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jontrayner · 2 years ago

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Why do you find the need to use that kind of language? Gary Lineker and disallowed speech

On the 13th of January 2023, Joan Salter stood up in a public meeting in Suella Braverman’s constituency and said:

I am a child survivor of the Holocaust. In 1943, I was forced to flee my birthplace in Belgium and went across war-torn Europe and dangerous seas until I finally was able to come to the UK in 1947. When I hear you using words against refugees like ‘swarms’ and an ‘invasion’, I am reminded of the language used to dehumanise and justify the murder of my family and millions of others.

Why do you find the need to use that kind of language?

Braverman batted away the question with the usual obfuscations, it was reported widely in the national news and disappeared after a couple of days.

On the 7th March, former England footballer Gary Lineker, replied to a comment on his Twitter feed discussing the same subject with the following:

There is no huge influx. We take far fewer refugees than other major European countries. This is just an immeasurably cruel policy directed at the most vulnerable people in language that is not dissimilar to that used by Germany in the 30s, and I’m out of order?

As a result, Lineker was “stepped back” from presenting Match of the Day, his fellow presenters refused to appear on the show, and a huge row ensued in which the notions of impartiality in public service broadcasting were extensively discussed. The meanings and implications of this were generally well analysed by Barney Ronay in the Guardian. However, after the event, one paragraph of Ronay’s stands out:

Lineker’s key mistake was to throw Nazi Germany in there. However fine and nuanced his understanding of the semiotics of National Socialist messaging in the years 1930-1940, it would be good generally if people could stop using Nazi Germany as a kind of bad things emoji. Better to explain and use detail. Save Nazi Germany. Keep it in your back pocket for those occasions when only Nazi Germany will do. In doing so he offered up an opportunity. And an opportunist will never miss one of those.

This became one of the ways the outraged right were able to attack Lineker, his comments were excessive, out of order, disrespectful to the victims of the Holocaust, etc. This was something about which he was not qualified to speak. He should stick to his job, to football. Such replies are common currency in our current social and political discourse – everyone has the right to speak but some people’s speech is disallowed.

There are those who are expected to speak – politicians, journalists, academics, they are (apparent) experts, and their job is to have an opinion, and their right to speak is not questioned. Then there are those with lived experience, such as Joan Salter. No one questioned her right to make the comparison between the rhetoric of National Socialist Germany in the 1930s and that of the current British government. Suella Braverman did not tell her that that she was “offended” by the comparison because her husband is Jewish. The speech of these two groups is allowed.

Then there is the vox populi, all (non-theocratic) political discourse pays lip service to the idea that the public are the supreme arbiters of right. However, the public can speak but only anonymously and en masse – as the voice of the people. This is ideally filtered through an allowed source, a community leader, a union, a consultation, an opinion poll. If this doesn’t happen, then they can be categorised as the mob. But there is never a shortage of people who claim to speak for the people, or at least the right-thinking people, or the ordinary hardworking people, or to provide the voice of common-sense. And if the public do not speak in the approved manner, you can always “dissolve the people, and elect another”.

The public figure – the sportsperson, the musician, etc. – speaking outside of their role is disallowed, because they are neither expected to speak, nor anonymous. Here we have someone who has the views of an ordinary person, right or wrong, but whose public visibility is not predicated on those views but rather on their talents in another field. They are, as Lineker – as the son of a market trader from Leicester – is, often the wrong class, and went to the wrong school. Perhaps however, the key point is that their participation is voluntary– they are not obligated to speak by either their profession or their lived experience. Indeed, quite often it would be better for them professionally not to have done so. No one requires Lineker’s opinion of the government’s cruelties, he is only speaking out because he feels it to be right. Most ordinary people could not speak in the way that Lineker did, with the risk of losing their job, simply because they cannot afford to do so. The already public figure in this sense has two privileges on their speech – visibility and lack of (serious) consequences, so it is vital that speech is disallowed.

In this instance the correctness of Lineker’s statement is irrelevant, Salter can make the same point, and Michael Rosen can (on 15th March) offer a series of concrete examples of the corelations between the language of the National Socialists of the 1930s and our government. Such recourse to facts, that demonstrate that our government is deliberately deploying the same rhetoric as the Nazis, is irrelevant in the current discourse and only proves how out of touch with ordinary people, we, the experts, are. This is because we are operating in a political landscape where speech is gestural and as Walter Benjamin pointed out (in the 1930s) politics is aestheticised. Slogans such as “Stop the boats” – are vague and meaningless except as a threat. There is no functional plan behind this intention, it will not work, but that does not matter because some other group can be blamed for its failure. This is the whole purpose behind policies of this sort, to provide a performative space for futile discussion while the real “criminals” on boats – the superyacht owning asset strippers who are the beneficiaries of current government policy – continue their work.

***

Barney Ronay, The Guardian, 10/03/23 –

Walter Benjamin, Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, 1936 – https://www.marxists.org/reference/subject/philosophy/works/ge/benjamin.htm

Suella Braverman, The Independent, 09/03/23 –

Berhold Brecht, Die Lösung (The Solution), 1953 – https://mronline.org/2006/08/14/brecht140806-html/

Gary Lineker, Twitter, 07/03/23 –

Michael Rosen, Twitter, 15/03/23 – https://twitter.com/MichaelRosenYes/status/1635918291385430020

Joan Salter, The Guardian, 14/01/23 –

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mezimraky · 2 years ago

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'europeans are more accepting of ukrainian refugees because they are white' WRONG the same people spouting vitriol against brown people are spouting it now.

#under the sun with kai #i feel sick reading fb comment abt any refugee topic in czech because our local paper is just full of hateful little people #the kind that throw around the phrase 'why do they get to go to the zoo for free if i cant' a whole lot #at least our government is not following that rhetoric. at least they are standing their ground in terms of solidarity.#then again it is a centrist-right government so the people already feel like the government does not care about them #so in a way some of that anger is justified but completely wrongly aimed at people fleeing their homes because of war.#its exhausting. the way this is a tangled up sort of cycle.#the elites dont talk to the poorer people because they are deemed stupid and hateful. creating more of a divide. making them angrier and #not teaching them anything. not having discussions that could help bring people together.#the poorer people in turn take it out on whoever is even below them on the social hierarchy at the moment.#the government sees that it is the right thing to do to help refugees. the government ignores the housing and energy crisis encroaching.#the bittersweet feelings from after the last elections are back.#yes. woo. democratic parties won. but also. there is literally zero leftists in the government. zero.#the opposition is filled with populists and extremists. who play at being socially oriented when it benefits them.#there is no liberal left to speak of in our politics at all actually. the pirate party vaguely touched on it and they got fucked last time.#im sorry for this rant im sorting my thoughts. what i know. and its looking more and more dire.#also there are newspapers coming up with statistics that babiš is more likely to win first round of presidential elections.#and i do not know whether to trust them because i can NOT for the life of me keep track of all the media he owns :)#everything is fucked and we will all die here (by words of a podcaster on my fave leftist liberal news site :)) )

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yooniesim · 2 years ago

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why is being apolitcal bad? Some people, including myself, cannot stand politics. I try to stay away from it as much as possible because it gives me axiety attacks.

also, many non american people do not give a shit about trump. we have our own governments to worry about, so most of us don't give two shits about what american supports which party. it doesn't mean anything to us when we have our own corrupt governments to keep an eye on

Trying to stay away from politics is something I get, but unfortunately, there's no such thing as being truly apolitical. Blatantly ignoring racism is as much of a choice as engaging in it yourself. It's a choice you can make, but don't be surprised if people aren't particularly impressed by it. Especially if you have the time and energy to speak against paywalls in a video game (which all comes down to capitalism in the end, which is, you guessed it- political) but condemning racist harassers is too much for you. That says something, in my opinion. Even if you don't have the mental energy to speak out about something, it costs nothing to simply block or not interact with a bigot to discourage them from engaging in the community and avoid giving them a platform. (Especially if you said you were going to do that, and instead unblocked them and liked their posts of harassment instead... that's not neutral. Not even close.)

On another note. If you have your own corrupt government to worry about, you should care about Trump at least on a surface level. Do you need to follow everything or give a shit about what's going on in America? Nah, and no one's going to force you. But here's the thing: American politics can influence those of other countries, and it's usually in a bad way. It's unfortunately part of being a world power- you hold immense influence over a large part of the planet. Birds of a feather flock together, and Trump was friendly with other corrupt political figures such as Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-un, Xi Jinping, and Jair Bolsonaro. And that's just off the top of my head. He fostered an environment that encouraged and even gave advantage to them, in ways we don't even fully know the extent of to this day (it's still under investigation & not released fully to the public). He completely mishandled the Covid pandemic as well, which also affected elsewhere in the world in terms of both a global health and economic standpoint. If you're keeping an eye on your corrupt government, you might want to at least think in passing about who is encouraging similar rhetoric in other countries too- because chances are, the people that voted for Trump also had a hand in worsening your political climate as well.

In the end... if you don't give a shit, like I said, no one is going to force you. But don't expect others to agree with or encourage that line of thinking. It's as simple as that.

#asks #anonymous #ceci speaks #politics tw #saruin #nonsims #sigh #honestly its more than trump at this point #so much more

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 years ago

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How one of America's most abusive employers gets away with it

I spend a lot of time looking in detail at abusive situations where tech plays a starring role: stalkerware, bossware, remote proctoring, etc. But nothing I'd read really prepared me for the tale of Arise Virtual Solutions, an abuser without parallel.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/10/02/chickenized-by-arise/#arise

Arise sells itself as a "virtual call center" and boasts of blue-chip clients like Disney, Carnival Cruises, Comcast, Airbnb, Intuit etc. If you've ever called one of these companies, you may have spoken to an Arise worker.

But that "worker" was not an employee. Arise is a pioneer in worker misclassification, and treats all the people who work for it as "independent contractors." So even though these workers are more tightly supervised and managed than any regular employee, they have no rights.

You have to pay Arise for the privilege of working for them. Not just buying your own computer, but also paying to be trained in how to pretend to be an employee of Disney or Airbnb and Arise's other customers.

Execs at these giant corps listen in on your calls while they are in progress or after the fact - and if they detect so much as a squeak from a child, or a noisy neighbor, they can terminate your contract and you lose the money and unpaid labor you spent on training.

Likewise, you can be summarily fired for hanging up on - or mildly chastising - a caller, even in the face of sexual harassment, racist abuse, or threats of violence. Being fired means losing your training "investment."

The company will not assign a regular working schedule: rather, you are assigned 30-minute shifts, scattered through the day. Turning down a shift can mean losing access to future shifts.

Why would anyone work for this shitty, shitty company? Put simply: it's a pyramid scheme that preys on women, especially Black women. The company deceives the workers it recruits, then rewards them for roping their friends into the job.

These workers are the most precarious, desperate part of the US labor force, and Arise brutalizes them by remote control. Workers talk about the terror that they'll lose thousands of dollars and their income if their children cry or laugh too loud.

The whole family goes into lockdown like Anne Frank in the attic as soon as Mom dials into her terrible job. They have to sit in silence while Mom smiles through calls where she can receive death and rape threats, racist abuse, and sexual harassment.

And here's the kicker: if this all gets too much for Mom and she quits her job, *she has to pay Arise an "early termination" penalty*. This is the kind of thing that happens under worker misclassification: you have to pay to get a job, and you have to pay to quit it.

Now, Arise are pioneers in worker misclassification and their abuse stretches all the way back to the Obama administration. They were dirty from the start. In 2008, the US Department of Labor launched an in-depth investigation into rampant wage-theft at Arise.

The investigation took two years and involved interviews with at least 56 workers. It concluded that Arise had stolen $14.2 million from its workers, and that it owed double that in damages to be paid to those same workers.

But Arise didn't pay a cent.

What nefarious legal trick did Arise use to avoid $28.4m in liability? How did it wriggle free of the Department of Labor's airtight case?

Well, it's like this. When Arise's lawyers met with the DoL's lawyers in 2010, they "politely disagreed" with the DoL's conclusions, so the DoL walked away from the case.

https://www.propublica.org/article/arise-department-of-labor-2010

In yet another landmark piece of reporting, Propublica's Ken Armstrong, Justin Elliott and Ariana Tobin document how the DoL lawyers dutifully noted that Arise disputed the report and would not be changing its labor practices and then washed their hands of the matter.

They even have an official notation for when this happens: they mark the file as "RTP/RTC," which stands for "Refused to pay, refused to comply." In the years that followed, top Obama DoL officials narrowed the complaint from $14m to $40k.

Why did the DoL do this? According to DoL insiders quoted in the Propublica article, the DoL won't take on cases with big firms that can afford to drag out the proceedings and tie up department resources.

The circular reasoning goes: we need our lawyers and investigators to protect workers. But if we discover a bunch of workers in harm's way, we can't afford to protect them, because then we won't have those resources to protect workers.

The DoL was a known problem in 2010. The Government Accountability Office had already identified its inability to fulfill its mission, and they tested the Department with 10 fictitious complaints to see how they'd be handled. Only half of those were even entered into the DoL's database.

DoL intake staff tried to convince people who filed complaints to drop them, told them that the DoL had no power, lied about what they were doing to address the issue, and failed to investigate a claim of child labor in a meat-packing plant.

In the years since Obama's DoL walked away from Arise, its misclassifed workforce has grown from 20,000 to 70,000.

The factors that allowed it to flip off the DoL in 2010 are far stronger today, and the company has more than tripled the number of workers it has ensnared.

Worker misclassification didn't start with Uber, or even with Arise. It really began in the poultry industry, which is why labor economists call it "chickenization." The US has only three monopolist chicken processors.

These monopolists have carved up the country so that chicken farmers only have one company that can process their chickens and get them to market. That company calls farmers independent contractors, even as it treats them like employees with no labor rights.

A chicken farmer gets their chicks from the packer, which owns them, tells the farmer what to feed them and when, which meds and vets can be used on 'em, when the lights go on and when they go off.

Packers design the chicken coops and then order the farmers to borrow the money to build them. Farmers sign nondisclosure agreements so they can't complain, and arbitration agreements so they can't sue.

Packers tell the farmers what they must and must not do, but there's one thing they NEVER tell farmers: how much they'll be paid. It's only when chickens are sent to market that packers declare a price for them, just enough to service farmers' debt, but not to get ahead.

Of all US occupations, "farmer" is presents one of the highest risks of dying on the job. But their leading cause of death isn't falling into a threshing machine: it's suicide. And chicken farmers lead farmers in these deaths of despair.

Arise has chickenized a 70,000 person workforce of call-center workers whose homes are rent-free office space for a wildly profitable company that serves other wildly profitable companies. Most of those workers are women, and most of the women are Black women.

Biden faces an immediate, urgent test of his willingness to tackle worker misclassification. One of Trump's last-minute regulations was a rollback that protected workers from being misclassified as contractors. The Biden admin could reverse that regulation.

Then there's the matter of what he does with his DoL, which has shed 25% of its investigators over the past decade, even as labor abuses have skyrocketed.

The Biden admin's actions here will speak far louder than any soaring inaugural rhetoric.

If Biden cares about gender justice, racial justice, inequality, fairness and corruption, he will immediately reverse the Trump rollback and massively staff up the DoL's investigative division.

