public, because some people will become paranoid and start running ground wires from the patient to the hospital bed. The charged needle in the tissue regeneration experiment had a very low charge on it. More is definitely not better in this case.

[megacircuit9universe]

Universal Telepathy (and why it sucks)

2019 JUL 14

Carl Jung first suggested the idea of a collective unconscious... as a scientific explanation for the weird phenomenon of ancient civilizations, too far apart in space to communicate, coming up with nearly identical myths, inventions, and architecture at around the same time.

It was never taken very seriously because nobody in Jung’s time could explain how such a thing could work, in terms of physics. How could human brains on opposite sides of the globe be able to access one another’s ideas? 

It just felt like something in the realm of religion or pseudo science.

Still, as the 20th century marched forward, and turned into the 21st, the question of consciousness itself has continued to be a nagging mystery that science has yet to explain in any satisfactory way.

Still, we know consciousness is real... and that it’s a thing that developed through the process of evolution... just as did it’s components, such as, say, vision.

Living beings have evolved photon receptors because... we live in an environment bathed in photons coming from the sun. A creature with no eyes would not know this, but one with even primitive cells that could detect photons and relay that information to a central brain would know photons exist, and could use that knowledge to their advantage.

The same is true for ears... because we live in an atmosphere full of acoustical sound waves.

Chemical detectors, of course are all over the place in nature. Plants, insects, and mammals alike depend very heavily on their specialized chemical detectors... as well as chemical signal generators.

But some animals have senses we can’t imagine, such as many species of birds, who can “see” the Earth’s magnetic field, and use it for flight navigation across enormous distances.  Also various fish, such as sharks, who can “see” electrical and magnetic fields in their environment.

But all of these senses are fine tuned to detect extremely weak signals, and creatures can do this because biology itself is made of such extremely tiny building blocks, and runs on such extremely low voltage. 

In fact, scientists now believe that in many cases, biological sense organs are taking advantage of truly quantum phenomena... and why not?  

This brings us to the brain... which even in insects like bees, have astounding levels of processing power.  Flight navigation, after all, is no simple trick, but remembering how you found your way to a specific flower patch, and then being able to communicate those directions to your bee colleagues using an abstracted dance... is really impressive!

So, how much more impressive is the human brain, which is the latest and most advanced brain ever developed by natural selection?

My hypothesis is that the human brain (and probably many other less sophisticated brains) is able to interact on the quantum level with some type of field surrounding the Earth... using it for storage and retrieval of information.

In this model, your memories are not stored in your brain, and your thoughts do not originate in your brain either. Both exist out in this field, and are simply accessed by your brain the way a transistor radio would access a radio station, or a smart phone would access encoded data in the cloud.

But for most of the 20th century, it was thought no such field could exist... until we discovered dark matter. 

Though we don’t yet know exactly what dark matter is... we do know that there’s far more of it permeating the galaxy than normal baryonic matter... because we can see it’s weak gravitational interaction with normal matter on the large scale.

Dark matter does permeate the room you’re in right now... along with every square inch of the Earth, solar system, and beyond.

My hypothesis is that our brains have evolved to interact with dark matter in some very subtle, yet critical way that allows us to experience not only individual consciousness... but to also share a collective, global unconscious.

One intriguing clue to support this may be the enigmatic double slit experiment.

In this famous experiment, you have a photon gun, a back wall to receive the photons, and a barrier or screen in the middle with two small slits.  If you shoot a multitude of photons at the barrier, some will pass through the slits and hit the back wall.. creating a wave interference pattern over time.

However, if you make any attempt to determine which of the two slits each photon passes through... say by setting up detectors at the two slits that will report the results to you... suddenly the back wall no longer displays a wave interference pattern, but instead, two concentrated blobs corresponding to the two slits.

The obvious conclusion... which quantum physicists hate, but cannot rule out, is that human consciousness itself, affects the behavior of the photons.

Clearly that’s not possible if consciousness is a thing happening inside of tightly sealed human skulls. Knowing... or even asking which slit a photon goes through should not change the results of the experiment... especially not so drastically.

But it is possible... and even logical, if consciousness arises from the brain interacting with a field through which the photons are passing... namely the dark matter field.

It’s tempting to think that this interaction must be electromagnetic... given that brains are electrical, and photons are quanta of electromagnetism. But we have no evidence for dark matter interacting electromagnetically... only gravitationally.

Our understanding of quantum gravity is... nearly nonexistent, so it’s difficult to say how a brain might be able to utilize quantum gravity... if at all. 

Whatever the case, if the brain is using the dark matter field to store information... that same mechanism will tend to collapse the wave functions of photons (and other quantum particles) being asked for information.

Physicists in fact will tell you that information itself is a kind of property in the universe that cannot be destroyed, but only shifted around.  So... for our brains to store any... we have to take it, and put it somewhere we can find it later.

If this cloud theory of consciousness is true, however, then it works best on the level of the individual brain.  

For example, I can remember experiences I had thirty years ago fairly vividly, and fairly accurately, depending on how memorable they were to begin with. 

But you can spend all day with your head touching mine, trying very hard to tune in to my memories and... not get anything.

However... if you and I were very similar in some key way, you might be able to gain access to my records. 

I know this will sound like a reach, but, sex kinks tend to bear this out a bit.

We all know about the internet’s famous Rule 34, which says, if it exists, there is porn of it.

That rule was always true, from the beginning of human history, but we did not know it was true until the advent of the internet, when people began sharing their extremely specific and bizarre fetish art and writing online... only to overnight connect with large numbers of other people who had the same kink... down to the same images, same scenarios, and same buzzwords.

In a very real way, people who share the same obscure niche sex kink, do share the same unconscious and conscious fantasies, in very striking detail, even if they are never in communication with one another.

That could just be the result of everybody in the group having the same wiring anomaly in their brains, causing the same symptoms.

Or... it could mean that people who are wired similarly enough on the channels that have the real signal strength... the sex drive, or the obsession for art, music, architecture, etc... are able to tune-in to one another’s thoughts and impressions.

The general rule of brain storage is that the strongest memories are the most emotional, either positive or negative... or the most significant, in terms of useful information.

Expanding outside the individual, like minds have like thoughts. It’s true for people with the same kink... but it’s also generally true in the sense that... all squirrels will think like squirrels and not like birds.  All birds will think like birds and not like bees. Etc.

But on the grandest scale... all conscious creatures will think and behave in some very basic ways that all other conscious creatures will understand.

I once had an underground beehive in my back yard.  The bees had set up their hive in a hole in the ground.  This was not a problem until I had to mow the lawn. After I did this once, the bees were not happy.  A week later, when I got the mower back out... the bees attacked my dog, who was hanging around with me in the yard.

I had not yet turned on the mower.

The bees did not do too much damage to my dog (thanks to his thick fur) but they gave him a good scare, such that he ran off into the house.

As for me... I got the message very clearly, as if they’d spoken it to me in English, “Do you see what is happening to your friend there?  That is you... if you mow over our hive again.  Got it!”

I gave their hive a wide berth that day and they didn’t attack me.  We had an understanding after that.

