#bowel diversion

[little-pissbaby]

as always, we're complaining under the cut. tw for medical PTSD, mentions of medical procedures, personal/graphic descriptions of my fucked up little body, extremely privileged whining, it's worth it for the cat at the bottom tho

I am exhausted by the number of appointments I have. I've become the kind of person who has multiple appointments every single week. This week and next week are three appointment weeks, and those appointments always lead to scheduling MORE test/procedures/office visits.

I had an appointment with my urogynecologist. Given my history of neurogenic bladder and severe stage IV endometriosis, she's in agreement with me that it might be time to at least consider a bowel diversion, if not a total colonoscopy. This would be done in addition to a bladder diversion because self-catheterization has proven unsustainable and, frankly, dangerous for me to try to continue. I'll likely have a foley placed tomorrow morning that will stay in until I can get in to the urological surgeon, who has not called to schedule yet. I have the colorectal surgery consult next month and the neurourology consult a month after that. Just thinking about it gives me a headache.

I also have an EEG in a few days to see if the blackout episodes I've been having are epilepsy, and if it is, I'm not sure what we'll do since I'm already on a good amount of anticonvulsants. I have a feeling I'm going to leave that test with a migraine and no answers, which was exactly how the EMG/NCS I had done in my hand last Friday went.

Other things I've started include using a CPAP machine. I thought this shit was supposed to help you sleep better, but instead I'm waking up many many times in a two hour window, the pressure being pushed into my lungs is dislocating my ribs, I'm getting bloated from wearing it, and the pressure is coming out of my eyes and ears too due to a deformity in my inner ears called patulous eustachian tubes, so now my constant migraine is back in full force. I'm nothing but bloated and irritable as hell, but if I don't use it for at least four hours a day for at least 24 days a month, medicaid won't pay for it and I will have to pay out of pocket to buy the machine. My mother price checked it, it costs ~$1300 to buy the machine I have. I might just give up and give it to my brother, who also needs a CPAP but who doesn't also have EDS and is, therefore, not prone to ribs dislocating.

I met with my 4th electrophysiologist and that was a frustratingly and dangerously nonproductive appointment. He did not speak or understand spoken English well enough to be allowed to practice medicine in an English-speaking country imo. I don't give a shit about an accent, I don't think people need to "go back to where they came from" or that they need to speak English exclusively, but man it is so important in the field of medicine to be able to actually understand what your patient is saying to you. He had no idea what the condition I have even was, and he assumed I made all of these diagnoses for attention but would "humor me" and wrote IN HIS NOTES that I "insisted" on a holter monitor and tilt table test. I got these orders from Duke university, the closest university to me that has a genetic electrophysiology department and a dysautonomia clinic, both of which I was being seen at until Duke stopped taking my insurance. I was trying to tell this absolute worm brain that I was telling him what the top specialists GLOBALLY told me to have done, but I was just being young and attention-seeking I guess, I'm so dangerously angry about it, it makes my chest hurt to try and articulate just how badly this EP fucked it up for me.

I realized in the middle of a visit with my PCP on the 30th that I am not working towards a goal. Most people go to the doctor with the goal of Get Better Enough To Work, or Get Better Enough To Take Care Of The Kids. I don't have that. I'll never be able to hold down a job and I can't and don't want to have children.

I feel like the shittiest friend on Earth too because a good friend of mine only lives four hours away, but as much as we'd both like to visit, I have to schedule everything in my life around what's starting to look like a year packed with surgeries. I can't just pack up and go visit him, I come with medical equipment now. Between meds, splints, incontinence supplies, and the CPAP, I have to basically haul around a small urgent care center everywhere I go. I hate that I have to be planned around.

For a few wins, I do not have carpal tunnel, and when I had my A1C checked at my last PCP appointment, it was 4.9! Every doctor who finds that out informs me even their own A1C isn't that good because they like some specific sweet treat too much. My secret? No one has said they liked something that doesn't have dairy in it, and I've had a dairy allergy since birth.

anyway. I turned 26 just over a month ago and my beloved medical advisor turned 1 year old the same day. she's my birthday buddy :) it's weird having an Adult Cat in the house now, she's not the teeny tiny kitten that sneezed in my eye and gave me pinkeye anymore.

thanks 4 reading, besties. until my next frustratingly whiny and Packed Full of Info update <3

pictured: my big adult girl and medical supervisor 🥰

[maslows-pyramid-scheme]

Actually bathrooms shouldn't be gendered at all that's half the problem.

In communities that lack access to single-sex bathrooms, you witness an increase in the rate of sexual violence, physical health issues like incontinence, and mental health issues like PTSD. If women's health and safety aren't a problem to you, then by all means continue insisting that there's no need to provide them, but you should know these issues disproportionately affect poor women, disabled women, young women, and women from ethnically, linguistically, and racially diverse backgrounds (e.g. bathrooms in northern India are particularly unsafe for women).

I'll leave you with a quote from a book I read recently - Invisible Women, by Caroline Criado Perez:

According to the UN, one in three women lack access to safe toilets, and WaterAid reports that girls and women collectively spend 97 billion hours a year finding a safe space to relieve themselves [which affects their productivity, as women are more likely to be engaged in the informal economy, and their safety]. Local governments that fail to provide public toilets may believe that they are cutting costs, but a 2015 Yale study suggests that this is a false economy. [They linked] the ‘risk of sexual assault to the number of sanitation facilities and the time a woman must spend walking to a toilet, and calculated the tangible costs (lost earnings, medical, court, and prison expenses) and intangible costs (pain and suffering, risk of homicide) [against] the cost of installing and maintaining public toilets … [they found public toilets could save one town $5 million better off, which is a conservative estimate, as it doesn’t include the various health benefits saved from women having more regular and more private bowel movements (e.g. chronic constipation, cholera)]. Health problems arising from a lack of public sanitary provision are not restricted to low-income countries. Canadian and British studies have revealed that referrals for urinary-tract infection, problems with distended bladders, and a range of other uro-gynaeloogical problems have increased proportionately to [toilet inaccessibility]. Urban planning that fails to account for women’s risk of being sexually assaulted is a clear violation of women’s equal right to public spaces – and inadequate sanitary provision is only one of the many ways planners exclude women with this kind of gender-insensitive design. ... For women who try to escape from war and disaster, the gender-neutral nightmare often continues in the refugee camps of the world … [although] international guidelines state that toilets in refugee camps should be sex-segregated, marked, and lockable, [sic] these requirements are often not enforced [and] research by the Women’s Refugee Commission has found that women and girls in accommodation centres in Germany and Sweden are vulnerable to rape, assault, and other violence…

[mariacallous]

When, exactly, was America great? For as long as Donald Trump has touted the MAGA slogan, he has been cagey about the answer. But recent weeks have suggested a few possibilities. One is the Gilded Age of the late nineteenth century, when tariffs, crony capitalism, and hard-and-fast racial hierarchies were the stuff of American politics. Another is the postwar Red Scare, when the federal government was weaponized against the American left.

Trump has long vowed to root out “radical left lunatics” and “Marxist equity” from the bowels of the state. Most members of his Administration now seem to share that commitment. The DOGE overlord Elon Musk proclaimed that U.S.A.I.D. is—or was?—“a viper’s nest of radical-left marxists” and deserved to be destroyed. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth has similarly promised to rid the U.S. military of its “cultural Marxism.” An update on the old Judeo-Bolshevik myth, “cultural Marxism” is now the term favored by the right to get around the obvious fact that there are vanishingly few doctrinaire Marxists, much less a vigorous Communist Party, in the United States today. Unlike actual Marxism, “cultural Marxism” includes almost any form of progressive multiculturalism or egalitarianism. Thus the war against diversity-equity-and-inclusion initiatives, campus protesters, and the Green New Deal is, in fact, the good old war against Communism.

For much of the country, the Cold War ended quite some time ago. But the far right has always nurtured a counternarrative in which hard-core Marxists are forever pushing the nation down the road to serfdom. After Joseph McCarthy’s Senate censure, in 1954, right-wing organizations and self-proclaimed McCarthyites vowed to keep the flame alive against a corrupt, treacherous, and deluded liberal establishment. And it doesn’t require a conspiracy theory to get from then to now. McCarthy’s chief counsel, Roy Cohn, famously served as one of Trump’s early mentors, a tutor in the ideological and practical workings of American politics.

So it might be a good time for the rest of us to brush up on our Red Scare history. The latest book from the New York Times journalist Clay Risen, “Red Scare: Blacklists, McCarthyism, and the Making of Modern America” (Scribner), describes the biggest showdowns and the many oddities of the postwar Red hunt. It also documents the fear and suffering of those who bore the brunt of it.

As a scholarly subject, the Red Scare has never quite experienced its moment of glory. During the second half of the twentieth century, the topic was too combustible to make for great history: you were either for or against Joe McCarthy, for or against Alger Hiss, for or against the Rosenbergs. The end of the Cold War produced a rush of work seeking to assess new political, archival, and conceptual openings. For the first time, it became possible for non-Marxist historians to write admiringly about the Communist Party’s civil-rights and antifascist activism without needing to denounce Stalin on every page. Historians examined classified materials opened by U.S. intelligence agencies and even, briefly, by the post-Soviet government, seeking to get to the bottom of decades-old mysteries.

Then the outpouring of interest and energy largely stopped. The political and academic Zeitgeist moved on to questions deemed more pressing and relevant for the twenty-first century. Even academics who described themselves as Marxists expressed little interest in, say, the operations of America’s Communist underground during the height of the McCarthy era. Partly as a result, younger generations often find it hard to grasp what everyone was so worked up about.

Risen wants to remedy that. But, he notes, the Red Scare can be hard to understand—and hard to narrate—because it was so many things at once. The nineteen-forties and fifties were supposedly an era of liberal consensus, when both parties agreed on the virtues of the welfare state and a U.S.-led international order. At the same time, those decades saw ferocious political battles, with Republicans and Democrats flinging accusations—“You’re a comsymp!” “No, you are!”—across the aisle.

As Risen suggests, the Red Scare was also a “cultural war,” in which many Americans fought “atheistic communism” by squaring off against anyone who thought or acted out of step with the status quo. The anti-Communist surge reshaped every institution in American life: Hollywood, labor unions, churches, universities, elementary schools—and, above all, the national-security state. McCarthy became the movement’s title character, but he was just one marcher in the parade of Red-baiters that included his fellow-Republican Richard Nixon, the wunderkind of the House Un-American Activities Committee; the Democratic senator Pat McCarran, who ran a rival Communist-hunting committee; and the F.B.I. director, J. Edgar Hoover, an unelected bureaucrat, and the most powerful of them all. From on high, they told ordinary Americans how to live, whom to love, and what to say.

Until they didn’t. Risen’s book usefully lays out the many mechanisms of repression that made the Red Scare possible, from executive orders and congressional-committee hearings to conservative control of vital media outlets. It also describes how something that once seemed so terrifying and interminable did, in fact, come to an end.

Other than the Communist Party itself, no group suffered as much scrutiny or punishment during the Red Scare as the amorphous agglomeration known as the federal workforce. Today, the U.S. government’s employment of millions of people is a familiar part of American life, if not, as we’ve recently discovered, an entirely settled matter. In the forties, when the Red Scare began in earnest, a robust federal workforce was still a new proposition, and not one that everyone in Washington was willing to concede. Republicans worried that federal employment was doing the Democrats’ work for them; with every government paycheck, a new Democrat was made. They also didn’t like what many of those workers were doing: creating regulations, dispensing Social Security, enforcing labor rights. They saw a cabal of eggheaded do-gooders intoxicated by bureaucratic power. Worst of all, Republicans alleged, the sprawling federal workforce was where Communists went to hide and wait for instructions from their Soviet masters.

Franklin Roosevelt dismissed this last charge as vicious partisan politics, which it was. But there was enough truth in it to kindle the Red Scare’s earliest flames. Beginning amid the New Deal and continuing into the Second World War, when the U.S. and the Soviet Union were ostensible allies, Russian intelligence recruited dozens of people inside or close to federal agencies to steal information and spy on policymakers. Toward the end of the war, the F.B.I. began to warn the Truman Administration about spies inside departments such as Agriculture, State, and Treasury, and even in top-secret programs such as the Manhattan Project. Many spies were recruited through the Communist Party, which maintained close ties with the Soviet government despite claiming that “Communism is 20th century Americanism.” When Republicans caught wind of the operation, they saw an ideal issue around which to build the 1946 midterm campaign.

“Communism vs. Republicanism” became their slogan, casting all New Dealers, liberals, and progressives as either Communist sympathizers or pathetic dupes. When the votes were counted, it was plain that the American people had chosen Republicanism, giving the G.O.P. control of the House and the Senate for the first time since the early nineteen-thirties. At that point, Truman figured he had to get out ahead of the Communist issue. In March, 1947, he signed Executive Order 9835, establishing a “loyalty program” to investigate the political sympathies, affiliations, and memberships of all federal employees. “Although the loyalty of by far the overwhelming majority of all Government employees is beyond question,” the order read, “the presence within the Government service of any disloyal or subversive person constitutes a threat to our democratic process.” The Red Scare was under way.

During the next five and a half years, Risen estimates, authorities conducted almost five million background checks on federal employees, seeking evidence of views or associations that seemed too far left. The F.B.I. followed up with in-depth investigations into more than twenty-six thousand federal workers; five hundred and sixty were fired, and another sixty-eight hundred resigned or withdrew their applications. About .01 per cent of all federal workers were fired for ideological reasons. That might not sound like much, but that’s all it took to set off a wave of anticipatory obedience. As the historian Landon Storrs has shown, the Red Scare pressured an entire generation of federal workers into putting their heads down, keeping their mouths shut, and renouncing interest in progressive ideas.

Much of the country did the same. In 1945, Truman proposed a national health-insurance program; by the late forties his proposal for “socialized medicine,” as its critics labelled it, was dead. In the meantime, liberals and leftists tried desperately to separate themselves from their former far-left allies. In 1947, the House Un-American Activities Committee held spectacular hearings to expose the alleged Communist infiltration of Hollywood. In response, some motion-picture industry leaders volunteered to keep a blacklist and to fire any suspected Communists. The following year, the Truman Administration arrested twelve leaders of the Communist Party on charges that they were in breach of the 1940 Smith Act, which made it a crime to advocate for the violent overthrow of the government. Aside from some courtroom discussions of Marx and Lenin, there was not much evidence for the charges. Convictions ensued nonetheless. Waves of Communist Party leaders went to jail for speech, not deeds, that suggested a sympathy for revolutionary violence.

The Smith Act trials sounded the death knell for the nineteen-thirties Popular Front, when Communists, Socialists, progressives, and liberals had worked together—or at least tried to—on issues such as antifascism, racial justice, and labor rights. Many liberals and progressives were happy enough to get rid of the Communists, who had always been secretive, dogmatic, and, in general, hard to deal with. For others, the breaking apart of the Popular Front was intensely painful and personal, with friends turning on friends and allies on allies. If these early Red Scare battles hold any lesson for our time, it’s how quickly people tend to capitulate at moments of intense political pressure, when careers and reputations and institutions seem to be at stake.

Of all the high drama during the early days of the Red Scare, no episode was more personal than the split between the former Soviet spy Whittaker Chambers and his alleged contact in the New Deal government, the Harvard-trained lawyer and State Department official Alger Hiss. Risen delivers a marvellous account of the Hiss case, with its many plot twists, involving accusations about a fake typewriter, microfilm hidden in a pumpkin, and the intricacies of ornithology. Today, few Americans—even few historians—could describe the ins and outs of the case, but in the forties almost any literate American could have told the tale. Hiss became a generational touchstone: what you thought about him revealed what you thought about pretty much everything else. On one side was the liberal establishment, which swore that Hiss would never betray his country. On the other were supporters of Chambers, the schlumpy senior editor at Time, who insisted that anyone, even Hiss, could be lured in by the siren song of Marxism.

In the end, Chambers was more right than not. Hiss served time in prison for perjury, and documents released in the nineties helped the historical case against him. But even Chambers lamented what the harsh political times had wrought. “I do not hate Mr. Hiss,” he insisted. “We were close friends. But we are caught in a tragedy of history.”