#pluralistic

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argylemnwrites · 4 years ago

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Fight or Flight - Chapter 15: Hiccup

Pairing: Drake Walker x MC (Riley Liu)

Book: The Royal Heir (canon divergent from the end of book 2)

Word Count: ~4300

Rating: PG-13 (brief language)

Summary: Almost four weeks since The Walker Absconding

Author’s Note: And we’re back! Since it’s been ages... Previously on Fight or Flight - Hana had learned that Barthelemy and Godfrey were working with Auvernal from Kiara, but Liam didn’t seem motivated to take much action regarding that fact. Leo had gotten money and belongings to Riley, who shared an intimate moment with Drake when she returned to their hotel.

This series follows the Walkers, their friends, and Cordonia as a whole after they flee the country with their daughter during Barthelemy Beaumont’s attempted coup. To catch up on this series, check out it’s masterlist. (link can be found via my bio - sorry, Tumblr is once again not putting my posts with links in tag searches)

Liam let out a sigh as he changed the channel back to CBC. He needed to be actively watching, probably should be taking notes, in all honesty. This hour of programming consisted of discussion with three of the most connected political pundits in the country. It was the easiest and most reliable way to get a feel for the leanings of both the journalists and the common citizens, and it aired every weekday, so it was far more up to date than waiting for the biweekly polling.

The issue was that the panelists were revelling in the recent turn of events with such glee. It was understandable, he supposed. This was the most exciting political turn of events this country had seen in centuries. It put the mild speculation that he was Bridget’s biological father, a rumor had surfaced around the time of his announcement that Drake and Riley’s child would be heir and had briefly flared again at Bridget’s first public appearance when people had seen that she indeed looked like a child with some East Asian heritage, to shame. This wasn’t just baseless gossip and stirring the pot to increase ratings. This was true turmoil, plain and simple. There was a relative unknown carrying the power of the Crown, the current Queen-regent had been “kidnapped” and not seen in weeks, citizens were protesting daily, and this was all expected to last for months until the Conclave, where all the tension and drama would culminate in a vote among the five major noble houses to name a new monarch. The journalists and talking heads had a seemingly endless feast in front of them. All of it at his expense.

He took another sip of his scotch as he tried to focus on the screen ahead of him. If he could figure out how to gain a majority of the public’s support, then he could apply some pressure to Kiara and Landon prior to the Conclave vote. Not that he was naive enough to think that would be enough to assure that he would regain his title, but at least it would be one more piece of ammunition in his arsenal.

“The protests outside of the Capital aren’t going to be as easily quieted as the ones in Valtoria, Victor,” Francine Giorano stated, leaning forward and gesturing across the table to Victor Blussé. Blussé was the moderate on the panel, while Giorano was a staunch traditionalist. “They have had fears about the role the essentially-American Walkers played in our government for years, and look how right those fears turned out to be.”

“How is any of this the Walkers’ fault, Francine? This can all be traced to Barthelemy Beaumont!”

“The Conventus Nobilis was written into our foundational laws for a reason, Victor,” chimed in Willa Hyllop, the final member of the panel, added to the program in the past year to bring in a more modern, pro-democratic viewpoint.

“Surely you aren’t saying you are on the side of Beaumont, Willa! He represents an even less progressive faction than Liam Rys ever did.”

“I may not agree with everything he stands for, but I will always support measures that place some checks and accountability on our monarchy,” said Hyllop with a shrug. “Besides, the fact that Rys surrounded himself with yes-men and granted titles and appointments on the basis of friendship since he ascended the throne did little to convince me that he was the ‘progressive king’ he swore he was. He was more of the same, just without the aggressive rhetoric of his father.”

“And look how that turned out! Lest we forget, he stood by while Auvernal brought warships to our shore last year,” added Giorano.

Liam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Giorano and Hyllop were never on the same page about anything, and here they were, agreeing that he had been an ineffectual king. He tuned out Blussé’s response, knowing that some lukewarm rebuttal from him was going to do little to bolster his confidence. The fact was simple - his fall from grace was widespread. There were few left who saw him as worthy of the title of king. He had failed, completely and entirely.

“Liam?” Olivia’s voice cut over the television.

Liam opened his eyes to find her staring at him from the lounge’s doorway, a frown cutting across her face. He forced a smile as he gestured for her to join him. “Just taking a little break from hearing how incompetent I am.”

Olivia’s green eyes narrowed at his poor attempt at humor, but she strode over to him, joining him on the couch, undoubtedly taking in the blank notepad, the untouched stacks of documents, and the glass of liquor that sat on the table in front of him. “Well, that’s the perception we’re going to have to work to change.”

He tipped his head to rest along the back of the couch, sighing as he did so. “I know, Liv. It just seems so impossible at the moment.”

She didn’t say anything for several excruciating seconds. He rolled his head to the side, taking in her face, concerned eyes boring into him as she slid a hand around her neck, her blood-red nails digging into her skin. “We’ve got months still, Liam. Calling our goal impossible is premature.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right, and I’m all ears if you have any recommendations for where to start.”

“Well, I got confirmation that Landon and Emmeline’s driver is loyal to us, so Ray is going to approach him at the Derby this weekend to see if he might be willing to earn a little extra cash by divulging some secrets. And their new head of kitchen has a brother with significant gambling debts, so that’s another lead worth pursuing.”

“Sounds good, Olivia.”

“Now, as far as next steps for you, I was hoping you might give reporters a few minutes for questions before the derby.”

Liam swallowed, his brain scrambling to come up with a reason, any reason, against her suggestion, when his phone vibrated on the table, the name “Bastien” flashing across the screen.

“Why is he calling you?” Olivia asked. All Liam could do was shrug as he leaned forward, grabbing his phone and swiping to accept the call.

“Bastien?”

“I don’t have long,” he started, not even taking the time for a greeting. “I don’t know if you are in touch with Drake, but if you are, you need to let him know that they need to get out of Athens.”

“What are you-”

“Rashad is negotiating with Greek authorities right now to allow the King’s Guard to be the ones to make the arrest. We are waiting on the tarmac for clearance to fly to Athens.”

“How-”

“He’s requesting Greek surveillance of their hotel until we get there. They need to leave now.”

“Bastien, what-”

“I have to go.” And then, the line was dead.

Liam sat there, numb and frozen, trying to process the slew of information that had just been dumped into his lap by his former head of security.

“What the hell is going on?” Olivia’s voice drew him out of his daze, prompting him to set down his phone on the couch, digging frantically through the stacks of papers.

“I need my burner.” He heard his voice as if he were an outsider observer. It was thin and shaky, frail and panicked. His hands shook as he felt around the table in front of him, knocking over a pile containing reproductions of the accounts of the last Conclave, dozens of papers spilling onto the floor.

“Liam, what the fuck did he tell you?”

“They know where they are. We have to warn them.” All his frustrations and pain related to Drake and Riley suddenly felt so petty, so ridiculous. The stakes were higher for them, always had been higher for them. They were about to get arrested over wanting to keep custody of their daughter. And while they left him to fend for himself, left Cordonia in a state of political upheaval, he knew that was a price that was wildly unfair.

“Who knows where they are? Rashad?”

“Yes,” said Liam, shoving more and more documents around the table. Where was his burner?

“How does he know?”

“I don’t know! Where the fuck is it?” Liam swiped his arm across the table, books and papers flying, the sound of glass breaking echoing through the room as his scotch tumbled to the ground.

A strong set of fingers with sharp red nails slid around his wrist, holding him still. He took a rough breath as he turned to face Olivia, who was eyeing him as she tugged her own burner out of her pocket, only breaking his gaze to glance down at the screen, tapping three times before holding it to her ear and looking back at Liam.

The few seconds of silence on her end were maddening, but then she was speaking, her voice curt and all business. “Drake, authorities are coming. You gotta go. Now.”

Liam tried to rein in his rapid breathing, tried to calm his heart rate down to something more human. “The King’s Guard is flying into Athens. They are leaving now. Rashad asked for Greek surveillance until-” but Olivia nodded at him, cutting him off.

“I don’t know how. But your hotel is about to be under Greek surveillance until the King’s Guard arrives, so you guys have to get moving. Good luck.” She hung up at that, letting out a massive sigh. “Shit,” she breathed out after a few seconds, her eyes bouncing back and forth before she slammed them shut, clearly planning and preparing.

Liam felt her fingers trembling around his wrist for just a second, but then she let go. She pushed herself off the couch with a flourish. “Find your burner. I’m gonna make some calls, but we need to destroy any evidence that we were in contact with them,” she said, nearly jogging towards the door.

“Olivia…”

She spun around and let out a little breath before walking back towards the couch. Her hand settled on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze as she gave him a nod. “We warned them as soon as we could, but we need to be the ones worried about the big picture right now. And things will only be worse for them if you and I are arrested, right?”

All he could do was nod. She was 100 percent correct.

“Okay, so find your burner. I’ll be back in a little bit, Liam.” And with that, she was off, a woman on a mission, leaving him sitting there, shaking on the couch, just trying to find his footing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hana shook hands with the final citizen, a woman in her late 40s who had been born and raised in Valtoria.

“Thank you so much, Your Grace,” she said, smiling as she returned the handshake.

“Of course. Just because our country is going through a period of transition doesn’t mean that I am going to ignore the needs of Valtoria’s citizens.”

The woman thanked her again before turning and exiting the formal dining room, the location Hana had chosen for the first Citizen Open Forum she’d scheduled. The large table provided ample seating, but the room was close enough to the main entrance to make it unlikely that anyone could wander into private areas of the estate without being caught by staff.

Olivia had been irritated when Hana had told her she was opening up the estate to the public. “You are giving Barthelemy’s people free access,” she told her. But Hana knew that she couldn’t just sidestep her duties as a duchess. Not only would that weaken people’s perception of Liam by association, but morally she just couldn’t do that. The country was in such turmoil because of a few members of the nobility trying to wrest power from some other nobles. For her citizens to be left neglected due to the whims of the highly privileged was ethically something she couldn’t allow to happen. So she’d hosted the forum, hearing directly from Valtoria’s residents what she should prioritize to improve their lives, but made sure to instruct her staff to notify her immediately if anyone was caught wandering too far from the dining room or bathroom. It was the best she felt she could do under the circumstances.

However, the last citizen had now vacated the estate, and Hana couldn’t help but let out a contented sigh. It had gone well, she thought. She had clear budgetary priorities to request at the upcoming meeting between the social season’s derby and the stop in Lythikos. Plus, one of the leaders of the protesters in front of the estate had come, and conversation with him had been productive. Obviously, she couldn’t outright tell him that she wished she could be right out there with them, carrying a sign that said “She’s their kid,” but he had given her a knowing smile when she told him she saw no reason to intervene when Cordonia citizens were just exercising a right to free speech. He had all but promised her that the protests would stay peaceful and would not target her for her assumption of the role of Duchess of Valtoria.

As she wandered into the kitchen to make herself some tea, she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. She turned on the tap to fill the kettle with one hand as she moved to answer the call with the other.

“Olivia, how are you?” she asked, watching the kettle fill.

“Do you not answer your phone anymore?”

Hana frowned, pulling the phone away from her ear and swiping the screen. “I don’t have any missed calls, Olivia.”

“Not this phone. I’ve called you no less than ten times.”

She turned off the tap and set the full kettle on the counter, a nagging thread of anxiety and fear worming its way into her heart with that statement. “What’s wrong?”

“Turn on the news.”

Hana spun around, finding the remote laying on the island and turning on the television mounted in the eat-in nook.

“-these exclusively obtained photos show a woman who appears to be the former duchess, Riley Walker, conversing with the former Crown Prince, Leo Rys, at a bar in Athens.”

The screen filled with a low-quality image, clearly zoomed in several times. The lighting was a sort of orange color, and the faces were grainy and fuzzy, but there was Riley, although her hair was clearly dyed a much lighter color. Leo’s face was only seen in profile, not as identifiable, but he was obviously talking to her. The screen changed to a new photo, Leo a bit more recognizable in this one, passing Riley something.

“Oh no,” said Hana, leaning against the counter.

“-clear evidence of collusion between the former Crown Prince and Riley Walker, who has been charged with treason and kidnapping of the monarch,” the anchor droned on, but Olivia’s response drowned out the quiet volume of the television.

“Yeah, that’s an understatement. So what was so pressing that you were ignoring your burner?”

“I had the forum with the citizens, and I thought if I was carrying two cell phones, that might-”

A massive groan from Olivia cut her off. “Whatever. Well, you need to destroy your burner. Now.”

“But what about Riley and-”

“I warned them. Hopefully they are able to get out of Athens, but nothing else we can do there. It’s time to protect ourselves.”

“Olivia, what-”

“I gotta go check on Liam. Destroy the phone, Hana. And don’t call me.”

“Why can’t I-”

“-Liam is definitely going to be questioned since Leo is now known to be involved. We can talk at the derby, but if they start monitoring our phone records, I don’t want to give them any reason to think we are scheming.”

Before Hana could as much as tell Olivia she understood, she heard the line click dead. Taking a few seconds for some calming breaths, she centered herself before she climbed the stairs to her quarters, a pit of dread cementing itself firmly in her stomach with each step. She reached her room and opened the top drawer of her dresser, pulling the burner phone out from underneath her nylons. Sure enough, she had dozens of missed notifications from Olivia, and a couple from Maxwell as well. Well, she knew what those were regarding. No need to deal with them at this point. Instead, she walked over to her dressing table and grabbed her manicure kit.

She wandered down the hallway towards the lounge, taking in the quiet and calm. It was odd; the estate probably had more people in it currently than it had for most of the time Riley and Drake had lived there. Hana didn’t feel compelled to aggressively minimize the staff presence like they had, far more used to having employees around from her upbringing. But staff were expected to be as discreet and silent as possible, to make themselves scarce, particularly in the private quarters.

No one had ever called Riley quiet. There was a certain vibrancy she brought to any room, and her voice and laughter were always echoing through the halls. And even though Drake wasn’t the most talkative, he certainly would quip, snark, and joke in the privacy of his own home. Of course, once Bridget was born, there was more noise and energy and life than ever before. Now, it was just Hana and the corgis. The estate felt hollow and soulless.

Once in the lounge, Hana shut the door behind her firmly. Anderson glanced up, but quickly draped his head back over Vera, all the dogs curled up on their giant cushion in the corner. Hana knew that the maids had cleaned the lounge yesterday, so she was unlikely to be found there. She sat down in one of the armchairs, and pried the cover off the back of her phone using her cuticle pusher. All the electronic components stared up at her, ready for her to do her worst. But before she could bring herself to kill the only connection she had to her best friend, she flipped the phone over and sent one last message to Riley.

I love you all. Stay safe. I’ll find a way to get in touch when I can.

Letting out a sigh, she turned the phone back over. She spent the next 15 minutes prying off motherboards and any chips and cards she could find, dropping them one by one into her container of acetone nail polish remover. Then, she removed the battery before placing the remaining elements into the fireplace. She would just have to store the battery under her floorboards until she could figure out how to safely dispose of it.

She started a fire, then curled up on the couch, tugging a quilt over her lap as she watched her only connection to the first person to show her unconditional love melt and warp, eventually turning to ash. Tears started trailing down her cheeks, dripping onto her blouse and the quilt, but she didn’t care. She was devastated - for herself, for her found family, and for her country. At some point, Anderson jumped up to join her, nestling in against her legs.

“I miss them so much,” she said, dropping a hand to the top of his head. “So, so much.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bridget was wailing in her crib, but Riley didn’t have time to calm her. She needed to pack. Now.

