#but that's how it's been since inception (un)fortunately

[devotion-between-the-wheat]

finished chapter 11 of nightbringer, and I cannot express how I adore it.

[minigiantsgiantblog]

Index Astartes: Prædicators

Origins

The history of the Inanis Prædicators can be traced back to the terrifying times around the Year of the Ghosts. The High Lords of Terra ordered a Chapter be founded from the Gene-legacy of the Silver Skulls, the line of Guilliman. Thadru Hucno, ‘The Void Herald’, was appointed as the Chapter’s first Lord Commander. Hucno was known for his superstitions, near-ritualistically talking into the void about his Prognosticators’ divinations, and it is from this practice which the Chapter’s High Gothic name derives.

This nascent Chapter and those which were founded alongside them were created from the most stable of gene-stock; how many chapters were founded alongside the Praedicators is unclear as a great many records have been lost within the labyrinth of the Administratum. All that is known is that at least half a dozen were founded, with the Howling Griffons being the most well-known. A majority of the Chapters from this founding follow the strict organisational and tactical guidelines of the Codex Astartes. Like most of the approximately one thousand chapters in existence, the Prædicators follow the doctrines of the Codex to an extent, but are also known for occasionally deviating from some of the less stringent requirements.

Thadru Hucno started the Praedicators upon a path that, for over seven thousand years now, has earned them a cold reputation throughout the Imperium. Since their inception, they have become known for holding an especially grim and fatalistic view of Mankind, stemming from the strange and terrible knowledge that is their burden. The inheritors of Hucno’s visions fight to deny the inevitable, bemoaning the high price they have to pay for such meagre gains as can be won in the wars against the enemies of the Imperium - but they fight on because that is what they were created to do. 

It started within a few years of their founding, as brothers with no prior signs of psychic ability began experiencing vivid hallucinogenic dreams. The Apothecaries now suspect that this was due to the slow mutation of their Catalepsean Node, a dark flaw in the Chapter’s gene-seed that they were at first loath to discuss with even their fellow Astartes. These dreams were glimpses into a horrifying future, and eerily mirrored the more worrying divinations the Chapter’s psychically-attuned Prognosticators were beginning to scry.

As the dreams progressed in severity they eventually had no choice but to reach out; first to the Adeptus Mechanicus and their Genator-Magos, Abdul Hazred, and then to the Ultramarines, the First Founding Chapter whose Primarch Roboute Guilliman was the primogenitor of the Silver Skulls Chapter who in turn were the Praedicator’s forebears. At every step their emissaries were turned away, cursed for being too frightening to be believed. Other servants of the Imperium seemed unable to see the truth staring back at them from beyond the stars; of how pointless Mankind is in this universe, and how the Imperium is the centre of nothing. The confession of their genetic mutation only brought the Imperium’s scrutiny down onto the Prædicators, and with it Inquisitorial investigation along with the immediate presumption of guilt which that entails. Faced with such levels of paranoia and suspicion, the Praedicators have now learned to stay quiet, until one day they may perceive someone who is truly ready to heed their warnings.

Charged with heretical thinking and deviation from the Imperial Creed, the Chapter was sentenced to purgatory along the Imperium’s isolated southern border. Their presence might still be of some use to the Imperium, and the location of their penitent exile was carefully chosen in order to repair the power and reach of the Adeptus Astartes, until such time as they could once again call themselves true Scions of Guilliman in thought and deed. Being haunted by unimaginable visions and nightmares has profoundly altered their tale to this day. Unlike their fellow descendants of Guilliman, the Prædicators never once aspired to take the pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Primarch before his un-prophesised return. Nor have they made obeisance to him in person since, for their visions have made them pariahs and they are still shunned by the Astartes whose gene-seed they bear.

Recruitment

Settling into their duty of protecting the periphery of the Segmentum Tempestus from Xenos incursions, an expeditionary fleet led by the Prædicators was tasked with mapping some essential yet unknown areas of the Veiled Region. Without this survey, the limited levels of navigation possible in this region would have continued to make it both difficult and dangerous to travel through. The Veiled Region  is known for being unstable at best, with perennial nebulae interfering with communication, not to mention the unusual levels of psionic radiation which often leave vessels to drift for days unable to re-enter the tumultuous Immaterium. Amongst the greatest dangers is its isolation from Astropathic communication, for psychic communication is reflected and echoed with only silence being returned. It was only due to the fleet’s particularly skilled Navigators that the exploration was even allowed, and their heroic efforts certainly explain why it was successful. Without them the fleet would be unable to traverse the frequently encountered breaking points of reality, pervasive nebulae, and vast stellar clouds. It was in this seemingly unknown and forgotten area of space, that the expeditionary fleet came upon what they had been told did not exist: human settlements! Under Imperial law they were prohibited, but the populations the fleet encountered seemed to be surviving and even thriving despite their separation from the light of the Astronomicon. What was more striking was the seemingly steady flow of vessels that came and went, bringing supplies and much needed trade, despite the innumerable Imperial edicts which they were breaking to do so.

All manner of vessels, it seemed, would frequently traverse through this region of space; merchants, miners, scavengers, prison ships, vessels belonging to darkholds, and even the occasional Rogue Trader’s personal flagship and attendant flotilla. Without these many visitors the far-flung human settlements would be isolated from one another and left unprotected. The Imperium functions on the premise that most core worlds do not need to be self-sufficient, instead focussing on the manufacture or production of a few key goods or resources which are then supplemented with essential goods from off-world. Without a steady stream of starships plying their way through the Veiled Region, interstellar trade could not exist, and the weapons and other supplies needed to stop each world falling into darkness would not be obtained.

Space travel beyond the boundaries of the Imperium is arduous and dangerous, with spacefarers relying on their ancient vessels’ powerful engines flinging them into the Immaterium - a black art poorly understood by the adepts of the Mechanicus in the forty-first millennium. Once vessels have entered warp-space they can cover thousands of light years within a relatively short time, dropping back into the Materium far beyond their starting points. The Warp ever seeks to drag helpless vessels to their doom, with its constant turbulence, and treacherous warp storms. To travel any distance at all through the warp is dangerous, impressive, and not attempted lightly. To travel between the distant worlds of the Veiled Region demanded a particular kind of dedication, madness, or disregard for the safety of those onboard. The alternative - travelling through realspace without the use of warp engines - brings its own hazards and challenges. And yet here were worlds visited by privateers and merchant princes, arriving via every means and from many directions.

Those aboard space-faring vessels in the forty-first millennium are not merely star travellers but the products of many generations passed in the darkness between worlds; these are the Void Born. They are relatively few among the teeming multitudes of humanity, but singular, and form a disparate and odd collection of misfits, strangers, and other ill-omened folk, birthed in the bellies of vessels that spend entire standard centuries charting a course through the stars. On the worlds the Void Born come to they are often shunned for their ethereal quality and considered to be unlucky, ill-fated, bringers of bad fortune, secretive, and untrustworthy. Most imperial citizens and no small number of fringe-dwellers believe the Void Born in some way to have been touched by the Warp where gravitational variance, radiation exposure, genetic distortion, and chaotic anomalies slowly take their toll. Ashore they carry a strange air about them, a perceptible something that makes others uneasy.

Darkholds

The Darkholders, the Void born from the spacefaring vessels with the darkest of reputations make up a greater proportion of the chapters chaplaincy than any other source. They are couched in stories of dire curses, bleak fortunes, baleful massacres, cannibalism, hauntings and worse. They are a breed apart to those with the wisdom to see it.

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The plight of the Void Born was seen by the Praedicators as one mirroring their own; they too were homeless, and ostracised without just cause. Empathy overcame Hucno's soul. The Void Born, too, were somehow associated with the many and unfathomable dangers of the outer darkness. Their being inured to the Warp convinced the Lord Commander that they could serve as the source of recruitment for the aspirants who might safeguard the future of the Prædicators. Without a Homeworld of their own, the Chapter otherwise risked a slow dwindling through combat losses and the decline into old age that claims even the Astartes after many centuries. Having determined how they could sustain their Chapter, the Praedicators now settled into patrolling the periphery of the vastly unknown Veiled Region. This was ever a dangerous calling, with small groups of ships navigating amongst dense nebulae and newborn stars, suffering from waves of radiation cast off by discarded stellar matter whilst being cloaked from any hope of reinforcements or communication by swathes of stellar dust, and all the while patrolling along the galactic south of the Segmentum Tempestus, from which come the raiders and despoilers of the foul Xenos. The Void Heralds learned to deal with these conditions, or they died. The survivors became responsible for the surrounding areas of space, chief among them the Ainu System, the Nahmu Stars and the Hypnis Expanse. Apothecaries and Chaplains of the Prædicators recruit aspirants for the Chapter exclusively from the vast, city-sized spacecraft that ply the depths of the void; in this way, they follow the edicts of Lord Commander Hucno in order to ensure that the Chapter recruits only the most mentally capable and genetically suitable candidates.

Recruitment is slow and arduous, with no centralised pool of potential candidates to draw from and no way of knowing when the next suitable aspirant will be found within the innumerable shoals of voidfaring vessels. Chaplains must work within the labyrinthine political webs woven amongst the thousands of ships’ crew, often becoming embroiled in complex networks of feuds, alliances, and unpleasant little wars - all while taking care not to disrupt the carefully balanced system. Removing the wrong crewmember as a potential aspirant can potentially hamper the Void Born population's ability to maintain itself and properly crew a ship, depriving the Chapter of a valuable source of future recruits.

Brought to their space-bound fortress monastery, Cetus, to be inducted into the Prædicators the Void Born aspirants will step out to breathe in its unique ecosystem. Some fall into a catatonic, worshipful state when they see its grandeur. These failed aspirants are led away to serve the Chapter in other ways. Those who can take in the sight of Cetus without being overcome gradually learn that large portions of the vessel are used to emulate different combat environments for training purposes, while entire swathes of space are given to meditation. The great chambers and vaults are often decorated with tapestries depicting the terrifying nightmares they are to expect but most numerous of all are the seemingly endless barren halls. It is here that neophytes will undergo the long process of psycho-indoctrination, submitting to grueling biological and genetic testing before being implanted with the gene-seed that will sustain them through a lifetime of nightmares, turning their meagre bodies into killing machines, recreating the Void Born as a Void Herald. A once humble and frail recruit becomes the epitome of humanity, the perfect warrior and servant of the Imperium.

Cetus

Ostracised by their forebears, the Prædicators were never afforded the luxury of being gifted a mighty relic of the Imperium. A brief change in their fortune sometime in 35th millennium however afforded the Chapter their first, most powerful, and most prized possession; a pre-Imperial battlestation of unknown origins found floating abandoned around a neutron star, its organic crew long turned to dust by aeons of inimical radiation which had somehow left the vessel’s hardened Machine Spirit intact. Upon sanctification by the Adeptus Mechanicus this gigantic warship would go on to become the Chapter's space bound fortress monastery, flagship, and foremost warship. In form and scale, it is nearer a planetoid than a conventional vessel. Its foredeck can dock a dozen Imperial Navy Cruisers around its circumference. The vessel is a hive city in space, with its great spires reaching towards the stars. It bears a striking resemblance to the trident shaped Furious Abyss-class Super Battleships of the Great Crusade, the last known example of which was slaved to the Word Bearers legion and long thought lost to the Warp. Its potential rivals that of the more famous Phalanx, and if it were fully operational the Praedicators could boast of wielding firepower equivalent to a formidable fleet. For now the Cetus’ power is untested, yet as more and more of its mysteries are explored the Mechanicus swear they are coming ever closer to bringing its weapon systems fully online. For now it remains more of a figurehead, deterring any would-be attackers with its studded surface packed with arched gun batteries, the squat shape of its singular plasma lance, and arrays of Psionic charges - alongside other more esoteric defences which have yet to be fully revealed. Restoring the Cetus has already been the labour of millennia, and it may yet be centuries more before it leads the Chapter into action once more - a prophesied return which has taken on greater significance with each new divination scryed by the Prognosticators

Battlefield Doctrine

Following the same reading and understanding of Roboute Guilliman's Codex Astartes as their Predecessors, the Silver Skulls, the Praedicators stay close to the sacred tome’s main tenets. This has protected the Chapter from any further suspicion and scrutiny from the Inquisition. The inevitably of all that they know becoming enveloped in darkness never leaves their thoughts but War is their purpose; it is what the Heralds were created for, and it is their last source of pride and satisfaction.

The tactical orthodoxy is dictated to a degree by the fact that they are a Fleet Based Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes - some would say, the truest bearers of the name “Space Marines”. Their limited numbers ensure the Chapter is not used as a blunt instrument but instead to deliver precise and lethal strikes in a manner that could never be achieved by the faceless masses of the Astra Militarum. Millennia of repeated combat indoctrination has shaped them into the force they are today; efficiency in war is their only antidote for bemoaning the cost of taking something that achieves nothing, and being unable to stop the creeping darkness.