Much of that tragedy—the loyalty program, the Smith Act trials, the Hiss showdown—took place before most Americans had ever heard the name Joe McCarthy. Prior to 1950, McCarthy was an obscure first-term senator from Wisconsin. After 1950, the country couldn’t shut up about him. In retrospect, what makes McCarthy a significant political figure is not that he started the Red Scare; he didn’t. But when he came along, several years into it all, boasting that he had in his hand a list of two hundred and five Communists in the State Department, he introduced a whole new political style. As a noun, McCarthyism was a mode of politics rather than an ideology. It meant hitting hard, moving fast, telling lies, and grabbing headlines along the way.

McCarthy came to Congress as a fighter in both the figurative and the most literal sense. Born in 1908 to an Irish Catholic family, he practiced as an attorney and coached boxing before leaving for the war and then returning to run for the Senate. Like Trump, he sold himself as a straight talker and a tough guy. He explained his style of mudslinging as “Americanism with its sleeves rolled.” During his Senate run, he fulminated against federal workers. “Tired of Being Pushed Around?” read one campaign ad. “Do you like to have some government bureaucrat tell you how to manage your life?” Like everyone else in Washington, he was an anti-Communist, though initially of a rather anodyne sort. In early 1950, most people would have said that Nixon, not McCarthy, was the Republicans’ young Red-baiting star, owing to the work he had done on the Hiss case.

But it was McCarthy whose name came to dominate the era, in part because he knew how to dominate the media. From his first big Communists-in-government speech, in February, 1950, he showed an uncanny ability to stay a step ahead of the news cycle, insuring that he was generating the headlines rather than responding to them. Almost immediately, his critics—including many fellow-Republicans—began to call him on his lies and cruelties, and to fact-check his evidence. By then, though, he was on to a new target, and the whole cycle started again.

The newspapers loved McCarthy’s outrage machine, even when they did not love the man himself. In 1952, at the height of McCarthy’s influence, Republicans reclaimed not only the White House but both houses of Congress—a three-pronged triumph not repeated until the Presidency of George W. Bush. Many Republicans attributed their victory not just to President-elect Eisenhower’s popularity but to McCarthy’s ability to manage the media and roil the masses.

McCarthy was notably popular with the Catholic working class, a constituency that was not then known to be overly fond of Republicans. Even Eisenhower, who was no fan of McCarthy’s slash-and-burn methods, hesitated to speak out against him, for fear of splintering a fragile Republican coalition. After the Republican sweep in 1952, McCarthy set out to test the limits of his newfound power. He was just a senator, not the President, so his sphere of action was far more limited than Trump’s, or even Eisenhower’s. But he managed to take what had been a senatorial backwater—the Committee on Government Operations—and turn it into a one-man anti-Communist juggernaut.

Like Truman’s loyalty program, McCarthy’s hearings operated on the assumption that fear would produce compliance and compliance would produce new allegations, as witness after witness coughed up information on friends and allies. In some instances, there was truth to his charges of Communist affiliation or sympathies. In others, his allegations were mostly fiction. The distinction hardly mattered. What gave McCarthy his fame and his influence was the spectacle of arbitrary power. Alone among rivals, he demonstrated that a single loose-cannon senator could do and say whatever he wanted—nobody could stop him. To speak out against McCarthy was to invite his scrutiny and intimidation. But remaining silent was no guarantee of safety, either. He created a no-win situation that left enemies and critics, year after year, at a loss.

McCarthy’s chief counsel, Roy Cohn, famously served as one of Donald Trump’s early mentors, a tutor in the ideological and practical workings of American politics.

Eisenhower contributed to the culture of fear with his own investigative program aimed at federal workers. Under the updated policies, government employees could be dismissed not just for Communist sympathies but for a host of other traits, including homosexuality and alcoholism. Proponents of the policy suggested that harboring such shameful secrets made federal workers vulnerable to blackmail by Soviet operatives (though nobody ever quite explained how a gay postal worker posed a threat to the nation). And so the whisper chain went on: who slept with whom, who joined which organization, who said something critical about McCarthy or Eisenhower or the loyalty program itself.

And then, one day, the chain broke. Risen describes how things fell apart for McCarthy without quite explaining why, in part because there was no single factor. Just as the Red Scare played out on multiple fronts for years, the opposition to its accusatory politics grew slowly, over time, until it achieved mass velocity. Civil-liberties lawyers played a key early role by bringing test cases and mounting defenses, though the Supreme Court sided against them time and again. Concerned journalists also contributed, including CBS’s Edward R. Murrow, who, in 1954, finally spoke out against McCarthy. From their minority-party position, Democrats railed against the Senator’s antics as an un-American abomination; though they achieved little success initially, they eventually helped to establish an alternative narrative. And dozens of people—including some bona-fide Communist Party members—accepted jail time and professional ostracism rather than name names.

Ultimately, though, it took the Republican Party to destroy its own monster. In 1954, McCarthy overreached by accusing the U.S. Army—Eisenhower’s beloved longtime employer—of secretly harboring yet more Communists. In response, his own committee held televised hearings on accusations that Roy Cohn was using the committee’s power to strong-arm the Army into granting special privileges to his close friend (and possible lover). Seizing the opportunity, the Army’s special counsel, Joseph Welch, strategized in advance to prepare a great made-for-TV zinger. When McCarthy began to attack a young lawyer in Welch’s firm as a would-be Communist, Welch shot back with a question that had long been in the hearts and minds of many Americans: “Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?”

It would be comforting to say that this cri de coeur melted the icy souls of McCarthy’s fellow Red-baiters. But something else had to happen before his Republican allies turned on him for good. In November, 1954, the Party lost the midterm elections, breaking the spell of McCarthy’s political magic. The following month, before the official handover, the Republican-controlled Senate voted to censure McCarthy. Even then, though, it did not directly object to what he had done to alleged Communists or to the left more broadly. It censured him for conduct unbecoming a senator in other matters.

What can we learn about our current moment from all of this? Risen hopes that readers will decide for themselves. “This is a work of history, and as such it is not concerned with drawing parallels between the past and the present,” he writes. “I leave it up to the reader to find those as they will.” So, as a reader, let me offer a few thoughts.

The unfortunate truth is that most mechanisms of the Red Scare, including congressional hearings and loyalty investigations, would not be especially hard to revive. Indeed, recent developments have indicated that they might be deployed with genuine glee. Already, the Trump Administration has started asking for lists—of federal workers who attended D.E.I. training, of F.B.I. agents who investigated January 6th cases, of scientists engaged in now suspect areas of work. Trump himself has openly announced his intention to deploy the Justice Department and the F.B.I. against his personal, political, and ideological enemies.

The history of the Red Scare suggests that it won’t take many firings, federal inquiries, or acts of public humiliation to frighten a whole lot of people. But it also offers some reason to think that such intimidation methods may not be quite as effective this time around. For starters, there is much less agreement about the Trump Administration’s agenda than there was about Communism in its heyday. The Red Scare gained momentum because nearly everyone in American political life shared the same basic assumption: Communism is bad and poses an existential threat to the American way of life. It’s hard to come up with any contemporary issue that would generate the same powerful consensus.

Generally speaking, we also have better protections for political speech and assembly than Americans had in the fifties. Indeed, some of those protections are legacies of the Red Scare. In 1957, as the anti-Communist furor was winding down, the Supreme Court issued a series of decisions limiting some of the most sweeping methods deployed against political dissenters, including parts of the Smith Act.

But to say that Trump won’t necessarily succeed in setting off a new Red Scare is not to say that he won’t try. And, in this sort of politics, the trying is part of the game. As long as the nation’s “cultural Marxists” feel vulnerable to random accusations or secret investigations, they’ll likely be more careful about what they do and say. As Roy Cohn once instructed a young Donald Trump, much can be accomplished by attacking first and dealing with the consequences later.

[saladscream]

Steampunk (snippet from a WIP)

Another snippet from another WIP, for @nebulastars. You are definitely owed this one, my friend, as you are the one who introduced me to the merlin bingo (for which this fic is being written). So like the working title indicates, this is a steampunk AU. Apologies for the very long "snippet", but I needed something that would make sense.

But gods, did it have to be this particular rickety old pile of crap? This side of the docks was relatively quiet, sparsely lined with a diverse assortment of smaller vessels. Some casually depositing their black-market cargo, others swiftly embarking shifty-looking passengers. He wondered if it wasn’t too late to solicit these dodgy purveyors, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. You didn’t venture anywhere near their sort without a solid recommendation and a hefty purse – and he had neither. On Gaius’ advice, Arthur had met some weasel-faced stocky little man at the local tavern who had in turn given him a passphrase and a landing pad, vouching that the craft and crew were the best to be had for this sort of business, even cautioning Arthur not to be taken in by their unassuming appearance. But there was unassuming, and then there was downright decrepit. Not only did the term ‘craft’ feel far too grandiloquent here, but all Arthur could see of the ‘crew’ was a grubby, gangly mechanic crouched under the aircraft, cursing the air a new shade of homicidal blue as he tried to stem the oil haemorrhage from the undercarriage. Hands on hips, Arthur pursed his lips and then glared up at the skies. Whoever happened to be the deity tending to his destiny was being a rotten tart to the last. If this piece of junk was his only ticket out of New Allemania, he was well and truly fucked. He picked up the canvas bag from where he’d dropped it on the ground and threw it over his shoulder. This was a terrible idea and he suspected he was going to regret it. But in Gaius he trusted. He made his slow way closer to the aircraft, then cleared his throat by way of introduction and waited for the mechanic to look up from where the machine was now copiously letting her bowels loose into a makeshift bucket. When the mechanic didn’t so much as notice him standing there, Arthur cleared his throat again, louder. And when that didn’t work any better… “Hello? I need to speak to the captain of this… craft,” Arthur announced, feeling charitable. “A man named Merlin.” “Busy,” the mechanic intoned without missing a beat, his voice surprisingly low for someone seemingly so young and lanky. “Too busy to do business?” No reply, save for some obscure mutterings as the mechanic strove to reach for something inside the machinery. “I said, too busy to do business?” Arthur repeated, fast losing patience. “Depends.” “Depends on what?” “Type of business.” There was an uninterested terseness to this lad that was beginning to rub Arthur the wrong way. “Look, just go get me your captain, will you.” “Minute.” Arthur blinked and then shook his head at the gall on the little shit. Unbelievable. There were grunts and curses between gritted teeth as the mechanic wrestled with the unholy innards of the craft. Then something went ‘ploink’ and there was a pained “agh!” followed by a string of guttural epithets in a foreign language Arthur had never heard before. The leakage ceased, though. But the lad still wouldn’t come out from under the belly of the recalcitrant aircraft. “Sod this,” Arthur mumbled as he strode towards the steep gangway that led to the entry hatch. Whereupon the scrawny mechanic suddenly popped out and materialised in front of him. “Hel-lo, what do you think you’re doing?” Taller, older and fitter than expected.   The man stood there blocking the way, one arm extended and his filthy hand spread out in warning to keep Arthur from getting any closer. It was a surprisingly strong, long-fingered hand, absolutely saturated in grease and muck. It looked capable and agile and slightly disarming with its oddly crooked pinky finger. Arthur’s gaze followed the dark hand to the pale wrist, then up the long shapely arm, round the dry shoulder until he reached the slender neck and came upon the face – and the eyes.

[nekohime19]

Bimawen # 13 : Home

Mengai finally recognize that Wukong is his home.

The night was cold, colder than it used to be. Mengai didn't like the biting frost, but he did appreciate the moon's clearness. So, as hard as it was to face the cold, he opened his oiled window and peeked at the white disk reigning over the dark. The moon was bright. It was shining down on him with something akin to delicacy. The black-furred monkey's breath roughly scrapped his lips. Perhaps, the cold wasn't as bad as he thought. The biting air passing through his throat did calm the emotions boiling in his bowel.

Mengai was confused, to say the least. Confused about his own feelings. About the nature of his fondness. He knew now that his boss loved him, even if his way of loving was different than what Mengai was used to, it was clear how much he cherished their time spent together. The assistant was especially conscious of the way Wukong was acting. Of how Wukong gravitated around him, always seeking his touch in one way or another.

Wukong loved him oddly, but he loved him deeply. The revelation was quite unsettling. It was one thing to be made aware with words, it was another to see it for yourself. Words, as heavy as they could be, were ghosts, they weren't physical until they took flesh. The confession took Mengai off guard, but what truly shocked him was how he could see the love now that he paid attention to it. It was there, shining in each brush of hands, in each bone-crushing hugs, in each peach offered, in each pointed look sent his way. It was undoubtedly there. Mengai tried to make peace with this fact, but he couldn't help but wonder… Why? Why was he loved so tenderly? What in him made the unbending bimawen look his way? He wanted to ask, but he feared what the answer would be.

Mengai was aware that he was quite harsh with himself. And even if he learned to appreciate his own efforts and recognized when he did goodwork (embarrassingly enough thanks to his boss' endless stream of praises) it was still daunting to be fond of himself. Habits were hard to break. He spent so much time fleeing from who he was because he felt that he wasn't enough, that something in him was lacking, it was quite intimidating to see what was good in him.

Mengai turned away from the moon, he glanced at the bronze mirror laid innocuously beside his study and bit his lips. Slowly, the black-furred monkey crawled out of his bed and approached the mirror. He stood before it. Looking at the distorted reflection of himself illuminated by the moon's fires. Mengai looked at his face, at his body, he touched the reflection with the tip of his finger, tracing the inaccurate proportions stretched by the mirror with wonder.

Was he handsome?

That was a difficult question to answer. Mengai never thought about it. He wasn't human, so perhaps judging his appearances through human’s lenses was wrong. He knew of mortals’ tastes, they had very specific unspoken criteria of what could be considered handsome. He imitated enough mortals to know what was seen as beautiful, and what was seen as ugly. Mengai had spent a lot of time with humans, so much that he often forgot they weren't the center of this world, that opinions outside of their realm existed. Now that he frequented gods and spirits, it was easier to see how diverse this world could be in terms of opinions.

If Wukong loved him, then that meant that his appearance was at least not repulsive. But at the same time, he knew how uncaring Wukong was of anyone's looks but his own… Still, there had to be some physical fondness to spark love, right? Mengai put a hand under his chin and intently observed his face.

“I guess my eyes could be…charming.” Hummed Mengai as he turned his head in different ways. His tail was curling and uncurling in joy. He observed himself with the shadow of a smile. Somewhat excited to pinpoint what could have charmed the bimawen.

Wukong didn't look twice at unparalleled beauties. He passed by gorgeous deities without being lured by their enticing eyes. Not swayed by their magnificence. But somehow Wukong rushed to him. Mengai felt his pride swell at the thought. In Wukong's heart, he won over countless others considered as beautiful as the moon itself. That was quite enough to feed Mengai's malnourished ego.

The black-furred monkey grazed his ears and smiled. Wukong liked them quite a bit. He always messed with them. Did that mean they were pretty? Perhaps, one could say their delicate curves could be reminiscent of a butterfly's wings. Mengai giggled at the thought. He had always been quite vain, worrying about his clothes, his poise, but somehow he never truly thought he held some modicum of beauty. In fact, he spent most of his life being envious of others’ beauty. Wishing he was as peerless as others could be. But now, perhaps for the first of his life, he was indulging the thought of his own beauty. And it felt unbelievably good. He wondered if he should flaunt his ears more. Maybe an earring? It could be a good start.

Mengai was startled out of his musing by the very loud arrival of his boss. Wukong barged in his room with arms full of scrolls. The bimawen looked quite excited, he had this particular shine in his eyes that made them (as some would say) lovelier. Mengai felt a bit embarrassed to be caught admiring his own reflection, he hastily pushed the mirror away and sprang on his feet. Wukong raised an eyebrow at his odd reaction. He dropped the scrolls on his assistant's bed and scowled at the open window.

“You're gonna catch a cold.” Huffed Wukong as he closed the window, somehow looking as disapproving as a worrying mother. Mengai huffed. He wasn't that fragile. He wouldn't be bedridden with fever because he leaned over his windowsill on a winterish night. But he wasn't going to argue with Wukong about it. He knew how stubborn the other could be when it concerned his health.

Wukong lit a candle to replace the moon's bright fires and turned towards his assistant. The bimawen eyed the bronze mirror hastily pushed away with a smirk.

“So what were you doing before I arrived?” Smugly asked the blonde-furred monkey, most likely already aware of what exactly he had been doing.

“Nothing!” Squeaked the black-furred monkey. “What do you want? What are the scrolls for?”

“Nothing? Really?” Wukong annoyingly stretched the last letter, making it roll on his tongue. Wukong snatched the mirror away and inspected it with a hum. “That's a fine mirror. Were you admiring yourself?”

