#can’t complain I guess it stops me from becoming a hoarder

[tisnottoolatetoseekanewerworld]

(◡ ‿ ◡ ✿)

[kats-randomology]

Scars

He'd become aware of his nephew's sudden frequenting of his archives when Quackfaster complained to him about the tome of mythical creatures and poisons that he'd borrowed a few days prior. When he'd confronted Gladstone about it, he noted the anxious fidgeting and tight grin he wore as he promised to return it.

 "What do you even need it for?" He'd asked; and suddenly, Gladstone was even more jittery. 

 "Oh nothing, nothing, just....curiosity! Gotta run before she has me drawn and quartered!"

 And that had been the end of that. 

 But then he started paying attention; checking the cameras, talking to other employees, and yes, Gladstone had apparently become a common sight in the musty room. Usually just straight to the Archives and out the doors, with an occasional stop by the mess hall. 

 Since when had Gladstone become interested in his collections and biographies? That was more of a Webby deal. Not to mention Gladstone had never shown particular interest in his ventures, at least not that he knew of. So what use did he have for visiting? Upon checking with Quackfaster, though, he found that Gladstone had actually been digging through his magic and medicinal collections.

 Curiosity piqued, Scrooge finally decided to confront him and get to the bottom of this.

 He pushed open the doors to the Archives with a soft creak. Quackfaster looked up from her desk, with piles of weathered books around her and numerous supplies to fix and care for said books. She merely pointed towards the back of the room, before looking back down at her work. Scrooge chuckled quietly, before following her direction and moved through the massive shelves.

 He found Gladstone sat at the small table, face set in a scowl as he poured over the thick volume he had in front of him. Several other books were stacked up around him, and his phone was on and set up beside the open book. He must not have heard Scrooge's approach, as he didn't even acknowledge him as he walked up. Not until he cleared his throat at least.

 Gladstone jumped, head flying up in panic; he settled somewhat at the sight of Scrooge, but still appeared anxious as he hastily tried to hide the open book. 

 "Oh, h-hey Big Money! Wasn't expecting to see you around here!"

 Scrooge quirked a brow as he took a seat beside him. Taking in his appearance, he was clearly exhausted, with heavy bags under his eyes, and his hair which he usually kept in pristine condition, was ruffled and uneven. It only added to his concern.

 "It's my personal archives, why wouldn't you?"

 "Well, you know I...just...wasn't..."

 "I suppose you wouldn't, seeing as you've been sneaking in here under my nose.”

 "I wasn't sneaking, I was...visiting...without telling you."

 From the way he sighed and smacked his head, he wasn't buying his excuse either. Scrooge glanced at the collection of books, ranging from worldwide home remedies to mythical beings to the occult; an odd assortment for sure, and his puzzlement must've shown. Gladstone cracked a tight grin, calmly shutting the open book and pushing it toward the others. 

 "Just some light reading, ya know?"

 "I see, any particular reason why you've chosen such...unique subjects?"

 Gladstone didn't answer, instead choosing to gnaw at his lower lip and fidgeting with his sleeve. Scrooge cocked his head curiously, and glanced at the collection again. He caught sight of the phone then, and one thing in particular caught his eye, a name.

 Liu Hai.

 Gladstone followed his gaze, noticing the phone, and quickly snatched it away, stuffing it into his bag. 

 "Why the blazes are you lookin' into that monstrous moocher? I'd have thought you had enough of him!"

 "Believe me, I have..."

 "Then what is all this? All these magic and medicine books and all this snooping around-- what are you looking for?"

 "Nothing, okay," Gladstone snapped, abruptly standing and snatching his bag, "sorry for disturbing your book hoarder, I'll just find somewhere else--"

 "Hold it!"

 Scrooge quickly followed him, catching him by the arm.

 "I don't mind you being here I just want to know what you're after!"

 "It's nothing bad, it's just research! Can't a guy have a hobby?!"

 "Research for what? What does any of this have to do with Liu Hai?!"

 "Everything!"