After making planetfall on a new world the Praedicators make the most of their precognitive psychic abilities by deploying as a predominantly defensive force. Their Techmarines and commanding officers orchestrate fire bases that use skilled marksmen and overlapping fields of fire to suppress oncoming attackers. Assault forces held in reserve wait for the opportune moment to disrupt their attackers further with well executed raids, attacking seemingly from all sides at once. These attacks have the dual goal of causing considerable damage and sowing confusion among the enemy ranks. Praedicators bemoan the cost of war and, so their reasoning goes, so too will those that try to defy them. It is said the only death the Praedicators fear is the slow death through madness which is the fate of so many Void Born; it is why they give no quarter and expect none in return. As with their predecessors it is not unknown to hear of the Prædicators displaying an unwillingness to go to another’s aid. After all, no one is willing to come to theirs, and sometimes the divinations simply show the cost to be too severe. It is perhaps this single fact which explains why they have survived for so long, and yet have so few allies even amongst their Astartes gene-kin.

Some opponents make the mistake of thinking the defensively-minded Praedicators are an inert force, slow to rouse and lacking in agility. Such thinking brings the enemies of mankind only woe. When the Chapter begrudgingly determines that they have to take ground, they will seek to overwhelm their foes so mightily that they may maintain offensive momentum at all costs. Nor are their assaults rash or under-prepared; preferring to engage directly after a carefully orchestrated orbital bombardment from their vast fleet assets, waves of drop-pod infantry and light equipment arrive with impeccable timing alongside Thunderhawk-deployed vehicles and other heavy assets.

Chapter Scouts will most often be required to gather vital intelligence - a mission which can demand they face the foe under a huge range of dangerous  circumstances. This hard-won knowledge is used to confirm or expand on the information gained from the Prognosticators divinations. Scouts are further used in the disruption of enemy supply lines through sabotage and demolition actions, as well as to eliminate key targets with crippling campaigns of assassination missions and pre-emptive strikes.

Their collective actions are often mistaken for bravery and courage. In truth, the Praedicators stand before the enemies of the Imperium unflinchingly as they consider themselves worthless. It is only thanks to the Chaplains that walk among them in the heat of battle, reminding them of their purpose, their sole responsibility, that they continue to fight. Without strong leadership they might otherwise lapse into dark thoughts: the want to die, the want to despair, and the want to return to nothing.

Organisation

An outside observer would find it difficult to spot any differences between the Prædicators and a chapter rigidly adhering to the tenets of the Codex, such as the Ultramarines. Prædicators have been considered a near Codex Astartes-adherent chapter for much of their history, although the nature of a fleet-based chapter does require some flexibility in this regard, with isolated fleet elements being forced to adapt their tactics to the resources available to them. Additionally, the Prædicators fight predominantly without direct Imperial support due to their ill-omened reputation, instilling in them a sense of self-reliance uncommon in many Codex-style chapters who are more comfortably meshed in the greater Imperial war machine.

It is in the organisation of the higher levels that deviations from the Codex Astartes can be seen. All Chapters include a number of officers and specialists who stand aside from the company organisation. In the Prædicators the Chapter Master is referred to as Lord Commander, as was the way of their predecessors, the Silver Skulls. The Librarians, known as Prognosticators, share the mantle of spiritual advisors (alongside their Brother-Chaplains); these psychically attuned warriors are the seers of the Chapter, scrying for divination of the future. Wherever their visions take them, they grant the squads and companies they are attached to an undeniable edge for the coming battles.

The Chapter relies on a large support staff, and highly ranked members include the Master of the Fleet, and the senior Captains: the Keeper of the Arsenal, the Abyssal Watcher, and the Warden of the Watch. Although each Captain is a Space Marine, there are actually relatively few Brethren in the Chapter’s support staff, and most non-combatant roles are performed by the Chapter’s Human serfs. The Chapter includes a large number of support staff, many of whom are non-combatants of advanced age tasked with the day-to-day administration of the Chapter. The largest group of Prædicators Space Marines in the support staff are the Chapter’s armourers and Techmarines, who are aided in their tasks by hundreds of mono-task Servitors.

The ten companies follow the structure laid down within the Codex, with the first company being made up of the most experienced Veterans among the Chapter’s ranks. Their wisdom is invaluable, and so they are attached to the Battle Companies to share their knowledge, deployed in small units and essentially armed in a similar manner to a Tactical squad though admittedly with their enhanced scopes and specialised ammunition. Only the most experienced of the Veterans will be permitted to wear the few suits of Terminator armour available to the Chapter. Unless the need for their presence on the battlefield is dire, these suits can be seen watching over you as you enter the forge on Cetus. Prædicator Techmarines have gone to extensive lengths to recover fallen suits of Terminator armour so that they may once more see battle.

The 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th Companies are organised along Codex lines as Battle Companies. Each consists of six battleline squads, two close support squads, and two fire support squads. These four companies and their fleets form the main battle lines and generally bear the brunt of the fighting, whether planetside or in the void. Each has a degree of autonomy and with such a variety of squads, the Companies are highly flexible and tactically adaptable.

Companies 6 and 7 are reserve Companies, each consisting of ten battleline squads. These act as reserves which may be used to bolster the front line, launch diversionary attacks or stem enemy flanking manoeuvres. With such low recruitment rates these are rarely ever at full strength. The 7th company is barely seen at all, and some say it exists now in name only.

The 8th Company consists of ten close support squads. This highly mobile company is often equipped with jump packs, and is fielded in the assault role wherever a strong hand-to-hand fighting force is needed to storm an enemy strongpoint.

The Prædicators’ 9th Company follows the doctrines laid out in the Codex, unlike their progenitors the Silver Skulls, who designate their 9th Company as a siege company. In the Prædicators, this Company consists of ten Fire Support Squads. It is the most powerfully equipped in the Chapter and is used to bolster defence and provide long-range support.

The 10th Company consists of a number of Scout squads; youths who have been recruited and partially transformed into Space Marines. There is no formal size for the company as the rate of recruitment is not fixed. They are the only company to not maintain its own fleet, and instead operate directly from Cetus. Never fighting as one coherent force, they are instead assigned throughout the other fleets where they can gain experience alongside their elders. 

All of the companies, with the exception of the Scout Company, maintain transports and Drop pods for each of their squads and officers. The armoury hold onto rarer equipment more centrally, including heavy vehicles such as Land Raiders, with each of these relic war machines being allocated to individual squads as dictated by the needs of their mission or when requested by a Captain in the midst of a campaign.

Many of the Battle companies and Reserve companies include a number of Dreadnoughts. These remain a part of the company in which the warrior served before being interred within the metal sarcophagus from which he fights; his continuing presence always bolsters the company’s fighting strength considerably.

Chapter Cult and Belief System

Haunted by their dreams, and seen as secretive, the ill-omened Prædicators are Void Born and know of the unfathomable dangers of the outer darkness. Just as they did before wearing the mantle of Astartes, they continue to carry a strange air about them; a perceptible yet undefinable something that makes even the bravest of the warriors from other Astartes Chapters uneasy around them.

The Heralds know first-hand the horrors of space and the sheer multitude of the Emperor's enemies. This knowledge forces these voidfarers - plying the dark spaces between the stars while holding a deeper darkness within - to insulate their brotherhood from that which they are duty bound to protect. Thus they live a life of renunciation, rejecting what they know is always lurking in the void beyond the hull.

From deep within the Librarium, the minds of the Prognosticators look far out into the cold vastness of space, seeing further than any of their less gifted brothers’ dream-visions. Their sight will pierce the encroaching black veil for only a second, there to witness a momentary eternity of endless shrieking immemorial lunacy. They rarely speak of the eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order that scorch their mind. They have uncovered the abyss beneath their illusory sense of connection with Mankind; it is their gift, and their burden.

What all Brothers see is a senseless, mechanical, and uncaring universe. Mankind dissolves into meaninglessness when impermanence is the only real thing. They have tried for so long to look away and to wake from these terrible dreams, but with no understanding their minds are pulled and stretched further. The strain is too much for some. Staring deep into the void for so long, it now only stares back, as a contradicting reflection of what they have become: Reclusive, Withdrawn, Taciturn; Denizens of the Deep.

No ordinary Prædicator will be remembered, for all legacies will be burned, but the stars will live on. To recount tales of mankind’s history and achievements only delays the inevitable entropic devouring of every shred of memory, every artifact, and every settled world. Given that, the most solemn of causes is that of the Apothecarion; for their paradoxical role is to prepare for a future that does not appear to exist. The millennia of screeching divinations and torturous dreams have left the Prædicators with only a cold senseless taste of hopelessness. Their actions cannot be compared to the fate that awaits us all; it will all be dust. Humanity’s time has come, no longer belonging in the only place they have ever known.

That tenet disturbs the Ecclesiarchy for not only does it deny the existence of their God-Emperor but also all that He opposes, and all that He supposedly defends us against. It puts the Praedicators at odds with the Adeptus Mechanicus, and particularly challenges the Techmarines within their ranks who have sworn ancient pacts with the Omnissiah. To find a follower of the Imperial Cult not openly hostile to what they consider such blasphemy seems impossible. And should the Praedicators sow their thoughts into the mind of one receptive to their message… that would be the darkest day indeed. The Praedicators reject the concept of the God-Emperor because to perpetuate such an idea - of a deity that can save us from the unsavable - only serves to deny that we are alone, and hopeless in the grandest of schemes.

Realisation of the inevitable fate that belongs to us all is creeping into our galaxy, like the tendriled Void Stalker of the Warp approaching their prey. Aside from perhaps He who now sits on the Golden Throne mankind could never fathom, fully understand, or explain fate; but it is nearly upon them all, and the Praedicators believe that it will become known as a blessed release once every citizen of the Imperium realises that their fate is no longer in anyone’s hands. 

The Praedicators have no particular hatred of Xenos races, though they will gladly extinguish them if given the chance. Though all Xenos are dangerous to mankind, they are considered neither good nor evil. The greatest of the other species are merely incomprehensible, cosmic forces, that notions of morality have no significance to. They exist in cosmic realms beyond our understanding, and cannot serve as a bulwark against the darkness - but may by their mere existence hasten its encroachment. By this simple logic, they must die if mankind is to cling on a little longer in this uncaring galaxy.

While the Deathwatch and Ordo Xenos’ mode operati is considered narrow and flawed, for individual Prædicators to be assigned to a Watch Station or Fortress is celebrated, as the destruction of the Inhuman is seen as one of the last remaining noble causes in the galaxy. In the darkest millennium it needlessly stands out with towering majesty to give hope to those that have none.

Prognosticators

Prognosticators are hybrid officers fulfilling the role of Librarian, alongside tasks more traditionally assigned to the Chaplaincy in other Chapters. While the Praedicators’ Chaplains play a larger role in the recruiting and training of new aspirants, the Prognosticators guide and shepherd the veteran Brethren, administering to the psionic and mental well-being of the Chapter's warriors. 

These dour warriors are the seers of the Chapter, reading their brothers’ dreams or scrying for divination of the future, granting the squads and companies they are attached to an edge for the coming battle. The Chapter takes the readings seriously, so much so that on some occasions, the Prognosticators have successfully counselled against the Chapter becoming embroiled in a particular war. This can prove problematic, as it heaps greater suspicion upon an already mistrusted Chapter. At times this balancing act has even led to companies taking part in conflicts they know will end in defeat. 

Upon a Prognosticator’s armour, pendants, and badges of office can be found Chthonic marks and runes engraved into the surface. These are not purely decorative, as they serve to channel and concentrate the Prognosticator’s psychic powers.

Given their role as wards of the psionic and spiritual health of the Prædicators, it is a rare thing indeed for a Prognosticator to take the Apocryphon Oath, and serve a Vigil of the Long Watch with the Deathwatch, the Chamber Militant of the Ordo Xenos. In accepting a Prognosticator into his Watch Fortress, a Watch Commander gains the services of an individual of unique skill and ability. His knowledge of both the Librarian’s arts and the duties of the Chaplain are of course valuable. Yet the greatest of the Prognosticators are able to extend their ministrations to all of the Battle-Brothers they serve alongside, inspiring each and every one to epic deeds of courage, and diverting the flow of history so that these warriors can return to their chapters as heroes. It is said that it is only by the actions of those few Prognosticators who have taken the Oath that the Prædicators have gained any reputation as trustworthy allies whatsoever.

Apothecaries

The most solemn of individuals tasked with the most solemn of tasks; it is their role to mind the physical wellbeing of their battle-brothers. Not all injuries, however, can be detected with a Narthecium scan. A medic from any other chapter might be oblivious to the emotional damage that eats away at the Praedicators. The Void Born Apothecary, however, knows only too well the torment that his brothers endure, for they too are emotionally scarred from their nightmares.