Mengai's fur puffed out in alarm, he wanted to refute it, but at this point he knew Wukong wasn't going to believe him no matter how strongly he'd try to deny it.

“Maybe I was.” Finally huffed Mengai. Then he added in a quieter voice : “Do you think I'm handsome?”

Wukong looked at his own reflection shimmering on the bronze surface, he couldn't resist admiring himself, before replying :

“You're not hard to look at.” That wasn't exactly the answer Mengai was looking for. He averted his eyes, trying to reign in his disappointment. But as he often did, Wukong immediately picked up on his discomfort, Mengai often wondered how he could be so easily read. The bimawen frowned. He made his way to the bed and pushed the scrolls aside, he sat with the mirror in hand and gestured for Mengai to sit between his legs.

Mengai wasn't sure what his boss was planning but graciously decided to indulge him. He made himself comfortable between Wukong's legs. The bimawen handed him the mirror and put his head on the black-furred monkey's shoulder.

“So… handsome, huh?” Asked Wukong, his breath caressing the shell of Mengai's ears. The assistant was used to it by now. The proximity didn't bother him a much as it did once. In fact, he even relished in it.

“I was just wondering.” Sighed Mengai as he looked at his reflection wavering on the bronze surface.

Wukong hummed. He turned towards Mengai's ears and nuzzled them, making the appendages flutter on his nose. “I like your ears. I love how they flutter, how soft they are.” Mengai felt his ego swell. His tail twitched happily. He leaned towards Wukong and made his ears wiggle more than usual. The bimawen chuckled in delight.

Wukong raised his hand and cupped Mengai's cheeks, he squished his face and laughed. “I like the way you smile. You don't do it often because you're a grumpy person, but softness suits you. And I like how your eyes curve when you're laughing. I think it's pretty.” Mengai cleared his throat to drown the happy chirps bubbling within him. It felt very good to be praised like that. He wanted more. Wukong hummed and grazed his assistant's small fangs. “I like your tiny fans. I know you don't like them, you prefer mine, and I can't blame you. My fangs are big and majestic. But I like yours, they're discreet. Like hidden daggers.”

Wukong lowered his hands and pawed at Mengai's chest. “I like your chest. It's softer now that you put on some weight, and I like that.” The blonde-furred monkey put his arms around Mengai's hips and squeezed him tight against his own chest. The assistant let himself be manhandled. He didn't mind the warmth. In fact, he quite liked it. “I do think you're handsome.”

Mengai felt his chest burst with happiness. It felt good to hear this confirmation. To hear that he was in fact handsome, well to Wukong's eyes at least, he didn't know if Wukong's definition of handsome aligned with others. But he didn't want to think too deeply about this. Mengai hoped his joy wasn't that noticeable. It would be embarrassing otherwise. So before his annoyingly perceptive boss could tease him about his swelling pride, he changed the subject.

“And so the scrolls?” Inquired Mengai as he put down the mirror, eyeing the papers stacked on the other end of his bed with curiosity. Wukong beamed at his question, he detached himself from Mengai and crawled to the papers.

“You know you said you liked acting?” Chirped Wukong. “Well I asked around and got theater plays! I thought you might like them.”

Warmth flooded in Mengai's chest. He felt like his heart was being coddled in the warmest of hands. Soft and tender. Vulnerable, yet not weak. He coughed in hope of hiding the joyous sounds bubbling in his throat. That was very sweet of Wukong. He didn't truly know how to react to this sort of gesture. It was hard to find the right words. How to show that he appreciated the effort? Mengai scratched the back of his neck in nervousness and smiled at his boss. He picked one of the scrolls and studied it. It was one of the Region Below most famous plays, The tale of Yinying. Mengai knew of it. He has the chance to stumble upon it more than once when he was still living in the midst of mortals.

“Can you read it to me?” Asked Wukong as he crawled back to Mengai. He shamelessly laid on his assistant's bed and looked up with hopeful eyes. Mengai scoffed. It was outrageous to be this comfortable in another's bed. But he was already used to his boss' antics and in truth he didn't mind the proximity. Mengai laid beside Wukong, he let him latch on his side, head buried in his shoulder. Wukong's unruly mane tickled him.

Mengai cleared his throat and began to read the play. He liked to change his voice depending on the characters. Bringing life to the text. Wukong intently listened, wrapped in the story. Soon enough, Mengai reached the confession scene, one of the most popular within the play.

“Since we parted, my thoughts have flown to you. Like the ceaseless flow of the river water eastward. Day and night, my heart burns with yearning; Who else could know this pain of love?” Recited Mengai with the high-pitched voice of the play's protagonist. The lines got him to think. Was this how love was supposed to be? So powerful that it pained you? So sudden that you couldn't stop it? Violent. Burning. Consuming your very being until every inch of yourself was burned with the mark of another?

It sounded torturous.

Mengai was certainly not feeling this. What he felt was quieter. Not as overwhelmingly present. The warmth blooming within him was as light as a feather's touch. Delicate. Soft. Yet undoubtedly there. It felt like being cradled, being cherished. Mengai looked down at the blonde-furred buried in his shoulder, Wukong was peeking from his luscious mane, watching the scroll intently. The black-furred monkey hummed, he returned to his reading, making sure to put even more emotions in his voice.

Wukong became even more fascinated by the story.

Mengai smiled, his tail twitching joyously.

***

Perhaps because he had been showering in praises the day before, Mengai felt good about himself today. He strutted inside the stables with a confident sway of hip, his ears fluttering proudly, as if showing themselves off. His two newly appointed underlings quickly noticed his change of attitude. Huangdi didn't bother himself with it, he simply noted the change of behavior and went to his work as quietly as possible. Chiyou, on the other hand, smiled at Mengai and loudly slapped his back. The black-furred monkey stumbled forwards a little, but he quickly stabilized himself. Wukong, who was managing the horses in another corner of the stables, narrowed his eyes dangerously. Chiyou chuckled nervously and removed his hand from Mengai's back.

“You seem cheerful today, Mi Bao.” Coughed the God of War. Mengai dusted himself off and looked up at his underling with pride.

“Maybe I am.” Proudly huffed Mengai. “Now get on with your work.” The God of War sighed (seemingly not eager to get back to work) and squeezed himself in a nearby stall.

Mengai watched his two underlings intently. He didn't dare to let them out of his sight after their disastrous first day. And perhaps, if he was honest with himself, he could admit that he liked the sense of superiority his position gave him. There was nothing sweeter than having two mighty gods under his order. It was delightful to send them on an errand with a flick of wrist. It gave him a sense of importance. Something he throughoutly lacked otherwise.

Wukong quietly approached his assistant, shoulder brushing against Mengai's. The black-furred monkey didn't mind it. He knew that his boss tended to be quite physical at times. It was like an engraved need. He needed to be close. Perhaps subconsciously, Mengai leaned in the touch, pressing their shoulders together more intently.

“So… let's have fun with them.” Proposed Wukong as he side-eyed the two working gods. There was a twinkle of mischief shining in his sun-kissed eyes.

“What are you planning?” Hummed Mengai, he turned towards his boss and studied his face. By now, he was quite familiar with Wukong's mimics. He could easily tell what sort of feeling was brewing inside the blonde monkey. One look was enough to truly see him. To see him as he was and as he felt. Wukong wasn't the type to hide his intentions behind false pageantries either. He wore his heart on his sleeve. Living with an openness Mengai rarely saw before. At first, Mengai had thought this openness foolish, who in their right mind would show their heart to the world? Especially with how cruel this world could be. But he long since realized that Wukong's heart wasn't easy to crush. It was as hard as stone, indifferent to others opinions, yet it burned as brightly as the sun. Within the confines of his mind, Mengai could admit that his boss's heart was quite the beauty.

“I'm just saying… having two powerful gods under your order and not taking advantage of it is a shame…” Shrugged Wukong, trying to look as innocuous as possible. “... I'll have to take the horses out to run soon.”.

Mengai raised an eyebrow. “You want to take them with you?” A running herd was quite intimidating. Mengai remembered quite clearly how he felt the first time Wukong dragged him in the sky, within the hundreds of horses. It was terrifying yet uniquely as beautiful.

Still, it could be quite hilarious to see these proud gods being frightened by their own horses. Mengai smirked. “Alright, but I'm riding with you.” No matter how much he bonded with the horses, running with the herd was too much of a risk to do alone.

Wukong beamed, his tail swayed joyously. “Yeah, it's better if you're close to me.” He said this with so much certainty, with so much, dare he say, affection… Mengai gulped and turned away. It was intimidating at times to see how much his boss liked him. He didn't know what to do when confronted with so much fondness. He felt silly, truly. It's not as if he was new to the throes of love. He saw hundreds of love stories when he was living among the mortals. He always scoffed when he saw how panicked some mortals could be in the face of love. Mocking their inability to remain cool-headed. But now that he was the one standing face to face with love, he realized that it was bigger, scarier than he always thought.

Mengai shook his head and turned towards his underlings. “We're taking the horses out!” He warned. Both Huangdi and Chiyou perked up, they left their respective stalls and followed after Mengai.

Wukong, with the aid of his clones, was quick to open the stalls. He jumped on Peach back and led the herd outside. Mengai settled behind Wukong, trying to be as secure as possible. He could go find his own horse but he didn't feel like doing so much effort, especially for something so dangerous. Plus, Wukong appreciated the closeness.

“We're also going?” Asked Huangdi, his sharp eyebrows raised in surprise. Mengai nodded.

Chiyou mounted his own steed, Apple. They were both familiar with each other, as such it was safer. Huangdi settled on a heavenly horse, the tallest one, made of pearl-white feathers, with the neck of swans. Wukong led Peach forward and the herd took flight. Last time Mengai did this sort of thing, the heavenly horses weren't yet home, now the herd was even bigger than what he remembered. It was still quite terrifying to be in the midst of so much power. To be in the middle of an unstoppable force. But it was beautiful in a way even he couldn't help but admire.

His two underlings seemed to be surprised by the sheer power of the herd. The squalls hit their faces. Undoing their perfect complexions. Chiyou seemed to enjoy the moment, he thrived in power, relishing in chaos. Huangdi was more frazzled. Not used to the ungraspable strength.

“Ha, nothing better than a surprised God's face.” Heartily laughed Wukong. Mengai smirked. He grabbed his boss's hips and scouted closer. Peach's back was sleek, scales glimmering under the sunlight. He could feel every inch of her powerful muscles burning.

The black-furred monkey looked around. The view was quite marvelous. Lands of blue spreading before their very eyes. Mengai caught sight of Bean's foal running along with them. The foal was strong enough to run alongside the other members of his herd. It was sweet to see the little thing grow so much. To see life flourish.

The herd stopped in one corner of the sky, pawing at the early mist, or flying around freely. Huandgy looked at his frazzled hair and scowled, he didn't like to appear as anything but proper. Appearances were a duty. And it was his to remain the epitome of cleaness.

“What's the matter princess? Too dainty for this?” Scoffed Chiyou, his multiple heads smirking in delight. The Yellow Emperor frowned, he turned towards his long-time nemesis with venom on his lips.

“At least I'm not lagging behind. Can you poor steed even bear your weight?” Scoffed the god. Chiyou mouths twitched in annoyance.

“If it's speed you want, it's speed you're going to get.” Groaned Chiyou, he pushed Apple forward with one kick and leaped in the sky. Huangdi groaned and quickly followed after him.

“Those two…” Sighed Mengai with hopelessness.

“Let them race, it's better than leveling entire cities.” Shrugged Wukong. “I'm surprised you're not using them more. You should abuse this. Take advantage.”

Mengai chuckled. “It's not as if I don't want to, but I don't want to anger them. They're still gods.” Mengai wasn't above abusing his newfound authority over those two hot-headed gods to obtain what he wanted. He wasn't kind enough, nor was he humble enough, to push the thoughts away. But fear kept him at bay. His authority was temporary. He didn't want to make enemies out of them with impossible demands. Mengai had a lot of greed, but he thought about his life first and foremost.

“But there is something you want.” Pointed out Wukong, he turned back towards his assistant and looked at him curiously.

Mengai averted his eyes. He did want something. But some part of him thought it was foolish to desire something so simple. Yet the words passed his lips anyway : “An earring.”

Wukong hummed, eyes lost in thoughts for one short instant. “Got it.” Answered the blonde-furred monkey before turning back towards the two racing gods.

Mengai sweat-dropped, he wondered what sort of plans this peach-obsessed mogwai devised. He hoped it was nothing too crazy.

***

Mengai should have known better… His boss was indeed crazy. He barged in his room at an ungodly hour and dragged him out of his sheets’ warmth. The black-furred monkey wanted to argue but he knew better than to stop the bimawen once he was determined to do something. The sun was barely peeking from the lush mountains and flowers were still covered in a thick veil of dew. Mengai hopped on his boss's cloud and rubbed his eyes, hoping he could chase away the sleepiness tugging at his eyelids.

“This is going to be great!” Happily chirped Wukong. He was too excited to be standing right. Incapable of being still. Mengai wondered if he spent the whole night counting down seconds until he could barge in his room. The assistant wouldn't be surprised if he did.

Mengai let his head fall on Wukong's shoulder and buried himself in his unruly mane. He was too tired to be embarrassed by the intimate gesture. Wukong's fur was nice and warm, it smelled familiar, of grass and sun. He swore he felt the cloud slow down, but he couldn't really dwell on it, he was already falling in the deep clutches of slumber.

The black-furred monkey woke up a few hours later. Fingers were messing with his ears, twirling the fur covering the delicate appendages. Mengai groaned and tried to push away those bothersome hands but they were annoyingly persistent. The assistant reluctantly opened his eyes and looked up at his boss's smug expression. Wukong looked particularly proud of himself. How annoying. Mengai dragged himself up and rubbed the last remnants of sleep out of his eyes.

“So where are we?” Questioned the assistant once he managed to chase his own drowsiness.

Wukong hummed and lowered the cloud. The sun was now quite high. It shone down on them with little else but passion, pouring down its fires in the world below with pride. Despite the sun's brightness, the day was still veiled in a persistent cold. Both monkeys landed before a luxurious palace. In truth, all palaces in Heaven were luxurious, but this one had a fiery quality to it. The walls were made of blazing red, glistening under the sun's fires. It was surrounded by iridescent pools. The water was exceptionally clear, as if it was taken directly out of the mountain's heart, yet it also had this charming verdant quality to it. As if it was the surface of a polished jade. The ever so familiar smell of peaches was floating around the palace. The saccharine sweetness of the scent was as inviting as it was hypnotizing. Mengai somehow recognized the place. He had been there before. But he didn't truly have the time to dig deeper in his memory, Wukong was already dragging him forward.

They passed by the pools surrounding the palace and stopped at the entrance. Wukong shamelessly knocked on the door, looking up expectantly. Mengai heard the servants fuss on the other side of the door, most likely recognizing the madman knocking, and scurrying to warn their mistress. They were warmly welcomed, well as warmly as impromptu visitors could be. The servants led them inside and told them to wait inside the lounge.

The place was well decorated. It wasn't as pure and minimalistic as Guanyin's palace (Mengai only references when it came to godly houses). On the contrary, the lounging room was filled with gold ornaments and finely crafted vases. Yet despite its quite luxurious aspect it wasn’t outlandish. Everything aspired to calmness. The soft colors and the various depictions of flowers created a lovely painting. The room was filled with life. And it was lovely in its own way.

Soon enough the mistress of the palace entered the room. Mengai paled when he saw who exactly stood before him. Truly, his boss was insane.

The Queen Mother, spouse of the Jade Emperor, was the epitome of elegance. She was clad in soft colors reminiscent of peach blossoms, it was as if spring was blooming on her robes. Her skin was peerless. As white as the rising moon. She was beautifully crowned, standing straight and without any ounce of fear. Her eyes were sharp, impossible to fool, they were made of secrets and wisdom. She nodded at the bimawen and gracefully sat before them. Despite the unplanned visit, she looked perfect.

Mengai gulped and bowed. What were they doing here? Offending the Queen Mother wasn't smart. Especially with how much influence she had over the heavenly court. Wukong, who sat at his side, was the picture of nonchalance. He still bowed, but he didn't have the submissive attitude expected in this kind of situation. Yet the Queen Mother said nothing of it, most likely used to the bimawen eccentricities.

“I didn't expect to see you and your assistant today, bimawen.” Hummed the Queen Mother, her voice was incredibly soft yet it possessed an underlying sharpness.