 "Why?!"

 "BECAUSE I NEED THEM TO GO AWAY!"

 He jerked his arm free, holding it close as he fell into a tense silence; Scrooge studied him for a moment, puzzled.

 "....need what to go away, Gladstone?"

 Still he remained silent as he rubbed at his arm, eyes looking everywhere but Scrooge. 

 Scrooge eyed his movements, noting the almost angry force he was using; a second later, realization clicked, and the curious frown softened into a concerned scowl. He held out his hand silently, and Gladstone started at the movement. He finally met Scrooge's gaze, wincing despite its soft nature.

 He put his arm back out with clear reluctance, letting his uncle take hold of it in a loose grip. He turned it over, and pushed up the sleeve of his black turtleneck sweater that he'd been wearing for quite a while, Scrooge was now realizing. And the reason why became clear. 

 A set of puncture wounds traveling around his forearm, curving to form a crescent shaped scar. They were pale green in color, but were quite prominent against his feathers. 

 He'd known of the marks left from Liu Hai's feeding sessions, thanks to Donald shouting his ears off after the trip. He knew Gladstone likely had similar ones, confirmed when Donald mentioned only having seen them and wouldn't go into detail. It wasn't his place, he'd said. 

 Even knowing all this, the sight was still shocking. But he maintained the calm composure; reacting any other way would only further upset Gladstone. 

 He finally looked up, and found Gladstone staring at them, though the distant look told him his mind was elsewhere. He only responded once Scrooge placed a hand over them, blocking them from sight.

 "So, is that what this is about?" Scrooge asked quietly. Gladstone gave a shaky nod, tugging at his collar anxiously. 

 "...it's been weeks since the last time...but they're still there! I don't get it, Don only had his for a week, but mine haven't even faded! I thought maybe..."

 His gaze traveled to the stacks of books.

 "I thought maybe you'd have something in here, or that I could find something online about him and his magic, just...anything that would make them go away, but I haven't found anything! I just want them GONE, I can't stand seeing them every time I look in the mirror or get dressed or when I try to wear something lighter and get stared at everywhere I go-- and not even for my good looks!"

 Scrooge took a moment to smirk at this, before quickly shifting back to serious.

“I just....I want them to go away. So I’ve been going through your books and online archives...”

 "Why didn't you just tell me, lad, I'd have helped. Would be faster than searching on your own-- though I must admit I'm impressed you've managed to navigate this labyrinth without any guidance."

 "....would it be less impressive if I just guessed which direction to go?"

 "Ehh kinda; but that's not important right now. Why didn't you tell me?"

 "I...I dunno..."

 "Did you think I wouldn't help?"

 "No, no, I just....I dunno I just...didn't..."

 "Gladstone..."

 He rubbed at his neck, clearly reluctant to continue. Scrooge's urgent gaze though, eventually got to him and he let out a heavy sigh. 

 "I....thought you would think it silly..."

 "Why the blazes would you think that? I'm not gonna laugh at you for this."

 "It's just for you....this isn't really a big deal."

 "Are you mad? Of course your well-being is a big deal to me! You think I'm not gonna understand this? I do, Gladstone, I know how difficult it is to get used to new scars--"

 "No, no you don't! Not like this!"

 He pulled away again, yanking his sleeve back down. 

 "Gladstone I have countless scars from all my adventures! What wouldn't I understand?!"

 "I'm not like you! I didn't get these from conquering some ancient crossword puzzle or finding the lost treasure of....Gold Hoarders are Us! I got these from a monster who thought the best method to control me and make me stop fighting him was literally eating me alive! I don't get to celebrate this! I don't get to look back and think 'hey, what a fun time that was'! I get to remember teeth and him laughing at my pain and being terrified that I would lose my freaking mind if I don’t get out of here soon! I don’t get to have pleasant memories of this, Scrooge!”