When Drake had called her, she knew something bad was happening. He’d left with their passports this afternoon to take them to a cousin of a friend of someone Drake had met at the restaurant, someone who was supposed to be able to help with fake documents and forgeries. The plan had been to change their names and their country of origin, allowing them to catch a flight to the States without getting stopped at the airport. The final destination once there hadn’t been decided. Drake had wanted to go to Texas, but Leona’s presence scared Riley. She had already sold out their safety for a quick payday once before.

But that debate was a moot point now. So was the uncertainty about this unknown forger on whom they were relying. Drake had called, frantic and alarmed, clearly running and somewhat out of breath as he spoke to her. Telling her Olivia had called to warn them they were about to be arrested. Telling her to pack. Telling her they needed to run.

So Bridget was unceremoniously dumped into her travel crib as Riley tried to shove everything into the duffel bags from Leo. She knew she should leave the impractical things, like the framed photos, but those would incriminate their friends. So they had to come with. Toiletries seemed essential, too. Some of the clothes were going to have to get left behind. Some of the toys as well. She had to be able to carry everything in one trip. She had to get to the car as quickly as possible.

She knew it had probably been less than five minutes since Drake had called, but it felt like she was moving too slowly, taking way too long. Drake hadn’t given her any sort of time frame. Who knew if Olivia had even given him one. But for all she knew, police were rounding the corner, waiting for her in the hallway, about to burst through the hotel door. So she shoved and crammed and squeezed everything she could into the duffel bags and the diaper bag. Those would go over her shoulders, the crib would collapse and go in one arm, Bridget in the other. That would have to be good enough.

Once she was sure that the bags were as full as they could be, she pulled Bridget out, placing her on the floor as she scrambled to collapse the crib, fumbling with the locking mechanism for just a few seconds before it folded in on itself, allowing her to tuck it into her elbow. By some mad miracle, Bridget was hanging close by, not trying to crawl away to explore and cause trouble. Maybe she was frightened by the way Riley was acting. Regardless, it was a blessing.

Knowing she was as ready as she was going to be, she loaded everything up and grabbed Bridget, pausing just briefly to juggle their possessions as she opened the door. She didn’t bother closing it behind her, just moved as quickly as she could with her load down the hallway, down the stairs, through the lobby, and around the corner to the street where their car was parked. No one tried to stop her or talk to her, so she took the time to toss everything on the ground and properly latch Bridget into her car seat. Then, she threw everything in the hatchback before climbing into the passenger’s seat and locking the doors behind her. Bridget continued to cry, but there was little Riley could do to comfort her at this point. All that was left to do was wait for Drake.

Drake had told her to meet him in the car, but she didn’t like feeling exposed, sitting where anyone could see her during broad daylight. Add to that the fact that she was in the passenger seat, so she wouldn’t even be able to make a quick getaway if need be. Her piss-poor driving skills were just one more area where she was making their life harder, but there was no way to fix that right now. All she could do was hang tight. She was contemplating what in the car she could use as a weapon if it came down to it when her phone buzzed. She swiped to answer instantly when she saw it was Drake’s number.

“Drake, where are you?”

“Around the corner from the hotel. You in the car?”

“Yeah. How did-” but before she could get her question out, she saw Drake through the driver’s side window. She let out a little yelp of surprise before reaching over and unlocking the door, handing him the keys as soon as he sat down.

He didn’t even bother to say anything, just started the car and eased off the clutch as he shifted into first gear, pulling out onto the road. Bridget quieted soon after they got moving, but Riley didn’t feel any better as the yelling and screaming subsided. She just stared at Drake, one hand braced on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift, his neck and shoulders so tense and coiled, he looked ready to burst.

“Where are we going?” she finally chanced asking.

Drake shook his head, never taking his eyes off the road. “I don’t know. Out of Athens.”

“Then why are we making so many turns?”

“Don’t know if we were being watched or followed. Gotta lose anyone who might be tailing us.” His voice was clipped and frayed. He sounded about five seconds away from losing it completely. Riley wanted to hold his hand, to comfort him in some way. But she didn’t want to distract him, both from driving and from the tiny amount of control he had over his emotional response to everything that was unfolding. After all, they weren’t safe yet. So she just nodded and grabbed her phone off her lap.

“I’ll pull up some maps, okay?”

He nodded and let out a rough breath at that. “Thanks, Walker,” he said before flipping on the radio. “Can you try and find us a news station?”

“Drake, I won’t-”

“I’ll translate.”

And so they were off, unsure where or how far they needed to go to be safe. All they could do at this point was keep moving forward.

Perma: @walkerswhiskeygirl @octobereighth @kimmiedoo5 @mom2000aggie

TRR/TRH: @twinkleallnight @iaminlovewithtrr @mskaneko @axwalker @jovialyouthmusic @marshmallowsandfire @kingliam2019 @sirbeepsalot @texaskitten30 @princessleac1 @ladyangel70 @debramcg1106 @masterofbluff

Drake/MC: @no-one-u-know @iplaydrake

FoF: @burnsoslow @bobasheebaby

#drake walker #drake x mc #trh au fanfic #trh au #trh fanfic #king liam #olivia nevrakis #hana lee #choices fanfiction

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inkandpen22 · 4 years ago

Text

Somewhere (1/?)

Pairing: Sirius Black x Female!Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.7k

Series Summary: Based in the early summer of ‘78, tonight Y/N is celebrating her 18th birthday. Her protective older brother and their friends take her out dancing. She envisions the perfect night!

A/N: In this story, muggles are aware of the wizard world. The series is based on West Side Story and POV switches between Sirius and Y/N. The red dress is based of the Saturday Night Fever red dress btw lol

Masterlist

Reader

While business slows down in the boutique, I hurry along on finishing last-minute tasks before the weekend. The goal is to get all of these orders done before closing.

“Hey, Lauren?” I shout for my best friend as she finishes stocking up the backroom for the weekend.

“Yeah?” She calls distantly.

“Could you bring me two of those navy cardigans when you come back out?” I recite, looking over the shipment list in front of me.

“Sure thing!” She complies.

Today is my eighteenth birthday. To celebrate, my older brother, Brady, is taking me out to the disco with our friends. It’ll be the first time I can go out to a club and drink. That’s not the most exciting part of today either! I’m officially an adult, a functioning, independent, member of society. My brother and his friends will no longer see me as the youngest who’s in constant need of looking-after. Brady has always been overprotective, but Lauren has tried to help convince him that I can take care of myself. Lauren and Brady have been dating since they were in high school, almost five years now. They’ve graduated from college and Lauren is eager to be married. In my opinion, it’s only a matter of time. I can’t see either of them with anyone else. Plus, I already consider Lauren my sister.

Lauren appears out from the backroom with a bright grin as she joins me at the register counter. “So, are you excited?”

“Yes! It’s going to be so much fun!” I gush, practically bursting. “Finally after four years of watching you guys go out with me, I can join!”

She gives me a knowing look, “did you ever end up showing your brother that dress you picked out?”

I bite down on my lip, pretending to return my attention to the order sheets in front of me. I can already hear her reprimanding, Brady’s too when he sees the bright red off the shoulder dress I picked up yesterday from the shop down the street. The fact that it’s off the shoulder will go over like a led balloon.

Lauren’s jaw drops, “Y/N!”

“I know, I know,” I sigh, trying my best to avoid a lecture. Moving around to the other side of the counter, I head to the office with the order sheets.

Lauren follows on my heels, “he’s never going to let you go, especially if you step out of your room in that dress and those matching heels you bought!”

“But it’s my birthday!” I plead, turning to face her with puppy-dog eyes. “My eighteenth, the most important one! It’s my first night as an adult.”

Lauren sighs defeatedly and I continue to express a poor, pitiful, pout. I can tell she’s on my side, but she also doesn’t want to go against her boyfriend. I understand her predicament, yet then again, my brother can be unreasonable too.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she offers, rubbing her temples stressfully.

I jump up and down, pulling her into a hug. “Thank you! Thank you! Oh, thank you!” I repeat profusely. If Brady is going to listen to anyone, it’s her.

“Ah, ah, ah, don’t get excited just yet,” she parts from me with a stern expression. “Your brother won’t be happy. I will vouch for you, but it’s up to you to stay in line. Tonight is your chance to really prove to Brady that you’re not a baby anymore.”

I nod my head frantically, “yes, yes, of course! Tonight will be perfect! Promise!”

Lauren narrows her eyes with a smirk, unconvinced. She hums, taking the sheets of paper from me to put them in the office.

Tonight will be perfect! I can feel it. I’ve been waiting for this night ever since I can remember. After tonight, everything will be different.

____________________________________________

Reader

As I listen to my Gloria Gaynor record, I stare at my reflection in my full-length mirror. More specifically, I admire the red satin dress that hangs off my shoulder. It’s everything I imagined it would be. As I think about it, it’s funny, I don’t feel any older, I don’t look any older, yet I feel different.

Over the music, I hear a series of knocks on my bedroom door. "You coming, Y/N?” Brady calls from the other side. “Lauren and the others are here!"

"In a minute,” I announce, lowering the volume of my music. “I have to do my makeup!"

"You look fine as you are!" My brother insists as I hurry into my bathroom. "Besides, someone is really excited to see you..." he insinuates.

"I have to look immaculate,” I argue, rushing to put on my makeup in front of my skin. “Plus, Jay can wait!"

Working as fast as I can, I follow a makeup tutorial Twiggy did for Cosmo. It’s crucial I perfect my eyeliner and large lashes.

"We're just going to the disco," he huffs, growing impatient. He would never last as a girl.

"It's my eighteenth birthday!” I remind him. “It's the first time I can drink and actually go into a club. Let me do what I want!” I then shoo him away, "go entertain your friends downstairs!"

"You have ten minutes!” He announces as a form of compromise. "Everyone's waiting for us!"

Mouthing the words to Gloria’s latest album, I’m practically dancing already and we’re not even at the disco yet! If only tonight could last forever. I want to ponder every minute, every second because tomorrow will be just another day and the magic will be gone.

Sirius

James stopped by my apartment to go over things for his wedding to Lily, but I have other plans.

"A disco?" James repeats with a frown, rolling over to lay onto his stomach on my bed. “And why would we want to do that?”

"Muggles really love them!” I tell my best friend as I move about my bedroom to get ready. “Plus, it’s the start of summer! We are officially Hogwarts graduates, what better way to celebrate!”

"Why can't we just go to a bar in Diagon Alley?" He reasons.

"You'll like this place, promise! Muggle music…” I struggle to describe it. “It’s unlike anything I've ever heard before!"

"But muggles are so... mundane,” he shakes as though he just caught a chill at the thought of them.

"I invited Remus and others too," I mention, certain that'll help convince him to come.

"At least we'll know people, I suppose," he shrugs, at least now considering the idea.

"Just give it a chance, James. Watch, after tonight you're going to want to spend every night of our summer holiday there!" I predict, nearly positive it’ll happen.

"Oh alright,” he complies with a huff, rising up from my bed to get ready. “I guess we don't have anything better to do," he grumbles on his way to the door. "Plus, we won't have to worry about any Death Eaters joining in on the fun."

Reader

I hurry down the stairs, to join Brady and his friends, Jay, Adam, and Henry, in the living room. The boys and their girlfriends have already started drinking while listening to some Queen in the background. They’ve gathered around on the couches and armchairs as they’ve done countless times before and after going out together. My brother is the only one standing, leaning against the fireplace mantel with a glass of scotch. Brady is the first one to notice me enter the room, he takes in my appearance in a scan of his eyes and waves me over. Clenching his jaw, he downs the remainder of his drink.

“What are you wearing?” He asks rhetorically, wasting no time to reprimand me.

“A dress,” I sass.

“Cute,” He remarks sharply, not finding amusement in my response. “Go change, now.”

“Oh come on, please,” I beg, taking his hand pleadingly. “It’s not that revealing and it’s my birthday!”

He shakes his head, pointing toward the steps. “Go, hurry up.”

“One night! One night and I’ll return it first thing tomorrow!” I negotiate.

He glances between me and his empty glass, twirling around the leftover ice cubes, clearly debating whether he should accept my offer.

“Please…” I mutter, pouting dramatically to get a rise out of my brother.

He huffs and turns to the group. "Alright!” He shouts to gain their attention.” All eyes shift to me and my brother. “Jay, boys, I need to keep an eye on Y/N,” Brady commands of his buddies as he wraps an arm around my waist protectively. “It's her first night out and the last thing she needs is uninvited attention, especially from wizards," he mutters the last part with disgust.

I look up at my brother in confusion. “Do you think they'll actually go to a human club?" I ask him, the idea never once crossing my mind.

Wizards don’t really interact with us. In fact, they’ve created a whole other system and lifestyle apart of our own to avoid us. Different schools, stores, forms of government. I would imagine they have discos of their own.

Lauren steps forward, "they're actually considered human-"

"Lauren!" My brother barks, causing his girlfriend to bite her tongue.

"That's debatable," Brady’s best friend, Jay, grumbles disdainfully, focusing on the drink in his hand.

Henry and Adam hum in agreement, looking at Brady like he’s a preacher.

"If we do see some, just stay clear, okay?" Brady orders strictly. Based on the sharpness of his stare, I best not test him.

"How will I be able to tell?" I mumble, having only seen a wizard once or twice my whole life, at least consciously.

According to Brady, and the others, wizards have the uncanny ability to appear normal just like us. However, in recent years, there’s been trouble amongst the wizard race. There’s a group of wizards who want their society and ours to be completely separate. My family and Brady’s friends are quite fond of the idea. In fact, most people are too. It’s such a frequent topic in the news, in addition to the tensions surrounding it, that I’ve grown annoyed by the dramatics.

"Believe me, you'll know,” Brady assures. “They're so dependent on their magic that they can't help but use it."

"Okay, I will..." I mutter, wondering if I’ll truly see magical-beings tonight.

_________________________

Masterlist

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southeastasianists · 4 years ago

Link

Myanmar’s Buddhist monkhood led an earlier struggle against military rule but is split on the coup that ended the country’s nascent democracy, with some prominent religious leaders defending the new junta.

Three months of turmoil have followed the February pre-dawn raids in which soldiers arrested civilian leader Aung San Suu Kyi and her top allies, sparking furious and widespread opposition.

Protesters have mobilized on the streets daily ever since, defying threats of lethal violence from security forces who have shot dead hundreds in an effort to bring the public to heel.

Joining their ranks are a number of largely young, crimson-robed monks who have defied religious edicts against political activity to proclaim their condemnation of the generals.

“I am willing to give up my precious monkhood and take part in the revolution together with the people,” said Shwe Ohh Sayardaw, 44, who is currently moving between different monasteries in an effort to evade arrest.

The struggle against the military regime has drawn broad and vocal support from across Myanmar society and, with Buddhist worship a cornerstone of public life for most of the country, the monkhood is no exception.

Security forces are closely watching monasteries for anti-coup activism, and about a dozen monks have been arrested, according to a local monitoring group.

But a hardline, pro-military faction within the clergy has also defended the new junta as a protector of a majority-Buddhist identity against the purported threat of a slow Islamic takeover.

Among that group is Parmaukkha, an ultra-nationalist monk with a large following who was once arrested for inciting hatred against Myanmar’s stateless Rohingya Muslim minority.

Keeping Suu Kyi at the helm would see “an extinction of our religion, ethnicity and the entire country”, he said.

‘Many have been killed’

The ideological divide is a far cry from Myanmar’s last nationwide uprising in 2007, when monks led huge demonstrations against an earlier military junta, first sparked by a sudden hike in fuel prices.