Techmarines

Those amongst the Prædicators with an affinity for technology are dispatched to Mars, honouring ancient pacts formed with the Adeptus Mechanicus millennia ago upon their founding. There they are initiated into the Martian tech-cults to become Techmarines. This process divides the brothers' duality complex into a triality nightmare, but it is acknowledged as a necessary process. Without Techmarines the Prædicators would be left unable to tend to the machine spirits, to observe the rites that ensure continued operation of their wargear, to repair damage taken on the field of battle, or to attend to the needs of the Fleet.

After their training on Mars they return even more mysterious and capricious, aloof and distant. Their inscrutable ways are not easily understood by most of the battle-brothers. For many they do not understand themselves, lost in doubt, dwelling on the idea that if even their Machine-God may not be eternal then their new-found faith cannot be real. Prædicator Techmarines struggle for their entire lives to unravel their three competing ideologies: the Liber Mechanicus and the Omnissiah; the Chapter’s sacred duty; and its nihilistic creed. Eternity becomes their supreme desire, fearing that nothing is real that is not eternal. 

The Prognosticators that discern their dreams tell of only vague impressions of a sleep-addled mind but they all tell the same story. It is no ordinary nightmare. There is a prison deep below the surface, and something that stands a mile high but moves like flesh and blood. A rustle of wings, and a set of claws; how small the Techmarines stand beside those claws... They feel him beneath the sand, they see his dreams, and so they are consumed by another fear to be believed absolutely. Yet they cling to their visions for they sometimes reveal the location of priceless relics and STC files waiting to be found. In the end the fear and the doubt is all incidental, inevitable, and something to be borne stoically at all costs.

Dreadnoughts

The mightiest fallen Prædicators, those whose souls blaze most fiercely in denial of the dying of the light, are preserved and held back a while longer from their final rest. The restless memories of the ancient heroes who pilot these war machines can extend back to the founding years of their Chapter and its earliest history. They are revered by other Space Marines, not just as potent warriors, but also as exemplars who have endured and continue to resist millennia of hauntings from all that they have seen, and all they have dreamt. Unlike the interred veterans of other Chapters, these courageous warriors and fallen heroes prefer not to sleep within the ancient crypts alongside their deceased brothers in arms. Instead war continuously calls them into the service of the Imperium.

House Vibro

A once great house of the Navis Nobilite whose family estate was located within the Imperial Palace on Terra, House Vibro is now considered nothing more than a pauper house by all those in the Segmentum Solar. 

Their fall from grace was a result of petty rivalry, political subterfuge, and social maneuvering.

An event known as The Tainting came about as agents of rival House Numa tricked a key heiress of House Vibro into a marriage of state with the little-known House Nostromo. A marriage of convenience intended to consolidate power and grow the fortunes of House Vibro was revealed as a fateful error, as the insanity within the bloodline of Nostromo entered their once idyllic family tree. The repercussions took generations to reveal themselves. By the time that it became clear how many of the matriarch’s great-grand-children bore the now-undeniable genetic flaw, it was too late; for the two Houses had become inseparably intertwined. 

House Vibro abandoned their estate, seeking to escape the socio-political fallout and begin their legacy anew in a system where their reputation might not be forever marred by the insanity of House Nostromo. Having traversed the stars to find a new home, eventually establishing their small palace in orbit around Ulthar in the Ainu System; it was there, over many centuries, that they slowly adapted to the void, growing spindly-limbed, willowy-tall, and with a bluish tinge to their skin.

They conducted business by bartering their services to the captains of any vessel or fleet in need of Navigators: merchants, miners, scavengers, prison ships, darkholds, occasionally Rogue Traders, and many years later the Prædicators. The Veiled Region was tumultuous at best, and House Vibro quickly earned the reputation that there were no better Navigators to be had if a captain’s heart was set on going through it. 

The Prædicators were in dire need of expertise in mapping some of the most unstable and unpredictable areas of space within the Veiled Region, and House Vibro in turn could utilise the political capital and prestige they would gain from working alongside the Adeptus Astartes. Their association has remained intact since the start of the Astartes’ purgatory sentence, and upon successfully mapping some of the most dangerous areas within the Veiled Region, House Vibro now holds an exclusive Charter Navigae which means that they alone provide a Navigator for every ship in the Void Heralds’ fleet. An unspoken term of the contract involves the occasional lapses into madness shown by the descendants of long-dead Nostromo: with a certain rate of attrition only to be expected among the Navigators, the House takes pains to provide several replacements to each fleet, as well as a special attache to smooth over any diplomatic incidents. Navigators seconded to oversight roles include Novator Italki Vibro, who personally oversees the Cetus despite its current lack of readiness for Warp-space jumps. 

The Astartes of the Praedicators and the Navigators of House Vibro share a grim fatalism when it comes to matters regarding the nature of reality and the likely fate of mankind. Few would understand this shared common belief, and it may well be the foundation upon which their long and successful association stands. They both consider one another a most welcome asset, and for the Prædicators at least one their bond with House Vibro is one of the few true alliances they have. 

House Vibro shares with the Chaplains of the Praedicators information gleaned from across their extended family network. With the sons and daughters of the House serving alongside merchant and miner captains, scavenger leaders, prison-ship operators, and even the few Rogue Traders they conduct business with openly, there is much to be learned and passed on.  To the Chaplains, the Navigators are a bountiful source of information from across the breadth of the stars, helping them to discern what possible threats they may face, what is occurring in the wider galaxy, and (most importantly) where they should direct their efforts in the never-ending search for possible new recruits.

In return the Lord Commander attaches a ten man squad of Prædicators to the House as bodyguards which are referred to as the Starblades.  Apart from regular guard duties, the Starblades may be called upon to train or lead the troops of House Vibro, undertake covert operations on their behalf, or be present aboard one of the many Vibro trading vessels. The Starblades are sworn to serve the Novator of the house as they would the Lord Commander. Because of this ancient alliance, the Void Stalker that is the symbol of the Praedicators  is also depicted on the Vibro family crest.

Amongst the surviving elders of the House, scant few recall an earlier time when another promising alliance - likewise built upon convenience and the lust for power - turned to ash and madness as the true extent of what they had bound themselves too became apparent. The Praedicators’ visions are silent on this matter, or perhaps being deliberately withheld from their allies. Only time will tell if the most ancient of Navigators in House Vibro can see something that the Novator does not. For now, officially at least, the binding of House and Chapter remains a rare source of pride and rekindled hope.

Gene-seed

The descendants of the line of Guilliman, through the legacy of the Silver Skulls, bore Gene-seed renowned for its stability. So it was upon the founding of the Prædicators, though some may whisper that the legacy of enduring wholeness died with the first Lord Commander’s gene-kin. Whether the Gene-seed is now considered pure or aberrant, it is true that its incorporation only exacerbates the distinguishing features of the typical Void Born recruit: drawn features, pallid skin, and a characteristically haughty air.

It was not long after the Chapter’s founding that the Catalepsean Node in many aspirants began to exhibit signs of a peculiar mutation. Operationally, it still controls the Marine’s circadian rhythms and responses to any kind of sleep deprivation, allowing them to stay awake at full effectiveness for days at a time. Unusually, they often prefer to do so; for when they sleep they are consumed with potent, disturbing, and dark dreams, overwhelming them with dread. Prognosticators scry these dreams to glean small hints of the future, whose own dreams travel out so much further, giving them all cold black dancing in their eyes.

The Apothecaries do what they can to ease the burden of such nightmares. Those who find them all too much and are slowly driven insane are led away in pentagrammically warded chains to a chamber deep in the bowls of Cetus, where they will mutter nonsensically for their eternity about what placid island of ignorance we live in among black seas of infinity. Prognosticators study their cryptic words and piece together the dissociated pieces of knowledge revealed therein - opening up terrifying vistas of reality, and learning of our frightful position therein. 

Primaris Marines

Nearly every Space Marine created since the First Founding possesses nineteen specialised organs derived from their Chapter’s unique gene-seed. The Primaris Marines, however – originally engineered by the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl on the orders of Roboute Guilliman – are implanted with a further three. It was the Sangprimus Portum, a device containing potent genetic material harvested from the Primarchs, that allowed for this breakthrough. Entrusted to Cawl by Guilliman shortly after the Second Founding, this device resulted in a new breed of Adeptus Astartes that were deployed en masse in the Ultima Founding. Due to Cawl’s interpretation of his orders and the millennia-spanning labour of his task – during which Guilliman was injured and suspended in stasis – the secrets of these new Primaris organs were not released until late in the 41st Millennium. Despite being ostracized and cast out as pariahs, ultimately, as with most Chapters, the Prædicators received envoys of the Primarch.

Initially the Primaris were universally met with mistrust, although in each case the reasons were different. The first wave brought mistrust and suspicion down upon themselves, with their oft-repeated claims that the Praedicator’s own Primarch Roboute Guilliman had returned, an event that seemingly was not envisaged by the Chapter’s Prognosticators. The second wave was shunned because of the Chapter Cult itself – could these fresh symbols of resurgent hope ever truly understand that the ending is nigh? With time, those Primaris who have experienced the same nightmares in their sleep-addled brains as any Firstborn battle-brother have grown to be accepted and even well-received, though lingering doubts remain as to whether any of them could fall into madness - and what does it say of them that they cannot fully embrace what it is to know of the Void?

At present, the Chapter’s Cult has been reluctant to fully embrace the Primaris as equals. The Chaplains, Prognosticators and Apothecaries of the Primaris are if anything made even less welcome than their ordinary brothers, as they are seen as lacking the ability to empathise with the Firstborn when it comes to the mental torture they risk with every sleep cycle. Time will tell as to whether the Primaris become full and true Denizens of the Deep, or whether they will be left to quietly wither away and be forgotten. That said, there are those that fear the Primaris for another reason entirely; namely, that they represent the fulfilment of a long-held belief that the End of Days is nigh. Certainly, enough has happened to make some within the Chapter believe the end is coming far sooner than they had previously gleamed, and with Primarichs returning and Custodes abroad once more, perhaps in time the Primaris will be seen not as unwelcome outsiders, but the fulfilment of a prophecy scryed ten millennia ago?

Power Armour

Even with gene-seed implantation complete, there is one final stage that must take place before an aspirant can be called a Prædicator– he must be clad in the distinctive sea green armour. The enclosing suits worn by all Space Marines are made from thick ceramite plates that would be cumbersome but for electrically motivated fibre bundles that replicate the movements of the wearer and supplement his strength. The last gene-seed organ to be implanted in a Space Marine – the black carapace – rests beneath the skin, itself fitted with neural sensors and transfusion ports. These plug-in points mesh with Space Marine armour, linking the wearer’s nervous system to his suit’s mind-impulse controls and turning the suit into a second skin that moves with all the speed and precision of the battle-brother’s own body. Without the carapace, Space Marine armour is almost impossible to use, and it is therefore the most distinctive feature of a battle-brother and the true mark of the Adeptus Astartes. There are several marks of power armour with significantly differing appearances.

Having existed as a Chapter since the 33rd Millennium the Prædicators have collected a large assortment of older marks of armour. All of which have been maintained by skilled artificers who are not Space Marines, but servants who spend their lives working for the Chapter. Comparatively you will usually find other Chapters reserve the rights to wear these ancient suits of armour that have been lavishly restored to the ceremonial guards or elite units. The Prædicators on the other hand do not, and it is common to see Prædicators wear a multitude of older types of armour as well as suits composed of many different marks of armour.

[kaydeefalls]

If I’m not too late!! (Un)breakable and I’m fishing for the arthur/eames one here, but take me where I cannot stand?

No such thing as too late! :D So, (un)breakable (subtitle: the inevitable sequel) was intended to be, you know, the inevitable Old Guard sequel where Quynh comes back and does whatever it is she’s planning to do. It’s currently a couple of pages’ worth of notes and no actual writing. One of the primary plot points I’d planned to include has since shown up in someone else’s fic (totally coincidentally!), so I’ve stalled hard trying to come up with a different way to tell the story, because I don’t want to look like I’m just aping a preexisting (and fairly popular) fic. We’ll see how that shakes itself out.

Your fishing for the Arthur/Eames fic pulled up the wrong WIP title, but I’ll give it to you anyway. :P The Inception WIP is “tinker tailor”. I’d outlined it fairly thoroughly and written a handful of full scenes waaaay back when the movie came out, and then XMFC hit fandom like a ton of bricks and I straight up abandoned all my Inception WIPs. Like you do. But this one has enough structure that I do keep circling back to it periodically, because damn it, I’d really wanted to finish it. It’s meant to be the full Eames & Arthur backstory, with a couple of twists. Snippet:

When Eames first meets Arthur, Eames still goes by his real name and Arthur doesn't.

Eames is a Corporal, which is maybe a step and a half higher than dog shit, but a step and a half higher than dog shit in the SAS is still a damn sight more impressive than this civvie suit from across the pond.

Not that it isn't a very nice suit.