That’s an example of how all conscious creatures do understand all other conscious creatures.  But it’s also an example of how information is normally exchanged between conscious creatures who are not exactly the same.

99.9% of the time, external, real time communication is needed to exchange information from one conscious creature to another.  In the case of the bees, this was contextual communication.

The context is... I have lawn mower.  Dog is my friend. Dog gets the business. Dog is me, if I use lawn mower on them. 

But among themselves, even bees need to use symbolic communication. The waggle dance they use is partly contextual, because it references the current location of the sun, but it is also largely symbolic, with waggles standing in for units of distance.

And even though human brains are far more sophisticated than those of bees, we still do not have telepathy.  We rely very heavily on symbolic communication to share information from one brain to another... and even with our very advanced forms of communication... misunderstanding is rampant.

So... even if there is such a thing as a collective unconscious... there is a reason it is unconscious.  It’s because the dark matter field our brains use to store and retrieve information for individual brains is so extremely weak and delicate, that it can’t sustain a universal telepathy.

by, “universal,” I mean... a robust telepathy capable of transferring detailed information between all kinds of different brains, no matter how different they are.

The laws of physics do not and cannot support universal telepathy.

But... they do seem to be able to handle a very low level telepathy that can transfer information directly from one brain to another... if the two brains are sufficiently similar... and if the signal is sufficiently strong.

This means it should be possible to simply meditate and, by tuning in with the universe, elevate the collective consciousness of all human kind.

Is that a more effective approach than going online and blasting everybody with extremely emotional symbolic communication when they’re awake? 

Erm... on the short term no.

However, over the long game... the very long game... collective unconscious may prove to have the edge.

[billinghamn]

2019 Feb – Setting Up our New Home: Week 3 (Mon 18 Feb to Sun 24 Feb)

Mon 18 Feb

Vick drove up to Warrington for her first visit back to head office - she will be doing that every 3 or 4 weeks or so. Keeps her in close contact with her team.

Whilst she was away, I set up all the alarm system (other than the siren) – I plan to do that at the weekend. One more door contact to fit for the garage under stairs cupboard, but the final door contact I have needs a new battery.

I set up the CCTV system. All 4 cameras tested whilst lying on the floor in the lounge. I will fix these to the side of the house over the next few weeks.

I noticed that the rack was warming up the under stairs cupboard when I opened the door – I may need to think about some cooling in there in due course.

Tue 19 Feb

I got the train from Didcot Parkway into Paddington for my first meeting in London. Managed to get a PCN for paying for parking quoting my car reg, even though I was driving Vick’s car! We have only recently won a court fight over a PCN, so another one is on the way!

After lots of research, I ordered a Video Doorbell Elite from Ring. The only one which is natively aligned to Alexa, and avoids any issues with WIFI since it’s hard wired and driven off PoE. I will run a CAT6a cable from the under stairs cupboard to the loft and down the outside of the house to the doorbell. This will give us notification that someone is at the door when we are in the HOG working.

I got the Gym TV bracket secured to the wall, and fixed the TV on to it – no mean feat! That made the gym more attractive to use first thing in the morning.

Wed 20 Feb

The black mini ducting arrived, even though I asked for it to be delivered on Thu at the earliest. Luckily, I was working from home rather than working in London, as originally expected.

Fitted the lounge TV bracket. Managed to get it fitted upside down (no clear up/down shown on the bracket itself), and there was no way I was going to take it off and try and reinstall it – I’d have to drill new holes. That means it’s being held by two relatively small screws now. Cabling all over the place – will look at that tomorrow.

Vick was happy with the progress I had made whilst she was away in Warrington.

Thu 21 Feb

I managed to sort the lounge TV cabling and it looks like it is truly hanging in space now! Just need the sub and surround sound speakers to finish off things - can’t justify investing in that just yet.

Fitted the black mini trunking on the side of the house to hide the grey CAT6a cable. Looks pretty neat if I do say so myself. Would have been better if I had been able to route the cable behind the plasterboard, but this is a decent alternative approach.

Installed the mirror in the downstairs loo. For some reason it’s always nice to check how you look just before leaving the room.

Fri 22 Feb

The curtain guy came around and spent 3 hours writing a quote up (hand written). Tried a bit of hard sell at the end, but we resisted.

The Ring Video Doorbell Elite arrived. I did a quick test and confirmed all was ok - after all it’s just a fancy big doorbell! I need to work out a cable route from the front door to the under stairs cupboard for the PoE.

Installed the Hue lights and Hue motion detector on the front of the garage. Not hooked up to the electrics just yet, but I found a source of live and neutral from the light switch and the light rose.

Posted a plastering job on MyBuilder – got a number of interested parties and one quote of £340! I don’t think so.

Sat 23 Feb

Finished off connecting up the Hue lights on the garage and finally worked out how to programme them – not very intuitive to be honest. Got there in the end. Still need some finishing off with trunking, and I think I’ll fit a proper isolator switch.

Drove down to Ikea Reading and bought the desks, chairs and screens for the HOG. Managed to construct all of it, and videoed it as well.

Had some connectivity issues with the lounge TV, with my floating design. The Samsung One Connect was perched on top of the TV bracket and the connections were moving around. It’s all back on the floor again, so will have to work out a better design.

Sam and Andrew popped in for a quick cup of tea.

Sun 24 Feb

Went down to Ikea Reading again to pick up the shelving. Managed to construct one of those – nightmare instructions! Videoed that as well – should be a laugh.

Laid out the network cable from the HOG to the under stairs cupboard. Temporarily connected up. Bought some mini trunking, so will start getting that laid in due course.

Never managed to get around to the CCTV – second weekend that I have missed making any progress on that. It’s still far too windy to get up a ladder.

The HOG is ready for our inaugural working day on Mon. Ordered 100m of twin & earth for providing power into the HOG – will pick that up from B&Q on Mon.

[kuriquinn]

Bare

Summary: Sasuke looks as if he has been turned to stone, his hands clenching around the kit in his hands. If she didn’t think he could turn any redder, she was mistaken. For several seconds his eyes zero in on everything below her neck. Sakura feels the warmth in her cheeks travel downward at this, and trying for confidence, she purrs, “Like what you see?” [SasuSaku Festival 2017 – Day 12 – Prompt: “The Virgin Sees”]

Disclaimer: This story utilises characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelisations, comics or short stories is intended by KuriQuinn in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All plot and Original Characters except for those introduced in the canon books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn. (© KuriQuinn 2016- )

Rating: T

Warning: Mild OOC? They’re characters that grew up differently than the canon, so a little bit of change in personality.

Canon-Compliance: None. Alternate Reality / Walk A Mile ‘Verse

Beta Reader: Sakura’s Unicorn

It starts out as a run-of-the-mill information retrieval mission.

Simple, straightforward—they don’t even need the whole team. It’s just as well; Kakashi has been helping Naruto improve his change-of-nature techniques, and Sakura’s been hoping for some quality alone-time with Sasuke. Between everyone’s training regimen, it’s hard to find the time to just be two fifteen-year-olds in Not-Quite-Love-But-Slowly-Getting-Past-Like.