Members of the clergy walked the streets with their alms bowls turned upside-down to show their refusal to accept donations from soldiers — a bold gesture of condemnation.

The “Saffron Revolution” posed a severe legitimacy crisis for the dictatorship, which responded with brutal crackdowns that killed at least 31 people and saw hundreds of monks defrocked and arrested.

Among those arrested was Gambira, a prominent leader sentenced to 68 years in prison for his activism.

When he was released in a mass amnesty in 2012, he found a fractured clergy.

“Many have been killed or are missing, others imprisoned for years are in poor physical condition. Many have fled abroad,” said the 41-year-old, who today lives in Australia as a refugee.

At the same time, a nationalist movement named Ma Ba Tha emerged within the clergy alongside the growing prominence of a charismatic extremist monk named Wirathu — once dubbed “the Buddhist bin Laden” by Time magazine.

His rhetoric and his followers’ hostility towards the Rohingya helped whip up public support for a brutal 2017 military crackdown, branded a “genocide” by UN investigators.

Ma Ba Tha was banned in 2017 by Suu Kyi’s government in an effort to curb its influence but the group continued to receive patronage and cash donations from military figures.

‘On the side of justice’

The movement believes that the military is the only force capable of staving off what they claim is a growing “Islamization” of Myanmar — despite Muslims making up less than five percent of the country’s population.

“People who can think ahead about that future will not protest the current government,” says Parmaukkha in defending the military’s power grab.

Security forces have killed at least 780 civilians, according to a local monitoring group, in a series of brutal crackdowns aimed at quelling opposition to the coup.

But Parmaukkha blames the growing death toll on the streets on the media for inciting opposition to military rule.

Shwe Ohh Sayardaw disagrees, blaming it instead on a military that has “unjustly seized power”.

“The current crisis is the result of peaceful demonstrations, a normal process in a democracy,” the monk says.

“We must stand on the side of justice.”

The code of monastic life prohibits some 300,000 monks from voting or taking part in political demonstrations.

But from exile in Australia, Gambira says those rules only apply “in an ideal world”.

“Our country has fallen into chaos. We cannot close our eyes.”

Even after renouncing the monkhood, Gambira fundraises for the protest movement.

“The Buddha taught us that, no matter where or how, we must always stay on the path of truth,” he says.

“We have only one motto now: never surrender.”

#Southeast Asia #Burma #Myanmar #Buddhism #Religion #Military Junta #Military Coup

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nemenalya · 5 years ago

Text

A comprehensive history of ritualistic tax fraud among the Dunmer

The practice of ritualistic tax fraud can be observed in three major periods throughout Dunmer history. The earliest mentions of this can be traced back to the five hundreds of the First Era, although it has been theorized extensively that tax fraud has been wide-spread throughout both the Resdayn era and the Nordic occupation of Morrowind. One especially bold colleague of mine has generated quite some uproar in the scientific community by suggesting that the Dunmeri contempt of taxes might stem from before the Velothi exodus and might have been a secondary driver for said exodus, as well as the inclusion of Mephala in the Chimeri pantheon. Few sources on Chimeri religious practices remain to this day, with many having been purposefully altered or destroyed by the Tribunal Temple, so it is unlikely that we will ever know the true origins of this practice.

One of the oldest pieces of evidence we have on the prevalence of ritualistic tax fraud is an old banner that has been found in an abandoned Velothi tomb in the Stonefalls region, which had been sealed by volcanic ash from a yet undated minor eruption. The particular weaving style has been independently dated by experts to be from the height of the Resdayn era, noticeable for what we must assume are Dwemeri influences on the technique. As this was a religious piece -quite possible featured in the temple of Ebonheart and later laid to rest with a high priestess of Mephala from the inscriptions in the tomb- the extent of Dwemer influence remains restricted to the weaving style while lacking the typical bordure.

Some debate has sprung up surrounding the usage of high quality materials and excellent weavers for what amounts to a placard with the same simple rhetoric as a pamphlet for the Imperial City arena. By now, most historians agree with Vansei’s claim that the usage of tapestries in place of placards was a show of particular devotion to the Webspinner Mephala by the major temples that could easier afford such a luxury. The writing on these would have been nonetheless kept simple to reach a vast majority of worshippers, many of whom might have sought to include the most reclusive of their gods in their devotions but lacked the proper means or understanding to do so. With the acceptance of this theory, most doubts about the authenticity of the tapestry have been abated, even if a consideration of the actual text tends to throw off students to this day.

The weaving featured the words (translated from Chimeris with the help of a Telvanni linguist of some repute who wants to remain anonymous): “Tax season is coming up! Remember to commit tax fraud in Mephala’s holy name!” The restoration of the smaller weavings at the bottom of the tapestry took additional time and resources -and the Mages Guild had been seriously debating to cut funding for the project- but was worth it for the scientific uproar it caused upon translation: “If you have further questions regarding tax fraud or other acts of worship, please consult your local priest. For a small donation, the Temple [the organisation of institutionalized worship of the Three Good Daedra among the House mer] is happy to help you with your taxes!”

The important discovery here –beyond the fact that historical daedrologists had to reconsider their classification of spheres ascribed to various Daedric Princes in the faith of the early Chimer- was the role of the temple in the previously theorized upon wide-spread practice of tax fraud. It is important to note, that unlike with the modern periods in which this practice was employed, we do not know the scope of tax fraud and subsequent losses and are unlikely to ever find a satisfying number, as our estimations of the current scopes required a variety of records, none of which have survived from the Resdayn era. Nonetheless, even conservative estimates say that at least half of all dues were never paid, with between a third and two thirds of this sum ending up in the temple coffers. As we will later discuss, this would have led to only negligible efficiency losses due to the separation of tasks between the Great Houses, the Temple, and the centralized government. It is also important to note that in recent Imperial tax seasons, almost every fifth tax declaration was fraudulent, which would leave us with a problem of a similar scope. As most Dunmer scholars in this field arrive at consistently and significantly higher estimates for cases of domestic tax fraud or tax fraud among the Dunmeri diaspora, it is likely that the ritualization of tax fraud through the Temple lead to greater welfare funds than under a fully enforced taxation system.

There are only a handful of surviving sources from the time of the collapse of Resdayn and the apotheosis of the Tribunal, and unfortunately for us none of them deal with taxation. Thus, the only thing we know from this time is that during the reordering of the Temple into the new Tribunal Temple highly ritualized tax fraud fell out of practice. This can for the most part be explained by the disappearance of a centralized secular power structure and the concurrent abolishment of taxation as a whole.

While many of the Great Houses continued to employ a system similar to taxation in all but name, there are no records of the Tribunal Temple having made similar demands. Instead, a lot of the Temple’s funds were raised through the traditional Velothi ways of donations and gifts, as well as recurrent attempts at bribery. The latter was however openly discouraged and for most of the Tribunal’s rule the use of Temple resources for personal gain was harshly punished among the clergy.

It was only after the signing of the Armistice in the late Second Era that the issue of taxation arose again, with the Empire quickly demanding a cut of local taxes and introducing new taxes and tariffs of their own. Almost instantly the practice of tax fraud picked up again, although surviving correspondence from those days indicate the absence of a ritualistic component. By the beginning of the Third Era the Tribunal Temple has verifiably gotten involved in the growing tax fraud movement, although both its political leeway and the exact religious aspects differ noticeably from the Mephala worship in the Resdayn era.

Where the [Daedric] Temple had enjoyed near impunity in the First Era in its outspokenness against certain Council decisions, and had in fact been considered a branch of power alongside the Resdaynian court of Mournhold, the Tribunal Temple’s power was limited by the terms of the Armistice. And instead of serving a common goal of caring for the Dunmer people, the Temple and the tax authorities of the Temple have opposing interests in the allocation and use of the funds raised.

As the majority of the leeway enjoyed by the province of Morrowind came from its religious practices, the problem of reintegrating organized tax fraud or avoidance into Dunmeri society sparked a mostly internal theological debate on which member of the Tribunal would be the patron of these ‘charitable acts that amount to tax fraud under Imperial laws’. The astute Dunmeris scholar might have already recognized the roughly interpreted Dunmeris colloquialism here, which hints us at the decision reached in this matter.

The debate primarily raged between three groups that can be named after different currents of belief that enjoyed popularity around that time. The Daedric Traditionalists argued that since taxation and its avoidance had been ascribed to Mephala in Chimeri worship, a resurgence of this practice should see it attributed to Vivec, who had been anticipated by Mephala. The fast growing faction of Anti-Imperialists meanwhile held that it was Almalexia who acted against the Imperial occupation, while Vivec had betrayed their people through the signing of the Armistice, and this policy should thus bear her mark. The third group involved in the argument, the Venerators, proposed a more diplomatic solution where resisting the faithlessness of taxation should be included in the canons of Saint Olms the Bold or Saint Felms the Just. For a while this idea gained traction -especially with the backing of certain high-ranking Temple members who tried to avoid any outward signs of dissent among the members of the Tribunal- but it was quickly overruled by the remainder of the Indoril clergy, many of whom had become staunch supporters of the Anti-Imperialist current.

While this discourse was largely kept out of the public knowledge, texts later attributed to various Temple officials describe a clash between the groups that resulted in a hegemony of the Anti-Imperialist current on the mainland. The Temple ranks on Vvardenfell soon became too fractured with the rise of the Dissident Priests to continue the debate, but a dogmatic rift grew between the followers of the different members of the Tribunal, especially Almalexia and Vivec.

A number of placards survive from this period, two of which have been donated to the College by Dunmer refugees formerly involved with the Tribunal Temple in an attempt to keep their faith from being forgotten in the aftermath of the Red Year. Their almost polemic messages fit well within the rhetoric and political landscape of their time; the closing years of the Tribunal’s reign and the concurrent rise of even by Dunmeri standards ultra-nationalist groups. One of the placards in our collection reads: “Taxation is Blasphemy! A true Dunmer funds the charities of the Temple, not an outlander’s coffers!” The simple strokes of the letters indicate that these were produced on a larger scale and that they were of little individual value, unlike the tapestry found in the tomb in Stonefalls. The most likely explanation for this would be that the Temple did not take a stand against taxation but instead ignored its enforcement. Imperial tax collectors might still demand these signs to be taken down, but the donor indicated that the officers rarely understood Dunmeris well enough to actually realize the contents of these placards. Indeed, both this and the other bear a close stylistic resemblance to traditional Temple banners or signs, so that they would draw little attention from outsiders.

The other placard is certainly the more interesting one when considered in conjunction with the theological debate surrounding the re-introduction of ritualistic tax fraud into the Dunmeri society. Its text - “Mother Morrowind needs You [the word is written like a name to emphasize the address] to commit tax fraud! Help drive those n’wah from our land!” – demonstrates a clear victory of the Anti-Imperialist current, and portrays a dissent among the Tribunal after the signing of the Armistice that is rarely seen. Moreover, this call has been mentioned in multiple diaries of Imperial traders or bureaucrats who found it written on their walls overnight. No records exist on any investigations into whether the perpetrators were simply local youth or possibly organized criminals. The interested reader might enjoy Ralen’s treatise on the connections between the Tribunal Temple and various criminal organizations in the late Third Era, where she conducts further analysis of various linguistic oddities and personal correspondence between members of certain infamous groups such as the Commona Tong. Her research goes beyond the scope of this book, so we will again focus on the actions of the Temple in facilitating tax fraud instead.

Regardless of the rumours and the quite evocative placards, the Temple maintained that its involvement with the Imperial tax system solely consisted of providing advice on the proper formalities to its faithful, along with a large number of other educational or welfare services. As the Dunmer had not been subject to taxes for millennia, the idea was believed to be quite foreign to them, and the Temple only intended to help the people come to terms with the concept and the particularities of Imperial bureaucracy. This policy saw a surge in donations –generally referred to among the Dunmer as “Mother’s Grace”- that had similar effects on the Temple coffers as the openly advertised tax fraud policies of the First Era, which has formally been attributed to an increased piousness in the face of outlander presence on the holy land and as gratitude for the Tribunal’s containment of the Blight.

The disproportionally large claims for tax deductions for charitable donations also amount to nearly three times the estimated revenues of the Tribunal Temple, based off of earlier research into the scope and effectiveness of Morrowind’s religious welfare structure. Some scholars estimate that these campaigns and the subsequent spread of tax fraud among the Dunmer has bereaved the Empire of up to four fifths of the taxes it should have collected from the province since the signing of the Armistice. For this reason, most Imperial scholars are quick to label the tradition of tax fraud of any kind as a religious practice ‘a dangerous superstition’. Nonetheless, various positive effects on the scope of Temple welfare programs and subsequently on Dunmeri society as a whole have been found, which require future scholars in this field to lay aside their bias if they truly want to understand the positive or adverse effects of these practices.

After the Empire withdrew from Morrowind during the Oblivion Crisis and the Red Year saw many Dunmer displaced from their home and seeking refuge abroad, any centralized taxation system in the province vanished. With the abrupt fall of the Tribunal Temple and the resurgence of the worship of the Three Good Daedra as the Reclamations a lot of the former charity work and the previous fund raising channels fell to the side. In the Fourth Era Morrowind is ruled in all but name by House Redoran, which has greatly increased its sphere of influence but rejects the concept of taxes as foreign and dishonourable. Instead, the other Great Houses are encouraged to fund the New Temple’s welfare and rebuilding programs, most likely in exchange for House Redoran’s protection.

Among the Dunmeri diaspora with their limited access to places of worship but the same burning desire to prove themselves to their new, old gods the practice of tax fraud remained wide-spread. As an especially self-serving way of honouring Mephala, whose worship fell to the background compared to that of Boethiah and Azura, the informal redistribution of funds within the community and a sometimes outright refusal to pay taxes to the Nordic local authorities became common among the larger Dunmeri groups. Certain scholars and courtiers argue that the state of the Grey Quarter in Windhelm with its infrastructural problems is a result of this disposition. While current events and sources always require extremely critical analysis, there are signs that those opinions are not entirely unfounded. After all, it is a popular joke among the denizens of the Grey Quarter that they built shrines for Azura and Boethiah, but that they modelled their home in tribute to Mephala.

#elder scrolls #morrowind #mephala is the daedric prince of tax fraud. pass it on #i posted this on ao3 like three seconds ago and then got spooked so here it is now #sorry for that inconvenience #but i would still very much invite people to argue with me about anything in this :D #lore/hc

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96thdayofrage · 4 years ago

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The push prompted a series of sweeping apologies and broad action plans, shifting the goalposts for what would be expected of corporations in their relatively new status as “corporate citizens.”

Nearly a year later, many major corporations have assumed a similar posture following Chauvin’s conviction on murder charges, reminding the American public of their purported commitment to diversity, equity and inclusion. Amid mounting evidence that many police departments routinely display both implicit bias and outright racism, reports show that corporate America continues to pour millions of dollars into the police.

One way corporations funnel money into law enforcement is through police foundations. As nonprofits, police foundations allow police departments to raise unregulated slush funds from undisclosed sources, generally meaning corporations or private foundations associated with wealthy families or individuals. Police have historically used this money to expense weaponry and special equipment that is not covered by their municipal budgets.

“Police foundations are really good at hiding what they’re actually spending their money on,” Arisha Hatch, vice president of Color of Change, told Salon. “These foundations exist completely off the books.”

According to Nonprofit Quarterly, there are about 251 police foundations across the U.S. A report last year by the government watchdog LittleSis found that a whole host of well-known corporations have been intimately involved with police foundations throughout the nation.