"This is Mr. Smith," the Colonel barks. The name is a blatant falsehood; Smith may as well call himself Bond, James Bond and be done with it. "It seems the Yanks have taken a certain interest in our little experiments, and Mr. Smith here has been sent over to observe." 

So-Called-Smith gives the squadron a pleasant smile and nod.

And looks faintly perturbed when fifteen impassive British commandos smoothly whip out their AK-47s and train the sights on him.

Possibly he knows enough about guns to realize that the SAS doesn't generally arm its troops with Russian black market assault rifles. But that's probably not his most pressing concern at the moment.

"We have a very special training regimen," the Colonel remarks with a toothy grin. He circles So-Called-Smith slowly, shark-like. "And we're positively chuffed to demonstrate."

Here are three things Eames discovers about So-Called-Smith at that moment:

1. The suit clings to him so nicely because there's actual substance beneath it. 2. He isn't entirely ignorant as to the nature of the SAS's experimental training regime. 3. He really, really doesn't like surprises.

This is how the Colonel winds up with his arm twisted up behind his back and a Ka-Bar lightly kissing his jugular. Eames is fairly certain So-Called-Smith didn't even have the knife two seconds ago.

"I beg your pardon?" So-Called-Smith hisses in the Colonel's ear.

Before anyone can say or do anything stupid, the Colonel stomps down the field, parting a path through his men like Moses and the Red Sea.

Eames can't see it from this angle, but he's fairly certain that So-Called-Smith just did a very obvious double-take. His grip on Eames's wrist tightens painfully. Fortunately, the hand holding the knife against Eames's throat remains perfectly still. Not that it would really matter.

"Goddamnit, Corporal," the real Colonel snaps, his accent thickening with disapproval. "Stop poncing around the poor boy's subconscious like it's a West End stage. Mr. Smith, feel free to slit his throat."

So-Called-Smith releases Eames instead, taking a few steps back. "What the fuck?"

Here is one thing Arthur So-Called-Smith discovers about not-yet-called-Eames:

1. He is a lying liar who lies.

[redthreadoffate]

daddy insecurities [arthur, ariadne, eames]

a repost, originally posted in my former writing blog

ship: arthur x ariadne, slight eames x valeria

warnings: swearing; edited thrice in a span of…a few minutes so mistakes may be present

notes: this is 1 of my 3 inception babies; i was still using a different voice then but nothing else has changed

summary: arthur is jealous. he’s very jealous. eames may not have gotten ariadne, but he sure is getting his children.

Things have been going great for Arthur and Ariadne. In their opinion, they weren’t taking their relationship too fast or too slow. After a year and a half of being engaged they got married. A year later they had Casey Luca Brandon, followed by Spencer Phyllira Brandon after another four years. They moved into a modern Victorian home not too far from the city once they started family planning, but keeping the apartment that they shared for the future—and desperate times.

When Ariadne was pregnant with Casey, she had to stop dream sharing. When Arthur first held Casey in his arms, he knew he wanted to be with his family every step of the way. So they agreed to stop dream sharing until the kids were old enough. As much as they wanted to quit permanently, they missed it too much. For now, they’re your regular but above average-looking family living in Paris.

So on this beautiful summer day, the whole family decided to go out of the house and bask in the ambiance of nature. They took a stroll around the city, had lunch near the Eiffel Tower and went shopping for some new clothes before settling down in a park. Arthur and Ariadne found a great spot under a tree and they laid on the grass as Spencer squealed while running—or waddling—to the playground with Casey holding her left hand and their dog, Coulson, on her other side.

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at her,” Arthur tells Ariadne. His jaw is clenched and his fingers are intertwined with his wife’s. “And I think he really wants to play with her.”

“They’re children, Arthur.” Ariadne rolls her eyes and looks at the man beside him. “Stop staring at him at least.” She turns back to the playground to watch her children building a sand castle. “Casey and Coulson are with her. They’ll be her knights in shining armor.”

And just as she says that he jerks forward a little. “Did you see that?”

Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “See what?’

"She looked at him.” His eyes dart to the boy on the other side of the playground. “Spencer saw that boy.”

“Arthur…”

“How’d she even know that he exists? He’s been behind her all this time!”

“Maybe she just happened to look that way. She’s two-years-old, Arthur. He looks just about her age or a little older. There’s nothing wrong with that. Calm down!”

Frowning, he rubs the bridge of his nose then sighs and leans down to rest his forehead on her shoulder. “Am I overreacting?”

“Yes. It’s very un-Arthur-like. Imagine if Eames was here.” She chuckles a little. “But I won’t be surprised if he suddenly does talk about it without even being here. He knows everything, it’s actually kind of scary. And really, who wouldn’t be weak when it comes to Spencer? Look at her!” She raises her free arm to gesture towards the little girl and boy a few feet away. “Look at them!”

Arthur looks over at his children. Both of them have more of Ariadne’s facial features. They both have brown locks and chocolate brown eyes. Spencer also acquired Ariadne’s natural waves while Casey’s hair is a little more straight. They even have some freckles on their nose. Arthur’s glad that they have Ariadne’s smile, it lights up his world when he sees all three. However, the way their eyes crinkle when they smile, their adorable dimples, thin lips and height come from Arthur. Unfortunately, they both have his ears, too. Ariadne and the kids love it but he doesn’t. Arthur’s very conscious about his ears.

Casey, who had just turned six, is starting the first grade in two months. He’s got both Ariadne’s creative brain and Arthur’s skills (or at least, starting to show signs of it). He loves building and sketching, and Ariadne’s excited to teach him a few tricks once he’s older. He also loves to dress up in Arthur’s suits. During his most recent birthday, Uncle Saito gave him his own suits, a custom made Armani, a three-piece Tom Ford, and the latest Gucci. And yes, they can imagine how Saito can get his hands on smaller sizes. There was a note attached to the gifts, ‘I see that he has Arthur’s taste. When he is older, I shall send the rest.’ And Saito always keeps his word.

Spencer, on the other hand, spends way too much time, in her two years of living, with Eames. He unexpectedly shows up in their house and brings the little girl out without their permission. The first few times he did that both the Point Man and the Architect panicked, fortunately, they’re rational thinkers (and Arthur has spent way too much time of his own life with the Forger). But the little girl loves Eames and is already starting to show signs of becoming a prankster.

“Add a little color to your life, darling,” he would say. And Eames adores the little girl. Always calling her princess and buying her unnecessary gifts. Whenever Arthur or Ariadne would scold him about spoiling the girl, he’d reply, “And you don’t? She’s got us all wrapped around her tiny finger.”

During dates with the Cobbs, Phillipa, now a high school graduate, and James, an incoming high school student, loves playing with them. Dom likes to think that it’s a second shot of being a parent. Saito constantly showers them with expensive gifts (and even promising on granting them a scholarship to whichever university they’d choose). Yusuf also shows his love for the kids by sending them trinkets from his trips around the world for conferences.

“You’re not going to lose her, Arthur,” Ariadne assures, “especially not at this age. And even if she does end up having a silly crush—”

“She’s too young for that,” he interrupts, which earns him a glare from the brunette beside him.

“She will never choose them over you.”

Arthur grumbles, “She chooses Eames over me all the time.”

“You know she loves you both equally,” she reminds him.

Arthur sighs and nods. When he looks up again, his eyes narrow. “What the fuck is he doing?”

“Arthur!”

“It’s Eames! He’s trying to take her away again!”

Ariadne looks at where the children are, and, sure enough, the English man is by the sandbox, holding the little girl by the waist, and talking to the six-year-old boy. Coulson is wagging his tail and sniffing the man with glee. “He’s not going to take her away in front of Casey, and this is one of her favorite spots, he knows that.”

Eames looks up and gives them a grin and a wave. Ariadne does the same while Arthur simply raises his hand in acknowledgement. He whispers to the little girl and then says something to the boy the Brandons can’t decipher. The brunettes nod happily before turning to their parents and giving them a wave with smiles on their faces. Ariadne giggles and, again, waves at them with a huge smile on her face. The scene of his children warms Arthur’s heart and immediately, he smiles, his eye crinkling and his dimples showing, and waves back at them.

“Maybe I won’t kill Eames today.”

“Your daughter would be heartbroken.”

Arthur nods. As he watches his children play with one of their godfathers the boy he had been fussing about earlier is walking towards the sandbox. “Ariadne?”

“Don’t stress, Arthur. He’s simply looking for a playmate, and besides, Eames is there. Doesn’t that relax you a little?”

“I suppose.”

“He’s pretty much their second father.”

“He’s just a suspicious boy.”

“Arthur, he’s probably only three.”

“Exactly, at that age, girls and boys don’t know that they can feel attraction!”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “That boy probably thinks Spencer is a pretty little girl who seems to be having fun and who just might want to play. He just wants to be friends with Spencer! There’s nothing wrong with that. Stop being such a jealous father and let your daughter have some fun.”

“I’m not jealous,” Arthur snorts.

After a few minutes, the two see Eames kiss Spencer’s temple, stand and make his way towards them. “Darling,” he starts, “I can hear the two of you bicker over nonsense all the way over there.” He uses his thumb to point at the place he’d recently been in.

“Arthur’s just jealous,” Ariadne says.

“You should be, your children seem to like me more than you.”

Arthur glares. “Aren’t you due back to visit Valeria in Germany?”

“Val knows it’s hard for me to leave our godchildren. Do you want to get rid of me that easily?”

“Always.”

Eames chuckles. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“They’re not.”

“Arthur’s just jealous that Spencer will start to replace him soon,” Ariadne supplies.

“He already has been replaced, ever since I showed up in the hospital when she was born. Even your own dog likes me better than him.”

Ariadne fails to suppress a soft laugh. “Not helping, Eames.”

“The only time I’ve seen this bloke get jealous was with you, love. It’s very amusing to see him all worked up over,” Eames looks behind him, “a three-year old boy,” he continues when he turns back. “You can probably take him down with a single move. He doesn’t seem to have much experience with hand-to-hand combat.”

“What’s his name?” Arthur asks.

“Are you going to check his records with your phone, darling?”

“No, his family’s. And not now, when we get back home. What’s his name, Eames?”

Ariadne rolls her eyes and Eames just shrugs. “Christopher.”

“Christopher what?”

“Robin.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Eames.”

After roaring with laughter, Eames says, “I’m surprised you know who that is.”

Ariadne laughs. “Having two children does that to him.”

A small smile escapes the dark haired man’s lips. “Give me his name, Eames.”

“All right, all right. It’s Christopher Mann, and that’s with a double 'n’. He’s a sweet child, really. I’d hate for you to find something in his record.”

“I just want to make sure that when this boy tells his family or anyone about playing with a little girl named Spencer and her brother named Casey with a dog named Coulson, I have nothing to worry about,” Arthur tells him. “It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

Both Ariadne and Eames look at each other and sigh.

Arthur squeezes his wife’s hand. “I just want this family to be safe.”

Ariadne smiles. “I know.”

The three adults watch the three children play. Arthur hates to admit it but Spencer is enjoying the company of the new boy. “Where’s his family?” he wonders aloud.

“Over there,” Eames points at an older couple on the other side. They seem to be having a heated argument. “Christopher doesn’t like hearing them talk loudly. It makes him sad. Poor boy. His older brother is away in college so he’s very much alone at home.”

That breaks Arthur’s heart and he’s suddenly really happy that the children are getting along really well. He can’t imagine either Casey or Spencer being alone while he and Ariadne fight. Hell, he can’t even imagine him and Ariadne fighting when the children are within reach. Sure, they’ve had their share of arguments and cold shoulders when the kids are around, but they’d always make sure to keep their emotions in check until they’re alone.

The boy, Christopher, also seems to be having fun playing with Coulson. The dog sniffs the little boy before licking his face. “Even Coulson likes him,” Ariadne says with a little laugh. “It’s really just you, Arthur.”

About an hour later, Christopher’s mother calls him. “Chris! It’s time to go now, honey.” Arthur sees the boy frown. Christopher stands and pets Coulson one more time before waving at the two children he had recently befriended. Once he’s left, Spencer pouts and gives an exaggerated sigh. Casey pats her shoulder and tries to cheer her up, which seems to have worked.

“My princess is sad,” Eames observes, “it’s time to bring her to the ice cream parlour.”

“You’re really showing favoritism, aren’t you?” Ariadne says with a small smile.

“I do not, love. I also spoiled Casey when he was younger. But I suppose I have a softer heart for little girls.” He shrugs. “Hey, Arthur, would you rather teach Casey or Spencer?”

“Teach what?”

Eames groans. “Fighting, of course! We’re going to teach those children to defend themselves! They are definitely not going to be bullies—”

“Unless they hang out with you too much,” Arthur mutters.

“—so they will be bullied. We need to make sure that they’re feared!”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Eames…”

“Love, we cannot allow those two precious children be looked down upon.”

Arthur gives a little nod. “There’s no need for us to personally teach them unless we think that they need more. Ari and I have been talking about it; we’re planning on letting them take self-defense lessons. Casey would probably start soon and we’ll wait until Spencer is his age.”