 Scrooge couldn't say much of anything in response, only listen and process his words with a furrowed brow. And realized...Gladstone had a point; he could look back fondly at his adventures, even the ones that left their marks. When the boys or Webby noticed one and questioned him, he was always happy to regale them with the story behind it. A story of triumph and smarts that left them and others in awe of such a daring venture.

 But Gladstone didn't get that luxury. 

 His only brought him horrid memories, and not ones he'd be willing to share with anyone aside from maybe Donald, who was the only other person who would understand. To an extent, anyway, as even Donald didn't have to deal with the permanent damage. Likely from the brevity of his encounter.

 Gladstone was essentially alone.

 "...you're right."

 Gladstone jerked his head up, shocked.

 "...what?"

 "You're right, I can't understand how you're feeling," he said again, moving closer and placing a hand on his shoulder.

 "I can come home with a new scrape or nick, and be perfectly happy with it. I look at them and see the sacrifices I made to beat the odds. But for you...it's different. I can only imagine the pain you went through, how scared you must've felt..."

 Gladstone was silent, eyes reddening from the building emotions behind them. Scrooge gave a small smile, squeezing his shoulder.

 "I know you're going to need time to work through this; I'll be more than happy to help you, but even if we don't find any method to do away with them..."

 He took hold of his other shoulder, making sure he was looking him in the eye. Gladstone, at a loss, could only return it with bewilderment and uncertainty. 

 "I want you to know I'm very proud of you."

 He could feel Gladstone's stunned jolt go through him, and it was quickly followed with a confused tilt of the head.

 "I give you a lot of grief for being a lay-about and relying on your luck far too much; and you do, ninety-nine percent of the time."

 Gladstone managed a weak chuckle at this, he wasn't going to deny that. 

 "But you proved me wrong here; I'd just assumed you were laying around waiting for us to show up, or for your luck to just pave you a way out. But you didn't, did you? You couldn't; so instead, you took it into your own hands, forged your own way out...albeit a tad messy towards the end but that doesn't change the fact you fought to get out of there. So much so that leech had to resort to such methods as this to try and get you to stop."

 He pulled his arm up again, his hold firm but gentle.

 "You went through a terrible ordeal, Gladstone, but you survived and you fought tooth and nail and you won. And that's something to be proud of."

 The next few minutes passed in silence; Gladstone's beak opened and shut several times, trying to find words but coming up empty. His eyes lost the battle for holding back his emotions, finally letting them spill out, and with a hitched breath he clung to his uncle in a tight hug. Scrooge returned it, lightly patting his back, and remained there a few minutes more before pulling away again.

 "You need rest, lad, you look halfway to the grave."

 Another unsteady laugh bubbled up from his stomach as Gladstone wiped at his eyes.

 "Yeah I...haven't really gotten much sleep. Lotta late night reading and note taking."

 "I'm sure, but that's not going to get you anywhere; go home, get some rest, take a day or two to relax and get your mind cleared up. If you still want to keep searching just let me know, I'll see if I can scrounge up anything else, alright?"

 "Alright, alright, I'm going---"

 "AFTER YOU RETURN ALL THE BOOKS IN THEIR PROPER PLACES!" Quackfaster's agitated voice rang throughout the archives, and Gladstone quickly turned back to the table.

 "After I do that!"

 Snickering, Scrooge joined him as he frantically gathered up the pile of books, and helped in returning them to their spaces on the shelves. Both knew the ramifications of a disorganized library when she was involved...

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I NEEDED MORE FLUFF TO BALANCE OUT EVERYTHING 

[mizulekitten]

I wrote a thing. It’s an Original thing, and I like it. It’s for my creative writing class -to the person in that class following me... you get a sneak peek, woo- I uh really like these two characters? And I might write more with them? Idk

Word Count: 3709

Summary: Sam has been called in to charm creatures of various origins for even more various reasons. It’s nothing unusual to them. It’s a usual day when they get a call from a nearby town and military to take care of another problem. This time it’s a dragon who’s hoarding... furniture? Furniture is going to be the least of Sam’s concerns by the end of this.