One notable example is AT&T. Last year, Sludge found that AT&T was “an active donor” to the Seattle Police Foundation, which according to IRS filings amassed more than $1.5 million in contributions and grants in 2019 alone. Gothamist reported in 2019 that AT&T made an appearance as a “deep-pocketed donor” at the New York City Police Foundation, which collected $9.2 million in contributions and grants over the fiscal year ending in June 2019. Because these foundations are not subject to typical IRS disclosure laws, neither of them reported how that money were spent.

AT&T is also a “Platinum Partner” of the National Sheriffs’ Association, a pro-police lobbying group that fights to preserve the 1033 Military Surplus Program, a government-run initiative that distributes surplus military-grade weaponry and supplies to police departments throughout the nation. In order to become a Platinum Partner, a corporation must donate at least $15,000.

Asked about the company’s relationship with law enforcement, an AT&T spokesperson told Salon that the company supports “many civil rights organizations” and is “working with them to redefine the relationship between law enforcement and those they serve to advance equitable justice for all Americans.”

Kevin Walby, an associate professor in the Department of Criminal Justice at the University of Winnipeg, told Salon that any company that makes strong rhetorical commitments to racial equality should not donate to police foundations at all, saying that in doing so, “they are actually backstopping very racist policing practices.”

Target is another corporate giant with deep ties to the police. On Tuesday, Target CEO Brian Cornell postponed a speaking event in anticipation of Chauvin’s verdict, later telling his employees in an internal memo: “The murder of George Floyd last Memorial Day felt like a turning point for our country. The solidarity and stand against racism since then have been unlike anything I’ve experienced. Like outraged people everywhere, I had an overwhelming hope that today’s verdict would provide real accountability. Anything short of that would have shaken my faith that our country had truly turned a corner.”

One might assume such concern for racial justice would translate to the company’s spending habits. However, according to government watchdog LittleSis and Sludge, the Minnesota-based retail giant has donated to at least nine police foundations since 2015, including those in Atlanta, New York and Los Angeles. Back in 2014, Target quietly donated $200,000 to the Los Angeles Police Foundation so that its affiliate department could gain early access to surveillance software engineered by Palantir, a company accused of whitewashing systemic racism with its supposed data-driven solutions to policing. Target has also supplied thousands of dollars in grant money to various law enforcement agencies throughout the country. The company reported that by 2011, it had given “Public Safety Grants” to over 4,000 law enforcement agencies. In that same year alone, Target said it had distributed more than $3 million in grants to “law enforcement and emergency management organizations.”

A Target spokesperson declined to provide more recent figures on grant money. The company also declined to clarify whether its relationships with police foundations remain active, instead providing the following statement: “We also believe that team members and guests should feel safe in their engagements with law enforcement. We support holistic changes in policing that advance more equitable, community-centric policing that is grounded in innovative law enforcement reform best practices.”

Numerous tech giants, including Amazon, Google, Facebook and Microsoft, also support the police in ways outlined above. Amazon, for example, which claimed to “stand with [its] Black employees, customers, and partners” following Chauvin’s verdict, has supported the police in a variety of different ways. In 2019, the tech giant reportedly donated up to $9,999 to the Seattle Police Foundation. A company representative told Salon that the company has not donated to the Seattle Police Foundation within the last two years. Salon was unable to confirm this, since the foundation reportedly scrubbed all information pertaining to its corporate sponsors shortly after LittleSis released its report.

Additionally, Amazon board member Indra Nooyi serves as a trustee on the board of the New York City Police Foundation, according to digitally archived information on the foundation’s website from last year.

Meanwhile, AmazonSmile, the company’s charity initiative — which allows Amazon to donate 0.5% of proceeds from a sale to the buyer’s chosen charity — has helped pass along donations from customers to numerous police foundations, including those in Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle and Cleveland. (This relationship has been publicly advertised via Twitter.)

A company representative said that Amazon defers to guidance from the U.S. Office of Foreign Assets Control and the Southern Poverty Law Center on what organizations meet AmazonSmile’s eligibility requirements. These requirements state that eligible organizations cannot “engage in, support, encourage, or promote … intolerance, discrimination or discriminatory practices based on race.” Just this year, however, the SPLC published a feature calling racial bias in policing a “national security threat.”

Neither the Seattle Police Foundation nor New York City Police Foundation responded to Salon’s request for comment.

Coffeehouse giant Starbucks has visibly attempted to go above and beyond in demonstrating its commitment to racial justice. Last year, at the height of the racial unrest following George Floyd’s death, the coffee chain said it would distribute 250,000 shirts bearing the “Black Lives Matter” slogan to employees, flouting its existing ban on any apparel that “advocate for a political, religious or personal issue,” according to the Wall Street Journal. Just this year, Starbucks invested $100 million in “small business growth and community development projects in BIPOC neighborhoods.”

Following the Chauvin verdict, Starbucks the company released a statement from CEO Kevin Johnson, which read in part:

Today’s jury verdict in the murder trial of ex-police officer Derek Chauvin will not soothe the intense grief, fatigue and frustration so many of our Black and African American partners are feeling. Let me say clearly to you: We see you. We hear you. And you are not alone. Your Starbucks family hurts with you … We will be here for our partners in the Twin Cities and for each and every BIPOC Starbucks partner as we try to understand the systemic wrongs that lead to inequality.

One might argue these “systemic wrongs” have been exhibited by the Seattle Police Department. In a 2019 “Use of Force” report released by the Seattle Police, the department revealed that it used force against Black residents at a disproportionately higher rate than white residents. According to the report, more than 31 percent of cases of police force used against males involved Black males, even though they make up around 7 percent of the city’s population. A subsequent “Disparity Review” that year found that residents of color were frisked at higher rates than white residents, even though white people were statistically more likely to be carrying a weapon, and that Seattle officers drew their guns in encounters with residents of color at a higher rate than with white residents.

In that same year, Starbucks donated two grants totaling $15,000 to promote “implicit bias training” within the Seattle police and help the department host its “2019 banquet gala,” a spokesperson told Salon. The company also “contributed $25,000 to the New York City Police Foundation to help provide protective equipment such as masks, gloves and hand sanitizer, and coordinated the delivery of meals to precincts.” The representative did not say whether there were any accountability mechanisms in place to ensure the money was used appropriately, but did note that the company does “not currently have any funding with the Seattle Police Foundation.”

When corporations like Target and Starbucks give money to police foundations, it not only presents an ideological contradiction; it also presents a conflict of interest within the department itself, noted Walby, of the University of Winnipeg. “We only hear about donations” to police “when corporations want to celebrate them,” he said. “They want that halo effect. However, there are lots of instances in which the transfers and purchases aren’t made public. It’s an even bigger problem if they’re spending it on money that pertains to the corporation.”

In 2014, for instance, the Los Angeles Daily News reported that the Los Angeles Police Foundation received $84,000 in donations from stun-gun maker TASER International (now known as Axon) prior to TASER’s contract with the LAPD. In another case, Motorola, a donor to the New York Police Foundation, was later awarded several NYPD contracts, as reported by Politico in 2017. “There’s a real potential for private influence in public policing through police foundations,” Walby said. “It’s appropriate to call this money dark money. Because we can’t really see this money going in. We can’t really see this money going out.”

As the negative impact of police violence and criminalization becomes increasingly apparent in communities of color, Walby and Hatch argued, continuing to donate to police undermines corporations’ claims to awakened social consciousness. “Police departments across this country have plenty of money,” Hatch said. “They are well-resourced in a way that undermines other programs that could lead to safer and healthier communities.”

“Any money for police reform just enhances the power base of police as an institution,” Walby said. “The institution can’t change conduct that is institutionalized. The funds should be given directly to community and social development groups, groups that actually have a chance of creating something like equality in our world.”

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tisfan · 4 years ago

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Copied from Facebook; verified by a friend

From Joe Morice, daughters in 8th & 10th grade in Fairfax County Public Schools' Centreville Pyramid:

To our fellow FCPS families—this is it gang: 5 days until the 2 days in school vs. 100% virtual decision. Let’s talk it out, in my traditional mammoth TL/DR form.

Like all of you, I’ve seen my feed become a flood of anxiety and faux expertise. You’ll get no presumption of expertise here. This is how I am looking at and considering this issue and the positions people have taken in my feed and in the hundred or so FCPS discussion groups that have popped up. The lead comments in quotes are taken directly from my feed and those boards. Sometimes I try to rationalize them. Sometimes I’m just punching back at the void.

Full disclosure, we initially chose the 2 days option and are now having serious reservations. As I consider the positions and arguments I see in my feed, these are where my mind goes. Of note, when I started working on this piece at 12:19 PM today the COVID death tally in the United States stood at 133,420.

“My kids want to go back to school.”

I challenge that position. I believe what the kids desire is more abstract. I believe what they want is a return to normalcy. They want their idea of yesterday. And yesterday isn’t on the menu.

“I want my child in school so they can socialize.”

This was the principle reason for our 2 days decision. As I think more on it though, what do we think ‘social’ will look like? There aren’t going to be any lunch table groups, any lockers, any recess games, any study halls, any sitting next to friends, any talking to people in the hallway, any dances. All of that is off the menu. So, when we say that we want the kids to benefit from the social experience, what are we deluding ourselves into thinking in-building socialization will actually look like in the Fall?

“My kid is going to be left behind.”

Left behind who? The entire country is grappling with the same issue, leaving all children in the same quagmire. Who exactly would they be behind? I believe the rhetorical answer to that is “They’ll be behind where they should be,” to which I’ll counter that “where they should be” is a fictional goal post that we as a society have taken as gospel because it maps to standardized tests which are used to grade schools and counties as they chase funding.

“Classrooms are safe.”

At the current distancing guidelines from FCPS middle and high schools would have no more than 12 people (teachers + students) in a classroom (I acknowledge this number may change as FCPS considers the Commonwealth’s 3 ft with a mask vs. 6 ft position, noting that FCPS is all mask regardless of the distance). For the purpose of this discussion we’ll say classes run 45 minutes.

I posed the following question to 40 people today, representing professional and management roles in corporations, government agencies, and military commands: “Would your company or command have a 12 person, 45 minute meeting in a conference room?”

100% of them said no, they would not. These are some of their answers:

“No. Until further notice we are on Zoom.”

“(Our company) doesn’t allow us in (company space).”

“Oh hell no.”

“No absolutely not.”

“Is there a percentage lower than zero?”

“Something of that size would be virtual.”

We do not even consider putting our office employees into the same situation we are contemplating putting our children into. And let’s drive this point home: there are instances here when commanding officers will not put soldiers, ACTUAL SOLDIERS, into the kind of indoor environment we’re contemplating for our children. For me this is as close to a ‘kill shot’ argument as there is in this entire debate. How do we work from home because buildings with recycled air are not safe, because we don’t trust other people to not spread the virus, and then with the same breath send our children into buildings?

“Children only die .0016 of the time.”

First, conceding we’re an increasingly morally bankrupt society, but when did we start talking about children’s lives, or anyone’s lives, like this? This how the villain in movies talks about mortality, usually 10-15 minutes before the good guy kills him.

If you’re in this camp, and I acknowledge that many, many people are, I’m asking you to consider that number from a slightly different angle.

FCPS has 189,000 children. .0016 of that is 302. 302 dead children are the Calvary Hill you’re erecting your argument on. So, let’s agree to do this: stop presenting this as a data point. If this is your argument, I challenge you to have courage equal to your conviction. Go ahead, plant a flag on the internet and say, “Only 302 children will die.” No one will. That’s the kind action on social media that gets you fired from your job. And I trust our social media enclave isn’t so careless and irresponsible with life that it would even, for even a millisecond, enter any of your minds to make such an argument.

Considered another way: You’re presented with a bag with 189,000 $1 bills. You’re told that in the bag are 302 random bills, they look and feel just like all the others, but each one of those bills will kill you. Do you take the money out of the bag?

Same argument, applied to the 12,487 teachers in FCPS (per Wikipedia), using the ‘children’s multiplier’ of .0016 (all of us understanding the adult mortality rate is higher). That’s 20 teachers. That’s the number you’re talking about. It’s very easy to sit behind a keyboard and diminish and dismiss the risk you’re advocating other people assume. Take a breath and think about that.

If you want to advocate for 2 days a week, look, I’m looking for someone to convince me. But please, for the love of God, drop things like this from your argument. Because the people I know who’ve said things like this, I know they’re better people than this. They’re good people under incredible stress who let things slip out as their frustration boils over. So, please do the right thing and move on from this, because one potential outcome is that one day, you’re going to have to stand in front of St. Peter and answer for this, and that’s not going to be conversation you enjoy.

“Hardly any kids get COVID.”

(Deep sigh) Yes, that is statistically true as of this writing. But it is a cherry-picked argument because you’re leaving out an important piece.

One can reasonably argue that, due to the school closures in March, children have had the least EXPOSURE to COVID. In other words, closing schools was the one pandemic mitigation action we took that worked. There can be no discussion of the rate of diagnosis within children without also acknowledging they were among our fastest and most quarantined people. Put another way, you cannot cite the effect without acknowledging the cause.

“The flu kills more people every year.”

(Deep sigh). First of all, no, it doesn’t. Per the CDC, United States flu deaths average 20,000 annually. COVID, when I start writing here today, has killed 133,420 in six months.

And when you mention the flu, do you mean the disease that, if you’re suspected of having it, everyone, literally everyone in the country tells you stay the f- away from other people? You mean the one where parents are pretty sure their kids have it but send them to school anyway because they have a meeting that day, the one that every year causes massive f-ing outbreaks in schools because schools are petri dishes and it causes kids to miss weeks of school and leaves them out of sports and band for a month? That one? Because you’re right - the flu kills people every year. It does, but you’re ignoring the why. It’s because there are people who are a--holes who don’t care about infecting other people. In that regard it’s a perfect comparison to COVID.

“Almost everyone recovers.”

You’re confusing “release from the hospital” and “no longer infected” with “recovered.” I’m fortunate to only know two people who have had COVID. One my age and one my dad’s age. The one my age described it as “absolute hell” and although no longer infected cannot breathe right. The one my dad’s age was in the hospital for 13 weeks, had to have a trach ring put in because she could no longer be on a ventilator, and upon finally getting home and being faced with incalculable time in rehab told my mother, “I wish I had died.”

While I’m making every effort to reach objectivity, on this particular point, you don’t know what the f- you’re talking about.

“If people get sick, they get sick.”

First, you mistyped. What you intended to say was “If OTHER people get sick, they get sick.” And shame on you.

“I’m not going to live my life in fear.”

You already live your life in fear. For your health, your family’s health, your job, your retirement, terrorists, extremists, one political party or the other being in power, the new neighbors, an unexpected home repair, the next sunrise. What you meant to say was, “I’m not prepared to add ANOTHER fear,” and I’ve got news for you: that ship has sailed. It’s too late. There are two kinds of people, and only two: those that admit they’re afraid, and those that are lying to themselves about it.

As to the fear argument, fear is the reason you wait up when your kids stay out late, it’s the reason you tell your kids not to dive in the shallow water, to look both ways before crossing the road. Fear is the respect for the wide world that we teach our children. Except in this instance, for reasons no one has been able to explain to me yet.

“FCPS leadership sucks.”