Grinning, Eames says, “Perfect. I’ll be there in the waiting area.”

Ariadne smiles and Arthur can’t hide the smirk on his face.

When Arthur notes that the sun would be setting soon, Ariadne suggests that they head home. After getting some ice cream from the store they arrive in their grayish-white house and Eames mentions to them that he has nothing better to do and there’s nothing more he loves than spending time with the Brandon children. “You and Ariadne can have some grown-up time, yeah?”

“We don’t do grown-up time when the kids are at home,” Arthur mumbles. “Just don’t kidnap our children and you can stay for an hour.”

“You can stay for as long as you want, Eames,” Ariadne says as she helps Casey with a new shirt. “We’re having pasta for dinner.”

“Eames does love pasta,” the Forger tells them, licking his lips. He picks up Spencer just as she says, “Me!” Eames chuckles. “Everyone loves your mother’s pasta, princess. You should try Uncle Eames brownies.”

“Oh, dear God, no,” Arthur groans.

“Don’t you have some researching to do, darling?” Eames jokes.

“I just have to make sure that you’re not going to make a run for it.” Arthur shakes his head and heads for his study. “Come, Coulson.” And the dog happily follows him inside.

“Your daddy is a strange man, princess.”

Spencer grins. “Daddy!”

Less than an hour later, Arthur emerges from his study and walks back to the living room. On the way, he passes by his wife preparing the ingredients for dinner. He smiles and kisses her cheek before heading to his destination. He spots Casey on the floor with his building blocks and Spencer still on Eames’s lap. Coulson sits obediently beside Casey.

“You’re still here,” Arthur deadpans.

“Your wife said I can stay as long as I want. And I’ll be staying until dessert. Or at least until this little princess’s bedtime.”

“Tuck! Tuck!” Spencer claps.

“Tuck me in, too, Uncle Eames!” Casey joins.

Eames grins. “Of course, of course. I will gladly tuck you two in. Perhaps you’d even want a story of one of my adventures?”

Casey nods enthusiastically. “Yes! I love your stories, Uncle Eames!”

“Love Unca Ease!” Spencer squeals.

“Aww,” Eames tickles her stomach, “Uncle Eames loves you, too, princess.”

Arthur smiles at the scene. As much as he despises Eames—okay, he really doesn’t, at all, he loves the man as much as he loves his brother, Edward Brandon—he loves that Eames loves Casey and Spencer enough for them to be his own children. He hears Casey play with his toys and he’s a little jealous of the attention that Eames is getting from Spencer. “Casey,” he calls.

Casey looks up and grins. Arthur has his legs open and arms outstretched. The little boy walks to his father and Arthur carries him to his lap. He stretches towards the dog who was sitting beside him. “Come, Coulson,” he says.

Coulson wags his tail and trots over them. Casey pats his head and then turns to his father. “Daddy, I think Coulson is lonely.”

“He can’t be lonely, he has you.” Arthur smiles, already knowing where the conversation is heading.

“I think he needs a friend.” Casey smiles.

Arthur shrugs. “He has a brother and a sister.”

“Daddy, you’re being silly!” Casey giggles. “I think we should get another dog.”

“Another dog?” Arthur feigns surprise. “Now where did you get that idea?”

Casey shrugs exaggeratedly. “Can we, Daddy?

Arthur smiles. "Your mother and I would have to talk about it first, okay?” Although he’s very sure of what the answer will be. “But we may not get one exactly like Coulson, he’s one of a kind!” Coulson wags his tail and sniffs Arthur’s knee. “Yes you are, Coulson,” he murmurs, fondly remembering the time he first entered his and Ariadne’s lives.

“That’s okay,” Casey nods, “I just think he needs a friend.”

Arthur kisses his temple. “We’ll see, big guy. We’ll see.”

After dinner and dessert, the family, plus Eames, is sitting around the living room watching an old, classical film that stars Audrey Hepburn. While the adults are engrossed in the film, Casey and Spencer play with the dog on the floor.

“It su—it’s sad that she’s only known for her acting skills and beauty,” Ariadne sighs, “she’s an amazing person. So much more than what people say about her.”

“Well, that’s Hollywood,” Eames says with a shrug. “And as an actor I can definitely say that some people are only judged by our faces. Some people, as beautiful or as handsome as they are, cannot act to save their lives! And yet, people still praise them. It’s more of a popularity contest. While some people, more average looking ones, who can act wonderfully, cannot shine due to being overshadowed.”

“It’s hard to tell who you are in that argument,” Arthur sneers.

“Oh, darling, you wound me so deeply. I’m neither and you know that.”

Ariadne giggles softly before placing her head on Arthur’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go to bed early? Like, right after this movie ends.”

“If that’s your way of shooing me out, love, it’s not working,” Eames says with a wicked grin.

Arthur groans. “You’re not planning on spending the night, are you?”

“Well, now that you’ve revealed to me your master plan, someone’s got to keep the children together, right?”

Ariadne smiles. “Well, someone’s got to wash and tuck the children to sleep.”

Arthur shifts. “Really?” But the grin on his face cannot be stopped.

Eames laughs, causing the children to look at him with smiles on their faces. “What’s so funny, Uncle Eames?”

“Oh, just a grown-up joke, Little Man. We’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Okay,” Casey nods. Casey’s memory is better than most, he’d remember this moment, and Eames knows it. “Are you tired, Spencer?”

Arthur and Ariadne smiles and squeeze in together. But just as they’re getting cozy, Spencer appears, waddling with a grin that showed off her few baby teeth. “Daddy!” Arthur smiles brightly and doesn’t think twice about carrying her and putting her in between him and Ariadne. “Mommy!” she squeals.

Ariadne plays with her daughter’s hair before kissing the top of her head. “Not tired yet, sweetie?”

“Na!” She grins. “Pay!”

“It’s almost your bedtime, you can’t play anymore. Once this movie’s done, Uncle Eames will be washing you and Casey and then tuck you to sleep.”

“No sip!” she protests.

“Yes sleep,” Arthur tells her. “If you sleep earlier, there’s more time for you to play tomorrow.”

Spencer pouts. “Unca Ease towo?”

“If you wake up early enough then I might still be here,” Eames tells her. The tone that Eames used makes Spencer squeal in delight. “Sleep?”

“Sip!”

Arthur peaks over to see Casey resting his head on Coulson’s curled body. “How are you doing, big guy?”

“Coulson’s tired and I’m tired.”

“I suppose that means you had a great day today?” Ariadne asks.

Casey looks at them. “I did! What about you, Spencer?” His little sister raises her arms and squeals. “I think she also had a great day,” he replies, making the three adults laugh.

Later that night, with Spencer and Casey soundly asleep in their respective rooms, Eames in the guest bedroom, and Coulson back in his doghouse, Arthur and Ariadne lay quietly on their bed. Ariadne’s resting her head on Arthur’s chest while he has his arms wrapped around her.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be jealous of a little boy, Arthur,” Ariadne says.

He chuckles. “I know.”

“And you shouldn’t be jealous of Eames, either.”

He sighs. “Eames is a challenge. He’s amazing with everyone, it’s hard not to like him.”

Ariadne smiles. No matter how many times Arthur has admitted to caring about Eames, she still catches herself thinking about the two being best friends. “You’re not just Spencer’s father, but her dad. Eames is…well, he’s Eames. We already knew that our children would love him.”

“Eames is a great dad without having to be a father.”

“He’s scared. Valeria told him about the pregnancy scare, he was so relieved. She was hurt but she understood. He isn’t ready yet. Maybe he loves the two because he also wants to start a family, he’s just not sure how.”

Arthur sighs and holds her tighter. “He’s weird.”

Ariadne laughs and snuggles closer. That’s when they hear a bark and a scream. Arthur quickly puts on a pair of boxer shorts and Ariadne scrambles to find her robe. The Point Man is out their room quicker than the Architect.

“Coulson!?”

Ariadne gently pushes Arthur to the side to see what’s happening. Coulson is running around with Casey right beside him. Eames is at the end of the hall with Spencer on his shoulders.

“Eames!”

The fun stops and they turn around to look at Arthur. “Darling, you’re in front of minors. And they’re your children.”

“My children shouldn’t be out here in the first place.”

“Casey couldn’t sleep. He knocked on my door about an hour or two after I tucked him into bed. He said he wanted to be in one of my adventures. We couldn’t have fun without Spencer and Coulson. So,” he shrugs. “Oh, love, you look…hm, I can’t really say it in front of the children.” Eames winks.

Ariadne wraps the robe she’s wearing tighter around her and hides behind Arthur, a faint blush appearing in her cheeks. “It’s way past the kids’ bedtime.”

“Pay!” Spencer squeals, clapping her hands.

“No, no,” Ariadne shakes her head, stepping away from Arthur and moving towards Eames, “Spencer, it’s time to sleep.”

“No sip!” Spencer argues, but her arms are outstretched. “Mommy pay!”

“It’s late now, honey,” Ariadne tells her. Eames brings the little girl down from his shoulders and gives her to Ariadne. “You have to go to sleep.” With Spencer at her hip, she looks over at Arthur who’s trying to get Casey to bed. “Arthur, I can take care of the kids and you’re in charge of Coulson and Eames.”

Arthur groans. Coulson stops wagging his tail and sits. “Oh, no, not you, Coulson.” Eames laughs out loud. “Eames, you’re banned from this house at night.”

“Stop being jealous of me, darling,” Eames teases.

tagging: @angel-cap

[michaelfallcon]

Open For Service Gives A Voice To Coffee Workers

The global pandemic has forced thousands of cafes around the world to limit service or temporarily close their doors (in some cases, permanently). Here in the United States, businesses have had to make difficult decisions on the fly as local, state, and federal government delivers mixed messages and confusing guidance.

Many service workers are getting sick working the front-lines of this pandemic, millions have been furloughed or laid off, and those who continue to work are putting themselves at risk of exposure every single day.

Furloughed Texas coffee workers Oodie Taliaferro and Britain Brooks-Hall have started a new project together on Instagram called Open For Service. The account, presented with vivid visuals and direct quotes, tells individual stories of coffee workers impacted during the pandemic and includes the best way to support them/their team.

View this post on Instagram

I wanted to create Open for Service to give my fellow coffee professionals a space to share their stories in the midst of a crisis. As a community, it is vital that we support each other. Listening to the experiences of those around us will help us to take care of one another and create a future in this industry that values the work that we do every day, serving our communities. My shop is currently closed and I have been furloughed with the hope of opening as soon as possible. Until then, I’ll keep dreaming of coffee. With love, Britain

A post shared by open for service (@open4service) on Mar 27, 2020 at 7:00am PDT

“The people who work in this industry are the most dedicated, hardworking, talented, and unique individuals I have ever met,” Brooks-Hall told us via email. “Coffee gave me a home when I felt lost and a chosen family when I needed it most. I wanted everyone to be able to tell their story. If they were laid off or furloughed? How did their company inform them and what language did they use? How has this affected them financially, emotionally, mentally?”

“I knew Oodie from working in the same area,” explains Brooks-Hall, “and had a rough idea for the project and reached out to them and wanted us to be partners! They have spent a long time in the community and this was equally important to them as well.”

View this post on Instagram

over the last few weeks several folks have reached out to me and my wife asking how they can support me in this time, and while i appreciate that, i know that there are people that i love that are in a way less fortunate position than myself. i’ve been asking myself how i can share the stories of those affected? how can i drive traffic to their virtual tip-jars? when @greatbrxtain approached me about launching a digital platform that helped un/deremployed baristas get their stories and experiences out there, i knew i had to help. i’ve benefited time and again from the generosity of this community and now it’s time for me to step back and help other receive the same kind of help that i have throughout my career. take care, y’all. — oodie

A post shared by open for service (@open4service) on Mar 28, 2020 at 7:26am PDT

The account continues to grow, with new voices amplified from around the United States and more being added each day. This is an ambitious, important project worthy of your follow on Instagram. To learn more we spoke with Oodie Taliaferro digitally, which, well, you know—is pretty much the only way anyone can talk to each these days.

This interview has been lightly edited.

Hey Oodie, thank you for talking to Sprudge. Tell us in your words—why did y’all put this project together?

We have a lot of wonderful coffee-specific resources cropping up throughout this pandemic, but I haven’t seen much that leans into the communities that benefit from our labor (read: our customers).

I’m a barista in Austin. I have worked in coffee in Texas for six years. I know a lot of customers and I know a lot of coffee workers. As a coffee person, you hear stories about how companies treat their staff, but as a consumer, you can only ever know as much as a company will tell you on their social media. I’ve had a bunch of folks from my non-coffee life reach out and ask how they can support me through this. At the time of Open for Service’s inception, I was still employed and collecting a paycheck, so my answer to those folks was to go to their favorite coffee shop or baristas and give them money directly. This got me thinking about ways that we can connect coffee workers with coffee consumers: is there a way to remove the company’s narrative from the barista-consumer dialogue? How can we as baristas receive direct, unintercepted financial support from those that want to help us? Enter Britain [Brooks-Hall]—together we’ve come up with a platform that both shares experience and hopefully provides direct financial resources to working-class baristas.