“After asking around, I was told you are the deity with the biggest collection of jewels.” Answered Wukong. Mengai sweat-dropped, he wasn't going to… ask for jewels, was he? Not to the Queen Mother herself. “I am in need of an earring. I want to gift it to my assistant.”

Mengai paled. Oh, he did. He absolutely did. Oh gods. Buddhas. This was his fault. He should have known that his boss lacked common sense. That he would go above and beyond for something as little as one of Mengai's fleeting desires. And as much as it was flattering (he felt quite warm seeing how far Wukong would go for him) he was also terrified of the Queen Mother's reaction.

But to his surprise the Queen Mother didn't seem offended, in fact, he swore he saw a hint of mirth swirling in her gaze. She brought her hands to her lips, hiding her amused smirk, and eyed them curiously. As if she was seeing something particularly entertaining.

“For your assistant, I see. Indeed, it is great to spoil… assistants.” She insisted on the word assistant as if it was hiding another meaning. Mengai had an inkling as to what she was referencing but he didn't want to think about it. How embarrassing. Everyone seemed to be aware of Wukong's feelings for him. He quietly averted his eyes, ears reddening. Wukong was as unbothered as ever. “I can give you one of my earrings, in proof of good faith, what sort would you like?” The Queen Mother stood up and gestured for them to follow her, leading them to her room to choose the earrings.

This was surreal.

Wukong, who was ready to settle quite a large sum of money, seemed happy to receive this kindness. He bowed to the Queen Mother and dragged Mengai upward. “Come on, you Mengmeng. Don't stay standing there. What kind of earrings do you want?”

Mengai let himself be dragged, quite shocked. He ended up in the Queen Mother's room, looking at an extensive collection of jewelry. Seeing as he was still in a state of shock, Wukong and the Queen Mother began to discuss what type of earrings would suit him best. Wukong wanted the most extravagant pair, while the goddess thought he would look better with a more simple one.

The black-furred monkey soon regained his spirit and looked at the choices laid before him. He timidly reached for one pair. It was a pair of silver earrings made with snow-white pearls, he thought they looked good and even though he wouldn't mind a more outlandish pair, he was drawn to those.

The Queen Mother gently put the earrings on his lowest set of ears and he got to admire himself in her bronze mirror. Dare he say, he looked good. He liked how he looked, perhaps for the first time of his life. It felt good. Both monkeys left the Queen Mother's palace satisfied. She watched them go amused, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“You look good with those.” Hummed Wukong as he messed with his assistant's ears, familiarizing himself with the feel of the new earrings. Mengai let him do as he pleased. His heart was still cradled by warmth. He couldn't believe Wukong did that for him…

“Thanks.” Mumbled Mengai, voice on the verge of cracking. The warmness was overwhelming. Encompassing.

“Don't worry. I did that cause I wanted to.” Hummed Wukong, as if going to one of the highest authorities in Heaven and asking for her jewelry was a common occurrence. Mengai felt his heart being squeezed. His fingers twitched. His hand reached forward, he wanted to… touch the other. To let him know that even though words were failing him, he appreciated what he did, he deeply appreciated it.

Would it be too forward of him?

Was he allowed?

His hand stopped mid-air, hesitating. Wukong stood still, eyeing his frozen hand with interest; he didn't push him nor did he say anything about it. He waited for him. Patient. Something that he usually wasn't. Mengai didn't even know Wukong could show patience. Slowly, the assistant reached forward, he pressed himself against his boss and hugged him. Wukong excitedly returned the embrace.

“If it gives me a hug, I'll give you more jewelry.” Snorted Wukong as he happily buried his nose in Mengai's shoulders. The black-furred monkey chuckled.

He loved the feeling of Wukong's hands pressed on his back, the feeling of his nose brushing against his neck. It was comforting. Familiar. Safe. It felt like home. What an odd thought. He used to think home was a place, he didn't even know home could be the sun falling on someone's face, the softness of their fur, the sound of their heartbeat. He didn't know home could lie in the arms of another.

But now that he found his home, he didn't want to leave.

Mengai loudly smacked his lips, unable to stop himself.

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[angelacademy]

Clear skin is more than just skincare: Gut Health

(A science based read)

What you eat is shown through your skin and on body. If your constantly shoving junk down your throat, junk is what will be shown on you. Essentially what you eat is what you are.

Eat bad -> bad skin

Eat good -> good skin

If your constantly breaking out and you feel icky. You need to figure out what is up with your gut health.

Research suggests many skin disorders are linked to an altered or unbalanced gut microbiome.

“When the relationship between gut microbiome and the immune system is impaired, subsequent effects can be triggered on the skin, potentially promoting the development of skin diseases.”

“13 Several dermatologic conditions, such as acne, atopic dermatitis, psoriasis, and rosacea are linked with intestinal dysbiosis. 223 Many studies have associated gastrointestinal health with skin homeostasis and allostasis, and there is evidence of a bidirectional interaction between the gut and the skin.”

Diet, drugs and other consumed substances affect skin through gut microbiome:

“Several studies have related the diversity and pathogenicity of the gut microbiome to skin disorders, which can be significantly altered by long-term dietary patterns. 43,105–107 Diet can affect the skin condition both positively and negatively through alteration of the gut microbiome, indicating that there is a relationship between the skin and the gut. 16 Not only diet, but also many synthetic and natural products consumed by humans as drugs can provide direct and indirect evidence on the connection between gut microbiome and skin.”

High and low fat diet:

“In the gut, a diet high in industrial trans-fatty acids increases the number of harmful microbes (such as Desulfovibrionaceae and Proteobacteria) while suppressing populations of advantageous microorganisms (e.g. members of Bacteroidetes, Lachnospiraceae, and Bacteroidales). 121 Refined and hydrogenated oils (e.g., soybean, sunflower, safflower, canola, corn, and vegetable oils) can cause inflammation in the gut, which then manifests on the skin.”

Industrially produced trans fat can be found in margarine, vegetable shortening, Vanaspati ghee, fried foods, and baked goods such as crackers, biscuits and pies. Baked and fried street and restaurant foods often contain industrially produced trans fat.

Prebiotics:

“133,134 Prebiotics, such as fructooligosaccharides, galactooligosaccharides, inulin, polydextrose, lactulose, sorbitol, and xylitol are a promising group of compounds that modulate the gut microbiome and can also provide skin benefits.”

“The effect of prebiotics on the skin condition is also obvious. For example, a Lactobacillus extract helps to reduce the size of acne lesions as well as inflammation by reducing skin erythema, improving skin barrier function and lowering the microbial counts on skin.”

types of prebiotics include:

Chicory root

Garlic

Onion

Dandelion greens

Apples

Bananas

Jerusalem artichoke

Asparagus

Probiotics:

“Probiotics can prevent gut colonization by pathogens and support anti-inflammatory responses by producing metabolites with anti-inflammatory properties. The most common probiotic microbes currently in use belong to the genera Bacillus, Bifidobacterium, Enterococcus, Escherichia, Lactobacillus, Saccharomyces, and Streptococcus. 143,144 Several beneficial effects of probiotic consumption have been demonstrated on many dermatological conditions, thus proving the existence of the gut-skin axis.”

Common types of probiotics include:

Lactobacillus: This is a common probiotic found in fermented foods, such as yogurt.

Bifidobacterium: This probiotic is found in some dairy products and helps with the symptoms of irritable bowel syndrome.

Saccharomyces boulardii: This is a type of yeast found in many probiotics. You can find these probiotics and more in supplements and select foods.

Yogurt

Buttermilk

Cottage cheese

Miso soup

Sauerkraut

Kefir

Kimchi

Tempeh

Protein:

“The proteins from animal-based food sources may have better effects on gut microbiota compared to plant-based food sources due to the higher protein digestibility of animal proteins and the fact that the digestion of plant proteins may be limited by the presence of antinutritional factors found in plants [67]. Animal proteins have more balanced essential amino acids than plant proteins [68,69] and are thus considered higher quality protein.”

“Dairy and meat protein intake at a recommended level increased the abundance of the genus Lactobacillus and maintained a more balanced composition of gut microbiota compared to soy protein, which is beneficial to the host [25,26,28].”

“Your body makes lots of different peptides, each of which has a different role. Scientists can also make synthetic peptides in the lab. Companies have been adding peptides to skin care products for decades.”

High protein foods:

Salmon

Chicken breast

Tuna

Red split lentils

Tofu

Greek yogurt

Fibre:

“Dietary fibre is comprised of plant-based carbohydrates that cannot be metabolised by digestive enzymes encoded in the human genome, such as amylase. Instead, fibre can only be metabolized by certain species of gut microbiota through anaerobic fermentation, with the main product of this reaction being SCFAs.”

“Dietary fibre is a carbohydrate in plant foods, such as whole grains, vegetables, fruit, and legumes, which have been dominant in human diets for millions of years. From the Paleolithic era, when the hunter-gatherers mainly ate fruit and wild grains, to the agricultural era, when crops began to be cultivated, the ancients consumed more than 100 g of various digestible and indigestible dietary fibre from plants per day [1,2].”

Fibre rich foods:

Chia seeds

Lentils

Broccoli

Avacado

Carrots

Red kidney beans

Raspberries

XOXO

[isure-hopeso]

12.31.2024

52 books in 52 weeks?

Serendipity.

Scratches an itch in my brain.

Reviews!

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy 4.5/10 Bad vibe to start the year, my mistake. After pretty prose and exposition on the beautiful and terrible west, he decided to add plot at the very end. Coulda not.

Phantom and Rook by Aelina Isaacs 10/10 Incredibly diverse and beautiful, cozy yet emotional story with magic and found family and love and self discovery. Big big big ups.

Flipped for Murder by Maddie Day 7/10 My sister got me the 10th book in this series by accident, so I got the first few for myself for fun. And they ARE fun. Cozy diner murder mysteries, such a vibe.

The Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor 8/10 Short stories that point out the darker truths of human hearts, with no mercy for the reader. No goofs here, super cool, super ahead of its time.

Curves for Days by Laura Moher 6.5/10 A fun little romance read about a plus sized girl. As a big booty girl, I love the representation, but the story was sorta ehhhhhhh.

Mixed Vegetables Vol 1 by Ayumi Komura 5.5/10 Sushi chef girl meets pastry chef boy, but they argue too much to realize they’re falling for each other. Cute, but moves too slow, even for a day-in-the-life story. 

Small Favors by Erin A. Craig 8.5/10 A bit freaky, a bit romantic, nearly-fantastical retelling of Rumplestilskin. Icky, but in a satisfyingly gruesome kinda way.

House of Sky and Breath by Sarah J. Maas 8/10 Far longer than it needed to be, and the main character went off page for a bit, which I don’t love. But the world is still really interesting and I love to hate on the random smutty bits.

The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin 10/10 I love a fun puzzle story, this was a reread from childhood. I wish there were more proper puzzle-based stories like this today!!

We Are Taking Only What We Need: Stories by Stephanie Powell Watts 9.5/10 I am learning that I LOVE short stories.

Throne of Glass by Sarah J. Maas 6/10 Solid story, very book. Too long. Cool world-building, but the characters’ behaviors seemed to change a lot and some author choices really niggled at my brain.

The Hedgewitch’s Little Book of Flower Spells by Tudorbeth 7/10 Call me a Pixie Hollow Faerie, but I love a tiny book on flower spells.

Crown of Midnight by Sarah J. Maas 6.5/10 She got more into the characters in this one, letting me love and hate each of them a whole lot more. She also made more story choices I disagree with, but I’m in the Maasverse for the bit at this point.

Edgar Allen Poe: The Great Masters Library 8.5/10 I’m not the biggest fan of the stories he largely wrote for money when he was younger, but I’m a massive fan of his later works and poetry. Brother needed therapy.

Bringing Down the Duke by Evie Dunmore 6/10 Just a fun romp through Regency England to explore romance and women’s rights.

Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree 9/10 This book was like receiving a warm hug and cozying up with a hot cup of tea under a weighted blanket. Such a nice read, and I love Baldree’s writing style.

Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas 8/10 The story started getting really interesting, the characters were developing a ton, and the world opened up a lot. That said, I have had enough of watery bowels.

An Abundance of Katherines by John Green 8.5/10 Glad I finally read this, but I probably would have gotten more out of it if I’d read it as a teenager like I was supposed to.

Dragonsdawn by Anne McCaffrey 9.5/10 Thus begins my attempt at reading the Pern series in chronological order. I love the early books and the late books so much. Only those ones, though, it turns out.

The Chronicles of Pern: First Fall by Anne McCaffrey 8/10 This one is a handful of short stories that flesh out the quickly-changing world. Again, I’m a big fan of short stories now.

The Assassin’s Blade by Sarah J. Maas 4/10 As a prequel, this is better to read before the other books. I was soooooo bored.

The Faerie Path by Allan Frewin Jones 9/10 This book had been sitting on my TBR for so many years, and I was happily surprised at how much I enjoyed it. A fast read, not very fancy prose, but a fantastic story.

Dragonseye by Anne McCaffrey 8.5/10 Anne really brought out her anthropological knowhow to remind us that bullheaded dummies shouldn’t be in power. Oops America.

Grilled for Murder by Maddie Day 7/10 Book 2 of the series my sister accidentally got me book 10 to. I picked out whodunnit within the first chapter, but the why and how and what threw me for a new one.

Magia Magia: Invoking Mexican Magic by Alexis A. Arredondo 8/10 Got this in the massive set of witch books from 2023, and loved learning about the magic practiced here in the southwest. 

Anxiety by Jason & Daniel Freeman 6/10 A tiny Anxiety 101 book, smashed full of info. I wanted more, it just brushed the surface. My fault for not getting a whole ass textbook?

The Hobbit: or There and Back Again by J.R.R. Tolkien 10/10 Every year I read one of the Big Four, and I got to circle back around to the beginning this year for The Hobbit. One of my ultimate comfort reads.

Queen of Shadows by Sarah J. Maas 4/10 I’m sort of losing my patience and running out of steam for Maas with this book. Dudes need to talk about their feelings. I’m just holding on for the lore.

Assistant to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Maehrer 8.5/10 A silly willy book jam packed with poorly veiled yearning, jokes, and murder. Points off for the cliffhanger, boo.

The Sonoran Desert: A Literary Field Guide by Magrane & Cokinos 9/10 Poems/stories paired with pictures and info on local flora and fauna. I wish this had been ten times longer. It was a tasty little snack, and I wanted the whole meal.

Apprentice to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Maehrer 7.5/10 YES I bought the next book immediately. It rehashed a similar relationship arc from the first book, which I didn’t love, but the rest was so fun and I am chomping at the gosh darn bit for the next one. 

Beaverland by Leila Philip 9.5/10 Tell me why a literary nonfiction about the history of beavers and their effect on the planet had me so hooked. No worries, I’m already in therapy.

Dragon’s Kin by Anne & Todd McCaffrey 2/10 Todd, Anne’s son, is the worst thing that ever happened to the Pern series. This is poorly written fan-fiction that Anne lovingly slapped her name on.

Kitchen Princess Vol. 5 by Kobayashi & Ando 10/10 I went to Kitchen Princess for some post-Todd healing, and it worked. This series is just so sweet, pun not intended but embraced nonetheless.

When Autumn Leaves by Amy S. Foster 9/10 A reread, so I knew I’d love it. Ultra-fall commingling stories about weird magic and feminine power, best possible way to start October.

Crushing It by Erin Becker 7/10 A middle school queer book I picked up for a reading challenge. Wasn’t for me, but that’s because it wasn’t written for me. Big points for representation.

Dragon’s Fire by Todd & Anne McCaffrey 1/10 This book is SO BAD there is literally a page and a half copied and pasted again a handful of chapters later. Todd should have left his momma’s work alone. 

The Little Old Lady Who Broke All the Rules by Catharina 7.5/10 My only audiobook of the year about Swiss pensioners going on crazy heists. Kind of a slow read, but hysterical – I love being reminded that old people were young like us!

Going Home by Nora Roberts 3.5/10 I bought a handful of Nora Roberts books because my mom loves them. My mom loves these. I need to buy her other books.

Supermarket by Bobby Hall 6.5/10 Logic wrote a psychological horror about a dude working in a supermarket, admittedly not very well. But, like. He’s a musician. It was still a very cool story idea.

The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne 6/10 Ya gurl made the choice to read this the day before Trump got reelected. I actually hate the “lessons learned” in this book, too, way outdated. Big mad time, you shoulda seen me.