I will summarize my view of the School Board thusly: if the 12 of you aren’t getting into a room together because it represents a risk, don’t tell me it’s OK for our kids. I understand your arguments, that we need the 2 days option for parents who can’t work from home, kids who don’t have internet or computer access, kids who needs meals from the school system, kids who need extra support to learn, and most tragically for kids who are at greater risk of abuse by being home. All very serious, all very real issues, all heartbreaking. No argument.

But you must first lead by example. Because you’re failing when it comes to optics. All your meetings are online. What our children see is all of you on a Zoom telling them it’s OK for them to be exactly where you aren’t. I understand you’re not PR people, but you really should think about hiring some.

“I talked it over with my kids.”

Let’s put aside for a moment the concept of adults effectively deferring this decision to children, the same children who will continue to stuff things into a full trash can rather than change it out. Yes, those hygienic children.

Listen, my 15 year old daughter wants a sport car, which she’s not getting next year because it would be dangerous to her and to others. Those kinds of decisions are our job. We step in and decide as parents, we don’t let them expose themselves to risks because their still developing and screen addicted brains narrow their understanding of cause and effect.

We as parents and adults serve to make difficult decisions. Sometimes those are in the form of lessons, where we try to steer kids towards the right answer and are willing to let them make a mistake in the hopes of teaching better decision making the next time around. This is not one of those moments. The stakes are too high for that. This is a “the adults are talking” moment. Kids are not mature enough for this moment. That is not an attack on your child. It is a broad statement about all children. It is true of your children and it was true when we were children. We need to be doing that thinking here, and “Johnny wants to see Bobby at school” cannot be the prevailing element in the equation.

“The teachers need to do their job.”

How is it that the same society which abruptly shifted to virtual students only three months ago, and offered glowing endorsements of teachers stating, “we finally understand how difficult your job is,” has now shifted to “screw you, do your job.” There are myriad problems with that position but for the purposes of this piece let’s simply go with, “You’re not looking for a teacher, you’re looking for the babysitter you feel your property tax payment entitles you to.”

“Teachers have a greater chance to being killed by a car than they do of dying from COVID.”

(Eye roll) Per the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS), the U.S. see approximately 36,000 auto fatalities a year. Again, there have been 133,420 COVID deaths in the United States through 12:09 July 10, 2020. So no, they do not have a great chance of being killed in a car accident.

And, if you want to take the actual environment into consideration, the odds of a teacher being killed in a car accident in their classroom, you know, the environment we’re actually talking about, that’s right around 0%.

“If the grocery store workers can be onsite what are the teachers afraid of?”

(Deep breath) A grocery store worker, who absolutely risks exposure, has either six feet of space or a plexiglass shield between them and individual adult customers who can grasp their own mortality whose transactions can be completed in moments, in a 40,000 SF space.

A teacher is with 11 ‘customers’ who have not an inkling what mortality is, for 45 minutes, in a 675 SF space, six times a day.

Just stop.

“Teachers are choosing remote because they don’t want to work.”

(Deep breaths) Many teachers are opting to be remote. That is not a vacation. They’re requesting to do their job at a safer site. Just like many, many people who work in buildings with recycled air have done. And likely the building you’re not going into has a newer and better serviced air system than our schools.

Of greater interest to me is the number of teachers choosing the 100% virtual option for their children. The people who spend the most time in the buildings are the same ones electing not to send their children into those buildings. That’s something I pay attention to.

“I wasn’t prepared to be a parent 24/7” and “I just need a break.”

I truly, deeply respect that honesty. Truth be told, both arguments have crossed my mind. Pre COVID, I routinely worked from home 1 – 2 days a week. The solace was nice. When I was in the office, I had an actual office, a room with a door I could close, where I could focus. During the quarantine that hasn’t always been the case. I’ve been frustrated, I’ve been short, I’ve gone to just take a drive and get the hell away for a moment and been disgusted when one of the kids sees me and asks me to come for a ride, robbing me of those minutes of silence. You want to hear silence. I get it. I really, really do.

Here’s another version of that, admittedly extreme. What if one of our kids becomes one of the 302? What’s that silence going to sound like? What if you have one of those matted frames where you add the kid’s school picture every year? What if you don’t get to finish the pictures?

“What does your gut tell you to do?”

Shawn and I have talked ad infinitum about all of these and other points. Two days ago, at mid-discussion I said, “Stop, right now, gut answer, what is it,” and we both said, “virtual.”

A lot of the arguments I hear people making for the 2 days sound like we’re trying to talk ourselves into ignoring our instincts, they are almost exclusively, “We’re doing 2 days, but…”. There’s a fantastic book by Gavin de Becker, The Gift of Fear, which I’ll minimize for you thusly: your gut instinct is a hardwired part of your brain and you should listen to it. In the introduction he talks about elevators, and how, of all living things, humans are the only ones that would voluntarily get into a soundproof steel box with a potential predator just so they could skip a flight of stairs.

I keep thinking that the 2 days option is the soundproof steel box. I welcome, damn, beg, anyone to convince me otherwise.

At the time I started writing at 12:09 PM, 133,420 Americans had died from COVID. Upon completing this draft at 7:04 PM, that number rose to 133,940.

520 Americans died of COVID while I was working on this. In seven hours.

The length of a school day.

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legobiwan · 4 years ago

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Whumptober #2

“pick who dies”

Notes: This got out of control. I was going to add an Obi-wan + Anakin section but I had to cut myself off as I do have other things I need to get to today. This is less whump than...a set of pretentious character studies with THE LINEAGE (including Rael) and an excuse to explore the trolley problem within a Star Wars setting. I blame my recent Hannibal obsession for what you see below. First part here, rest under the cut. Note, I am a musician, not a philosophy student, so allow for some creative interpretation here.