“Who the fleg thinks climbing a mountain is fun? Who?” Sam asked the air with a huff as they tugged their body over the ledge. Their arms screamed at the continued exertion, but it’d all be worth it once Sam pulled themselves up.

They rolled across the rock as soon as they were able, their sword and waterskin jabbed into their flesh through their clothing as they went. Sam wanted to put ample distance between them and the ledge, lest they fall to their untimely death. They lay spread eagle across the stone, chest rising and falling. Bits of rock dug painfully into their back, but they couldn’t bring themselves to care.

“Horses can’t climb a sheer cliff, so I get to do it! Doesn’t that sound great?” Sam waved a hand in front of them, continuing to talk to themselves out of pure frustration, “All so I get to talk to a flegging dragon.”

They sat up, voice rising, “What am I? Slave labor? Who else is crazy enough to go talk to a dragon? Not the mayor, that’s apparent.” They tugged their waterskin from their side with more force than necessary, “The moron didn’t even think about calling in a Creature Charmer. No, let’s call the army instead, and for what?” Sam took a swig. They slammed the container down, and water sloshed onto their hand. “For a dragon that hoards furniture.”

Sam looked out over the landscape. They spotted the large cave mouth, and glared. “Called from home and forced to climb a flegging mountain all for a furniture hoarder. What happened to the gold and gem days? No, now they’re hoarding handmade flegging furniture.”

Sam let out a loud sigh, fighting the urge to fall back onto the hard rock. Logically, they knew the military’s decision to call in them was a smart one. The dragon was only hoarding furniture. A Creature Charmer was honestly the best bet. After all, which sounded better: a person with a natural affinity and magical charm with creatures passively talking out a compromise, or an army that was bound to get burnt to a crisp/end up with a dragon corpse?

Even if it made sense, Sam didn’t have to be happy about it.

“Goddess and celestial spirits above,” Sam tilted their head towards the sky, desperation lining their voice, “give me strength, and next time? Tell me to take the fae job.”

With one more sigh, Sam stood and dusted themselves off. Better to get it done and over with then sit and complain. They took care to be as loud as possible as they approached the cave mouth. Sneaking up on a dragon was bad news, and even a Creature Charmer’s natural aura wouldn’t necessarily save them from a startled dragon.

Sam did a double take upon entering the cave. They had expected a messy cave, filled to the brim with mounds of gold, or in this case furniture, but this cave was deliberate in its organization. The middle was cleared, but to the side the furniture was placed in mock set ups. There was a small “living room” fit with two couches, several love seats, and an elaborate coffee table made of some stone. Each seat had an end table next to it, all in a similar design.

Sam whistled, amazed at the variety. There were several other room set ups against the walls, all as detailed as the next. The furniture matched the others in each set, as if a noble lived within the cave and had hired the best of the best to decorate it. It was impressive how attentive to detail the dragon seemed to be. It almost made the fact that it was hoarding furniture less laughable.

“What do you want, puny human!” The dragon’s voice boomed through the cave, vibrating through Sam’s body. It was only through prior experience with this effect that Sam didn’t flinch.

Sam turned to look deeper into the cave, and watched as the towering beast crept closer. The deep brown of its scales shifted with every movement, expanding and settling. Every intake of breath caused the blue and pink chest scales to glitter dimly in the dark. Four sets of horns, the same color as its chest scales, sprouted from its skull into perfect weapons that could easily skewer Sam if they weren’t careful.

It did little to intimidate them.

Sam shook their head at the power display, plastering on a large smile before they looked up at the beast, “I come on behalf of the townsfolk you’ve been,” Sam paused. Dragons were finicky about what their hoarding was and wasn’t referred to. Sam had made that mistake before; they didn’t want a repeat, “acquiring your hoard from.”

“Do they wish to make me more wares?” The dragon perked up, two pink dots beside each sapphire eye seeming to light up at the words, and too sharp teeth formed an attempted grin. It’s voice was still loud, as if it had a need to shout everything it said. “Must I go collect?”