When the Grit Hits the Fan by Maddie Day 7/10 I keep rating these the same, is that bad? They’re reliable! A cozy little murder mystery and the diner owner is all nosey, gotta love it. 

Food Fights & Culture Wars by Tom Nealan 5/10 I thought this would show more forreal history of how food affected world events, but it was more like quirky far fetched ideas and fun facts loosely connecting their potential.

Medusa by Nataly Gruender 9/10 The author is from my hometown, was a classmate of mine, I admit that I’m biased. She didn’t write the story the way I would have, but that’s one of the cool things about Medusa’s story. No goofs here. Gruender did a fantastic job and is a phenomenal writer, and her Medusa story is lovely.

I Put A Spell On You: Autobiography by Nina Simone 8/10 Had to keep reminding myself that Nina was a black woman born in the 1930s, and having that perspective helped me accept her choices and priorities. But now the music that I loved already means so much more!

Circle of Magic #1 by Tamora Pierce 10/10 Tamora Pierce is the single author I would break down and cry to meet in person. I needed a comfort reread after the last two books about female hardship.

Circle of Magic #2 by Tamora Pierce 10/10 Okay, so maybe I needed TWO comfort rereads. Found family, cool worldbuilding, magic, the works.

Lightlark by Alex Aster 7/10 Hated this at first, but was enjoying it by the end. I’m suuuuure all the worldbuilding holes will be fleshed out in the following books, yeah?

Dragonharper by Todd & Anne McCaffrey 2.5/10 Get Todd out of here, please. I can tell, by certain sections that sound a ton more like Anne, that she or her editor had a bigger hand in parts of this book. While other parts made me gag. Literally why did they publish these??

Dragonsblood by Todd & Anne McCaffrey 6.5/10 Too many reused tropes from other books Todd spearheaded, the idea of this story was actually really cool and the writing reminded me a TON of Anne’s earliest Pern books.

Stardust by Neil Gaiman 5.5/10 After loving Neverwhere, I was surprised to feel so neutral about Stardust. The fun, colorful movie adaptation clearly set me up with the wrong expectations.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac 8.5/10 Kerouac could stand to be less of a racist and womanizer. That said, beat writing styles are just so tasty, like a cappuccino on a rainy day. 

A beautifully exact 7.25 average for the year! I tried to broaden my reading horizons a bit more, but also went back to a handful of rereads and chronologies I already loved. I somehow ended 2024 with even MORE books on my TBR than I had started, so let’s see what I manage to get through in 2025!

If you’re still reading this, I can’t help but wonder why. Regardless, I wish all that is good upon you. Health, well-being, justice, and good books in the year to come.

[haggishlyhagging]

Money, like writing, seems to have originated in the temples of the ancient world. The word money comes from the Roman Goddess Juno who in one of her forms was called Moneta meaning She Who Gives Warning. Her temple in Rome was the center for the finances of Rome and so her name Moneta became the word money. The same word became also mint because that same temple was the place where coins were minted. According to Barbara Walker silver and gold coins manufactured there were valuable not only by reason of their precious metal but also by the blessing of the Goddess herself which was believed to bring good fortune and healing magic.

Money was indeed a magical invention. Folk tales are full of magic lamps and genies and beanstalks, of magical ways to have our every wish granted. We would all like to be able to snap our fingers or twitch our noses and have our purposes accomplished. And that is almost exactly what happens with money. It can be exchanged for every conceivable kind of real wealth. Magic. Pure magic. So enamored were people of this magical invention that it became over time the primary measure of real wealth in Westem society.

Why then do three quite diverse philosophical or intellectual traditions agree on the idea that money is somehow unclean or something to be despised?

One of those traditions is Christianity. About one third of the parables of Jesus are about money. He is reported to have taught that being rich is a barrier to salvation and to have told the rich young man to sell everything and give his money to the poor. The one time he is depicted as angry is when he turns over the tables of the money changers at the temple. His advice on taxes is to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, to separate money and worldly concerns from one's religion. Classical Christianity has preached, if not practiced, that money and this world are to be renounced in favor of an other-worldly kingdom of heaven. The love of money, said St. Paul, is the root of all evil.

Classical Marxism also renounces money as responsible for the alienation of human beings from their labor. People no longer work to create or produce, but only to make money. This situation Marx considered to be disastrous. He felt it was labor which was of essential value and that all monetary valuations were to be discarded. Those who seek only money he saw as exploiting those who work.

Finally there is Freud who thought money was anal. He equated money with feces, excrement. It is therefore filthy and messy. Withholding money is a kind of constipation. Money is related to the bowels and is dirty. And indeed, we do refer to money sometimes as "filthy lucre."

Christianity, Marxism and Freudianism all agree on despising money. As a psychologist I have learned to pay careful attention to those things another person protests most vehemently against. And as a woman I have learned to pay close attention to those things which our great patriarchs preach most loudly against. Because, of course, what is loudly despised is often what is covertly desired or feared or worshipped. So if Jesus, Marx and Freud are all in agreement on something, we women had better take a careful look.

Women are socialized to live out the Christian ideals of self-sacrifice and martyrdom and men are socialized to give lip service to them. The same hypocrisy would seem to apply to what is preached about money. Filthy, despicable, and barrier to salvation it may be, but the fact is that in general, men have money and women don't. According to the United Nations Labor Organization, women put in 65% of the world's work and get back only 10% of all income paid. The female half of the world's population owns less than 1% of world property. Women in our Western society may have access to money through their husbands or fathers, but until recently women rarely accumulated or controlled their own large fortunes.

Men may philosophize about the distinction between money, which is "merely" a measure, and "real wealth," the goods and services into which money can be changed. They can say that the pursuit of money leads to an unhappy, hollow existence. They can urge upon women the virtues of simplicity. But for most men the ultimate appeal is to the "bottom line," that is, to money. How much money will something cost? How much financial profit will be gleaned? Mae West cut through this hypocrisy with great clarity when she said "I've been rich and I've been poor, and rich is better."

-Shirley Ann Ranck, Cakes for the Queen of Heaven

[lilgreeneyes71]

Discerning of Spirits (Spiritual gift) Visual

1 Corinthians 12.4 Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit.

1 Corinthians 12:10 To another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another (discerning of spirits); to another divers kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues:12:11 But all these worketh that one and the selfsame Spirit, dividing to every man severally as he will.

Hebrews 5:14 But strong meat belongeth to them that are of full age, even those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to (discern both good and evil).

The eye is the light of the body

Luke 11:33 No man, when he hath lighted a candle, putteth it in a secret place, neither under a bushel, but on a candlestick, that they which come in may see the light.11:34 (The light of the body is the eye): therefore when thine eye is single, thy whole body also is full of light; but when thine eye is evil, thy body also is full of darkness.11:35 Take heed therefore that the light which is in thee be not darkness.11:36 If thy whole body therefore be full of light, having no part dark, the whole shall be full of light, as when the bright shining of a candle doth give thee light.

King Solomon asked God for an understanding heart to judge God's people so he could discern between good and bad

1 Kings 3:9 Give therefore thy servant (an understanding heart to judge thy people), that I may (discern between good and bad): for who is able to judge this thy so great a people?

He that is spiritual judges all things

1 Corinthians 2:15 But he that is spiritual judgeth all things, yet he himself is judged of no man.2:16 For who hath known the mind of the Lord, that he may instruct him? but we have the mind of Christ.

Philippians 1:8 For God is my record, how greatly I long after you all in the bowels of Jesus Christ.1:9 And this I pray, that your love may abound yet more and more in knowledge and in all judgment;1:10 That ye may approve things that are excellent; that ye may be sincere and without offence till the day of Christ.

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 8: Blackened Water (Part 2)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, banter, migraines, a tiny reference to drugs, self-sacrifice ish, skechy neighborhoods, brief stalker (?), very concerned Obi :(

Summary: After this morning's incident in the Starfighter, you go on an afternoon run to clear your mind. Of course, your track of choice is the seedy underground neighborhoods of the outer Senate District— a decision that will prove to be full of twists and turns.

Song Inspo: Black Water — Of Monsters and Men

Words: 7.5k

A/n: All I’m gonna say is, hella foreshadowing and hella symbolism. I’ll let you decide what that means 🫡

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Series Masterlist

The thought was this: that all my life had been murk and depths, but I was not a part of that dark water. I was a creature within it — Madeline Miller

Your loosely booted foot smacked against the damp pavement, splashing apart shallow puddles that collected in the occasional crevice with each sprinting step as you made your way deeper into the alleys of the Senate District. The flickering, golden glows of periodic street lamps illuminated the path ahead, just enough to avoid tripping over scattered waste piles that dotted street corners. It forced your eyes to remain alert as you maneuvered around them and below the thick, interwoven cable squiring across miles-long under-street ceilings like an infinite den of snakes.

You glimpsed at your chilly sleeves without a hitch in your bounding steps. The slate-gray of your robe had soaked into a deep, inky black from the afternoon’s drumming rain. One that had already enveloped the region by the time you first launched this trek into the neighborhood’s bowels at hour’s dawn.

But dampened earth wasn’t your reason for keeping to empty passageways and abandoned tunnels. Coated in shadowed light as distant clatters atop metal rooftops trickled down into groans that bellowed from the surrounding walls.

No.

You were clinging to shadowy covers because, once again, you’d chosen to embrace that long-held, Hoth tradition of keeping a low profile.

And, having spent your entire existence hiding from the world, it’d proven to be a bit of a hard habit to break.

It haunted you as you flashed down each narrow passageway, eyes shifting like chosen prey vigilantly watching for their predator— an action that reflected your utmost desire to keep your Jedi identity concealed. Yet you continued to engage the Force, fueling nearly supernatural sprints down new corridors and twisting avenues. Movements that would usually garner unwelcome attention in any other zone.

But not here.

Not in the underground neighborhoods of the Senate District.

It was where you’d discovered the only way to engage the Force without revealing yourself in public. Through the obscurity of its gloomy locales that credibly camouflaged you from searching eyes.

But besides your decade-long custom of concealment, you knew that these days, it was still vital to remain cautious.

More than ever.

Ever since your arrival, you’d been engaging with more diverse characters every day. Most of whom were uninformed about your real purpose as a Jedi. The Council believed it would be safest to conceal your real identity, name and all. And even though that was quite the adjustment from the fanfare you were expecting, you still felt inclined to agree with them. At least at the Temple, individuals who’d become all the more threatening by learning your secret were weeded out before they could even reach the front door.

But not here.

Not down seedy boulevards or dimly lit backstreets that characterized the forlorn neighborhoods of the outer District, slinking with suspect figures whose watchful gazes peaked out of hooded wear.

Sometimes they’d observe you pass, bodies still with eerily calm attentiveness as they watched on. Others would wriggle far back into the cover of darkened crannies, their jittery silhouettes talking lowly with other, unseen beings of the shadows during their retreat.

Still, in spite of the uncertainty that surrounded this quarter, you took the risk.

It was necessary, you convinced yourself. Mindless movement seemed to work as some sort of binary treatment for your persistently taxing migraine. That was why, following this morning’s planet-side return, your first order of business was to be right here.

In this moment.

In a No Man’s Land of deserted corridors and limited natural light.

Despite the downpour which greeted you on an otherwise tepid day, that instant the Starfighter touched down at the Temple hangar, you knew exactly where you wanted to be.

By yourself. On the street. And running.

You thought back again to those fleeting seconds following your return from Anakin’s piloting lesson. How you were so quick to open the cockpit’s hatch with a click, the engines just barely starting to cool as you agilely hopped out, toes gracing the stone below while you made a beeline for the inner Temple.

All to facilitate your confident escape.

Yet despite your resoluteness in slipping away, you still felt a chilly twinge of remorse dip your stomach. Especially when the distant, resounding tick and whir of the fighter’s opening canopies subtly announced your flight companions’ perfect view of your departing form.

Of your decision to leave them behind without even a goodbye.

Guilt encircled your ears like curiously buzzing blood flies, forcing you to at some point realize that engaging in some mad dash of endorphins wasn’t your only motivation for this morning’s speedy retreat.

You did it because, if you knew anything, you knew Anakin.

Yes, you’d only met him a little over two weeks ago. But Maker were you beginning to grasp his mind as well as your own.

Recently, the two of you had been spending a lot of time together.

Or at least, many hours more than your Hoth upbringing supplied.

Intense sparring sessions, the occasional evening supper that would devolve into its more charming discourses when Obi-Wan joined halfway through. Not to mention those rare, yet revealing conversations with Anakin about his past. The most earnest of which transpiring that night above the garbage pit, when he revealed to you his mother’s passing, and let slip his pervading turmoil on the matter.

And in the end, it didn’t take long for you to recognize that the summation of all those wholehearted interactions, those sundry dialogues amidst quality time, was a sharper ear for his thought process.

For how his heart beat for others.

This morning in the Starfighter, you knew the instant Anakin heard your painful exhale that the cogs of his feeling mind began to whirl. Further propelled to miraculous speeds when you tersely instructed him to bring the ship back in seconds later.

Then, during the reentry, you knew how he was, in all likelihood, anticipating to relay those four, troubled words the moment you two stood face-to-face.

What happened up there?

Of course, throughout that entire, sedated descent, you knew he was thinking about what to say next. Particularly, which words to use if you tried blowing him off again with another two, dry syllables. A phrase that’d drifted from your lips as popularly as each breath during this past week and a half.

I’m fine.

All of this pervading his mind right up until your door unlatched behind him, shocking him out of his stupor, you imagined. Coaxing him to leap out of the cockpit just as swiftly as he heard you do from behind.

But you didn’t give him the chance.

You refused to even glance back to check. To see if he was about to chase after you.

You couldn’t.

You just flicked on your robe’s hood, tugging its gradually dampening form tightly around yourself as your footsteps abandoned the landing platform.

You didn’t even hear what he said next. That is, if he’d said anything at all when you entered the hangar bay. But whether that was due to the clamoring headache that’d momentarily incapacitated you or your pervading questions surrounding this affliction running wild, you didn’t know.

You just blocked it all out.

Deafened your ears to any immediate surroundings, like scattered hangar workers and hammering repairs, as you hastened your evasion of the ditched trio.

But, no matter the shame that tugged at your chest afterward, you were still confident in the reasoning behind your withdrawal.

As of now, you were still trying to investigate the cause of this harassment. And you recognized that until you found some answers, involving Anakin or anyone close to him would put The Chosen One in a land of uncertainty that you weren’t quite comfortable with.

And that just wouldn’t do.

Your striking heels continued to clobber the decaying trails of the outer District’s underground streets, bringing the chatter of leather on wet concrete into a strange harmony with the increasingly beating rain that danced upon the streets above. Centering yourself in another Force-amplified hurdle, you again reminded yourself of the important fact that influenced your decision to keep this secret. The conclusion that you knew would reduce any chance of complications to your duty.

It’s not his job to worry about you.

However, it was technically the responsibility of your ‘new Master.’

Maybe that’s why, at the end of last week— following four, stretched-out days of irregular headaches— you found justification in approaching Master Windu for counsel. Because no matter your efforts to quell this silent beast, through extended rest or quiet meditation, its burning onslaughts ferociously prevailed.

In other words, at some point, it became utterly clear that you required a much wiser opinion.

In many ways, you were confident in the stoic Jedi. And by that, you meant that you trusted him to keep the matter private. Even from those who associated with The Chosen One, and especially from Anakin himself. In fact, at the outset of your conversation, he assured you that he’d only divulge a discussion between Master Advisor and Jedi if it concerned the Council.

And you had no reason to believe it did.

You thought back to that chat while pivoting down another slick alleyway. This one grew narrower than the last, its spotted lamps decaying in luster and prevalence as you dug cavernously into the belly of the beast-like web of tunnels while your mind wandered.

Master Windu had already separately arranged to meet with you once every week. At least until the Jedi were called back to the battlefield, he was sure to clarify. It was time to be spent preparing you for what was to come in this mystifying conflict. To guarantee that its distractions wouldn’t impact the primary reason for your presence.

For your existence, really.

However, of the two sessions you’d already had, the powerful Jedi spent little time on combat training. Rather than correcting your form or educating you on Separatist capabilities, his focus was instead driven toward scrutinizing the closed doors to your mind. All during hours-long, joint meditation sittings in which Master Windu attempted to meticulously probe your life force with the gentle influence of his signature on your forehead.