General Whumptober tag

Whumptober 2020 #1

~~~~~~~

(excerpt from “The Padawan’s Guide to Philosophy.” Eds. Masters Thrife-Foran & Ugaaalich. 616th e. Coruscant, 940 ARR. Holobook.)

Premise:

You are out for an afternoon walk in the outer regions of Thymilla, a moderately-populated city on the planet Ungar. On your walk, you pass by a set of hovertrain tracks, which branch into two separate arms - one an extension of the main track, the other a smaller offshoot which leads to a cargo loading zone, about fifty clicks south of where you are. (Diagram 3)

As a hovertrain approaches from the north, you hear screaming, the words of the driver becoming clearer as the hovertrain barrels towards the switch. The brakes of the train have failed and there is no chance of repair. If the train continues on its current path, it will kill five workers making repairs on the track. If you pull a switch, the hovertrain will divert to the offshoot, where it will kill one worker at the cargo loading zone.

Because of an anomaly in Ungar’s atmosphere, you cannot access the Force.

Do you pull the switch or do nothing and allow the train to speed forward?

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Padawan.”

Dooku shifted on his meditation pod, the firm material groaning as he uncrossed his legs from the lotus position, gingerly setting both his bare feet to the cool, tiled floor of his Master’s chambers. The young man allowed himself a small wince with the action. Yoda might have been able to keep that damnable position for hours, probably days on end, but Dooku was just a few months shy of his eighteenth life day, and another recent growth spurt seemingly focused all on his legs made sitting for any long amount of time…uncomfortable, to say the least.

Which was likely why Yoda had had him trapped him here for the past three hours, running through one ethical thought experiment after the other, poking his literal and metaphorical gimmer stick precisely at each gnarled and swollen joint in both his body and thoughts.

To act - to pull the switch - would mean to commit premeditated murder, even if it were for the greater good. Hardly a Jedi-like action. But then again, they had been taught - indoctrinated, really - with the idea that is was acceptable to sacrifice one life for the lives of many. A supposedly fair trade-off, although Dooku had seen enough of the Jedi’s relationship to the Senate, had seen enough of the Council’s internal politics, to know that two lives did not necessarily hold equal weight.

But to not act - to let the train barrel through, to leave it up to the will of the Force...Dooku clenched his teeth. That seemed more in line with the Order he was coming to know, was consistent with the Council’s lack of action on Protobranch, when Sifo-Diyas had seen the calamity that was to befall the planet and yet the Council, his Master, had done too little, too late, preferring to allow events to transpire as they would, the Jedi only impassive bystanders.

What was the point of their abilities, their training, their place in the universe, if they weren’t able to change the course of events for the better?

“I suppose,” Dooku began slowly, coming to stand, suddenly not caring if he was maintaining his proper meditation position. The young man padded towards the slightly shuttered windows on the other side of the room.

“I suppose it depends on the relative worth of each life,” he said, turning away from Yoda as to not see the subtle moue of distaste Dooku was certain would cross the old Master’s face.

“Is not all life sacred, Padawan?”

Dooku barely bit back the dark chuckle threatening to escape from his chest. Only in the holos and classrooms and the empty rhetoric of the Council was all life sacred. The Jedi could do so much more, he could do so much more to change the galaxy and yet the Order allowed itself to be chained to politicians, leashed like akk-dogs until receiving command.

No, Dooku thought. There was no balance - not here and not in the Force.

“From the information you’ve provided,” Dooku said, ignoring Yoda’s question. He peered through the slits of the rotor blinds into the watery illumination of Coruscant’s night sky. The dome of the Senate building rose through the rain like an oddly-shaped umbrella, shielding those in power with its wide beadth. “We can assume both parties of victims are of equal social standing, being manual laborers. Because of this, we must find other ways of determining their worth, their ability to enact change in the galaxy.”

Dooku clasped his hands behind his back, daring to turn to face his Master’s displeasure.

“The question becomes whether you want to hold sway over the transit network of a forgettable city, or the imports and exports that may go off-world. Exports which might include valuable resources or even smuggled goods. Items which could affect the governance of our imagined city and therefore, by extension, an even larger part of the populace.”

“Which is why, in this case,” Dooku concluded, his posture straightening, “I would choose to allow the hovertrain to continue its course and save the cargo worker.”

Yoda folded both claws over his gimmer stick, frowning. After a moment, he let out a small grunt, his features now inscrutable.

“And see yourself as the final arbiter of worth, do you, my young apprentice? Stand you above all others holding a golden scale, you do?”

Don’t we, as Jedi, hold these scales every day and yet choose to ignore them? Dooku thought.

“Someone,” the young man replied, “will make the judgment regardless. Is it not better for the Jedi to use our powers to make such decisions?”

This time Yoda did let out a wet sigh, shaking his head.

“Dangerous, these thoughts are, my Padawan,” Yoda grumbled, gesturing at the meditation pod. “Sit, young Dooku. Much we have to discuss.”

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Rael.”

Rael Averross slung an arm over the back of Dooku’s couch, sleeves of his Master’s borrowed robe hanging long near the tips of his fingers. It had been the third time that month Rael had “misplaced” his own robe, his Master’s foisted upon him in the wee hours of the morning, Dooku grunting something about “Jedi propriety” before shoving Rael out the door. (The things were a damned inconvenience, and made him look like something straight out of a space station ghost story, to boot. Was it so surprising he showed up to Dooku’s quarters in a state which his Master referred to as “half-naked?”)

Rael bit his lip, trying to not think of all the times he had actually been half-naked in the Temple. Those were fun times. Unfortunately, Dooku could probably mind read them out of him right now if he weren’t so concentrated on this thought experiment.

“Why not save them both?” Rael drawled amiably, scratching at the beginnings of a beard with his other hand as he hoped to distract his Master from any hint of his past indiscretions. It was about time, too, he thought. Never going to look my age going around all smooth-faced like a transparisteel window surface.

Dooku gave a small smile. “You cannot, Rael. Those are the rules of the scenario.”

“Rules,” Rael scoffed, picking at the hem of Dooku’s overly-fancy robe before suddenly launching to his feet, unable to contain his restlessness. The younger Jedi paced up and down the length of Dooku’s couch, grateful his usually strict Master was allowing him this indulgence. Not that Dooku had any problem sitting still for what felt like forever - stiff as a board, that one - but Rael was too jittery, too full potential energy to keep his thoughts in neat line with his body. “Rules are meant to be broken, Master,” Rael gave a swift chop with his hand in illustration. “You’re the first one to tell me that.”

Rael heard his Master let out a soft snort in response. Only Dooku could make such a noise sound dignified. “I suppose I did,” the older man answered evenly.

“So there you go! Blow up the train and everyone’s fine.”

“And kill the driver?”

Rael spun to face Dooku, the other man’s eyebrows raised not in condemnation, but genuine interest. It was days like this Rael truly appreciated having Dooku as a Master. Sure, he was as pretentious as any big-city Senator, a hard taskmaster in his lessons, and an even tougher dueling trainer - but at the end of the day, Dooku only expected Rael to follow Dooku’s rules, and not the Order’s.

And as much as Rael chaffed under any collar, he’d take Dooku’s version of the Code over the Council’s any day.

“I mean, the driver is the one in control of the train,” Rael shrugged. “Sure, it’s an accident, but the they were going to be dead either way once they hit those other bodies. Probably would go flying through the window and bash their skull in. This way, you save six lives,” Rael gave his best used speeder salesman grin. “Buy five, get one free.”

That little addition did cause his Master to roll his eyes.

“You are…” Dooku pressed his lips together, sitting back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. It was as close as Dooku ever got to a casual posture. “Colorful rhetoric aside, you are essentially advocating for pre-emptive action. Very interesting, Rael.”

“Interesting as in,” Rael pulled a sour face, imitating Dooku’s proper Serennian accent, “‘And now I will assign you five Jedi moral precepts to memorize and write a five-page essay about’ or interesting as in ‘I will now have you learn the complete codified law of the Umbargans, whose entire military strategy revolved around non-preemptive attacks.”

Dooku chuckled - actually chuckled - at Rael’s minor impertinent outburst. “Neither, Rael. Although, I must say you have provided me the perfect means by which I may punish you later on.” Damn, dug my own grave with that one, thought Rael.

“No,” Dooku continued, “I merely find your stance on this matter to be refreshingly…original.”

“You mean the Council wouldn’t approve?”

It took his Master a full minute to answer, his gaze shifting beyond Rael, beyond the confines of their shared quarters, Dooku seeming lost in some memory.

“Hardly,” he finally said. “And that is for the best.”

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Padawan?”

Qui-gon Jinn sat motionless on the small patch of grass, listening to the susurrations of the light breeze in the Room of a Thousand Fountains finger through a nearby thicket of Borto reeds. Across from him, Master Dooku sat in a mirrored pose, long legs crossed over the other in the lotus position, expression unreadable, his presence in the Force - or, his effect on the Force presence on the vegetation around him - one of controlled expectancy, a single blade of grass erect and ready despite the buffeting winds.

“We shouldn’t have to choose, Master,” Qui-gon replied, trying to steady his own uneven thoughts and emotions. Although he had been Dooku’s Padawan for almost five years now, Qui-gon still found himself worrying his responses to thought experiments like these would not pass his Master’s high and stringent intellectual standards.

“In an ideal world, Qui-gon, we wouldn’t. But as you have learned - as I have shown you - the status quo rarely measures up to our ideals.”

The status quo, Qui-gon thought. Code for the Senate, for the Council, for the Republic at large. That much he had figured out, had learned from Rael, whose ability to translate Dooku’s sometimes opaque rhetoric to something more digestible never ceased to amaze Qui-gon.

The status quo. The more years he spent with Dooku - with Rael, when the younger man was around - the more Qui-gon understood. Perhaps he always had a predilection to question, to challenge what was “known,” the dictums etched in stone handed down from the Council to the Council’s Masters to its Padawans. But with Dooku’s guidance, and with his own exploration of the Jedi prophecies, Qui-gon had developed his own sense of right and wrong, of how the galaxy ought to work in consonance with the ideals of the Jedi Code and his own moral compass.

“In that case, I would ask the Force for guidance,” Qui-gon replied, thoughts slipping back to the many hours he had spent in the Archives, poring over ancient holocrons. The Force had provided for the seers of old, why shouldn’t it provide now?

“Perhaps the Force cannot provide all the answers,” Dooku countered, as if reading his mind.

Qui-gon frowned, tilting his head. “Is that not what the Jedi teach, Master? What you teach? To follow the Force?”

“To a degree,” Dooku assented, rare amusement curling the side of his lips. “But the Jedi work in symbiosis with the Force, and even that is within a certain self-imposed definition of what the Force may or may not be capable of.”

Self-imposed definition? Qui-gon ran his hands through the soft grass at his sides, no longer able to keep that perfect stillness now that Dooku had so upset his equilibrium. Had his study of the prophecies not proven that exact point? That the Jedi of now no longer regarded the Force with as open a mind those of millennia ago?

“The Force is more infinite, has more potentialities than the confines of what we could possibly hope to study in a thousand lifetimes,” Qui-gon hedged.

“And so you hope to use prophecy to save these doomed beings?” Dooku retorted with a small wave of his hand. Ah yes, the hovertrain problem, Qui-gon grimaced. He had almost quite forgotten about the whole reason for this conversation.

“I would hope to…” Qui-gon cocked his head, watching a pair of butterflies flutter over a Byrsonima crassifolia, fragile leaves fluttering in their wake. An action - or a lack of action. If he saved one life or saved five. What would the repercussions be? How could he know he was making the right choice? How could the Order know, if not for guidance from the Force, in all its possible iterations?

And yet, the study prophecy of was considered at best, an esoteric hobby - at worst, a dangerous arm of mysticism by much of the Council.

Which is why your Master encourages you to think beyond the dictates of the Council, Qui-gon concluded.

“Yes, then,” Qui-gon stated, suddenly more confident in his answers. “I would hope to ameliorate the situation by using a similar mindset of the prophets. One of openness, wonder, and possibility - to find my way in this situation.”

“And just how far would you be willing to take supposed,” Dooku trained him with an enigmatic expression, “openness?” The word weighed heavy with implication.

Qui-gon started. What exactly is Dooku trying to get at here? Hadn’t it been his Master who had introduced him to the prophecies, to the Force beyond the dictates of the Code? So far, Dooku had not steered him wrong, and yet just as the nearby Byrsonima crassifolia cast a long shadow over the open grass, so did Dooku’s unspoken entreaty.

But before Qui-gon could cobble together an answer, Dooku seemed to break out of his trance, chuckling slightly as he got to his feet. He extended a long arm to Qui-gon, who took it without hesitation, coming to stand at his Master’s side.

“Meditate on the answer, Qui-gon. For now, I believe it is past time for dinner.”

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Padawan.”

Obi-wan Kenobi shifted in the overly-large, overly-plush velvet chair which threatened to swallow him whole. He and Qui-gon had been dispatched to Barstovia, a little-known desert mining planet in the Mid-Rim. A simple mission, really, overseeing a trade deal between Barstovia and Ord Mantell, opening up some shipping lines of the rare fermenium mineral to the Republic. A wholly forgettable mission, if Obi-wan were being honest, except for the fact the diminutive race of Barstovia seemed to prize, of all the unlikely things, oversized, over-upholstered furniture.

While Obi-wan struggled with a crimson throw pillow the size of his torso, his master, Qui-gon Jinn, sat across from him, perfectly serene in his eight-foot tall, royal blue armchair.

“Well, Master,” Obi-wan said, words strained as he punched the pillow to his side with un-Jedi-like ferocity. Of all times for Qui-gon to pull out a thought experiment.

“The prevailing wisdom would say to sacrifice one life to save five - a utilitarian outlook and the most practical, at least on the surface.” Obi-wan pushed down on the seat of his chair, trying in vain to straighten his posture, to lend his answer some form of credence beyond his words. Inevitably, Qui-gon would hold the exact opposite opinion from Obi-wan’s, and while Obi-wan had often kept his feelings to himself under the guise of “picking his battles,” he preferred to express his thoughts while at least looking the part of an almost eighteen-year-old Padawan, and not some child stuck in a chair too large for him. He struck at the recalcitrant cushion one last time. “But as Jedi, we often prioritize a single being or beings if they hold an important role.”

“In the short-term,” Obi-wan grimaced suddenly, pulling an impossible second pillow from under his right thigh, “we would lose four lives over one, granted. But in the long-term, that single life lost might mean the eventual deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands.”

“But you do not have this information, Padawan,” Qui-gon replied, a crease of annoyance in his brow. Obi-wan noted there was no accompanying crease in the cushion of his Master’s chair. “All you know is the number of beings.”

Obi-wan bit down on a caustic reply. Yes, I know that, Master. I hadn’t gotten to my point yet. But when did Qui-gon actually ever listen to him?

“Yes, Master, this is true,” the younger Jedi answered, Obi-wan impressed with the evenness of his own response despite his increasing irritation. “Which is why I would endeavor to save them all.”

A beat. a raised eyebrow coupled with a subtle sigh. “Quite the feat, Obi-wan,” Qui-gon finally said, his words laced with skepticism. “How would you accomplish such a thing?”

How in the world is he not drowning in that chair? Obi-wan thought, distracted by his Master’s impenetrability, despite the audacious situation. There was Qui-gon, halfway across the room, composed and neat - well, as neat as Qui-gon ever got - against the regal backdrop of the humorously-sized chair while Obi-wan floundered in a sea of crimson, just out of his Master’s reach.

And wasn’t that the perfect metaphor for their troubled partnership?

Obi-wan wiped at his brow. “It’s quite simple, Master. The hovertrain could be diverted, or at least impeded by a third party inserting themselves into the equation.”

Something in Qui-gon’s expression shifted at the statement, earlier annoyance now melting into something closer to concern. The older man leaned forward in his chair, for the first time exhibiting a pang of discomfort as he battled the voluminous material.

“And who might that be?” Qui-gon asked, batting at the tsunami of beige woven blanket at his side.

“Myself, of course.”

Dead silence met Obi-wan’s words.

Wrong answer, Kenobi. Absolutely the wrong answer. Disappointment was written all over Qui-gon’s body language, even emanating from his usually controlled Force signature. Obi-wan fell back into the chair, not bothering to fight the dunes and valleys of velvet threatening to overtake him, averting his gaze to some preposterously-sized side-table and vase. Hopefully, his failure to provide the correct response would be the end of this increasingly uncomfortable conversation. Qui-gon would assign him some reading and meditation, and let the matter rest until they returned to Coruscant.

But Qui-gon only peered at Obi-wan with a piercing stare, apparently not ready to give up on the exchange.

“You would sacrifice yourself to save the others?”

Obi-wan found himself mirroring his master’s movements.

“Isn’t that what it means to be a Jedi?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. “We are servants of the Republic, of the Force - if our actions can save lives so that Republic may continue in peace - “ Obi-wan’s mouth opened and closed, trying to form the words that would express his devotion to the Order, the Code, his own sense of honor - but found himself gaping like an Ithorian cuttlefish.

Once again, Qui-gon fell into contemplation, back arching against tall, bulbous pillows, brushing his mustache with a single finger. A minute, then two went by, the only sound the clicks of a nearby chrono. Over eighteen feet tall, the clicks sounded more like the steps of a lurking gundark than a timepiece, doing nothing for Obi-wan’s nerves.

Finally, Qui-gon broke the uncomfortable semi-silence. “Don’t be so hasty to throw away your own life, Padawan. As you rightly said, the death of a monarch may cause the deaths of many others down the road. But you cannot know how many lives would remain unsaved if you were to treat your own so lightly.”

Obi-wan’s eyebrows rose. That had not been the reaction he was expecting.

“But how am I to know when that sacrifice is necessary?” he asked automatically. Obi-wan would make that sacrifice gladly, although...to be perfectly honest, he would prefer not to die as a seventeen-year-old Padawan.

“The better question is how you can work to reach a more productive option rather than coming to such a dire conclusion.” Qui-gon’s voice softened. “I am serious, Obi-wan. You have much to offer the galaxy. Don’t let your strict adherence to Jedi ideals extinguish your star too early. Not only would the Republic be at a loss, but…” Qui-gon looked away, staring down at some invisible pattern in the corner of the room. “I would, as well.”

Obi-wan’s mouth dropped open. “Master, I - “

“Ah, Master Jedi!” A new voice squeaked from the gargantuan entranceway. “Thank you so much for waiting,” proclaimed the three-foot Minister of Commerce, Parhary Hatch, bedecked in a long, flowery robe whose velvet train stretched back several feet. “Please, if you would,” he gestured towards the tall archway.

“Yes, of course, Minister Hatch,” Qui-gon replied in his diplomatic voice, jumping neatly off the chair, his landing as elegant as a Coruscanti ice skater.

Obi-wan frowned, joining his Master in a slightly less dignified, but no less effective maneuver. They had been on the verge of…something, some kind of understanding, or at least a truce. Whatever words had remained unsaid between would likely stay so, the moment gone, the trip back to Coruscant, and then to a Hutt outpost taking priority over these types of conversations.

Another time, then, Obi-wan sighed to himself, following the slinking violet trail of the Bartovian minister and his Master into the long corridors of the palace.

#whumptober #whumptober 2 #obi wan kenobi #count dooku #yan dooku #rael averross #qui gon jinn #pretentious bullshit #the trolley problem #writing #the eternal struggle #well this happened #i did have fun making up the alien culture for the last bit though #points to anyone who catches the references in the planet name and minister name

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ragingbookdragon · 4 years ago

Text

You Can Take Off All My Clothes And Never See Me Naked PT. 3

A Haytham Kenway x Reader Story

Word Count: 4,400 Warnings: Explicit Language, Mentions of Assault

Author’s Note: This part does contain mentions of sexual and physical assault, so if that’s a trigger for you, please be advised. -Thorne

***Set One Year After Part Two***

The usual grouping of Templars gathered in the backroom of The Ethereal Crew Tavern, that grouping being Haytham, Shay, Gist, (Y/N) and a few others she didn’t care to name. Most of them had arrived on their own, but she and Haytham had taken the liberty of getting a carriage together. Rather scandalous given that neither were married nor courting the other, but personally, she could care less about social etiquette governed by the elite who had their heads shoved up their asses.