A lot of companies are showing their true colors right now. They’re telling us how important their workers are by the way they’re choosing to communicate about the reality of the closures due to this pandemic. Most of our customers want to support us and they want to see small businesses thrive. Coffee consumers want to know who to support right now, and unless coffee workers share their stories, those consumers won’t be able to make true and informed decisions. For me, Open for Service is a way to bridge these gaps.

View this post on Instagram

K A T “My boss has been very kind, respectful, and giving during this time. The staff he had to lay off he messaged directly and made sure that they would all be okay without the job (all of which currently live with their parents/don’t have bills to pay). For those of us furloughed, he was always upfront and thankful to us for being flexible day to day, trying to figure out when he was going to close shop. When we did close up, he said he has been trying to get help from the government so that he is able to pay us, that were furloughed, during this time since we rely on paychecks to pay bills. I feel good about how it was handled, but hope that everything comes out okay on the other side. I feel okay. I’m lucky to have financial support from my family. I am hopeful that when this is all over that the shop I work at will still be able to grow as planned. Emotionally and mentally I have had some low days. It’s a weird time for everyone and I’m just taking it day by day.”

A post shared by open for service (@open4service) on Mar 31, 2020 at 9:50am PDT

The posts themselves are so important, they are also beautifully made—who designs them?

Oh! Britain and I do! I built us some templates on Canva. Once you build a template (there are some pre-made!) it’s very plug and play.

It was so important to me that these features were SHARABLE! We wanted to make these features so that they’d look nice even on the most ~curated~ accounts (see, lots of our customers). The more folks that see this work and follow through to our account, the more awareness and direct support that can be brought to coffee workers.

How can people get involved?

If you’d like to tell your story you can follow this link. If you’d like to support the baristas featured their preferred method of donation will be in the last slide of each feature.

Thanks for starting this project!

Thanks for reaching out! While it’s awful that a global pandemic is bringing these experiences to light, it’s important we share them still.

Follow @Open4Service on Instagram to learn more. 

Zachary Carlsen is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Zachary Carlsen on Sprudge.

Open For Service Gives A Voice To Coffee Workers published first on https://medium.com/@LinLinCoffee

[shebreathesslowly]

Open For Service Gives A Voice To Coffee Workers

The global pandemic has forced thousands of cafes around the world to limit service or temporarily close their doors (in some cases, permanently). Here in the United States, businesses have had to make difficult decisions on the fly as local, state, and federal government delivers mixed messages and confusing guidance.

Many service workers are getting sick working the front-lines of this pandemic, millions have been furloughed or laid off, and those who continue to work are putting themselves at risk of exposure every single day.

Furloughed Texas coffee workers Oodie Taliaferro and Britain Brooks-Hall have started a new project together on Instagram called Open For Service. The account, presented with vivid visuals and direct quotes, tells individual stories of coffee workers impacted during the pandemic and includes the best way to support them/their team.

View this post on Instagram

I wanted to create Open for Service to give my fellow coffee professionals a space to share their stories in the midst of a crisis. As a community, it is vital that we support each other. Listening to the experiences of those around us will help us to take care of one another and create a future in this industry that values the work that we do every day, serving our communities. My shop is currently closed and I have been furloughed with the hope of opening as soon as possible. Until then, I’ll keep dreaming of coffee. With love, Britain

A post shared by open for service (@open4service) on Mar 27, 2020 at 7:00am PDT

“The people who work in this industry are the most dedicated, hardworking, talented, and unique individuals I have ever met,” Brooks-Hall told us via email. “Coffee gave me a home when I felt lost and a chosen family when I needed it most. I wanted everyone to be able to tell their story. If they were laid off or furloughed? How did their company inform them and what language did they use? How has this affected them financially, emotionally, mentally?”

“I knew Oodie from working in the same area,” explains Brooks-Hall, “and had a rough idea for the project and reached out to them and wanted us to be partners! They have spent a long time in the community and this was equally important to them as well.”

View this post on Instagram

over the last few weeks several folks have reached out to me and my wife asking how they can support me in this time, and while i appreciate that, i know that there are people that i love that are in a way less fortunate position than myself. i’ve been asking myself how i can share the stories of those affected? how can i drive traffic to their virtual tip-jars? when @greatbrxtain approached me about launching a digital platform that helped un/deremployed baristas get their stories and experiences out there, i knew i had to help. i’ve benefited time and again from the generosity of this community and now it’s time for me to step back and help other receive the same kind of help that i have throughout my career. take care, y’all. — oodie

A post shared by open for service (@open4service) on Mar 28, 2020 at 7:26am PDT

The account continues to grow, with new voices amplified from around the United States and more being added each day. This is an ambitious, important project worthy of your follow on Instagram. To learn more we spoke with Oodie Taliaferro digitally, which, well, you know—is pretty much the only way anyone can talk to each these days.

This interview has been lightly edited.

Hey Oodie, thank you for talking to Sprudge. Tell us in your words—why did y’all put this project together?

We have a lot of wonderful coffee-specific resources cropping up throughout this pandemic, but I haven’t seen much that leans into the communities that benefit from our labor (read: our customers).

I’m a barista in Austin. I have worked in coffee in Texas for six years. I know a lot of customers and I know a lot of coffee workers. As a coffee person, you hear stories about how companies treat their staff, but as a consumer, you can only ever know as much as a company will tell you on their social media. I’ve had a bunch of folks from my non-coffee life reach out and ask how they can support me through this. At the time of Open for Service’s inception, I was still employed and collecting a paycheck, so my answer to those folks was to go to their favorite coffee shop or baristas and give them money directly. This got me thinking about ways that we can connect coffee workers with coffee consumers: is there a way to remove the company’s narrative from the barista-consumer dialogue? How can we as baristas receive direct, unintercepted financial support from those that want to help us? Enter Britain [Brooks-Hall]—together we’ve come up with a platform that both shares experience and hopefully provides direct financial resources to working-class baristas.

A lot of companies are showing their true colors right now. They’re telling us how important their workers are by the way they’re choosing to communicate about the reality of the closures due to this pandemic. Most of our customers want to support us and they want to see small businesses thrive. Coffee consumers want to know who to support right now, and unless coffee workers share their stories, those consumers won’t be able to make true and informed decisions. For me, Open for Service is a way to bridge these gaps.

View this post on Instagram

K A T “My boss has been very kind, respectful, and giving during this time. The staff he had to lay off he messaged directly and made sure that they would all be okay without the job (all of which currently live with their parents/don’t have bills to pay). For those of us furloughed, he was always upfront and thankful to us for being flexible day to day, trying to figure out when he was going to close shop. When we did close up, he said he has been trying to get help from the government so that he is able to pay us, that were furloughed, during this time since we rely on paychecks to pay bills. I feel good about how it was handled, but hope that everything comes out okay on the other side. I feel okay. I’m lucky to have financial support from my family. I am hopeful that when this is all over that the shop I work at will still be able to grow as planned. Emotionally and mentally I have had some low days. It’s a weird time for everyone and I’m just taking it day by day.”

A post shared by open for service (@open4service) on Mar 31, 2020 at 9:50am PDT

The posts themselves are so important, they are also beautifully made—who designs them?

Oh! Britain and I do! I built us some templates on Canva. Once you build a template (there are some pre-made!) it’s very plug and play.

It was so important to me that these features were SHARABLE! We wanted to make these features so that they’d look nice even on the most ~curated~ accounts (see, lots of our customers). The more folks that see this work and follow through to our account, the more awareness and direct support that can be brought to coffee workers.

How can people get involved?

If you’d like to tell your story you can follow this link. If you’d like to support the baristas featured their preferred method of donation will be in the last slide of each feature.

Thanks for starting this project!

Thanks for reaching out! While it’s awful that a global pandemic is bringing these experiences to light, it’s important we share them still.

Follow @Open4Service on Instagram to learn more. 

Zachary Carlsen is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Zachary Carlsen on Sprudge.

from Sprudge https://ift.tt/2JSIATi

[davidfostercomedyblog]

How I Got Into Stand-Up Comedy - A Personal Memoir

I got into comedy because my Probation Officer made me stop smoking weed.

Alice Corrigan, a wicked witch of a corrections officer whose reputation was well known in my high school. “You got Corrigan?! Fuck, sorry dude.”

I loved weed, and continued to smoke through my first year after sentencing, carelessly trying to fool the tests via substances like Goldenseal, Test Pure, and/or gallons of water the night before each meeting. I’d strain to abstain from my beloved herb for 24 hours, then on the ride home from the Corrections office light up in joyous release, rapping along to some rap lyrics that denounced authority.

But Corrigan was no fool, probably why everyone hated her. After about 18 months of our cat-and-mouse game of urine testing, my mother woke me up one morning holding the (portable) phone in my face.

“It’s Alice Corrigan.”

Rude awakening.

“Hello?” I answered, trying to invoke sounds of maturity and sobriety all into two syllables.

“Hi, David. I need you to come in today by 2:00 for a random drug test.”

Long pause: Random drug test. Isn’t that an oxymoron?

It was my friend, Nick’s birthday the day before, and we spent the night on my porch listening to the new Cypress Hill album, attempting to match their lyrics in actual smoke. Alice filled my reflective gap.

“These are mandatory, so I’ll see you as soon as possible.” She was so cold, so adult, so stern and unforgiving. I hated her so much.

“Oh, okay, no problem,” I answered, trying not to reveal my devastation.

“I’ll see you later,” she hung up.

I proceeded to pound gallons of water, desperate for a miracle, only to be told at our next scheduled appointment that my hyper-hydration was for naught. I came up positive, much as I apparently had in many tests for several months prior. One more positive test would constitute a “violation,” which meant at least a brief period of jail time, which was a line for me.

I enjoyed the adrenaline rushes of graffiti writing and shoplifting but wasn’t cut out for prison. I was rambunctious and experimental, arguably damaged and angry - but with a 1240 SAT (imagine if I hadn’t smoked weed all night the night before) I knew I was better suited for zoot suits than jumpsuits. A prison sentence, no matter how brief, was out of the question. I quit smoking weed.

For a while I was bored and depressed, confused as to how to fill this void that copping, rolling, smoking and occasionally selling weed had done before. Fortunately it was around this time that I met E and moved into Manhattan.

The 90’s were arguably New York’s “sweet spot,” when it was becoming safe enough to always go about your business and enjoy yourself, but also pre-7-11 stores and gentrification, and the culturally rich neighborhoods that once made the city into the capital of the world still retained their integrity. The Lower East Side was still inhabited by broke artists, and E had grown up in Greenwich Village, which believe it or not still boasted some shady blocks where you had to be street smart.

E’s crew of friends could have shown up in a picture under “cool” in the dictionary. They were the best of both worlds, mostly private school educated, but equally street savvy: A racially diverse group of 18 year olds who’d grown up as much on downtown pool halls and hip hop as they did on independent film study and fine literature. They had nicknames for one another and secret handshakes and genuinely scoffed at ideas of style or dialectic parameters based on skin color. I thought they were perfect. I was as quickly accepted by them as I was influenced, and before I knew it my wardrobe was more urban, dialect more slang, and for the first time in my life I wasn’t embarrassed about sounding smart. 

E and I became inseparable besties, literally overnight (on a magic mushroom trip), and frankly, I wanted to be him. He was mixed, Hispanic and white, but when you grew up in New York, dressed in all Polo and North Face gear, and referred to all guys as “niggas,” you’re just “Spanish.” He was the most charismatic, which made him the unofficial leader of our crew. His energy dominated every cypher, and he was as popular with the film nerds as he was with black thugs and girls of all backgrounds. Handsome and stylish, E didn’t need to be hilarious to get laid, but he was – funny bordering on psychotic even. We had many drunken nights downtown with the local pool hall crew that would leave my head spinning the next morning, not only in literal hangover, but also psychological reflection of who I was, who I’d been to this point, and wanted to be going forward.

Without weed I felt mentally clearer, sharper and wittier, more creative. E’s words began coming out of my mouth and mannerisms through my body. I noticed people laughing more at my jokes, gravitating more to my energy and deferring to me in conversation, and what 18 year old wouldn’t enjoy this?  

Funny is a muscle like any other. We all have it, though some of us with a greater potential than others. Two guys can go to the gym together every day for two years and do the same exercises and will come out not looking the same. One’s biceps will be bigger than the other’s. Maybe the other’s legs will be stronger. One will have lost a lot of hair. The other did not. They look at each other constantly, almost as much as they do the mirror, coveting that which contemporary women deem more attractive. They go home and listen to bad music. They have simple jobs and terrible conversations, small penises and an embarrassing medicine chest. They’re unhealthy, too big, uninformed. I digress.