Sometimes, the spells would last so long that, in the end, you were often left with the sensation of a phantom touch. Though it always faded eventually, so imperceptibly that it felt more like a shift in temperature than a disappearing force.

Although the two of you ended up making little progress, you still enjoyed these opportunities as a way to get to know your new Advisor. Exchanges regarding his unwavering faith in the Order’s ideals reminded you of your own lifelong commitment to a similarly demanding prophecy. The Master also seemed to share a kindred distaste for politics, conveying briefly his disapproval of the Jedi and Senate’s interwoven nature, hastily drawn at the outset of war.

Most importantly, however, the two of you shared a distinct displeasure for the Senate’s conversion of Jedi into generals. You’d been struggling with this concept of converting Jedi peacemakers into soldiers for weeks now, and it appeared that Master Windu held common sentiments. All in all, it was a moment that made the Order feel just a little less foreign to you after a lifetime of studying its older, more contrasting ways.

Perhaps that’s why, despite previous reticence about receiving a ‘new Master,’ you found yourself gradually opening up to the idea.

Besides, you could tell Master Windu was experiencing some kind of similar development.

You’d discovered from Anakin this past week that the wise man had long disapproved of Jedi who acted outside the Order. From that, you easily acknowledged that despite offering to advise you, the traditional Master likely remained biased against your nature.

In fact, you fleetingly surmised that the only reason he put his name in the hat was so he could keep a closer eye on you. On the Gray Jedi that came from a long line of counterfeiters against the Order he held in such high esteem.

Yet, as your sessions progressed, you sensed a subtle shift in the Jedi Master. How the crease of his brow subtly slackened with each passing hour. How his openness to your questions became faintly readable.

Though whether that was because he’d momentarily forgotten about your past or had become lost in his analysis of your mind, you didn’t know.

What you did know was that you appreciated the sagacious Master’s relatable convictions, allegedly burgeoning tolerance, and outright professionalism.

And that was enough for you to test the waters in requesting his guidance.

It was at the tail-end of one of these forums that you narrowly untangled these painfully strange migraines, focusing primarily on their unpredictability and continuance rather than each occurrence’s raging ferocity.

And in the end, you found the effortless flow of his counsel to be uniquely compelling.

“Meditate on these irritants. But do not only acknowledge their existence. Observe their nature. If you give these headaches a name derived from your inner impressions, it may aid you in identifying and extinguishing their source.”

So, you did just that.

In the days that followed into the start of your second week at the Temple, when that familiar pulsing tingle began to crawl across your hairline, you made a routine out of stopping whatever you were doing to search for a quiet alcove. Then, after locating a corner of the Temple free from distractions, you’d lower yourself into crossed legs, all to funnel your accessible energies into discerning the exact nature of this eccentric affliction. You’d reach out to the Force, drawing in its swirling ecosystem through tingling extremities, astutely wielding it to dive into the yawning depth of your inner being.

And for those few days, you explored branching elements of your mind, tracing each errant twig to sense its perception of the boundless, clawing twinges that relentlessly contested your focus.

It was arduous work. Attempting to observe the irritants’ nature would eventually lure you toward sensing its more distinctive effects. But at the same time, the action often amplified your tenderness to those countless cerebral spasms. They were still quite bearable, of course. But it certainly did nothing to speed along your investigation.

That was until the third day in. When you finally found a pattern.

Even now, you starkly remembered how the discovery permeated your body with untapped endurance simply from the realization’s excitement alone.

On that day, you were able to eventually comprehend that, while your skull’s outline felt the stitching thrums of the week before, the sensation was marginally dissimilar in its influence on your life force. Here, you still felt the indiscriminate, unpleasant taps against your spirit, but with a nearly imperceptible caveat.

You rooted out their tendency to unfurl on impact.

So, with the next pounding ache, you were empowered to recognize it again, snatching the sensation with agile fingers. The savage smack quickly plunged into scattered fragments, like drops of water thrashing apart from a violent impact with stone.

That was it.

It was like raindrops, pattering against your mind.

Yet, it wasn’t the refreshing sensation that you associated with such weather. Not that electrifying stimulation you felt in this very instant while you sustained your urgent, whirlwind dash down another curving passage harboring hints of gaseous fumes.

No.

Rain was vitalizing, giving life to despairing vegetation and beasts alike. For you especially, its cooling effect on balmy Coruscanti afternoons calmed your mind. It ventilated you in a chill that provoked cherished memories of soaring amid whispering snowstorms during those afternoon duels with Qui-Gon on Hoth.

Yet this was different.

These drops were draining. Heavy. They weighed down your soul. Blackened your connection to the Force through a permeating pain that enveloped the branches of your mind and sucked the sap of your thoughts.

Yes, blackened.

Master Windu said to give it a name. An association. And, finally, you felt confident enough to put words to this strange disorder’s influence on your inner being.

Black Water.

If you only knew what a mistake you’d made.

Somehow, following this identification, the migraines spiraled into a realm of greater frequency and brutality. They would linger in their pervasion. Graduating from hours to afternoons of ubiquitous discomfort. And then, when you tried to find familiar solace in the quelling nature of a meditative state, you harshly discovered that doing so now only magnified the pain’s potency.

You recalled it so clearly. How the shock of that realization jolted you at your very core, ripping you violently from your connection to the Force like a toy snatched from the hand of a youngling.

It was something you had never experienced before.

And it forced you to learn the hard way that for the time being, it was best to avoid meditation.

Instead, you found it easier to unearth the medicinal properties of attaching your mind to another matter.

And your poison of choice?

Running.

You weren’t sure why it lessened your cranial discomfort more than any form of meditation or training. Maybe it was the fresh air. Or the exploratory element. Or the dichotomy of the District’s underground shafts which swayed darkly on even the brightest of days.

Maybe it was because, in a way, sprinting combined the two Jedi practices. It did encourage you to physically tap into the Force for access to greater speeds, and simultaneously unclogged your mind of worldly distractions.

Still then, it was only enough to center yourself. Never to the degree in which the migraines’ kindling was fanned into embers.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t change the fact that mere minutes into this afternoon’s excursion, you were able to finally relish in the flood of relief that followed. One that washed over you as sprightly legs carried you into a mystic realm where stabbing pains were faintly dulled by the rule of constant motion.

The past week of experimental sprints into Coruscant’s veins had become your drug of choice. Providing additional relief just from the realization that occupying your mind would temper these moments.

Now that made you hum retrospectively. It was hard not to wonder if perhaps this notion subconsciously motivated you to join Anakin’s short-lived piloting class this morning.

You ruminated about those spiraling seconds in the cockpit once more. Even then, in the midst of intrusively distracting g-forces, you were powerless to ignore that your headaches still somehow stirred with new vengeance, threatening your theory on how to properly address the affliction.

You descended another set of echoing stairs, this time entering a residential tunnel that reigned sleek with standing water gradually leaking through cracked roofing. Though the hazard never assuaged your volant charge past the streams of identical, stonewashed doors on either side. Landmarks that supplied forward guidance as you thought carefully about the day’s earlier incident.

With another burdened exhale, you compared the fighter episode to all the others, quickly deciding that this morning’s occurrence was the worst to date. If you were being perfectly honest with yourself, it was the first time one of these vast headaches really threatened your ability to function in the moment.

And that spooked you.

Either way, it was clear in its aftermath, that it was time to return to old habits.

To what worked.

You swiveled left, the squeak of your twisting heel reverberating off the slender walls as you rushed down another flickering tunnel of rundown apartments. You were thankful that the potency of constantly coarse splits at your forehead’s center had eased into a duller pound, so much so that it permitted your mind to wander during this impromptu outing.

However, you weren’t expecting to become so consumed with inner musings to the point of becoming lost within a labyrinth of snaking neighborhoods, forgotten by the Senate District’s lavishly living surface inhabitants. In fact, as you glanced around the residential tunnel, you soon realized that you couldn’t even remember how you entered this quiet zone. One that didn’t follow any semblance of rational architecture to hint at a way out.

So, with no signage to guide you in your search for higher ground, you did the only thing you could do.

You followed the quivering lights, lodged every few meters into the decrepitly, sinking ceiling.

A luminescent road out of the darkness.

That was your plan for the last ten minutes, anyway, until a deep-toned snap zipped past your ears, reverberating across every door as it traced down either wall.

You ground to a halt, dribbling boots faintly whimpering as they fought the floor’s slickness in your attempt to reel toward the noise.

A few heavy seconds passed you stared back into the tunnel's murky depths, trying to discern the source of the sound while labored breaths rung out from your body and colored the eerily barren chamber. It was difficult to focus your vision, finding that the barely perceptible shapes hidden in shadowed corners were playing tricks on your eyes the longer you stared at their forms.

Another crack.

But this time, you could markedly tag its source.

Far down on the opposite side of the shaft, another brittle light in the ceiling’s row numbed like the death of a star.

Great.

You whirled back around, launching yourself into an energized bolt as you tried to escape the coming darkness.

In all sincerity, you should have assumed something like this would happen. You had found the vacancy of these quarterly halls odd. It was midday in a residential area so some activity was to be expected. Beings would usually be on their lunch break around now.

Yet, there were none around.

But the partial flooding? The unstable roofing?

You sighed, powerful legs carrying you blisteringly quick while you connected the dots ahead of the accelerating demise of weak, mechanical stars.

This underground neighborhood was breaking down.

It must have been evacuated.

And now?

They were cutting the power.

Drawing on the effortlessly fluid stability of the Force, you catalyzed your stride, hoping to get a better sense of where you were before being immersed in utter blackness.

Luckily, the opportunity to do so appeared to lie just ahead.

Fairly soon into your run, you noticed the fork in the road, pinned to the tunnel’s far reach. How the illusionary dead-end wall, in fact, split into two, opposing paths. All you needed to do was get there fast enough for a cursory glance of either end before the last light at your disposal became the limited glow of your grayed lightsaber.

You picked up the pace, the reflection of your form in the waterlogged stone flying like loose leaves trying to catch up with you as it too bolted from the ensuing pattern of light fixtures snapping off.

Soon, there were only a few left as you neared the hall’s end, impelling you to power one last thrust of your leg into the junction. You swiveled your head down both corridors as your heels squealed to a halt before the stone wall, catching sight of a larger industrial door just meters into the second corridor as the final fixture above cracked into nothingness.

But that was all you needed.

It didn’t take you long to maneuver your way toward the exit in the pitch dark, lugging open the croaking apparatus only to be met with an ascending staircase illuminated by the scattered, gloomy rays of a showery, Coruscant afternoon.

You jogged up the concrete steps before encountering a wide, open-aired avenue, dotted with as many road lamps as hurrying beings who scampered from industrial cover to cover in an effort to avoid wetting their clothes. The walls of buildings encapsulating this strip stood in an unornamented, brutalist fashion, which effectively limited their options. It was quite the contrast to the streets of the Entertainment District. But that was all you could really say about it. Your observations remained sparse as the continuous downpour did little to reduce the haze.

Pivoting to your right, you followed the road’s natural path, immediately feeling the cool sprinkles pelt your face as you slowed into a crisp walk. You tugged at your biting, saturated robe, bringing it closer to break the slight draft.

As you turned down a wider street doused in equal cloud cover, you decided that it was time to return to the Temple. If anything, at least to give your body a break. You’d been running for close to an hour, and those stretched lungs and burning legs were sure to thank you for the short respite.

Perhaps you could return to the Archives for some easy reading. Your headache had dissipated enough to certainly make that possible now. And you had to admit, you were feeling a bit behind on your knowledge of Separatist technologies.

It was only twelve minutes into your return hike when you began to embrace that peaceful rumination on future plans. Twelve minutes for your mind to drift to lighter musings. But also twelve minutes for those thoughts to be swiftly dashed from reality by a new intrigue.

There were many beings who dusted the streets. All of which you simultaneously kept a close eye on. Of course, special attention was dedicated to those who’d decide for a period to amble too close for comfort. But even then, it usually held no matter. As always, they’d eventually divert onto a path of their own as wandering, city walkers did.

An example was the being that had been sauntering ten meters behind you for the past five minutes. One you didn’t give much mind to. Until they were oddly quick to tread on the heels of your latest deviation from the main road. Which was…odd, but not enough of anything to concern you.

Yet.

You swiveled down another detour, this one more unusual than the last given the District’s layout. It was part of your usual route of choice, since it avoided most of the neighborhood’s major hubs, but still powered enough street lamps to guide you back to the Temple in the evening.

Or in this case, on a rainy day.

Either way, you knew from experience that this was usually when any unintentional tails would break off to continue their lives on a road to elsewhere.

Maybe they were returning home to a waiting family after a long intergalactic trip. Running late for a business meeting because of the rain. Or simply exploring the city’s landmarks with their free afternoon.

These were all activities you imagined civilians had the freedom to enjoy. Freedoms that you certainly fantasized about in your younger years. And freedoms that you later learned you’d have to sacrifice to protect.

You smiled thoughtfully to yourself. It always helped to have a gentle reminder of the good you were doing. These elements of peace you were maintaining. It even allowed you to take a relaxing breath as you continued along the path not taken.

Until the creeping stranger’s presence fully seized your attention by following you down this second detour.

You fought the urge to look back, despite their presence jumping to the forefront of your mind. If that being really was tracking you, you didn’t want to raise any suspicions that you’d caught on.

Not yet.

Even now, after back-to-back questionable activity, you still needed to make certain that your misgivings were accurate. Thinking about it, you would’ve sensed this individual before had they been following you during your run. So why would they suddenly trail you now? You hadn’t done anything topside to give your identity away.

Then, this might have still all been just a simple misunderstanding.

Right?

Only one way to find out, you told yourself.

Keeping an even pace, you scanned your surroundings, quickly catching a narrow alleyway that lay just a few steps ahead to your left. Narrowing your eyes through the gloomy lighting, you soon realized that its width would at most fit two and a half people stood side-by-side. In other words, this gap was sure to lead to a dead-end. One that any city dweller would know not to enter in a neighborhood like this. And one that any traveler would have the instincts to avoid.

From this, you comfortably concluded that a bona fide passerby would have no reason to follow you inside.

Unless, it was you they were after.

So, you swiftly ducked in.

You jogged a few meters down the pitch-black crevice, nimble toes putting some distance between you and the fissure’s entrance before briskly finding a secure spot from which to spin around and face it. You shoved at the midsection of your robe with the back of your hand, nudging it away to make room for stiff fingers to envelop the cold metal of your belted saber.

Your silent, hot breath fogged the cold air just below your nose as you waited out those few, tense seconds. A careful quietness encapsulated your form despite your prediction that this stranger would likely pass.

It was always best to be cautious, you reminded yourself.

But, of course, you had no such luck.

On high alert, thumb hovering over the hilt’s activation, you observed as the being sidestepped in after you, their face and figure obscured by the rift’s absence of light. Watchful steps characterized their form while they inched deeper into the crevice, head tilting side to side as they tried to discern their surroundings with blurry fingertips gracing the left wall to keep them centered.

Strangely, you perceived an air of delicacy from their cautious outline. A meaningfulness in each of their carefully selected motions. However, you still had difficulty in sensing their motivations. Whether it be malice or geniality, their presence felt too calm to point to either direction definitively.

And you were not one to take chances.

So, with the flick of the wrist, you snatched your saber from its resting place with a clink, unfurling that familiar gray glow as you stepped back into a lunge to whip the blade up before resting it inches from the figure’s face.

Instantly, its luminescence unveiled from the twilight a familiar set of bright blue, yielding eyes, accompanied by an auburn beard dewed by drizzles. The plasma’s heat had stirred the man to raise his hands calmly, feigning surrender as a curious expression tickled his cheeks.

You sighed, adrenaline evaporating from your veins while your blade dropped a few degrees.

“You’d think after a lifetime as a Jedi, you’d know it wasn’t a good idea to sneak up on one,” you voiced, raising a brow.

Obi-Wan lowered his hands, offering you an affable expression as you deactivated your saber and snapped it to your belt.

“I’m always willing to take a chance for a friend.”

You shook your head in mock disapproval while you moved to pass the Jedi, unintentionally brushing your upper arm against the weight of his similarly soaked cloak. It didn’t take long to reemerge on the outer end of the gap, cascading you in the brighter light of the still-overcast street.

“What are you doing out here?” You asked, vision centered on a pair of beings strolling near the far end.

“Looking for you,” he stated matter-of-factly while following your form out onto the road.

You leisurely turned, now able to better see his face as he phased into the muddled daylight, his hair sleek with water and eyes dulled by the hidden sun.