Making and collecting, that’s how it was wording it. Great. This was going to be a fun talk. “The townsfolk,” Sam thought for a moment, carefully planning out their next words, “would appreciate some level of… compensation for their goods.” The dragon’s stare was unwavering, not even a blink to betray what it was thinking. Sam forged on, “They spend many hours working on their wares, and it is only fair that they receive… something, in return.”

Some dragons could be discouraged by the notion of giving back. Dragons collected things that fit their aesthetic and nothing more. The idea of exchanging  anything was scandalous for a dragon. It was betraying their hoard. Sam could easily manipulate that.

“I do not understand,” the dragon said, voice losing its bombastic tone.

Sam nodded; this was easy enough. They had a rehearsed phrase that they had used before with a dragon they had encountered that hoarded accessories made of rubies. “In human culture it is common to exchange hoard items for other hoard items.”

The dragon blanched, jerking back in disgust. The scales by their eyes flared and then dimmed. “Humans cannot do that! It is unnatural!” It wrapped its tail protectively around its body, as if speaking the words could hurt it.

“I see,” Sam slumped and looked down. Putting on an act, despite a Creature Charmer’s natural aura, was important. It helped sell the argument. “Then it may be better that the townsfolk and you do not do business.”

The dragon stared down at Sam, eyes becoming cloudy as it lost itself to thought. Sam could wait; the sun was high in the sky when they had entered, and talks didn’t usually take long periods of time.

The dragon’s eyes refocused on Sam, “That is-” the dragon blinked slowly, head tilting to the side. Its eyes and face scales lit up once more, “No more business with humans?”

“If you are so gracious to agree,” Sam replied, laying the praise on thick. The last thing they needed was to offend the dragon at the end of making the deal.

It gave Sam a once over, and Sam could feel their skin prickle at the action. The dragon hummed in the back of their throat. “What is your name human?”

Sam regarded the dragon carefully. “Sam... What’s, uh, what’s yours?” They were unsure where this was going, paranoid, but not afraid.

“They call me, Tim.” The dragon - Tim, the dragon’s name was flegging Tim - held his head up high, as if his name gave him a higher status.

“Pleasure to meet you… Tim.”

Tim’s grin was back in place. It was mildly concerning, and Sam continued to watch the his moves. Being a Charmer generally dispelled the more nasty repercussions that conversing with Creatures often brought, but there was still the chance for things to go wrong, even with the best charmer. Sam’s hand moved closer to their sheathed blade.

“Sit, sit!” Tim said with a wave of his paw and a flutter of pale blue wings, “You climbed mountain! You must be tired!”

Sam nodded slowly, “Yes, I am… I guess.” They did not make a move towards any of the chairs.

Tim seemed to take that as an acceptable answer, regardless of the fact that Sam had yet to move. He turned on his heel. Sam had to duck the swing of a large tail- small tail- smaller tail- Oh Goddess, the forsaken thing could use diminution.

A much smaller dragon, about as big as a draft horse, strode away deeper into the cave. It gave Sam a perfect view of the smattering of blue and pink dots on its rump. Caution was replaced with annoyance as Sam ran a hand over their face, fighting back a sigh. The thing had been huge to intimidate them. Sam shouldn’t even be surprised; Tim practically yelled everything he said. Of course, he’d use a larger size. Of course.

Sam shrugged to themself. Ultimately it didn’t matter. If worse came to worse, which Sam doubted would happen, they had their trusted blade on their side and a plethora of tricks up their sleeves. Plus, it wasn’t like Sam hadn’t experienced run ins with any other large creatures before -a giant, merfolk of the whale breed, and others-, and at least now that Tim was smaller they didn’t have to crane their neck to speak. If anything, the smaller size made Tim seem cuter anything else.

They looked over at the living room set up, and walked towards it. They could understand why the villagers wanted their furniture to stop being stolen. It really was beautifully engraved, and Sam could only guess the hours dedicated to the art. They ran an appreciative hand over the sofa. They wouldn’t mind owning some of this stuff if it wasn’t so expensive.