E introduced me to Manhattan Public Access, which up until the advent of Youtube and iphones, was a reputable vessel amongst our generation. Everyone who was anyone was up on the few dope shows that aired weekly on one of the free (uncensored) networks. Spic N’ Spanish, Sam Kellerman Live (RIP), and most close to home, Baby Show, which was produced by another crew of arrogant Greenwich Village kids that E knew from childhood. They would run around town with their video camera making comedy sketches, then air them as a half hour variety show, a pre-recorded, low-budget, uncensored SNL, if you will. Skits were hit-or-miss (also like SNL), but they were always interesting, vulgar but smart, and obviously having tons of fun. I decided for the upcoming Christmas to ask my parents for a video camera.

Over the next two years E and I made about 50 sketches (with the help of our crew). We wrote our first (awful) screenplay and laughed harder with one another than either of us had before in life. We worked hard and often, and my mind’s generation of ideas seemed infinite in the absence of weed. I understand many other artists have the opposite experience, which is just one example of how one size can never fit all, whether with diet, medicine, or otherwise. Marijuana became as distant a memory as an ex-girlfriend you know you’d made the right decision about.

We became instant stars (within our crew). Everyone looked forward to seeing the next joint. We’d hold screenings at crew headquarters, and a subtle “sibling rivalry” even developed, i.e. Who do you like better? Q-Tip or Phife? Havoc or Prodigy, etc.? E or Sauce?I knew I could never compete with E, though others would occasionally say otherwise.

Sadly, I don’t think our friendship was as emotionally rewarding for him, but served as more of a temporary band-aid for his own inner turmoil. When we turned 21 E got more into alcohol and girls, and who could blame him? Girls loved him and he loved liquor, and apparently handled them both very well. I was slightly less tolerant of booze and much less attractive to the opposite sex, subsequently less enamored with the bar and party scene that didn’t seem to reflect the urban identity I’d always aspired to anyway. For the first time a divide had formed between my best friend and I that I didn’t know how to respond to. E would regularly wake me up in the middle of the night with drunken messages on my answering machine, often times a girl’s equally intoxicated laughter in the background; a live audio reminder of my un-coolness and unattractiveness, and worst of all, the inception of my falling out with my brother.

“Saaaaauce! Where are you, Sauce?

Hot, drunk girl: “Where are you Sauce?!”

“Come out, nigga, we miss you!”

Long pause, as I lay in the dark room staring at the answering machine, feeling 40 years old at 20, probably angry that I didn’t believe he really did miss me.

“Aight… pussy-ass nigga,” and I feared that he meant it, or that I agreed, or it was objectively true. 

Was I was a pussy-ass nigga?  

E became an alcoholic. He would black out and have episodes where he’d insult or try to fight me, spewing whatever resentments he apparently harbored in sobriety. I never knew how to respond, whether to laugh it off as brotherly jabs and repress the upset I felt, or react more alpha, consistent with the hip hop culture we’d all immersed ourselves in. Usually I’d get stuck in the middle, leaving me more confused and insecure in my identity than I had since freshman year high school. E’s behavior grew more erratic and I would shut down, unable to compete or keep up with his intoxicated mania that would occasionally embarrass me in front of mutual friends. After one such incident that took place in my room I looked out the window at the sun coming up on another drunken night and saw him and Tre still downstairs on 13thStreet, leaned up against Tre’s car smoking cigarettes. I was unable to fall asleep, too angry and hurt and unable to make peace with how insulted I felt. Finally, I ran downstairs with the intention of attacking and fighting him, but by the time I got to the block they were gone. I was glad it apparently wasn’t meant to be. Eventually my anger transformed into sadness, and although our tight knit crew continued to chill, our brotherhood was over. E was the worst best friend I’ve ever had.

As I sought to fill the void left by the video camera collecting dust in my closet, my college Film Writing teacher suggested to me: “There are other routes to success in entertainment besides improv skits. Have you ever tried stand-up?”

It sounded preposterous, and I was naïve enough to think my teacher must not have been aware of the shy little boy that still existed within me – also young enough to believe that shyness or anxiety are mutually exclusive to courage.

One year later I started dating a girl whose mom had been a heroin addict for 17 years. Over the course of our time together I heard many stories from both sides, of the hell Mom put her daughter through growing up. They were probably the biggest fans of my jokes I’d ever had, hysterically laughing at nearly everything I said and did, thus encouraging me with their loud Nuyorican flamboyancy. We dated just long enough for me to realize how funny I was, also how lucky I’d been to have the parents and opportunities I did. I was given everything (tangible) a human being could ask for. Why should I not pursue the most difficult thing in the world?

One night shortly after we’d broken up I stayed home to watch a Richard Pryor special, in hopes of lifting my spirits. Not only did it obviously achieve said goal, I was mesmerized by his ability. While on stage Pryor seemed to me to personify “alive.” He looked so free and engaged, so courageous and perfect in his proverbial dance with the crowd and his material. I watched him take risks and rule his space, all the while exhibiting the joy of a child, and thought to myself: That’s it. That is the perfect vessel by which to taste life. I had no choice. The following week one night while E was out drinking I hit my first open mic.

If you’ve never waited three hours to do three minutes for three angry people in a dimly lit room devoid of any energy then you’ve never lived. Actually you’ve never metaphorically died the comedy death that is most open mikes. Truly it is awful, piercing deeper into our souls than just performance nightmares, but as existential crises, stomping on our egos, leaving us with the indigestible knowledge that we can never get back those few minutes of life. For the moment all worry and doubt of our talents are replaced with a bittersweet conviction that we are in fact definitely wasting our time.

A number of comics seated gaps apart from one another around the periphery of the room, faces buried in their notebooks, preoccupied with their own creative agendas while your material through the microphone resonates as nothing more than white noise. Every joke seems to receive the same one or two laughs from the same two or three sweethearts, their sympathetic contrivances bouncing around the room, ironically transforming its tone from awkward to dismal. Once in a while pops in a more veteran comic, unforced to wait his turn and the nerds perk up, temporarily uncovering their faces to actually pay attention. Consistent with their greenness, laughter is given as automatically as it is from laypeople to the Chappelle’s and Seinfeld’s of the world. They either assume his punch lines to be funny before they arrive, are just desperately attempting to connect with the comic in any way, or both. As soon as the popular guy leaves you can practically hear the plunder of energy, the re-separation of attention, sighs plunging back into future discarded material and half-attention (at best) to the poor schlep forced to go next.

The only thing harder than performing for fellow comedians is performing for fellow comedians who are waiting to go on stage; and the only thing harder than that is performing for comedians who are waiting to go on stage and don’t know you enough personally to give your new banter any shred of credence. These are not real people, for all intents and purposes, which can make it impossible to get an accurate read on how your new material or yourself will ever be received by real people. Maria Shehata once posted a joke (on Facebook) I’ll never forget. Some well-built, grown man challenged her to punch him in the stomach as hard as she could. She did so, and caught him off guard with her strength. “He didn’t realize how many open mikes I’ve done.”

Wednesdays’ “Train Wreck” at The Parkside Lounge on Houston and Attorney St. was appropriately named. Located so distally on the outskirts of the Lower East Side, by the time I arrived I barely felt like I was any longer in New York, especially because the inside of it always reminded me of some Midwestern bar. Fat, old, white men in beards and plaid shirts lined most of the bar in front of a thin, buxom blonde who looked good only at first glance, the TV’s above her head showing sports highlights or the News. The occasional Bud Light-guzzling, 50-year old black guy walks by, his afro not at all kept to uphold any of the standards of contemporary urbanites. The jukebox played a lot of Lynard Skynard, or maybe it was just stuff I thought was Lynard Skynard, and my post-adolescent mind could do nothing but define myself via harsh (silent) judgment of it.

As if some illegal black market we partake in, the comedy room was located through a dark narrow hallway of bathrooms, then behind a curtain in the back room. Sign-up was at 5:30 with “showtime” at 6, and I can recall some weeks walking purposely slow to the venue so as to convince myself that I’d tried my best, but arrived too late for sign-up. The handful of times I braved to punctuality ended up being awful bombs of silence that ate at my core for the remainder of that night.

“Sauce, have you ever been racially profiled as a wigger?” the host once asked after my set, and everyone laughed for the first time since I’d gotten on stage.

I wasn’t prepared to feel so small and didn’t know if I should risk retorting. Instead I remained mum, and it reminded me of the drunken, belligerent insults I’d had to absorb from my best friend during the past year. I felt like the new kid being pointed and laughed at by all the other cookie-cutter students who’d known each other for years. I felt I was being made fun of by the lames for being different, but I had no way to prove so, and was unable to laugh at myself.

In my 15 years in comedy to come, at the Parkside was the only time I was heckled by a comic. It was an Indian girl, a bit older than me, a regular, familiar face in the front row, who interrupted midway through my set: “Do you know that you’re white?”

Her remark got only a couple of laughs from the room, I assumed because even if the majority appreciated her sentiment, her timing was inappropriate. You don’t heckle fellow comics.

“I do,” I responded to her, able to muster only a hint of sarcasm through my lack of confidence. She’d hit a nerve. As my blood boiled I quietly finished my set, minutes later walking home, cursing out the Indian girl, as well as myself, rationalizing that I was “too real,” too authentic, and the act of stand-up was too contrived for me. It wasn’t for me. I figured I’d return to improve. A few months would heal this wound, and eventually I made my way back in time for sign-up.

At home life was worse, as I’d made the mistake of moving in with E. Our dynamic was fractured, probably by both of our hatreds for him, and I’d completely lost track of my voice. I felt like I was always bombing. I had no confidence, no sense of identity, and practically walked on eggshells when E was home, for fear of being derided in a way that emasculated my vulnerable ego. I’d gone from expressing the best version of myself to the worst version of myself and it was the inception of my anxiety disorder: An overwhelming head rush that would come on either at random and linger throughout the day, or during acute moments of social anxiety. I had no idea how we’d gotten to this place, and at 23 years old even less of an idea of how to climb out of it.

I consider February 13, 2002 to be when I actually started doing comedy. It was a different open mike, Gladys’, on W. 46thSt. in Times Square, known to be “one of the better mikes” in town – a spot I’d already bombed at once the week before.

For some reason beyond my awareness, for the first time in my life I killed from the first sentence out of my mouth. Something must have clicked, or maybe it was just dumb luck of the first joke hitting then riding the wave of confidence instilled by the unanimous laughter. From start to finish the entire five minutes was an out of body experience, watching myself delivering my words and the crowd responding as if I knew what I was doing; almost reminiscent of how it feels to lose our virginity. It isn��t that we’re unable to enjoy the moment, but the experience is clouded by the mental joy for its significance. It is literally unbelievable.

As I walked on air to the back of the room, overhearing my name repeated into the microphone by the host and the sincere applause that followed, I was stopped by a tall, friendly black dude, Max.

“That was great, man.”

“Thanks.” This must be what happens when you don’t suck.  

“Are you available tomorrow night?” he asked.

Huh? “Sure,” I responded with a contrived calmness, and he booked me for a $25 spot on a Valentine’s Day show at some local bar in Castle Hill in the Bronx.

He’s gonna give me $25 to do comedy?! Literally 10 minutes ago I had under my belt about 15 shitty spots over the course of two years and no clue as to whether I could ever have a good one. Ha… sucker!

“Thanks, man, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

I invited Tre to the show, and it wasn’t only because he’s black. He was also my other roommate, had nothing else to do and a car, which would save me a late night train ride home from the Bronx (something I had no idea would be in store on a weekly basis for years to come). I purposely did not invite E – not that he would have come if I had – but his presence would have made me that much more nervous. Instead, Tre was neutral.

The show was at a typical Castle Hill neighborhood bar, probably 60% Puerto Rican, 40% black, and one white person. Familiar hip hop blasted from the DJ booth as the majority of the patrons all fraternized and flirted, or freaked each other to the funky rhythms filling the fortress. How fun! A quaint little room, though not offensively so, the “stage” was set next to the bar and facing out to a handful of tables while the rest paralleled the bar traveling stage right.

The bouncer was friendly enough, and gratitude washed over me when I saw Max immediately after walking in the door. Like I’d just spotted my friends’ table in the school cafeteria, I gave him a pound and hug that I hoped everyone else in the room noticed. He greeted Tre and directed us to two empty seats at the bar, almost directly in front of the wooden box they’d be using as a stage. We ordered a couple of beers and I tried to act like I wasn’t terrified.

I was told I’d be going on second and instantly wished I could get up and walk around, go outside to pace, or just be anywhere besides the confined physical position I was in. I learned later in my career that I absolutely could have. Instead I sipped my beer and felt it mildly settle my nerves as I struggled to pay attention to one word anyone before me said. I remember a Puerto Rican comedian making a joke about my being the only white guy, though amiably padding it with a compliment and head nod of camaraderie. He had a decent set, and none of this had any impact whatsoever on my internal state. As he finished and Max came back up my panic set it, and I realized I wasn’t seated far enough way from the stage for this degree of nervous energy to be walked off.