“Why?”

The relaxed Jedi paused before you, creasing his brows as he spoke tactfully.

“Anakin came to see me earlier.”

You looked away, choosing to draw your attention to the street ahead before leaning into a quiet stroll.

Though the Master was quick to follow, matching your pace as he glided beside you.

“He was concerned,” Obi-Wan continued, stitched gaze never leaving your face. “Something about a reaction you had during his piloting lesson today?”

The understatement tugged at the corner of your mouth, though your eyes remained tethered like anchors to the raindrops exploding into puddles below.

“Did he also tell you he took the fighter into an Aileron Roll with the gravity dampers off?” You emphasized, waggling your brows in a challenging, yet light-hearted manner.

His eyes widened for a brief moment, cycling through all the stages of what you could only assume was Former Padawan-related grief before capitulating into an expression of experienced resignation.

His gaze fell to the ground, mirroring yours.

“He did not.”

You breathed in deeply, absorbing the momentary silence flooded only by the pitter-patter of cooling raindrops. It had aerated the street of this morning’s blistering heat. And as a creature of the cold, it had the effect of alleviating your exercise-induced, clammy skin deliciously.

“Silvey,” Obi-Wan began gently. “Anakin isn’t the only one.”

You blinked toward the subdued Jedi who must’ve sensed the motion as he quickly met your gaze. Both pairs of cloud-shaded eyes locked for a moment, enabling you to stretch into the space before signaling for him to continue.

“I’ve also noticed that something is affecting you.”

You sighed.

You began wracking your brain for some excuse. Any excuse that you could throw out at this moment. All so that you didn’t need to explain your strange yet nuanced predicament to the man beside you.

You searched the falling droplets for answers, reminding yourself that finding a solution before anyone close to Anakin learned the truth was for the best.

It’s not his job to worry about you.

And that went for Obi-Wan too.

“Is it Qui-Gon? I understand his death may be fresh for you. I’d be happy to lend an ear—“

“No, it’s not that,” you interrupted.

Instantly, you recognized the falsehood in that statement.

“I mean…”

You shook your head at yourself, hoping to shake the right, jumbled thoughts into alignment.

“I can’t deny that he’s been occupying my mind more than most things…”

Your jaw hung loose as you tried to catch the words buzzing in jumbles above your head. But, for some reason, they just kept escaping through your clawing, slippery fingers.

“But that’s not…it,” you uttered.

You glanced back up at Obi-Wan.

His eyes had abruptly softened while he listened to your voice intently. Vision piercing your very soul as if he was hoping to look right through you.

And you weren’t sure why, but that penetrating expression suddenly took you off guard.

Your brain stumbled as you tried to refocus on the conversation. You supposed you weren’t expecting him to have had such an empathetic reaction. Right? Maybe you just hadn’t really made a point to notice how kind his eyes could be. At least, not before now.

But here? In this instant?

You could see their radiance so clearly.

Even among gradually strengthening raindrops that blinked into streams after colliding with the chiseled face of the Jedi before you. They did nothing to dissuade the thoughtfulness that shone from his features.

But then again, wasn’t that always the rule with Master Kenobi?

It was those same eyes that had shared with you looks of encouragement when you were first struggling to pass the thoughts of large crowds. Those same bright blue eyes that happily guided you to the Sparring Arena during your first full day at the Temple when you were terribly lost. Those same entertained eyes that would glance at you briefly after throwing a sarcastic remark at Anakin to lighten everyone’s moods. Those same, unwaveringly concerned eyes that trailed your figure every time you unexpectedly removed yourself from his company, always to deal with another burning onslaught of pulsing stabs that gradually became more pronounced on your features.

Those thoughtful eyes that were first to check if you were okay, despite the Master Jedi having taken the brunt of your full-speed collision, during that shuttle escape from Hoth.

Those unflinchingly kind eyes which, for some unknown reason, seemed to crack a chink in your conviction.

Enough to let out a sliver of splintering light.

Your feet stalled underneath you, bringing both you and Obi-Wan to an aimless rest as your heart raced. You curved fully toward the soaking Jedi, lips parted in thought as you searched for the words to begin explaining your situation to the man waiting ever so patiently.

You weren’t sure whether it was from the buildup to this long-held secret’s reveal or a side effect of your body’s fatigue. But the moment you glanced up, the moment your gaze locked once more with those two, perceptively azure orbs, you suddenly felt…

Very

Very

Naked.

“I’ve been having…headaches.”

Master Kenobi’s head tilted slightly in disquiet confusion, subconsciously inciting you to tighten the robe’s wrap around your torso with crossed arms.

“Headaches?” He asked oddly.

“I think?” You dithered. “But they aren’t…normal.”

Exhaling, you redirected your gaze to the surrounding building’s upper structures and the gloomy gray of Coruscant’s atmosphere as you rammed through your next words, leaving behind any care of making sense as the wall you had so carefully built began to chip under his still engrossed stare.

“At first, they’d show up…randomly. Last for hours no matter what I did. Until I asked Master Windu for his input. He told me to give it a name the next time I meditated. He said it would help. That if I could pinpoint the feeling, it would root out the source of getting rid of them. So, I did.”

You shrugged.

“But, for some reason, it made everything worse. The times, the duration, the pain. And it doesn’t feel like a regular headache either. It’s-“

The bridge of your nose creased in thought as you drew imaginary lines from rooftop to rooftop with your eyes.

“Deeper.”

The silence that followed, no matter how short, felt utterly deafening. Even the quiet showers around you seemed to stall into white noise.

Until Obi-Wan sighed.

Pensively.

His furrowed brows never left your form as he raised a hand to tensely stroke his mouth for a moment.

“Is that what happened in the fighter this morning? One of these…headaches?”

Your gaze shifted back to his as you breathed.

“Yes.”

He hummed, resting his fingers upon the beard. “And when did they start?”

“About a week and a half ago.”

The Master Jedi allowed his hand to laxly fall, chin rising unexpectedly as his brows faintly furrowed. He’d now given room for his earlier concern to sparkle a bit brighter off ocean eyes that suddenly burrowed into yours.

“I’m taking you to the infirmary.”

Your stomach dropped, unsure if it was dragged down by your displeasure in making this situation a bigger deal than you believed it to be, or by the complete confidence with which the man before you voiced his plain alarm.

You began to question yourself. Were you misjudging this affliction? Were your symptoms really that bad?

Honestly, you thought, you’d had far greater scares on Hoth.

Qui-Gon’s gray hairs could attest to that.

And although most of your heart was beating a bit faster to the rhythm of these circulating thoughts, you couldn’t help but be enveloped by the small fragment that warmed at Master Kenobi’s caring sentiment. So much so, that it pulled you from your uncertainty before guiding your voice into a sweeter lull to address him.

“Obi—“

“This is not good, Silvey,” he interrupted firmly. “And I don’t like leaving such matters unresolved.”

You exhaled, shaking your head in disbelief as you backed down from his solid stance. Instead, you angled back toward the path ahead, resuming that same calm stroll with heavy feet. Again, Obi-Wan fluidly followed, his creased expression peaking at yours, which remained impassive despite your inner thoughts.

“I can’t.”

Master Kenobi dissolved into further unease as he acknowledged your response puzzledly.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” you began, neck angling toward him coolly. “I don’t understand what this is either. And it could be dangerous or it could be nothing. But what’s fact is that the more I involve beings from the Temple, the more likely this will all get back to Anakin. And I can’t have that.”

You huffed, sending a feeble kick to a passing puddle underneath you while building winds began to zip around the surrounding structure’s corners, nudging you both by the edges of your robes.

“I’m his Guardian, Obi-Wan. The last thing I should be doing is dragging him into unpredictable matters. He has enough to deal with right now, and I’m not adding to it-“

A sudden weight warmed your shoulder, guiding you to pause mid-stroll in the midst of finishing your thought. Still, you followed the slight tug, turning toward the man whose gentle hand rested assuredly by your throat like a sudden fire on a cool afternoon.

“So your solution is to travel through rainy streets in dangerous neighborhoods? Are you hoping to find the answer at the wrong end of a phaser?” He questioned sarcastically, retrieving his limb to gesticulate to your surroundings as a sudden chill nestled in its place.

You defended yourself, throwing back that same trickle of wit that briefly oozed from his figure with a cheeky grin. “Running has proven to help. Besides, I’d never pass up the chance to hone my combat skills. We are in a war, you know.”

You tried to suppress your chuckle at his unimpressed stare.

Still, you couldn’t help the gravity of the situation overcome you once more as his expression carefully hardened.

“And what if something happens because this wasn’t addressed sooner?” He argued. “I agree. Right now, it’s best to not tell Anakin. And I can make sure that he won’t find out. I certainly won’t tell him, and you can trust the doctors at the Temple to do the same. But you owe it to the Galaxy to at least sit through an examination. If the prophecy is true, we will all need you at your best.”

You exhaled, realizing fairly quickly that you were on the losing side of this battle.

“Please,” he emphasized.

You watched as Obi-Wan raised both hands, delicately resting each on your upper arms with their encapsulating heat.

Then, he leaned in.

Just a few inches, but enough to pervade your eyes, filling all the edges of your vision with his cautiously encouraging expression. He spoke lowly, in a deep, smooth tone as the hotness of his breath brushed across your wet cheeks.

“Allow me to accompany you to the Infirmary.”

The sensation of your throbbing heart had now reached your fingertips, shooting down your arms so boldly that you were surprised Obi-Wan couldn’t feel the beats through his steadied palms. Though his confidence in his ability to keep this matter private had eased your stirring veins slightly.

A quick checkup itself wouldn’t do too much harm, you supposed. As long as it remained just that. Still, this was all assuming Obi-Wan could keep you under The Chosen One’s radar until the matter was fully resolved. As you stared at his confident demeanor, you also had to admit that you’d been a bit concerned about how this exchange would end. For a brief second, you thought that as soon as you explained your affliction to Obi-Wan, he’d whip right back around to inform his former Padawan. He’d certainly known him for many more years than you, you surmised.

But that wasn’t the case.

Master Kenobi respected your motives. And he seemed assured enough to support you through these small sacrifices that you’d always need to make as Anakin’s Guardian.

As long as you were also getting the help you needed, it appeared.

But, deep down, you knew that wouldn’t always be possible. Save this exception.

Is that why telling him, even after all of these assurances, still felt so wrong?

No, there was no need to remind Obi-Wan of that reality at this moment. You were comfortable enough to let those blue eyes get the win they so strongly fought for.

Tugging on the seam of your robe, you spoke softly.

“Alright.”

And in return, the Jedi Master offered you a grateful, almost relieved, smile.

After presenting Obi-Wan with this small victory, you couldn’t help the sudden confusion that overcame your mind, born from a latent realization. A perplexing thought which transformed into one more question that you needed to ask before surrendering yourself to the trained hands of Jedi physicians.

“By the way,” you spoke up. “How did you find me? I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.”

The Master sent you a look so pointed that it blared across rooftops one undeniable judgment:

That he knew you were not going to like this.

“Apparently, Anakin was having trouble finding you for those unplanned sparring sessions the two of you enjoy so much. Mostly, because he hasn’t been able to sense your presence.”

He exhaled.

“His solution was to place a tracker in your robe.”

Your jaw dropped, a drop of rain catching your marginally exposed tongue.

“That little-“

“Don’t worry,” Obi-Wan announced in that thick, Coruscanti accent.

“I told him to turn it off.”

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[mariacallous]

On May 16, the gaming and entertainment news site Dexerto tweeted an image from the forthcoming game Assassin’s Creed Shadows featuring one of its protagonists, the Black samurai Yasuke, in a fighting pose. Across scores of replies, some voiced optimism, others fatigue with Assassin’s Creed’s now 14-game-long run, and a very vocal few expressed frustration and anger that a Black person was at the center of the narrative.

“Gonna pass on the DEI games,” wrote one blue-check X user, referencing the acronym for diversity, equity, and inclusion. “Why Wokeism?” asked another. Comments full of racist and sexist language filled the thread.

A more articulate undercurrent of these reactionaries, across many online forums, had a more specific set of complaints. Some alleged the race of the real Yasuke was never known, others that he wasn’t a samurai but a retainer, and another claimed he was never in combat.

These were all fairly elaborate conclusions to draw about a guy from 1581 who’s been depicted as a samurai in Japanese media many times, including in the 2017 video game Nioh and Samurai Warriors 5 in 2021, as well as his own animated series on Netflix.

They also may have been the last bit of armchair history we got on Yasuke if the conversation hadn’t been sustained by a set of accounts looking to build yet another front in the online culture war, fueling what some have been calling Gamergate 2.0. Whereas the Gamergate of 2014 focused on trying to drown out feminist voices, and the voices of women of color, in gaming culture, this second incarnation seems focused on pushing back against diversity in games of all kinds. Yasuke just stepped in their path.

The resurgence of the Gamergate moniker came earlier this year in reaction to the work of Sweet Baby. Staff at the small consultancy received a wave of harassment this spring stemming from misinformation and conspiracy theories claiming the company was a BlackRock-backed outfit trying to force diversity into games. (It’s not affiliated with BlackRock and merely advises on characters and storylines.) As the controversy around Assassin’s Creed Shadows intensified, several posts mentioned Sweet Baby, even though company CEO Kim Belair says the firm didn’t work on the game.

“I think it just comes with the post-Gamergate (late-Gamergate?) territory,” Belair wrote in an email to WIRED. “To a certain kind of person, largely trolls, we're synonymous with their idea of ‘wokeness in games’ or a vague idea of ‘DEI,’ but it's ultimately reflective of the overall misinformation that fuels this campaign.”

Gamergate was not the first harassment campaign conceived in the bowels of 4chan and its affiliate websites, but it was perhaps their crowning achievement. The attacks against developers Zoë Quinn and Brianna Wu and media critic Anita Sarkeesian, among others, ranged from doxing to rape and death threats. Its tenets and tactics eventually proved valuable in bringing people into the burgeoning alt-right movement. Even Pizzagate and QAnon can, in some ways, be traced back to what was happening with gamers online in 2014.

“Gamergate was a recruiting ground, a pipeline to leverage the loneliness, discontentment, and alienation of young men—often white young men—into alt-right politics, extremist misogyny, and outright white supremacy and Nazism,” Thirsty Suitors narrative lead Meghna Jayanth told WIRED.

If the early days of social media incubated a cultural cold war, Gamergate turned it hot. Frustrated that they were no longer the sole demographic being catered to, Gamergaters saw “the growing visibility of women, not to mention their incomprehensible insistence that games cater to their perspectives as well, as an unwelcome intrusion in a space that does not belong to them,” Laura Hudson wrote in WIRED at the time. As a result, they wanted more than debate, they wanted blood—and nothing really stopped them from going after it.

Ten years later, aggrieved gamers are focusing on other forms of diversity and inclusion, which is how Assassin’s Creed Shadows’ Yasuke has become the latest point of contention.

While only so much can be truly known when it comes to history, accounts suggest Yasuke (the real one, not the video game character) was a man presumed to be from west Africa who served the Italian missionary Alessandro Valignano. He accompanied Valignano to Japan where he served Oda Nobunaga at the daimyo’s demand. Yasuke was presented with the trappings of a samurai: a house, servants, a sword. He would go on to be with Nobunaga, or near him, at the time of his death, before seeking his heir Nobutada and joining him in battling those responsible for Nobunga’s death, though unsuccessfully.

While Yasuke’s history is fascinating and mysterious, much of the fuss over him has concerned whether he was officially a samurai, a depiction that has shown up in media several times in and outside of Japan. Some insist that he may have instead been a retainer, page, squire, or sword-bearer. Others decrying his inclusion in Shadows said he looked gay.

“There is no easy way to separate the many threads of what we are seeing within the Yasuke backlash,” says Paula Curtis, a postdoctoral fellow at UCLA’s Terasaki Center for Japanese Studies. “There are legitimate complaints about the developers’ decisions regarding representation and historical engagement … There are also many discriminatory responses to the game that have been anti-Black, misogynistic, and politically motivated.” It’s important to note, Curtis adds, that Shadows’ fans and commentators, and the issues they’re raising, aren’t uniform.

When Japanese historian Yu Hirayama tweeted there was “no doubt” as to Yasuke’s samurai status, he was treated to a tirade of abusive replies in English, including one claiming he brought “dishonor to [his] family and Japanese history.”