So, when Lady Tsunade proposes the mission to retrieve some stolen documents from a group of mercenary ninja and deliver it to the intended recipients, Sakura jumps on it. It’s easy, requiring stealth and intelligence which both she and Sasuke excel at.

Everything goes perfectly, until it turns out that one of the enemy is a sensor type.

Sakura and Sasuke’s carefully planned infiltration and extraction gets turned into an all-out brawl. They get the documents, but they’ve been made and are now being hunted through the forest.

On top of that, a shuriken has just become deeply embedded in the fleshy part beneath Sakura’s left shoulder blade. Sasuke hangs back, ready to grab her, but she steadies herself mid-stumble.

“I’m fine,” she insists, despite the cold pain and the feel of blood soaking through her shirt.

Sasuke considers her, and she knows from his expression that he’s weighing their options. If the wound is deep, blood-loss will make a long-distance sprint impossible, but in their current situation, they’re at a disadvantage.

“We need a distraction,” he says. “You or me?”

The fact that he isn’t even acknowledging her wound shows how far they’ve come over the years. He knows she can take care of herself.

She smirks. “Well, you’re pretty, but I don’t think you’re their type.”

The corner of his mouth tugs upward at this and he nods, turning to leave. “Five minutes,” he tells her. “Three if you don’t have a choice.”

And then he is gone. Seconds later, the enemy catches up and she is surrounded on all sides by a half-dozen missing-nin dressed in black.

“Seriously?” she asks as the closest ones lunge at her. “Why do people like you always dress in black?” She bends into her taijutsu forms, dodging blows and volleys of shuriken. “Wouldn’t it be smarter for mercenaries to dress in camouflage?”  

One of them tries to slip past her and she tosses an exploding tag in front of him, forcing him to jump backward to avoid the blast. Her shoulder burns and her side is now slick with blood, but she knows her limits. If she can just make it to five minutes…

It’s four minutes before she begins to feel lightheaded and is forced to make a quick getaway. As she flits through the trees, she hears the raucous laughs and victory shouts; they think they have her on the run: a wounded wolf being chased back to her den.

Up ahead, she sees Sasuke waiting on the other side of a clearing. His fingers flash in what anyone else would interpret as hand signs from a distance, but she knows they are a series of numbers. Grid coordinates, just as they’ve practiced.

Still running full-speed ahead, she assesses the open space, makes a quick calculation in her head, and dives into the air. It’s difficult to twist her body to avoid the razor-thin wires, especially given her wound, but she manages. Her pursuers won’t notice the gleaming strands until it’s too late.

And she’s through.

She botches the landing, however, stumbling and rolling once she hits the ground. Still, she doesn’t stop, stagger-crawling onward and glancing over her shoulder to make sure she’s in the clear.

The mercenary-nin enter the clearing as well, see her on the ground, and assume she’s succumbed to her injury. There’s more yelling, more promises of a slow and painful death, and several of them dive into the air toward her.

The minute they’re airborne, Sasuke’s fist fills with electricity and he hurls it forward. The wires come alive with a current, lightning jolting through the giant spider’s web below the mercenaries. It’s far too late for them to react, and electricity surges through their bodies. Within moments, heaps of unconscious ninja lie among the grass and tree roots.

In a final move, Sakura pulls back her uninjured arm and shoves a precise burst of chakra into the ground. The clearing splinters, collapsing beneath the unconscious men, burying them in the eroding rubble.

It’ll be a while before any of them are able to follow her or Sasuke.

“Nice teamwork,” she beams at him, going down on one knee.

Sasuke scowls. “They were already unconscious,” he points out. “You wasted your strength, and now I have to carry you.”

She sticks out her tongue. “Well, that’ll be a break from usual, then. Because usually, I’m the one carrying you.”

He mutters something unintelligible and probably insulting under his breath then scoops her up in a fireman hold—he can’t risk jostling or removing the shuriken just yet—and they’re off. Sakura shamelessly uses the opportunity to admire his backside as he runs. They stop only when Sasuke is sure that they’ve reached safety.

There’s a small, shaded glade near a river with enough leaf coverage to keep them out of sight of anyone who might come looking. He puts her down carefully and examines the wound.

“It’s deep, but it hasn’t hit anything vital,” he informs her.

“I could’ve told you that.” She tries to move her arm around to examine it herself with her fingertips, but can’t quite reach.

“Stop that,” he orders. “You’ll tear it further. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“Right. Because you make such great decisions when it comes to your health.”

“I’m not a trained medical-nin.”

“So, that’s an excuse to get yourself half-killed?”

His only response is a glower.

“How about, instead of shooting me dirty looks, you stitch me up?” she suggests. It’s not an unreasonable expectation; he’s done it before. “Do you still have that healing balm Naruto asked Hinata to give you?”

“Yes, it’s in my pack.”

“We’ll need that when you’re done. For now, though, go get some water.”

“Hm.” He turns to head for the spring. “Wait here.”  

Hah! Like she’s planning on leaving!

Sakura reaches into her own pack, digging for her suture kit. She lays it out and, with minimal maneuvering, pulls off her shirt and sports bra. She swears as some of the threads get stuck on the shuriken, then tugs them out and quickly applies a cloth compresses. The sooner Sasuke stitches this up, the better.

There’s a muffled thump behind her and she whips around, clenching a fist in expectation of an enemy behind her. Instead, she finds Sasuke, jaw dropped and cheeks flushed with colour, the canteen lying at his feet.

“Sasuke?” she questions, unsure at first what has him so startled. It takes a few extra seconds before she realises it’s her bare breasts that are throwing him off. Her mouth tugs into a rueful smile. “If I was anyone else right now, I would’ve bled out in the amount of time it’s taking you to treat my wound. Now are you going to do something, or do I have to find a mirror and do it myself?”

He visibly shakes himself out of his daze, but continues to blush furiously. It would be amusing if she didn’t have an open wound right now. “We’re in a combat situation,” she reminds him. “Can you maybe think with your upstairs brain?”

His mouth shuts with an audible click, and the glare he gives her is beyond annoyed. But he picks up the canteen and makes his way over. He looks everywhere but at her chest as he sits behind her. She hears rummaging in the suture kit.

“What does it look like?”

“Like a gash.”

“Very funny, Sasuke. I mean, how deep is it?”

“I told you, nothing vital was clipped. It’s just deep,” he says. “I’m going to clean it then start on the stitches. Try not to move.”

They’re quiet as he threads the needle through her skin. The job is long and tedious. She needs something to occupy her mind so she doesn’t wince every time she feels a pinch.

“So…” she begins. “I never realised you were so easily flustered.”

The needle pauses. “What?”

“I mean, it’s a little weird. We spent six months in each other’s bodies that one time. Seeing me without a shirt on shouldn’t be anything new.”  

“We were thirteen,” he snaps, a strained note in his voice. “And you didn’t have…” She notices his unoccupied hand make a vague motion out of the corner of her eye. “… those.”

“The word you’re looking for is breasts,” she supplies, amused. “And while I’m glad you’ve noticed them, they really haven’t changed all that much.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly sitting in front of a mirror making an in-depth catalogue of your freckle-to-skin ratio back then,” Sasuke replies defensively, jabbing the needle through her shoulder with a little more force than necessary.