As Max introduced me the DJ played the new hit single by Jadakiss and Bubba Sparxxx, a white rapper from down south (surely not a coincidence), and for some reason I felt like I’d look more nervous if I didn’t dance. My nerves produced some idiotic, upper body dance moves that had to be atrociously caught somewhere in between serious and mockery. I was a damned fool, surely looking as amateur as I did white, but I got lucky. The crowd bought my faux confidence, misinterpreting it as organic from this goofy white boy with whom they were too unfamiliar to detect the difference.

I did the same jokes as I had the night before, which was really the only jokes I had, which was five minutes about the perks of dating a girl who already had a boyfriend (the ex-heroin addict’s daughter). It was hacky and simple and delivered with a hokey animation, but for the setting it was perfect. Every joke hit even harder than the night before. I got laughs on set ups and punch lines, and in between bits even my defense mechanism persona of laissez faire facial expressions sent many of the women into hysterics. I “had them,” as we say, and it became fun. I was killing.

I’d never experienced anything like it before. Once killing, we reach a point where the crowd no longer cares how clever each joke is, but instead they’ve fallen in love with us. Who we are begins to shape our material instead of the material shaping who we are, and our listeners reward us with a benefit of doubt not dissimilar to what we get from close friends. I’m sorry to break the news, but this is also why it’s erroneous when laypeople take pride in having just “made the comedian laugh.” First, we’re not necessarily funnier than every non-comedian in the world. We’re just the ones who chose stand-up comedy as a pursuit. Second, and more to the point, in a social engagement there’s a good chance that welikeyou,your personality and energy. We might even love you and/or are warmly responsive. This doesn’t mean our laugh is sympathetic or your joke is not funny, but “making the comedian laugh” is not the equivalent of knocking out the boxer. In the exchange of humor the importance of connection cannot be overstated. I digress.

Tre and I stuck around until the end of the show, basking in my glory. Max paid me the $25 in cash, and it felt like $25,000 in my hand. I couldn’t believe someone had just given me money to do comedy, but even more appreciated were the pounds and hugs I received on my way out. I could feel Tre proudly walking behind me; also some of the women in the room eyeing me, and I didn’t want the night to end. I suggested to Tre that we go to Club Passion, downtown. “My treat!”

Club Passion was a ghetto strip club on 8thAvenue. For clarification purposes, “ghetto” strip club does not imply only the strippers’ ethnicity, but also the nature of the club. Instead of a traditional strip club setting, Passion functioned basically like a party filled with male customers and extremely forward, sexy women in thongs and lingerie whose job it was to “work the floor.” Whoever happened to be on the stage and pole at any given time was usually the least paid attention to, as fly girls were all over the room grinding on guys for dollars at a time; and most touching was permitted, if not encouraged.

It was one of the greatest nights of my life, instilling in me a pride and self-confidence that seemed to heal all of my wounds from my fractured friendship with E, and filled the void left by our defunct skit productions. His habits and lifestyle continued in the same direction but our friendship began to feel like a friendship again, mostly because I’d discovered in myself a strong sense of purpose and pride, and even my anxiety symptoms got a lot better and less frequent. I was a comic, better yet an “urban comic,” and (thought) I was good at it! I felt happy for the first time in two years, and we developed a new dynamic, where the student had sort of surpassed the teacher.

[cbheck]

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[theconservativebrief]

August 28 is not a day that is particularly known for feeling especially crisp or autumnal in most parts of North America. And yet it’s the day in 2018 — the earliest release date so far — that Starbucks chose to ready its blazing orange jugs of “pumpkin sauce” and unleash its annual run of pumpkin spice lattes upon its customers.

You’d be forgiven for mistaking this tone for one of disdain. Since its inception in 2003, the pumpkin spice latte has become something of a strawman for discussions about capitalism, seasonal creep, and the meaning of “basic,” resulting in widespread hatred for an otherwise innocuous beverage.

For example, back in 2014, at the height of pumpkin spice mania, this very website described the PSL as “an unctuous, pungent, saccharine brown liquid, equal parts dairy and diabetes, served in paper cups and guzzled down by the liters” — even though clearly the pumpkin spice latte is a highly delicious treat that pairs well with wearing vests and making dorky comments about how crisp the air feels today. Yes, it contains 380 calories; yes, it will make your coffee a rather unappetizing orange color; no, you should not “guzzle it down by the liters.”

But contempt for the PSL and other items of the seasonal pumpkin spice variety is often not really about the flavor itself. After all, there are plenty of other flavors we should all be way more furious about. (There is a shop in Scotland that serves mayonnaise ice cream, people!) Too frequently, it’s about sexism, class anxiety, and our collective skepticism of savvy marketing.

The pumpkin spice latte almost didn’t exist. As former Starbucks veteran Tim Kern told Quartz, “A number of us thought it was a beverage so dominated by a flavor other than coffee that it didn’t put Starbucks’ coffee in the best light.”

Fortunately for Starbucks, the Tim Kernses of the company were ultimately overruled, because within a decade of its launch in 2003, the PSL became its top-selling drink, with more than 200 million of them sold. In 2015, Forbes estimated the PSL brought in around $100 million in revenue over a single season.

2015 was also the year that Starbucks changed its decade-old formula to include actual pumpkin for the first time, rather than simply caramel coloring and pumpkin pie spices (like cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, allspice, and cloves). By all accounts, it tasted pretty much the same, just, according to its inventor, “cleaner.”

At that point, the PSL wasn’t just a cash cow: It was a cultural phenomenon. In part, that’s thanks to its marketing — there is nothing inherently seasonal about the spices that go in pumpkin pie, but Starbucks is able to convince us that the drink should only be drank during the fall months, thereby increasing demand.

But there’s another reason why the PSL exploded so much over the past decade. Culinary food trend analyst Suzy Badaracco told Vox back in 2014, “Pumpkin became recognized as part of the comfort food trend during the recession in 2008,” due to its association with Thanksgiving and the holidays. In tough times, we’re more likely to crave foods that bring back happy memories.

Surely, though, the reason we all began talking about PSLs to begin with was their prevalence on social media. It’s not that they’re inherently photogenic — a Starbucks cup is a Starbucks cup regardless of what’s inside it, and the PSL doesn’t get its own special design like the holiday drinks do.

It’s because when you add a PSL to a photo of, say, your new fall boots standing atop crunchy-looking leaves or a selfie featuring a festive dark lip color, it adds to the autumnal aesthetic. It’s not a coincidence that Instagram — the epicenter of cutesy fall tableaus — happened to blow up in the early 2010s, which is the same time that it became cool to claim you despised pumpkin spice.

But maybe that’s not the whole story.

The fact that the pumpkin spice latte — which, to many, conjures the scents and imagery of Thanksgiving — is released in increasingly hot weather year after year is often touted as an ominous harbinger of the evil forces of seasonal creep. “It’s agricultural revisionism!,” argue some, citing the fact that pumpkins aren’t actually in season until autumn proper.

A viral John Oliver clip from 2014 declares as much, noting that “that bottle of pumpkin-flavored science goo sits behind the counter of Starbucks, never aging, like Ryan Seacrest:”

[embedded content]

The success of the PSL is also largely responsible for the barrage of pumpkin spice-flavored everything else, from cream cheese to dog treats, Kahlua, to an especially wacky seasonal crossover, Peeps. There have also been air fresheners, deodorant, even Four Loko (okay, that one ended up being a joke), resulting in the expected amount of hand-wringing about a food trend “gone too far.” (Indeed, back in 2010, spice brand McCormick forecasted that pumpkin spice would be a popular flavor for the holiday season, which in turn likely exacerbated the rush.)

When a food trend is as in-your-face as pumpkin spice is — ever been to a Trader Joe’s in October? — it forces us to think about how the free market is essentially designed to create this kind of phenomena. If a product like the pumpkin spice latte sells, it’s natural under capitalism for other companies to attempt to replicate that success. But it’s uncomfortable when we see it happening on such an exaggerated scale.

Well, maybe, but maybe what pumpkin spice backlash is really about is our dismissal of trends that are coded as feminine. As Jaya Saxena wrote in Taste last fall, in a piece titled “Women Aren’t Ruining Food,” “When men enjoy something, they elevate it. But when women enjoy something, they ruin it.”

She continues, on the topic of “girly” food crazes like açai bowls, rosé, and pumpkin spice versus “manly” ones like barbecue, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and IPAs:

When those foods blow up, we judge women for falling for the marketing or trying to jump on the bandwagon, and we assume that because they like something other women like, they don’t have minds of their own. And on top of that, women are asked to reckon with, consciously or unconsciously, the perceived psycho-sexual symbolism attached to seemingly innocuous foods.

Plus, “masculine” foods are almost never chastised for being “basic,” the ever-nebulous term used to describe someone with average, predictable taste that’s usually reserved for women.

In the most stereotypical (and by now, probably outdated) terms, a “basic bitch” wears North Face, leggings, and Uggs, and absolutely adores hashtag-PSLs, marking her as a woman with “a girlish interest in seasonal changes and an unsophisticated penchant for sweet,” as the Cut noted back in 2014.

There are often classist implications, too. In a BuzzFeed piece about “basic” and class anxiety, Anne Helen Peterson wrote:

Unique taste — and the capacity to avoid the basic — is a privilege. A privilege of location (usually urban), of education (exposure to other cultures and locales), and of parentage (who would introduce and exalt other tastes). To summarize the groundbreaking work of theorist Pierre Bourdieu: We don’t choose our tastes so much as the micro-specifics of our class determine them. To consume and perform online in a basic way is thus to reflect a highly American, capitalist upbringing. Basic girls love the things they do because nearly every part of American commercial media has told them that they should.

Essentially, hating pumpkin spice lattes is our way of othering those who drink them, and in the process, marking ourselves as decidedly un-basic.

Of course, this notion of what “basic” means is not the same way black people have been using it for decades, which, as Kara Brown explained in Jezebel, pretty much just translates to “I think that the stuff you like is lame and I don’t really like you.”

“Rihanna could become the official spokesperson for Starbucks pumpkin spice lattes and nobody would think of her as basic,” she wrote. “You know why? Because Rihanna does what she wants and what she thinks is cool and doesn’t give a damn about anybody else.”

Even if Rihanna suddenly became the official spokesperson of PSLs, however, there is also the possibility that, quite frankly, nobody really cares that much anymore. We seemed to have hit peak “pumpkin spice hot take” in the year 2014, with searches for “pumpkin spice latte” peaking in 2015.

Plus, the pumpkin spice bubble may have already popped. Analytics company 1010data revealed that, despite the fact that pumpkin spice products for sale had risen by nearly 50 percent between 2015 and 2016, sales went up just 21 percent — we just aren’t craving it like we used to.

Maybe that’s because we’ve all been stricken with a case of seasonal beverage fatigue in general. Starbucks is constantly coming out with random gimmicky drinks, from the Unicorn Frappuccino to the so-called “secret menu.”

If that’s true, it tracks that we aren’t seeing the same kind of anger directed at what is arguably replacing pumpkin spice as autumn’s de facto flavor. In 2017 both Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts released maple pecan lattes. And according to restaurant menu data from that year, “mentions of maple as a flavor in nonalcoholic beverages on menus are up 86 percent this year over last … Pumpkin mentions, on the other hand, are down 20 percent.” Yet nobody’s complaining about how dumb maple syrup is.

And these days, tweets about PSLs are way more in the vein of “Screw you and let me enjoy my shitty drink in peace, because everything is terrible.”

Pumpkin Spice Latte comes back tomorrow and I am 100% getting one in 91 degree weather because this world is a shitshow and I take joy where I can get it, like in delicious flavored coffee drinks.

— drunk wynhaught (@drunkhaught) August 27, 2018

People have also expressed exhaustion about the “actually-ing” over what pumpkin spice even is, as if anyone really wants to talk about it.

“pumpkin spice refers to the spices used in pumpkin pie and doesn’t actually taste like pumpkins” is the “Frankenstein was the name of the doctor” of this decade

— Kyle (@KylePlantEmoji) August 27, 2018

There are even ironic tweets poking fun at the automation of feminist responses to the anti-pumpkin spice brigade:

Women’s unabashed enjoyment of a thing has always led to wholesale dismissal of said thing as frivolous and/or bad. From early examples like needlework to more current cases like pumpkin spice and romance novels, we can track this trend throughout history. In this paper I will –

— The Ripped Bodice (@TheRippedBodice) August 27, 2018

Anyway, this is all to say that maybe now, in the year 2018, pumpkin spice has finally returned to signifying the autumnal blend of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves, and nothing more: not basic, not everything wrong with capitalism, and not gross. Because it’s not! It’s delicious.

Original Source -> Pumpkin spice lattes — and the backlash, and the backlash to the backlash — explained

via The Conservative Brief