Amid the backlash to Yasuke’s inclusion in the game—and specifically to his role as a samurai—Ubisoft, the game’s developer, issued a statement saying that while the company “extensively collaborated with external consultants, historians, researchers, and internal teams at Ubisoft Japan” on the game, “some elements in our promotional materials have caused concern within the Japanese community.”

Without saying specifically which aspects caused concern, the company added that it was taking this “constructive criticism” into account as it prepared for the game’s November launch, and apologized. (Ubisoft did not respond to a request for comment on this story.)

Jayanth believes the apology was a case of misplaced appeasement.

“The alt-right's fundamental drive is hatred of the ‘other,’” she says. “Even if we cleansed our games of women, non-white people, queer people—which is their ask, and one we absolutely should not give in to—they would turn to insufficiently ‘masculine’ depictions of white men. This movement exists only in opposition to some polluting ‘other,’ an enemy that must be manufactured if a real enemy cannot be found.”

Revisionist approaches to history have seen a rise in recent years, especially in the interest of enshrining an idealist sense of a traditionalist past as an ahistorically conservative utopia.

“You see this in the false assertion of a purely white Middle Ages or the denial of war atrocities in World War II,” Curtis says. “Bad-faith actors may cherry-pick historical sources in order to craft specific narratives, completely ignore sources that do not support their views, or appropriate historical symbols as rallying cries to their causes.”

The proponents of Gamergate 2.0 have veiled their scorn for Assassin’s Creed Shadows’ inclusion of Yasuke within concerns for historical accuracy. Much Like the Gamergaters of old, who insisted they were defending ethics in gaming journalism and not harassing women they felt needed to be put in their place.

Gamergate then, and Gamergate now, are both ultimately about the sensitivities around who saw representation and how, made disproportionately important by how disempowered and alienated modern people feel. As games have made room for a wider array of characters, the gamers at the center of the backlash have seen this progress as a form of persecution. Games are changing, and as much as those upset over Yasuke’s inclusion in Shadows want to push back, they may not be able to stop that.

“It's certainly been strange to see us tied to a ton of games we've never worked on simply because people perceive ‘wokeness’ or progressive ideas in them,” Sweet Baby’s Belair says, “but maybe it's indicative of a greater truth that Gamergaters miss: No external consultancy is forcing studios to make their products more diverse or more progressive. The change, whatever you think of it, is coming from inside the house.”

[fitnessproguru1]

Comprehensive Benefits of a Plant-Based Diet: Health, Environment, and Beyond

Adopting a plant-based diet can have numerous benefits for your health, the environment, and animal welfare. Here’s a detailed breakdown:

Health Benefits

Improved Heart Health

Plant-based diets are rich in fiber, antioxidants, and healthy fats, which help lower LDL (“bad”) cholesterol and blood pressure.

Reduces the risk of heart disease, stroke, and hypertension.

Weight Management

Plant-based diets tend to be lower in calories and high in fiber, promoting satiety and aiding weight loss or weight maintenance.

Studies show that vegetarians and vegans often have lower body mass indices (BMIs).

Reduced Risk of Chronic Diseases

Lower incidence of type 2 diabetes: Whole grains, legumes, and vegetables regulate blood sugar levels.

Reduced cancer risk: Diets high in fruits, vegetables, and legumes contain antioxidants and phytochemicals that combat cancer.

Lower inflammation: Plant-based diets reduce chronic inflammation linked to arthritis, autoimmune conditions, and other illnesses.

Better Digestive Health

High fiber content supports gut health, promotes regular bowel movements, and prevents constipation.

Encourages a diverse gut microbiome, which is linked to improved immunity and mental health.

Longevity

Studies suggest that plant-based diets are associated with a longer lifespan due to the reduced risk of chronic illnesses.

Improved Mental Health

Nutrients like magnesium, folate, and antioxidants found in plant-based foods are associated with better mood regulation and reduced symptoms of depression.

Enhanced Nutrient Intake

A plant-based diet is rich in essential vitamins (e.g., C, E, and folate), minerals (e.g., potassium, magnesium), and phytonutrients that boost overall health.

Antioxidants in plant foods neutralize free radicals, reducing cellular damage and slowing aging processes.

Improved Bone Health

Contrary to common misconceptions, plant-based diets can support strong bones through calcium-rich foods like fortified plant milks, tofu, almonds, and leafy greens.

Plant-based sources of magnesium and potassium improve bone density.

Reduced Risk of Neurodegenerative Diseases

Diets high in vegetables, fruits, nuts, and seeds have been linked to a lower risk of Alzheimer’s disease and cognitive decline.

Omega-3 fatty acids from plant sources like flaxseeds, chia seeds, and walnuts support brain health.

Boosted Immune System

Plant-based foods contain immune-supporting vitamins (e.g., vitamin C from citrus fruits) and zinc from legumes, nuts, and seeds.

Improved Skin Health

High intake of water-rich foods like fruits and vegetables hydrates the skin.

Antioxidants (e.g., beta-carotene in carrots, and lycopene in tomatoes) help reduce acne, prevent sun damage, and promote a glowing complexion.

read full article only at https://fitnessproguru.com/healthy-diet/comprehensive-benefits-of-a-plant-based-diet-health-environment-and-beyond/

[alanofalltrades]

I love how diverse TTRPG community can get. I look at things like Rolemaster and understand implicitly that it has been conceived in the very bowels of Hell to kill me, but at the same time it's somebody's favorite game! And that's GOOD! I need more well-designed game I can't stand. Anything to stave off the gray samemeness of making everything run on 5e.

[supertums]

What are FODMAPs? Why should you know about them?

May 11, 2024 Team Supertums

Understanding the intricacies of FODMAPs is paramount in the realm of digestive health, particularly for managing conditions like irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) and improving overall wellness. These fermentable carbohydrates wield considerable influence not only on digestive function but also on the complex ecosystem of the gut microbiome—the diverse community of microorganisms inhabiting the gastrointestinal tract. Research indicates that FODMAPs serve as a primary fuel source for gut bacteria in individuals with IBS. However, the fermentation of these carbohydrates can lead to the production of gases and other metabolites, potentially intensifying symptoms associated with the condition.

What are FODMAPs?

FODMAP is an acronym for a group of short-chain carbohydrates and sugar alcohols the small intestine struggles to absorb efficiently. Once they reach the large intestine, they undergo fermentation by gut bacteria which leads to the production of gas and other by-products. Additionally, FODMAPs have the capacity to draw water into the intestines. This combination of fermentation and water retention often results in symptoms of bloating, gas, abdominal pain, and altered bowel habits for individuals with sensitive digestive systems.

Avoiding FODMAPs

Following a low FODMAP diet and steering clear of trigger foods can alleviate digestive discomfort, ultimately enhancing one's quality of life by eliminating discomfort. However, seeking guidance from a healthcare professional is crucial for tailored advice and treatment. They can provide personalized recommendations and assistance in implementing dietary changes.

It's important to understand that the term "low FODMAP diet" typically refers to the elimination phase, during which high-FODMAP foods are temporarily removed from the diet to assess symptom relief or improvement. Subsequently, these foods are reintroduced systematically under the guidance of a FODMAP-trained dietitian to pinpoint individual food triggers.

This approach allows individuals to reintroduce foods that do not elicit symptoms while restricting those that do. Your dietitian can offer strategies for managing trigger foods, such as consuming smaller portions. Additionally, it's crucial to recognize that the elimination phase should not be followed long-term. Prolonged adherence may result in nutritional deficiencies, as many high FODMAP foods contain beneficial micronutrients and probiotics essential for our bodies. The goal of the diet is to reintegrate as many tolerated high FODMAP foods as possible, not only for convenience and simplifying life but also for dietary diversity and reaping the associated health benefits.

What foods are high in FODMAPs?

Foods to avoid for IBS if you are following the low FODMAP diet include:

Any dietary plan that involves the limitation or avoidance of specific foods should be balanced with healthy alternatives to ensure adequate nutrition.

As we are aware, the low FODMAP diet has the potential to cause deficiencies in essential nutrients if not managed with care. Thus, it's crucial to maintain a well-rounded diet that fulfills your body's nutritional needs.

For instance, many foods high in FODMAPs are rich sources of dietary fiber, which plays a crucial role in promoting digestive health and regular bowel movements. By restricting these foods, there is a risk of insufficient fiber intake, leading to issues such as constipation and gastrointestinal discomfort. Therefore, integrating alternative sources of fiber into your diet is imperative to support digestive health while following the low FODMAP approach.

Fiber can be obtained from a variety of sources, including fruits, vegetables, whole grains, nuts, seeds, legumes, and lentils. With the availability of low FODMAP alternatives for many of these foods, it is feasible to maintain a balanced diet while adhering to the dietary restrictions.

How to eat healthy on the low FODMAP diet ?

Ways to maintain a balanced diet while following the low FODMAP diet include:

Broadening your culinary horizons: Integrate a diverse selection of low-FODMAP fruits, vegetables, grains, proteins, and healthy fats into your meals to ensure adequate nutrient intake.

Opting for substitutes: Select low FODMAP alternatives for high FODMAP foods to satisfy your nutritional requirements. For example, consider incorporating quinoa or rice instead of wheat-based grains.

Monitoring portion sizes: Exercise caution with serving sizes, as the FODMAP content of foods can vary based on quantity. While a food may be low FODMAP in small amounts, consuming a larger portion could elevate its FODMAP levels. Utilize our app to determine the appropriate serving size permitted on the low FODMAP diet by locating the food and utilizing the 'Can I have more?' feature for guidance.

Consulting with a registered dietitian: Collaborate with a registered dietitian who specializes in the low FODMAP diet to develop a personalized plan tailored to your nutritional needs and digestive symptoms.

Conclusion

In summary, understanding the role of FODMAPs in digestive health is crucial for individuals managing conditions like IBS. By adhering to a low FODMAP diet and avoiding trigger foods under the guidance of a FODMAP-trained Dietitian, many individuals can find relief from uncomfortable symptoms and improve their overall well-being. However, it’s important to recognize that the low FODMAP diet is not suitable for everyone and should be used as a diagnostic tool for those with IBS. Maintaining a balanced diet alongside the low FODMAP protocol is vital for preventing nutrient deficiencies and promoting digestive health. By varying meals, controlling portions, seeking guidance from a registered dietitian, and utilizing resources like FODMAP Friendly certified products, educational materials and FODMAP-friendly recipes, individuals can effectively manage symptoms and enhance their quality of life.

For more information and gut heath tips please reach us at www.supertums.com

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Jennifer Kabbany

Published: Jan 30, 2025

New research has found the number of University of Michigan employees who work either full-time or part-time on diversity, equity, and inclusion-related efforts now tops 1,100.

The findings come as the U.S. Department of Education under President Donald Trump has eliminated all its DEI initiatives, including placing DEI staff on paid administrative leave and removing DEI language, trainings, directives, and advisory boards throughout the agency.

The University of Michigan in December announced it will no longer require diversity statements in faculty hiring and tenure decisions — but its Board of Regents stopped short of cutting any DEI spending despite at least one regent voicing concerns about the millions of dollars the public institution is spending to embed DEI into every corner of campus under its DEI 2.0 plan.

One reported internal estimate placed the cost of DEI spending at UMich at $250 million over the last eight or so years, yet annual student surveys show many of the institution’s students report feeling like they do not belong on campus.

Economist Mark Perry, a University of Michigan-Flint emeritus professor who tallied up the latest number of DEI jobs at UMich, told The College Fix its DEI bureaucracy is extraordinary in its size and scope.

The report identifies 248 full-time UM staff members whose main duties are to provide DEI programming services and advance DEI 2.0 at an annual payroll cost of $24 million.

When fringe benefits are added at a rate of 32 percent of base salaries it brings the total annual compensation of UM’s DEI staff to nearly $31.7 million — or enough to pay in-state tuition and fees for approximately 1,800 students.

[ Pictured, the top 30 paid DEI employees; for entire list, click here ]

“The rest of the country in higher education, government, and the corporate world are really turning back on DEI, but the University of Michigan is doubling down on DEI,” Perry said. “It shows an obsessive commitment to efforts that have questionable outcomes and are extremely expensive.”

Every year Perry tallies the amount of money and resources UMich devotes to DEI, but this year he took it a step further, delving into the bowels of all the DEI 2.0 Unit Strategic Plans posted online across the institution’s 51 units to determine the scope of the efforts.

“Every year they [UMich administrators] criticize the DEI headcount I come up with, but they never come up with a number of their own — maybe this is the year they will,” he said, adding it remains to be seen whether regents will address the topic at their February meeting, but he believes they should.

The College Fix provided on Monday a copy of Perry’s report and spreadsheet to the University of Michigan’s media affairs division and the office of Tabbye Chavous, chief diversity officer. Chavous did not respond. Colleen Mastony, assistant vice president for public affairs, told The Fix in response: “We don’t have anything more to share. The agenda for the regents meeting will be posted here on Feb. 17.”

Bean counting

Michigan maintains an Office of Diversity, Equity & Inclusion, or ODEI, that includes a chief diversity officer, Chavous, who earns $417,000 annually plus benefits.

“In contrast, Michigan’s governor Gretchen Whitmer’s salary is $159,300, and the average salaries for assistant, associate, and full professors at UM (all campuses) are $130,037, $145,360, and $207,827 respectively,” according to the research study compiled by Perry and provided exclusively to The College Fix.

The University of Michigan’s central ODEI office oversees the National Center for Institutional Diversity, Center for Educational Outreach, Wolverine Pathways, and Office of Academic Multicultural Initiatives — all told requiring 90 full-time staffers, including eight open positions, the report states.

ODEI also oversees an additional 123 diversity-related positions that do not currently have names assigned such as interns, ambassadors, and coordinators filled by a variety of students and staff, according to Perry’s report, compiled in January using public data on ODEI’s Leadership & Staff website.

On top of those efforts, the university employs 167 staffers across UM’s schools, colleges, centers, programs, offices, and libraries to advance DEI, such as the College of Engineering’s Office of Culture Community and Equity (21 staffers) and Michigan Medicine’s Office for Health, Equity, and Inclusion (20 staffers).

But wait — there’s more. To enact its massive “DEI 2.0 Plan,” the university has tapped 118 “Unit Leads” — a mix of deans, scholars and staffers — 46 who are full-time diversity employees and 72 who work part-time alongside their normal jobs to oversee the implementation of the various DEI goals within each of the university’s 51 units, from 17 academic schools and colleges to the IT division to Athletics to the Department of Public Safety to three libraries to the Museum of Art and even the Matthaei Botanical Gardens & Nichols Arboretum.

To support those “Unit Leads,” a total of 679 additional staffers across the 51 units have been tasked with helping roll out the DEI 2.0 plan, according to Perry, who reviewed each of the 51 Unit Strategic Plans to count the number of employees tasked with DEI advancement.

All told, that’s roughly 1,122 jobs dedicated to advancing DEI at the University of Michigan, according to Perry’s findings. The University of Michigan-Flint emeritus professor also notes in his report he didn’t even include 51 jobs in the Equity, Civil Rights, and Title IX Office in his round-up.

“Ten DEI staff members earn more than $200,000 and 79 earn $100,000 or more. The average DEI salary at UM is $97,843 which brings total average annual compensation per DEI employee to more than $129,000 with fringe benefits added at a rate of 32%. Including fringe benefits, 155 DEI employees at UM receive total annual compensation of more than $100,000,” the report states.

A demographic analysis of the 248 DEI employees, who Perry dubs “diversicrats,” also reveals that women are significantly overrepresented by a factor of more than 3-to-1 at 76.4 percent female compared to 23.6 percent male, respectively; employees of color are also significantly overrepresented among DEI staff compared to whites, 57 percent to 43 percent, respectively.

Perry told The College Fix the data raises the possibility of systemic gender and racial biases for hiring diversity staff at UM.

Asked to weigh in on the research, longtime University of Michigan physics Professor Keith Riles said he is shocked by them.

“These numbers are jaw-dropping, even worse than I had realized,” Riles told The College Fix via email Monday. Riles made headlines in December when he appeared before the regents and urged them to cut DEI spending, arguing some of their apparent preferential minority hiring practices appear to be illegal

“The money wasted on DEI salaries should go into scholarships for talented Michigan students from low-income families, regardless of race or gender,” Riles told The Fix.

==

Absolutely insane.

$31 million to employ more than a thousand people for an imaginary job, which produced an unnecessary workforce more homogeneous than the entire rest of the university.

This is fraud, plain and simple.