Sakura hisses in response and tries to glare at him over her shoulder. He, in turn, is staring at her shoulder wound as if it holds the secrets of the universe and he can’t afford to lose his concentration. Her annoyance turns to curiosity, because she only ever sees Sasuke get like this in two cases—when he’s furious and when he’s uncomfortable. Considering the situation, and the fact he usually lashes out at people who infuriate him with violence, she guesses it’s the latter.

But why? It’s not as if he…

Well, he’s had to have seen a naked woman before, right? Even aside from the utterly bizarre swap they underwent when they were genin, he should’ve had the opportunity. They’ve both studied biology with diagrams and everything. He’s the student of Kakashi Hatake, the most perverted shinobi in Konoha since Jiraiya. He’s also teammates with Naruto, who not only parades around with his horrible Sexy Jutsu, but has been known to sneak into the women’s bathhouse—she can just picture him dragging Sasuke along.

“I don’t get it,” she says. “You’ve seen Naruto.”

“Naruto isn’t real like..” Sasuke snaps before abruptly cutting off his words at the back of his throat as if his mouth has betrayed him.

“Like I’m real?” she supplies, her own cheeks turning pink.

“…”

“So, just now, that was the first time you’ve really seen a naked woman?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“But you just mean real as in alive, right? You’ve seen—I mean, I’ve been to Naruto’s apartment and I’ve lived with Kakashi. I know guys have stashes of those magazines. You have to have...” He growls slightly. “Oh. Wow.” Another idea occurs to her, and before she can stop herself, she blurts out, “Does that mean you’ve also never…”

“Never what?” he asks tightly, like he’s already regretting asking.

“You know…” This time it’s Sakura who makes a vague up and down motion with her hands. She feels him fumble with the needle and yelps.

“No!”

“Oh.”

There’s a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

“That actually explains a lot,” she finally says. She knew Sasuke was repressed when it came to this sort of stuff, but what teenaged boy doesn’t—ahem—take matters into his own hands?

She’s a little concerned for him.

“What’s that supposed to—Wait.” His voice drops in suspicion and something like wary curiosity. “Have you?”

Sakura’s cheeks are definitely warmer than they were before, but she tamps down any sense of embarrassment. Medic-ninja don’t get embarrassed by this sort of thing.

“It’s a natural, biological function. Of course I have,” she sniffs. “Which is why I don’t believe you haven’t. Unless…unless you’re just not interested. Which is okay, too, I guess.” She really hopes that’s not the case. “Lot’s of people don’t—”

“I’m interested, okay?” Sasuke barks. “I’m very, very interested.” When she turns to shoot him an amused, challenging look, he scowls. “You know what I mean.”

“Kind of don’t.”

“It’s about having discipline.”

“Are you sure it’s not about having some kind of health issue? If you don’t ever get arou—”

“Stop talking!” he cries. “I do, but I can control it. It’s just a matter of focus. End of discussion.”

“What’s the point, though?”

“I’m done,” he announces. She turns around in time to see him jump to his feet and hurry back to the spring as if he’s been burned or she has some kind of transmissible disease.

Right. Because avoiding the problem will make it go away, she thinks peevishly, checking the sutures. They’re a little sloppy—he must’ve been really distracted by the topic of conversation.

And he still hasn’t answered her.

A mad idea occurs to her then. She almost dismisses it outright, but then figures, she might not get another chance like this. It’s rare that they’re alone together these days, even rarer that they are sent out on the same mission. He can’t just run away from her in the middle of a mission, even if the mission is pretty much complete and might as well just be a stroll through the woods at this point.

In a fit of bravery, she strips off the rest of her clothing, drops it in a pile at her feet, and waits for Sasuke to return from the spring, hands on her hips.  

He’s several feet away before he clues into what he’s seeing, and then he freezes.

Sasuke looks as if he has been turned to stone, his hands clenching around the kit. If she didn’t think he could turn any redder, she was mistaken. For several seconds, his eyes zero in on everything below her neck. Sakura feels the warmth in her cheeks travel downward at this and, trying for confidence, she purrs, “Like what you see?”

Sasuke’s head jerks up, but instead of meeting her eyes, he looks to the side. “Sakura…why…why are you…”

“You can’t be flustered like this,” she lectures him. “Naked people happen. Sometimes, you end up having to help them, especially in rescue or disaster situations. Not everyone has time to get dressed when something happens, and you can’t—”

“I…don’t have a problem with naked people,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“Oh, really?”

He makes a strangled sound low in his throat, which might be an affirmative; she watches his fists clench and unclench, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Sasuke is doing everything in his power not to look at her right now, and it’s actually bothering her.

In fact, she’s a little hurt.

“Sasuke, look at me.”

“No.”

“I’m giving you permission.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re…”

“Naked. Yes. We’ve established that,” she rolls her eyes. “And to tell you the truth, the fact that my boyfriend doesn’t want to see me naked, it’s kind of insulting.”

“What? No!” he actually does look at her now—briefly—before again averting his gaze. “That’s not—I want to, just not—”

“Just not?”

“Like…this.”

“Then how?”

“Could you just—please put your clothes back on?”

Sakura hesitates, and then sighs in frustration. Slowly, she gathers up her pants and tunic and pulls them back on. Sasuke twitches with every rustle of her clothing, and when she’s done, she grumbles, “It’s fine. You can look now, I’m decent.”

He exhales and she watches the tension flow from his body.

“I’m sorry for putting you through such a hardship,” she bites out, balling her hands into fists. “Let me make it easier on you and give you some space. I’ve got to figure out where we are anyway, so—”

She begins to breeze by him, but his hand snaps out and grabs hold of her wrist. “Sakura.”

“It’s fine, Sasuke.”

“No, it’s not.”

She takes a few calming breaths, fighting down her annoyance. She has no right to be angry about this. It’s not like he can help being uncomfortable. Even if she is hurt, she isn’t going to let it ruin their relationship.

“Forget it, Sasuke. It’s all right. We’ll pretend this didn’t happen, okay? We’ll never talk about it again, if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” he tells her, tugging her back so she’s facing him. His entire face is drawn tight, as if in concentration, like he’s trying his best to find the right words. “Sakura, when I think of…when I think of seeing you like that, it’s not in a forest in the middle of nowhere, or with you wounded on a mission, or stripping of your clothes to make a point. It’s in our home. With me taking off your clothes. Because we both want to.”

He is as red as his favourite fruit now, cringing as if worried she’ll be offended and take a swing at him. But Sakura isn’t focussed on the imagery of his little confession, so much as the word choice.

“Our?” she repeats.

“What?”

“You said our. Our home.”

If possible, he turns redder. “I meant—”

“Sasuke, are you asking me…”

“No! Yes. Not…not yet.” He shifts uncomfortably. “But one day.”

They are silent, then, the implications settling over both of them. Sakura isn’t sure what to say to that.

“I…” she begins, her emotions gravitating between being utterly confused and utterly pleased. “I didn’t realise you would be traditional about this sort of thing.”