She kept herself guarded, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers curled around the handle of the dagger in her jacket. Haytham probably knew, but he’d yet to let her know, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of his journal. It drove her up the wall how he seemed to place enough trust in (Y/N) to actually sit in a carriage with her, alone—she hated the feeling. Hated that he cared enough. Sometimes she’d wished she’d never accepted his offer to join the Templars. It was too late for regrets though as through a flurry of group missions and her own personal ones, she’d managed to climb the ladder of success within the Templars, coming to rest just below Lee. No doubt (Y/N) had certainly upset the chain of command, especially with pushing half the men of the group from their positions to claim them as her own, and as much as she hated it, she had to acknowledge that it gave her a sick sense of pride to take them down a few pegs—fragility of male pride, she decided.

“Is something on your mind, (Y/N)?”

She looked up from her boot laces and to him, though he’d yet to take his eyes off the pages. “Nothing that would make you happy, Grandmaster.”

Haytham chuckled and snapped the journal shut before meeting her eyes. “You’re more than welcome to call me Haytham when we’re not with the rest of the Order.”

(Y/N) cocked an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Honestly, I’d rather stab myself in the thigh…twice…with a dull knife…but that’s just my personal opinion.”

He let out a snort and stowed the notebook in his jacket before regarding her. “Why are you so adamant to keep people from being friendly with you?”

“Why are you so nosey about my adamancy?” she retorted.

“I’m simply curious.” His steel eyes narrowed. “Is that so wrong?”

“Unhealthy, would be the better word.” (Y/N) shot back, but on a rare whim, she revealed, “I don’t trust you.”

Haytham evidently hadn’t expected that because his eyes widened ever so slightly. “Truly? Even though we’ve served together for a full year?”

She huffed and turned her gaze to the window. “Don’t take it personally, sir, I don’t trust anyone.”

“Then what do you trust in?” he inquired.

“Myself.” (Y/N) murmured with a deep breath.

“And when you can’t trust in that?”

She eyed him from the corners of her eyes. “Psychological warfare isn’t going to work on me, sir. Been there, done that. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Haytham smirked and she instantly cursed herself at her carelessness. “So that’s your reason. You won’t allow yourself to be taken advantage of again by someone.”

(Y/N) couldn’t help but glower at him and if looks could kill, he’d have been dead and buried. “You smug bastard.” He barked a laugh but didn’t respond, and the carriage began to slow.

They climbed out, her first, still fuming, Haytham following in suit. She opened the door and walked inside, leaving him, but he wasn’t upset, far from it. By the time he got to the backroom, (Y/N) had already poured drinks and taken her seat between his and Shay’s, a glare still in her eye.

They stood at his entry and when he sat, they did as well. “Thank you for readying the drinks, (Y/N).” he acknowledged, and her grunt of acceptance served as a reply. He looked to the others. “We’ve started with more practical pursuits of taking over the colonies.” Haytham gestured to Shay. “With Shay helping to claim New York, we’ve control over two major cities and ports of the Americas.”

Shay tipped his head and took a sip of his beer.

Haytham looked to (Y/N). “You’ve also been helpful to help claim the city too, taking out public menaces during the nights. It’s kept the people safe.” She looked in the other direction, feeling the warmth rise on her cheeks at the praise. “But I’d like to do more.” He waved a hand and Charles unraveled a map along the table and everyone leaned forward in their seats to gain a look. “We’ve most of the New England and Middle Colony territories, but I want to focus our attention to the South. Gaining leverage would give us control of the colonies and we can turn them any way we wish.”

Shay raised a hand and the Grandmaster nodded at him. “Ports in North and South Carolina and Georgia could be decent routes to start with. If at least to get us a feeling of the locations.”

Haytham tipped his head in agreement, then looked to (Y/N) who was busy dragging her eyes up and down the map. “Have you any ideas, (Y/N)?”

She hummed. “I’d start with negotiations with Native tribes or go to Florida and start there.”

Before anyone could ask, Charles snorted. “Why go to the natives for help? Do you doubt that we can’t do it ourselves?” His voice was haughty, full of arrogance, and it pissed her off.

(Y/N) met his gaze and he audibly swallowed from the sheer anger in it. “Perhaps because they’re the ones who could help us further our goals farther than we could on our own considering the fact that they’ve lived in the Americas long before colonial intervention? Perhaps because this is their land we’re talking about controlling? Perhaps because colonists like you have your head shoved so far up your ass that asking for help from actual natives of the land is considered insane? Perhaps because you’re a stupid son of a bitch who thinks that that colonials are somehow placed high above natives because we’re ‘civilized’ solely based on the fact that we live in brick houses and speak the King’s English—which by the way isn’t even a universal language because more countries speak a multitude of other languages besides English—Spanish and French being two examples.” She leaned forward. “Have I got the point across or should I keep offering rhetoric about how idiotic your complaints are until it goes through your thick skull?”

Charles face had turned at least six shades of red, each darker than the last and he fumbled for an answer but all he could sputter was nonsense. (Y/N) glanced at Shay beside her who’d long since put his face in his arms to keep from laughing hysterically. Only the shake of his shoulders told her, and she looked to Haytham. “Start negotiations for help with the Cherokee and the Creek or go to Saint Augustine and work up. That’s where I’d start.”

Haytham merely wore a smile as he nodded. “Shay would you mind traveling down to Saint Augustine within the month?” The Irishman didn’t even raise his head, simply waving a hand in response. “Well then, we’ll start with finding someone who speaks the Cherokee and Cree—”

His words were cut off by the door slamming into the wall, and immediately everyone grabbed either a gun or a sword to defend themselves with when they caught sight of a disheveled woman.

(Y/N) let go of her dagger and stood from her seat, ignoring how it toppled over behind her. “Priscilla?” The woman ran over to her and upon closer inspection, she took in the sight of the torn dress and the blood and bruises along her skin. A breath of shock left her. “What happened to you?”

Priscilla practically burst into tears and as if her strength suddenly failed, her knees gave out beneath her. (Y/N) caught her before she hit the ground. “(Y/N)!” she cried.

The Templar yanked her gloves off and gently cradled the woman’s face in her hands. Bruises littered her amber skin, and (Y/N) saw handprints around her throat and arms. Anger welled inside her and she didn’t need to lift the woman’s dress to know what had happened. She opted for, “Who did this to you?”

The woman sobbed and shook her head. “He’ll kill me.”

(Y/N) removed her jacket and laid it around Priscilla’s shoulders, allowing her some decency in the presence of men. “Priscilla…give me his name.”

“I can’t,” she whimpered, raising a hand to wipe her face. “He told me he’d kill my family.”

She cradled the woman’s face once more. “Where is your family now?”

“At home.”

(Y/N) looked at Shay. “Shay.” Her voice was calm, quiet, and it made his blood run cold. “Just North-East of the gang headquarters in East Village there is a small home that stands on its own. You’ll recognize it by the blue painted door. I need you to go and collect the woman and young boy that live there and bring them back down here.” He didn’t move for a moment and she narrowed her eyes. “Now, Shay.” He rose and motioned for Gist to do the same, and the two of them disappeared from the backroom.

She drew her eyes back to Priscilla. “Go to my room and look in the chest at the foot of my bed.” (Y/N) dipped so she could catch her eyes. “You remember the code?”

“I do,” the woman whispered.

(Y/N) nodded. “In the right corner there’s a little bundle of packages. Find the one labeled Queen Anne’s Lace. Open it and chew a handful up and wash it down with water.” She helped the woman to her feet. “I’ll tell Anita to draw a bath for you when I leave.”

“Where are you—”

“Give me his name, Priscilla.”

The woman met (Y/N)’s gaze and her voice booked no room for any arguments this time. “It’s…it’s Lord Josiah.”

“The one you’ve been providing maid services to for the last few weeks?”

Priscilla nodded, fresh tears springing to her eyes. “I’ve been trying to avoid his advances but I wasn’t paying attention and he—and he—” she burst into tears once more and (Y/N) raised a hand to her own mouth clenching her jaw so tightly it began to hurt. “I should’ve listened to them!” She cried.

After a moment she took a deep breath and rested her hands on Priscilla’s shoulders. “Go to my room and lock the door. Don’t open it unless it’s me or Anita, do you understand?” She nodded. “Come on, I’ll walk with you.” (Y/N) gently guided her towards the door and out of the backroom. They came across the stairs when a younger woman was coming down the stairs. “Anita, there you are.”

She looked between them but didn’t say anything, an unspoken conversation that she simply nodded to. (Y/N) tipped her head to Priscilla. “Get her a bath ready. Hottest water you can get.” Anita helped Priscilla up the stairs and in an ungodly rage, (Y/N) headed for the doors of the tavern.

***

She sat in the brush just outside the manor of Josiah Galbraith, silently watching the armed Regulars patrol the perimeter. So far, she’d counted two pairs of Redcoats go around, telling her that they were going clockwise and counter to keep anyone out. The first pair appeared from the opposite side and she waited until they got to the next corner to begin a mental timer. A minute and a half later, the second patrol appeared and as they reached the corner, she readied herself when a hand snapped on her shoulder and pulled her back.

(Y/N) swallowed her own scream of fear, opting to spin around and immediately throw a curled fist to whoever had grabbed her. They let out a grunt as her hand collided with their jaw and they yanked her harder, toppling her off balance. She landed on the ground and before she could move again, they had her hands pinned to the ground.

She started to struggle when they hissed, “(Y/N)! It’s me!”

Focusing on their features with only the light of the moon, they soon became clear and she seethed, “Haytham, what the fuck are you doing here?!”

He released her and pointed to the opening at the brush. “Keeping you from getting shot by a guard on the rooftop!”

(Y/N)’s brows furrowed and looked out. Sure enough, a lone guard appeared from the backside of the mansion, a musket in his hands, occasionally looking around. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“If you’re going to get at Josiah, you need to manage to not get shot trying to get in.” Haytham advised. “Let me help you.”

She turned on him. “I don’t need your help. Get out of here.”

“You need my help, (Y/N). Josiah has more training than you realize. You won’t stand a chance against him.”

(Y/N) cocked an eyebrow. “You know this how?”

Haytham let out a sigh, steel eyes watching the patrolling pair pass. “He used to be a Templar before I got here.”

It did little to soothe her rage, but she managed, “He’s not anymore?”

He shook his head. “The Templars of the colonies before I arrived had him removed. There wasn’t any reason I could find.” He met her eyes. “I know this is something you have to do but let me help you.”

(Y/N) stared him down for a minute then nodded, and before he could breathe a sigh of relief, she had a dagger to his neck. “If you do anything to compromise the minute trust, I am placing in you right now, I will slit your throat. Do you understand me?”

Haytham’s response was solemn, but it was trustworthy. “I understand.”

She pulled away. “You help me take him down, but I’m delivering the final blow.”

“Understood as well.”

They sat next to one another in the brush and she quietly explained, “There’s two patrols that go around the manor. When this one hits the opposite corner, it takes a minute and a half for the next couple to show up.”

Haytham nodded, eyeing the guards passing by them then up to the top. “There’s only one up top, but he goes back and forth every thirty seconds.” He looked down the street. “I’ll see about climbing the walls to take him out. When I come over the side, then you can move forward.”

(Y/N) didn’t necessarily like the idea of being told to wait, but he had a point and she nodded. “Hurry then, the next couple will appear in a minute.”

He was off at that, occasionally glancing up at the rooftop to make sure he was undiscovered. She watched as he disappeared around the side and when the lone gunman appeared, so did Haytham. He covered the man’s mouth to prevent any sound, then he fell over the side. When he hit the ground, (Y/N) couldn’t help but wince at whatever bones he’d broken, but he didn’t get up, and that was the important thing.

She sprinted to the door and tried the doorknob, but when it clicked, she grunted and pulled the lockpick from her jacket. Softly she twisted the pick until it stayed, then she jiggled the lock a few times. Almost there. She thought. C’mon, hurry it up. Just a little mo—

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing!”

The sudden shout from behind followed by the bayonet pressed up against her backside made her blood run cold and she sucked in a breath, quickly stowing the lockpick in her sleeve. (Y/N) raised her hands beside her head and slowly turned, coming face to face with the pair of redcoats.

She smiled. “I was trying the door, but it was locked, so I was knocking.”

One of the guards sneered. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

“And what did it look like?”

“Like you were pickin’ the lock.”

(Y/N) internally winced but kept a smile on her face. “Pfft, I would never break and enter. That’s illegal!” C’mon Haytham, where are you? She wiggled her fingers. “It just looked like I was picking the lock, but I promise I wasn’t.”

“Well if you weren’t pickin’ the lock,” the other guard sneered, “then what are you doing here?”

She met their gazes. “I’m the replacement for Priscilla.”

“For whom?

Her eyes narrowed and she explained, “Priscilla. The woman that you two probably laughed at when she stumbled from the front door with a torn dress, bruised and beaten.” Their faces fell at her words and she saw Haytham sneaking up behind them. “The woman that you’ll die for.” Before they could react to her promise, they went down, Haytham’s hands at the back of their necks.

He stood straight and slung the excess blood from his hands before retracting the blades into his sleeves. He met her gaze and she said, “I don’t know where you and Shay got those, but I want some.”

Haytham chuckled and nodded towards the door. “Break the lock while I hide the bodies in the brush. The second patrol will notice two dead bodies.” (Y/N) didn’t wait to be told twice, immediately spinning on her heel to pick the lock once more. It broke with a click and she pushed it open to slip inside, Haytham behind her.

They stood in the entrance and she whispered, “Do you think there are more guards inside?”

He shook his head. “It’s possible but not likely. He’s probably paying for perimeter check only.”

She hummed. “Unfortunate for him.” He glanced at her. “But very fortunate for us.” (Y/N) nodded to the stairs. “His room is probably upstairs.”

As they made their way to the staircase a door opened and a servant came out, freezing as they spotted the two. Haytham pulled his flintlock out and pointed it at him. “If you want to live, go back inside and stay quiet. You are not our target.”

The servant blinked but turned right around and walked back into the room. (Y/N) couldn’t help but snort. “And you say I’m threatening to people.”

Haytham stowed the pistol and climbed the staircase, keeping close to the wall. “You are. But I only threaten people when I need to get the point across.”

The lock sounded from the door the servant had gone through and she quipped, “I guess he got the point.”

He hummed. “I’ve heard Josiah is a bastard to his staff.” He glanced back at her. “From he did to your friend, that’s proven true. I doubt any of the servants will weep at his passing.”

“Murder.” (Y/N) corrected, passing in front of him as they reached the top. “At his murder.” He said nothing, and with a quick glance down the hall, Haytham’s probability had proven true, there wasn’t a guard in sight.

They crept down the hallway to the door at the end and took either side. She looked at him as she held the doorknob and he pulled out his flintlock and cocked it, nodding at her. (Y/N) took a deep breath and opened the door with as much silence as it would’ve allowed; Haytham went in first, her following and they were shocked to find Josiah waiting for them.

He looked up from the foot of the bed, ignoring Haytham outright to stare at (Y/N). “I knew you were going to come,” he said. “I knew when she threatened me with your name you would.”

“You know nothing of my name.” She hissed.

A chuckle passed his lips. “I know more than you think.” His eyes drifted to Haytham. “You’re the new Grandmaster for the Order, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Haytham responded, flintlock still poised and ready. “You’re lucky you left before I came, else I’d’ve killed you much earlier.”

“I’ve no doubt.” He stood and held out two sabers. He tossed one to (Y/N) who caught it and then he unsheathed the blade and pointed it at her. “A duel, then.”

She took a step forward, ignoring Haytham’s voice of complaint and pulled the sword from its scabbard. “You want to fight me.” Her eyes narrowed, yet she got in a defensive position. “Why?”

Josiah raised his blade like a fencer, one hand behind his back. “Engaging in duels is honorable practice.”

(Y/N) scowled. “There’s nothing you could ever do that would make you honorable again, you sick bastard.”

“And yet, you still engage in a duel.”

“So that I can cut your heart out of your chest!” She leaped forward and swung the sword at him with enough force that he grunted and faltered back. (Y/N) didn’t let up, strike after strike, she sent him, and with each blot of crimson appearing on his pristine white shirt, she knew her blows were landing.

For some odd reason, he didn’t seem to be fighting back and while it was only a minor concern in her mind, it soon became a major one. She made the mistake of leaving herself open when he parried her blade, and she paid the price when his fist collided with her stomach, taking the air with it.

(Y/N) gagged and felt the blade go slack in her grip but it was all the time he needed to yank the sword away and spin her around, one hand coming around to lock at her throat, the other pointing the sword at Haytham, who wore a stern look, but she could see the fear bleeding in his eyes.

Josiah chuckled in her ear and it made her stomach churn. “Anger makes you predictable dear.” She struggled against him, but the hand at her throat tightened, cutting off her air and she gasped. “You think I didn’t know you were outside, learning the guard patterns?” (Y/N) reached for his hand and pulled, trying to gain air. “I let her leave alive because I knew you’d come after me.”

“Why?” she gasped as best she could.

“Why? Because you’ve been a thorn in the elite’s side for years.” He shifted the hand that held the sword and flipped open her jacket, pulling the dagger out. Josiah took a few steps back, taking her with him, and Haytham followed. He put the dagger against her side and hissed in her ear, “You stick your nose where it doesn’t belong and mess up plans left and right. All in the name of vigilantism. And what good has it gotten you? Dead.”

(Y/N) met Haytham’s eyes and she nodded at him. She swallowed and muttered, “You’ll die before I do, you sick fuck.” Her elbow jerked backwards into his gut and he cried out in pain, letting her go. She reached out. “Haytham!”

Her fingertips brushed the barrel of the flintlock, but she closed them around it, pulling the gun to her. She found the handle and spun on Josiah. With how close they were, there was no space to flee and she pulled the trigger, watching as he stumbled backwards to the wall, a circle of crimson blooming larger with each second.

He slid down the wall and chuckled, but it dissolved into a cough. “My death—wins you nothing.” (Y/N) stared at him and grabbed the handle of her dagger, yanking it from where he’d embedded it in her waist. Besides a grunt, she made no sound of pain. “I might die—but my legacy will still—stand.”

She wiped the blood of the dagger and sheathed it, remarking, “No it won’t.” He met her eyes, fuzzy and growing dark. “I’ll run every trace of your name into the fucking ground. When I’m done, there won’t be a soul alive who’ll remember you. And if they do,” (Y/N) knelt down and whispered, “It’ll be because your crimes will outweigh it all.” He sucked in a breath and with a final gurgle, he went still.

She stood and pulled her jacket around her, stealthily pressing onto her wound to keep pressure. “We’re done here.” She handed Haytham his flintlock. “We should leave before the other patrol comes.”

Haytham grabbed her arm. “Are you alright?”

(Y/N) met his gaze. “No.” Pulling from him she made her way to the door. “No, I’m not.”

***

It was well past closing time when they got back to the tavern and (Y/N)’s wound felt like it was on fire, and she herself could barely stand on her own feet. Still, she pushed on, knowing she needed to at least see Priscilla and her family before she took care of it.

Stepping inside, she was greeted by Priscilla’s screech of relief and a bear hug from the woman. “You’re okay!”

(Y/N) weakly patted her arm. “Yeah…I’m good.”

The girl stepped away and looked at her, eyes full of concern. “(Y/N), are you alright? You look ill.”

Haytham appeared by her side and peered at her. “She’s right. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

She shook her head and swallowed the sickness climbing her esophagus. “I’m fine. I’m just tired and need some rest.” She looked at Priscilla. “Since you and your family are here, take a guest room and get some sleep. We’ll talk about moving you tomorrow.”

(Y/N) ignored their concerns as she made way to the stairs and she’d barely climbed two of them when she collapsed. Hands grasped her shoulders and while she wanted to struggle, she couldn’t find the energy to do so.

She vaguely felt them turn her over and she groaned as her back hit the staircase. Shay and Haytham appeared in her vision, their faces contorted with apprehension. Haytham’s lips were moving but nothing was coming out that she could understand, and she felt cool air rise under her shirt, telling her that someone had opened her jacket. Haytham looked down and back at her, eyes wide.

Someone’s hand touched the edge of her tunic and with a renewed burst of energy, she gripped their hand tightly and squeezed with all the strength she had left. “Don’t take—my clothes off.” She hissed.

Haytham’s hand touched her cheek and with a slow intake of breath, her head lolled backwards, consciousness fading from her.

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