After some moments passed, Tim came back, precariously waddling on his hind legs with a tray grasped between his claws. Sam watched, eyes wide, waiting for them to fall at any moment. It’d be a tragedy if it did fall. The cups looked ornate, and even the tray, when Tim had waddled closer, looked to be hand carved.

He placed the tray on the table, the wide grin from earlier looking much more pleasant on the smaller dragon’s form, even if it still towered over Sam. He shuffled back, watching Sam all the while. The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck rose, mind trying to comprehend what the fleg was happening.

“Pick up cup!” Tim sat back on his haunches, the grin not wavering. His tail slowly dragged across the ground behind him, waving back and forth, pushing pebbles and dust around the cave floor.

Sam narrowed their eyes at Tim, looking down at the empty cup and then back up at him. They took hold of the cup, muscles wound tight, ready to grab their sword at the smallest anomaly. Not that anything about this wasn’t far from Sam’s norm.

Sam raised the cup, “Like this?”

Tim’s tail waved faster behind him, “Perfect!”

“Why did you have me pick up a cup?”

“To see if you would fit in!” Sam’s blood ran cold and their eyes widened. “You are perfect for my hoard!”

By the Goddess, what did Sam do to deserve this?

Sam grasped onto the first argument that crossed their mind. “Tim, I hate to break this to you, but I am not a part of your aesthetic I am a human, not furniture,” they placed the cup down, gesturing between themself and the couch they were sitting on.

Tim rolled his eyes and huffed, “I know that!”

“If you know that, then you know that I’m not part of your aesthetic-”

“You are!” Tim interrupted, the scales glowing once more in what Sam was beginning to suspect was a sign of excitement. “I like homes! Human’s are part of homes!”

“Wait,” Sam held their hand up, trying to process the information, “so your hoard… your hoard is a home hoard?”

“Yes!” Tim grinned. “Is it not great?” His gaze swept through the cave, soft and loving as if a parent looking upon their child for the first time.

The softness of the moment did nothing to quell the exasperation within Sam.

They covered their face with their hands. This didn’t make sense. Well, it did. It made perfect sense, but Sam didn’t want it to. “I can’t believe this. I got called up to talk to a dragon that hoards homes.” They froze, eyes widening as they looked up at Tim, “Wait a sec- you were going to eventually kidnap someone?”

“Not kidnapping, hoarding!” Tim chirped as if he was proud of himself. “I needed to furnish my hoard first, so they would be comfortable!”

“That’s… oddly sweet,” Sam shook their head, “but still what the fleg, Tim? You can’t kidnap people!”

“Not kidnapping! Hoarding! I am hoarding!” Tim urged, clutching onto his tail

“Tim, this is not hoarding-”

“You were not made by builders so I have no reason to give something back!” he interrupted. If Sam hadn’t been looking at Tim to know that he was a dragon they’d think they were talking to a petulant child. “No exchange! It is hoarding!”

“I swear to the Goddess above-” Sam ran a hand through their hair as they tried to regain their thoughts. “Tim. Tim, no. You can’t hoard people. That’s bad. Hoarding people is bad.”

Tim pouted, falling back onto the carpet with a loud huff of smoke. He had shrunk down again, now about the size of a large dog. “I do not understand,” he whined.

Sam hadn’t ever been called in for a Princess hoarder, but if they were anything like Tim then Sam was glad that they hadn’t. “That’s okay,” Sam tried to start again. “You don’t have to understand, you just have to let me leave. I- I can’t stay-”

“A dragon never separates from their hoard!” Another round of smoke pooled around Tim’s head.

Sam could feel the frustration burning in their veins, fighting to come through into their words. They took a deep breath in an attempt to calm themself. “I’ve been here 10 minutes at most. How is that long enough to make me a part of your hoard?” Sam tried to reason, “Surely you couldn’t have decided so quickly?”

Tim waved his paws in the air, “No more humans means I have to pick you!”