He shrugs. “It’s something my father said once.”

“Your father? You must’ve been very young.”

“He didn’t say it to me,” Sasuke admits. In a lower voice, he adds, “He didn’t ever really say a lot to me. It was a conversation with Itachi, but I listened in. I did that a lot.”

The usual dark expression passes over his features, and she winds her wrist out of his hold to clasp his hand, offering him a comforting squeeze. “What did he say?”

Sasuke returns the brief pressure. “He said, there are certain experiences—certain privileges that you share only with the person whom you intend to spend the rest of your life with. As much as I…as much as I want…”

He trails off, looking at her meaningfully.

“You’re trying to honour his memory.”

“Hm.”

There’s another lull in the conversation as Sakura processes this. Then, “Okay.”

Sasuke blinks. “What?”

“Okay. We can wait,” she repeats. “I promise I won’t assault your virgin eyes with my naked flesh again before you’re ready.”

He makes a face at this. “It sounds much less noble when it’s clear you’re mocking me.”

“I’m not mocking you. I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet,” he repeats, distaste filling the lone syllable.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling at him. “It’s not a side of you I get to see very often. I like it. And I’m all right with waiting, if that’s important to you.”

“Thank you,” he hedges, still sounding suspicious.

She beams and leans in to kiss him, before abruptly pulling back.

“Wait. Is this okay?” she asks. “I wouldn’t want to compromise your discipline by making you feel a—”

Sasuke growls and pulls her toward him, rough but still mindful of her injury. His mouth crushes into hers, working her bottom lip between both of his. There a nip—almost a reprimand, she suspects, for her earlier teasing—and when she opens her mouth in protest, he takes full advantage, his tongue in her mouth, deepening the kiss until she’s whimpering for oxygen.  

When he pulls away, he looks only half as dishevelled as she feels.

“I’ve managed for this long,” he tells her, leaning his forehead on hers. “Besides. I know of a few things that can be done which don’t require any kind of nudity.”

The look he gives her can only be described as smouldering, and her mouth goes dry trying to imagine the possibilities.

“But,” he goes on, abruptly pulling away from her, “we’ll have to discuss it some time when we’re not in in a combat situation. Pack up your stuff. We’ll head out in five minutes.”

She gapes at his retreating back, trying to figure out what just happened.

And what he means by knowing ‘a few things’.

終わり

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome, but if you feel like keeping me caffeinated out of the goodness of your heart, it certainly would be appreciated! I’m also starting to post original works to my patreon.

I’m only able to keep writing as I do thanks to the support of readers like you, so every bit helps!

栗

[sasusakufestival]

Bare

Summary: Sasuke looks as if he has been turned to stone, his hands clenching around the kit in his hands. If she didn’t think he could turn any redder, she was mistaken. For several seconds his eyes zero in on everything below her neck. Sakura feels the warmth in her cheeks travel downward at this, and trying for confidence, she purrs, “Like what you see?” [SasuSaku Festival 2017 – Day 12 – Prompt: “The Virgin Sees”]

Disclaimer: This story utilizes characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz Media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelizations, comics or short stories is intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All fiction, plot and Original Characters with the exception of those introduced in the books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn and using them without permission is considered rude, in bad-taste and will reflect seriously on your credibility as a writer. You will be torn apart by mercenary ninja with bad fashion sense should you be found plagiarising.

Warning: Maybe slight OOC, but only because they are from a different universe. Sasuke never left Konoha.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place during Part II. Alternate Universe.

Fanon Compliance: Could conceivably take place in my Walk A Mile timeline

AN: This is unedited. Sorry, there was family stuff that got in the way of updates. Also, CEO & Assistant prompt is still being worked on. I’ll try for tomorrow.

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It starts out as a run-of-the-mill information retrieval mission.

Simple, straightforward – they don’t even need the whole team. It’s just as well, Kakashi has been helping Naruto improve his change of nature techniques, and Sakura’s been hoping for some quality alone-time with Sasuke.

Between everyone’s training regimen, it’s hard to find the time to just be two fifteen-year-olds in not-quite-love-but-slowly-getting-past-like.

So when Lady Tsunade proposes the mission – retrieve some stolen documents from a group of mercenary ninja and deliver it to the intended recipients – Sakura jumps on it. It’s easy, requiring stealth and intelligence, which both she and Sasuke excel at.

Everything goes perfectly, until it turns out one of the enemy is a sensor type.

Sakura and Sasuke’s carefully planned infiltration and extraction gets turned into an all-out brawl. They get the documents, but they’ve been made, and are now being hunted through the forests.

And on top of that, a shuriken has just become deeply embedded in the fleshy part beneath Sakura’s left shoulder blade. Sasuke hangs back, ready to grab her, but she steadies herself mid-stumble.

“I’m fine,” she insists, despite the cold pain and the feel of blood soaking through her shirt.

Sasuke considers her, and she knows from the expression he is weighing their options. If the wound is deep, blood-loss will make a long-range spring impossible, but in their current situation they’re at the disadvantage.

“We need a distraction,” he says. “You or me?”

The fact that he isn’t even acknowledging her wound shows how far they’ve come over the years. He knows she can take care of herself.

She smirks. “Well, you’re pretty, but I don’t think you’re their type.”

The corner of his mouth tugs upward at this, and he nods, turning to leave.

“Five minutes,” he tells her. “Three if you don’t have a choice.”

And then he is gone. Seconds later, the enemy catches up and she is surrounded on all sides by half-a-dozen missing-nin dressed in black.

“Seriously?” she asks as the closest ones lunge at her. “Why do people like you always dress in black?” She bends into her taijutsu forms, dodging blows and more volleys of shuriken. “Wouldn’t it be smarter for mercenaries to dress in camouflage?”

One of them tries to slip past her and she tosses an exploding tax in front of him, forcing him to jump backward to avoid the explosion. Her shoulder burns and her side is now slick with blood, but she knows her limits. It’s just a matter of making it through the time limit –

She manages for four minutes before she begins to feel lightheaded, and is forced to make another quick getaway.

As she flits through the trees, she hears the raucous laughs and victory shouts, because they think they have her on the run – a wounded wolf being chased back to her den.

Up ahead, she sees Sasuke, waiting on the other side of a clearing. His finger flash in something that anyone else would interpret as hand signs from a distance, but which she reads as a series of numbers. Grid coordinates, just as they’ve practiced.

Still running full-speed ahead, she assesses the open space, makes a quick calculation in her head, and then dives into the air. It’s difficult to twist her body to avoid the razor thin wires, especially given her wound, but she manages it. Her pursuers won’t notice their presence until it is too late.

And she’s through.

She botches the landing, however, stumbling and rolling once she hits the ground. Still, she doesn’t stop, stagger-crawling onward and glancing over her shoulder to make sure she is in the clear

The mercenary-nin enter the clearing as well, see her on the ground and assume she has succumbed to her injury. There’s more yelling, more promises of a slow and painful death, and several of them dive into the air toward her –

The minute they are airborne, Sasuke’s fist fills with electricity and he hurls it forward. The wires come alive with a current, and a giant spider’s web of lightning jolts to life below the mercenaries. It’s far too late for them to react to it, electricity surging through their bodies, and within moments, there are heaps of unconscious mercenaries lying among the grass and tree roots.

In a final move, Sakura pulls back her arm – the side that isn’t injured – and shoves a precise burst of chakra into the ground. The area of the clearing splinters, collapsing beneath the unconscious men and burying them in the eroding rubble.

It will be a while before any of them are able to follow her or Sasuke.

“Nice teamwork,” she beams at him, going down on one knee.

Sasuke scowls.

“They were already unconscious,” he points out. “You wasted your strength, and now I have to carry you.”

She sticks out her tongue. “Well, that will be a break from usual, then. Usually I’m the one carrying you.”

He mutters something unintelligible and probably insulting under his breath, then scoops her up in a fireman hold – he can’t risk jostling or removing the shuriken just yet – and they’re off.

Sakura shamelessly uses the opportunity to admire his backside as he runs.

They stop only when Sasuke is sure that they’ve reached safety.

There a small, shaded glade near a river, with enough leave coverage to keep them out of the eye of anyone who might come looking. He puts her down carefully and begins to examine the wound.

“It’s deep but it hasn’t hit anything vital,” he informs her.

“I could have told you that.”

She tries to reach her arm around to examine it herself with her fingertips, but can’t quite reach.

“Stop that,” he orders. “You’ll tear it further. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”

“Right, because you make such great decisions when it comes to your health.”

“I’m not a trained medical-nin.”

“So that’s an excuse to get yourself half-killed?”

His only response is a glower.

“How about instead of shooting me dirty looks you stitch me up?” she suggests. It’s not an unreasonable expectation, he’s done it before. “Do you still have that healing balm Naruto asked Hinata to give you?”

“Yes, it’s in my pack.”

“We’ll need that when we’re done. For now, though, go get some water.”

“Hm.” He turns and heads for the spring. “Wait here.”

Sakura reaches into her own pack, digging for her suture kit and lays it out. Then, with minimal maneuvering, she pulls her shirt and sports bra off. She swears as some of the threads get stuck on the shuriken, which she tugs out and quickly compresses with a cloth. The sooner Sasuke stitches this up, the better –

There’s a muffled thump behind her and she whips around, clenching a fist in expectation of an enemy ninja being behind her. Instead, she finds Sasuke, jaw dropped and cheeks flushed with colour, the canteen lying at his feet.

“Sasuke?” she questions, unsure at first what has him so startled. It takes a few extra seconds before she realises it’s her bare breasts that are throwing him off. Her mouth tugs into a rueful smile. “If I was anyone else right now, I’d’ve bled out in the amount of time it’s taken you to get around to treating my wound. Now are you going to do something, or do I have to find a mirror and do it myself?”

He visibly shakes himself out of his daze, but has begun to blush furiously. It would be amusing if she didn’t have an open wound right now. 

“We’re in a combat situation,” she reminds him, “can you maybe think with your upstairs brain?”

His mouth shuts with an audible click, and the look he gives her is beyond annoyed. But he picks up the canteen and makes his way over. He looks everywhere but at her chest and goes to sit behind her. She hears rummaging among the sutures.

“What does it look like?”

“Like a gash.”

“Very funny, Sasuke. I mean, how deep is it?”

“Nothing vital was clipped, it’s just deep,” he says. “I’m going to clean it and get started on the stitches. Try not to move.”

They are quiet as he begins to thread the needle through her skin. The job is long and tedious, and she needs something to occupy her mind so she doesn’t wince every time she feels the thread going through.

“So…” she begins. “I never realised you were so easily flustered.”

The needle pauses. “What?”

“I mean, it’s a little weird. You spent six months in my body before this, seeing me without a shirt on shouldn’t be anything new.”

“We were twelve,” he snaps, a strained note in his voice. “And you didn’t have…” She notices his unoccupied hand make a vague motion out of the corner of her eye. “… those.”

“The word you’re looking for is breasts,” she supplies, amused. “And while I’m glad you’ve noticed them, they really haven’t changed all that much.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly sitting in front of a mirror making an in-depth catalogue of your freckle-to-skin ratio back then,” Sasuke replies defensively, jabbing the needle through her shoulder a little more forcefully than it needs to go.

Sakura hisses in reaction, and tries to glare at him over her shoulder. He, in turn, is staring at her shoulder wound as if it holds the secrets of the universe and he can’t afford to lose his concentration. Her annoyance turns to curiosity, because she only ever sees Sasuke get like that in two cases – when he is furious or when he is uncomfortable. Considering the situation, she hazards a guess that it’s the latter.

But why? It’s not as if he…

Well, he’s had to have seen a naked woman before, right? Even aside from the utterly bizarre swap they underwent when they were genin, he should have had the opportunity. They’ve both studied biology, with diagrams and everything. He is the student of Kakashi Hatake, the most perverted shinobi in Konoha since Jiraiya, and teammates with Naruto, who not only parades around with his horrible Sexy Jutsu but has been known to sneak into the women’s bathhouse. She can just picture him dragging Sasuke along.

“I don’t get it,” she says. “You’ve seen Naruto. Seeing a naked –”

“Naruto isn’t real like –” Sasuke snaps, before abruptly cutting his words off at the back of his throat, like his mouth betrayed him.

“Like I’m real?” she supplies, her own cheeks turning pink.

“…”

“So just now, that was the first time you’ve really seen a naked woman?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“But you just mean real, like, alive, right? You’ve seen – I mean, I’ve been to Naruto’s apartment – I lived with Kakashi, I know guys have stashes of those magazines. You have to have…” He growls slightly. “Oh. Wow.” Another idea occurs to her, and before she can stop herself, she blurts out, “Does that mean you’ve also never…?”

“Never what?” he asks tightly, like he’s already regretting asking.

“You know…” This time it’s Sakura that makes a vague motion with her hands. It’s difficult, because of the angle, but the message gets through. She feels him fumble with the needle and yelp.

“No!”

“Oh.”

There is a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

“That actually explains a lot,” she finally says.

“What’s that supposed to – wait.” His voice drops in suspicion and something like wary curiosity. “Have you?”

Sakura’s cheeks are definitely warmer than they were before, but she tamps down any sense of embarrassment. Medic ninja don’t get embarrassed by this sort of thing.

“It’s a natural biological function, of course I have,” she sniffs. “Which is why I don’t believe you haven’t. Unless – unless you’re just not interested. Which is okay, too, I guess.” She really hopes it’s not the case. “Lot’s of people don’t –”

“I’m interested, okay?” Sasuke barks. “I’m very, very interested.” When she turns to shoot him an amused, challenging look, he scowls. “You know what I mean.”

“Kind of don’t.”

“It’s about having discipline.”

“Are you sure it’s not about having some kind of health issue? If you don’t ever get arou –”

“Stop talking!” he cries. “I do, but I can control it. It’s just a matter of focus. End of discussion.”

“What’s the point, though?”

“I’m done,” he announces, and stands up. She turns around in time to see him jump to his feet and hurry back to the spring as if he’s been burned or as if she has some kind of transmissible disease.

Right, because avoiding the problem will make it go away, she thinks peevishly, distractedly checking the sutures. They’re a little sloppy, but well-executed. He must have been really distracted by the topic of conversation.

And he still hasn’t answered her.

A mad idea occurs to her then. She almost dismisses it right out – but then figures, she might not get another chance like this. It’s rare that they are alone together these days, even rarer that they are sent out on the same mission. Can’t just run away from her in the middle of a mission – even if the mission is pretty much complete and might as well just be a stroll through the woods at this point.

In a fit of bravery, she strips off the rest of her clothing, dropping it in a pile at her feet and waits for Sasuke to return from the spring, hands on her hips.  

He’s several feet away before he clues into what he’s seeing, and then he freezes.

Sasuke looks as if he has been turned to stone, his hands clenching around the kit in his hands. If she didn’t think he could turn any redder, she was mistaken. For several seconds his eyes zero in on everything below her neck. Sakura feels the warmth in her cheeks travel downward at this, and trying for confidence, she purrs, “Like what you see?”

Sasuke’s head practically jerks up, but instead of meeting her eyes, he looks to the side. “Sakura…why…why are you…?”

“You can’t be flustered like this,” she tells him. “Naked people happen. Sometimes you end up having to help them, especially in rescue or disaster situations. Not everyone has time to get dressed when something happens, and you can’t –”

“I…don’t have a problem with naked people,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“Oh, really?”

He makes a strangled sound low in his throat, which might be an affirmative; she watches his fists clench and unclench, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Sasuke is doing everything in his power not to look at her right now, and it’s actually bothering her.

In fact, she’s a little hurt.

“Sasuke, look at me.”

“No.”

“I’m giving you permission.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re…”

“Naked, yes, we’ve established that,” she rolls her eyes. “And to tell you the truth, the fact that my boyfriend doesn’t want to see me naked? It’s kind of insulting.”

“What? No!” he actually does look at her now – briefly – before again averting his gaze. “That’s not – I want to, just not –”

“Just not?”

“Like…this.”

“Then how.”

“Could you just – please put your clothes back on?”

Sakura hesitates, and then sighs in frustration. Slowly she gathers up her pants and tunic and pulls them back on. She doesn’t bother with the bra – the bandages won’t allow for it, and thankfully she’s small enough that it isn’t really a major issue.

Sasuke twitches with every rustle of her clothing, and when she’s done, she grumbles, “It’s fine. You can look now, I’m decent.”

He exhales, and she practically watches the tension flow from his body.

“I’m sorry for putting you through such a hardship,” she bites out, balling her hands into fists. “Let me make it easier on you and give you some space. I’ve got to figure out where we are anyway, so –”

She begins to breeze by him, but his hand snaps out and grabs hold of her wrist. “Sakura –”

“It’s fine, Sasuke.”

“No, it’s not.”

She takes a few calming breaths, fighting down her annoyance. She has no right to be angry about this, it’s not like he can help being uncomfortable. Even if she is hurt, she isn’t going to let this ruin their relationship.

“Forget it, Sasuke, it’s alright. We’ll pretend this didn’t happen, okay? We’ll never talk about it again if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” he tells her, tugging her back so that she is facing him. His entire face is drawn tight, as if in concentration, like he’s trying his best to find the right words. “Sakura, when I think of…when I think of seeing you like that, it’s not in a forest in the middle of nowhere, or with you wounded on a mission or stripping of your clothes to make a point. It’s in our home, with me taking off your clothes, because we both want to.”

He is as red as his favourite fruit now, cringing as if worried she will be offended and take a swing at him. But Sakura isn’t focussed on the imagery of his little confession, so much as the word choice.

“‘Our’?” she repeats.

“What?”

“You said ‘our’. ‘Our’ home.”

If possible, he turns redder. “I meant –”

“Sasuke, are you asking me…?”

“No! Yes. Not…not yet.” He shifts uncomfortably. “But one day.”

They are silent, then, the implications settling over both of them. Sakura isn’t sure what to say to that.

“I…” she begins, her emotions gravitating between being utterly confused and utterly pleased. “I didn’t realise you would be traditional about this sort of thing.”

He shrugs. “It’s something my father said once.”

“Your father? You must have been very young.”

“He didn’t say it to me,” Sasuke admits. In a lower voice he adds, “He didn’t ever really say a lot to me. It was a conversation with Itachi, but I listened in. I did that a lot.”

The usual dark expression passes over his features, and she winds her wrist out of his hold so that she is now clasping his hand, offering him a comforting squeeze. “What did he say?”

Sasuke returns the brief pressure. “He said there are certain experienced – certain privileges that you share only with the person that you intend to spend the rest of your life with. As much as I…as much as I want…”

He trails off, looking at her meaningfully.

“You’re trying to honour his memory.”

“Hm.”

There’s another lull in the conversation as Sakura processes this. Then, “Okay.”

Sasuke blinks. “What?”

“Okay. We can wait,” she repeats. “I promise I won’t assault your virgin eyes with my naked flesh again before you’re ready.”

He makes a face at this. “It sounds much less noble when it’s clear you’re mocking me.”

“I’m not mocking you. I think it’s sweet.”

“‘Sweet’,” he repeats, distaste filling the lone syllable.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling at him. “It’s not a side of you I get to see very often. I like it. And I’m alright with waiting, if that’s important to you.”

“Thank you,” he hedges, still sounding suspicious.

She beams and leans in to kiss him – before abruptly pulling back.

“Wait – is this okay?” she asks. “I wouldn’t want to compromise your discipline by making you feel a–”

Sasuke growls and pulls her toward him, rough but still mindful of her injury. His mouth crushes into hers, working her bottom lip between both of his. There a nip – almost a reprimand, she suspects, for her earlier teasing – and when she opens her mouth in protest he takes full advantage, his tongue in her mouth, deepening the kiss until she’s whimpering for oxygen. 

When he pulls away, he looks only half as dishevelled as she feels.

“I’ve managed fine this long,” he tells her, leaning his forehead on hers. “Besides. I know of a few things that can be done that don’t require any kind of nudity.”

The look he gives her can only be described as smouldering, and her mouth goes dry trying to imagine the possibilities.

“But,” he goes on, abruptly pulling away from her, “we’ll have to discuss it some time when we’re not in the middle of a mission. Pack up your stuff, we’ll head out in five minutes.”

She gapes at his retreating back, trying to figure out what just happened.

終わり

I hope you enjoyed the story! As part of the SasuSakuFestival, please go to the ssfest page and vote, like and/or reblog, it would be majorly appreciated!

クリ

[amelia-friend]

Falling (Through Time and Space) For You - Chapter Four

"You're just like everyone When the shit falls All you wanna do is run away And hide all by yourself When there's far from, there's nothing else

When your mind's made up When your mind's made up There's no point trying to change it" -When Your Mind's Made Up, Once

Remember - the angst comes from a place of love! Co-written with: @elphaba-in-the-tardis

Lenore has some serious trust issues. Anyone who spent more than thirty seconds with this new, not-necessarily-improved Lenore would be able to see that.

(Edgar was under the impression that this Lenore had some serious everything issues - but really Edgar, look who’s talking. You’re hardly a beacon of perfection yourself.)

But one day turned to two, which turned to three, and while Lenore certainly wasn’t even trying to be pleasant to HG, at least she hadn’t tried to attack him again.

Small victories and all.

HG had realized quickly that this Lenore wasn’t the same as “their Lenore.”

He’d pointed this out to Annabel one night after Lenore had fled from the dinner table following his laugh at something she’d said.

Annabel had given him a look as if she’d known that all along.

The broken time machine, and the broken Lenore, and everything that was different and the same, made sense in his brain soon after that.

He cornered Annabel in the library - when he was sure Edgar and Lenore were nowhere nearby, and couldn’t overhear, and he spilled his theory.

Annabel smiled sadly, she patted his hand, and she went on with her day.

(That .. really didn’t confirm much of anything.)

It wasn’t that Lenore didn’t trust Annabel or Edgar when they said that they trusted him. She trusted the two of them with her life...afterlife, whatever...but she didn’t trust him.

At all.

He’d laugh at something in his awkward, weird way he did when he realized something was a joke two seconds after the rest of the table did, and her mind would flash back to a time when she’d made a joke and he’d laughed at it back in an attic that felt so far away.

God, he even laughed the same as him.

How could they laugh the same?

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There are days where HG forgets that this Lenore is different than the one he met at that ill fated party. She'll say something that reminds him of her and he'll laugh like he did before when he realizes she's joking or trying to break the tension in the room.

And then she freezes, as always, and he remembers that this isn't his Lenore.

This Lenore is more...hardened. He's not entirely sure what happened to make her that way but he wishes he could take it away.

She won't be near him. Not alone at least. There always has to be at least one other person there. He notices her panic when Annabel or Edgar leaves the room and leaves just the two of them in the room.

She always flees. Always.

He wishes she wouldn't.

He has no idea what he could have done to cause her to react to him like this.

He’s working in the attic one day, still working on his machine and trying to figure out why the second one was able to appear while his still remained silent.

To say it was a frustrating process would be an understatement.

He pulls a new book out of the small library of scientific research he’s begun to accumulate. He becomes so engrossed in his research that he doesn’t notice Lenore enter the room, or notice her staring at him. When he looks up from his book he almost jumps when he sees her, startled.

“Oh um...Lenore…” he stuttered over the words, knowing he was most certainly making a fool of himself. He was always making a fool of himself whenever it came to her. Something about her made his brain short-circuit and caused him to babble like an imbecile. “I didn’t notice that you’d come in...I apologize if you’ve felt...well that is to say…”

“Why doesn’t it work?”

HG stopped his babbling mid-sentence and paused for a moment. It’s not that he didn’t know, but...he didn’t know. Not really, at least. He had theories upon theories of course, as any man of science should. But he had no proof.

“I...ah….well you see I do have a theory. It seems that when I originally used the machine to come back, it took up far more energy than I initially anticipated since I was travelling to transcend the bounds of death and...well my dear Lenore that means that I can hopefully...well in the future that is...” he paused, noticing that Lenore’s eyes had widened at his statement.

He watched as Lenore flinched at the statement. Seeing her flinch almost hurt more than her not trusting him.

He realized the entire situation felt too familiar...the explaining of the science to her...but a different her than the last time. He still wasn’t entirely sure how that worked, or if it worked. She was Lenore...or at least a Lenore. Possibly still his dear Lenore…

Oh. Oh dear. He’d said that out loud, hadn’t he?

Perhaps he would need to find a different thing to call her.

Or perhaps she really wasn’t his dear Lenore anymore. (Maybe she never really was. She had moved on before they had a chance to explore anything happening between them.)

Lenore fled the room before he had a chance to analyze it any further.

========================

She ended up in the attic because that’s where she always ends up eventually.

This universe, her actual universe, before and after he ruined the attic for her - she still always ends up there eventually.

He’s in there. It’s to be expected - Annabel had told her that he had taken refuge in the attic after the other-her … moved on. Or died again. Or however you refer to what happened to the original Lenore in this dimension.

(It’s confusing that there was a different version of her. One that accepted her death and her after-life and moved on. This version of Annabel and Edgar are so very close to her own and they do love her dearly (in their own .. special way), but they also miss their real Lenore, and she knows it hurts them - just a little - to see her walk around, so close and yet so far from what they are missing.)

She knows this version of him was close to the original version of herself - it would take an idiot to miss it - even as she has been keeping her distance from him as much as possible.

He reminds her too much of her own version; the one she knew in this very attic, before he ‘died’ and she realised what a truly awful monster he was.

She’s been tricked by him before. She won’t be tricked again.

(She won’t let him hurt anyone else again.)

The reason she doesn’t just turn around and leave is very simple. Annabel had asked her not to.

Annabel was still convinced of his ‘goodness’, and that in this universe he was different, that it wasn’t an act.

Annabel had asked her to be nice.

Lenore didn’t believe her in the slightest but as the saying goes - keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

She’s a good actress. She can pretend to Not-Hate him for long enough to work out if he’s an immediate threat to Annabel or herself (and Edgar of course. He’s actually in more danger - still being alive and all.)

(Sometimes Lenore forgets that Edgar’s still alive. Her version of Edgar died, and this version acts more dead than any of the ghosts living in his house.)

He’s seen her now, and even if she wanted to slip anyway unnoticed, she couldn’t anymore - but that babbling is actually kind of annoying, so she speaks.

And it’s the first time she’s spoken to him - directly - since she attacked him, and she can tell he wasn’t expecting it, and she’s only half paying attention to his explanation as to why his time machine doesn’t work.

And she can’t quite tell what most of his machines are - she recognizes the time machine (it’s hard not to, it’s identical to the one she arrived in, and it’s enormous), and what she thinks is a cahmera and tordongulator, but they look slightly less complex than they did in her universe.

Which hopefully means they’re not a bomb in this universe. She’s reasonably sure he won’t try any explosions - if the house is destroyed, he’s also destroyed.

A megalomaniac like him would never purposefully destroy himself.

The rest of the machines are a mystery to her - a combination of wires and metal and electricity, and while there’s a certain beauty to the machines that wasn’t present in the versions she knew back in her world - she wouldn’t trust them as far as she could throw them.

She still doesn’t trust him either.

The phrase filters through into her head, and sits there for a moment or so before she understands what’s been said.

“My dear Lenore.”

She flinches without realizing, as it spins round her head, faster and louder and faster and louder, and it blocks everything else out, and she’s a ghost - she doesn’t need to eat, but all of a sudden she needs to throw up, and how could he use that phrase .

And she has to leave - forget what she said to Annabel, forget pretending to Not-Hate him, forget trying to work out how much of a danger he was - she has to leave, this was a mistake, a terrible idea, and she hates him, and she can’t be here.

She’s not his dear Lenore , she’s not his anything, and her heart is in her throat, and it’s only her promise to Annabel that stops her from trying to rip his out.

(Anything for Annabel.)

And she can’t be here, so she leaves.

As fast as she can, as far as she can.

She can’t be here, can’t be near him.

She doesn’t look back.