“That’s- So you’re only picking me because I’m the last human you’ll see?” Sam wanted to hope that meant Tim would let them go easier, no bond having been formed, but at the same time they couldn’t stop the bit of offense that stabbed their heart.

Tim tilted his head up, a pout permanently etched on his face, a single tooth peeking out. “No! You look charming! I like you!” Tim’s eyes widened in shock, “Do you- Do you not like me?”

Sam let their head fall back against the couch. A dragon that hoards homes, was currently hoarding Sam, and was insecure. How did Sam land this job? The fae job would’ve surely been simpler.

“I like you, Tim,” Sam began as they leaned forward with every intention of letting Tim down easy. They made the mistake of looking at Tim in the eyes, seeing the tears swelling there. Oh, Goddess. “I like you well enough, but I can’t stay with you. I have a job, friends, obligations. Didn’t you say that you wanted your human to be comfortable?” Tim nodded slowly. “I’m not comfortable here-” That was a lie, the couch was the softest thing Sam had ever had the opportunity to sit on, but they couldn’t tell Tim that, “-I need to go back to my people.”

Tim let out a loud whine, shrinking even smaller as he wiggled on the carpet. He rolled over onto his side, curling up into a ball. A muffled, “No,” barely reached Sam’s ears.

“Come on Tim,” Sam reached a hand out to pat Tim’s flank. Sam was annoyed, had every right to be, but they found themselves feeling some pity for Tim. “We can find something else to replace a human. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

Tim lifted his tail up from where it had fallen over his face, “Really?”

Sam fought the urge to clutch their heart. As frustrated as Sam had felt, they were not made of stone. The image should not have been as cute as it was, and Sam should not have been feeling this fond over the fire breather.

Despite those thoughts, Sam gave Tim a smile, “Of course.”

Tim sat up, and padded over to the couch. He jumped up on it, settling his head in Sam’s lap. This was progress- “No. I will not like it. I want Sam.”

-Or not. Sam bit back a groan, and they opened their mouth to continue pleading their case.

“I do not want to be alone again…”

Sam froze, mouth falling shut with an audible click. They looked down at the curled up dragon on their lap. Tim was not looking up at Sam, and his tail had fallen over his eyes once more.

Dragon’s were long lived, everyone knew that. It was also common knowledge that before Creature Charmers began to be widely supported and funded by the crown that the common practice was to kill the beasts. It still was in some areas. How many friends had Tim seen die, unable to fight back? How many had dropped off the radar, never to be seen again? How long had Tim been alone, isolated up in the mountains?

More importantly, what would’ve happened if Sam had not been called?

Sam lowered the hand towards Tim, but drew back before they could touch. They weren’t often called to comfort actual people. Their specialty laid in diplomacy, as surprising as that was considering Sam’s temper, not consolance. Sam looked away for a distraction as they lowered their hand again. They ran their fingers gently down Tim’s scales in the only form of comfort they knew how to offer. From where they were sitting they could see a library-esque setup, with tall book cases and arm chairs. Overall, it really did look like a home. Tim had outdone himself in that regard. There was only one thing that could make this better, besides Sam being allowed to leave, and that was-

Sam sat up straight, their lips morphing into a grin. “Sam, you flegging genius.” Tim made a confused noise, followed by a surprised chirp as Sam lifted Tim up by his armpits so that they were eye level. “Hey, Tim, want to know what would make your hoard even better?”

Any complaints that were about to be spewed Sam’s way died as quickly as they came; Tim nodded eagerly.

Perfect.

Sam paused outside the wooden fence that led up to their cottage. They took in the worn wood, the way the garden path weaved to the front door, and smiled. It was quiet save for the wind whispering in their ear. It had taken awhile to get back to their home town; between assuring the mayor and the military that Tim was no longer a problem, collecting their money, and actually beginning the trek home, night had long since fallen.

“Well, this is it,” Sam said. Their vest pocket squirmed, the button shifting and turning to no avail. They peered down at the pocket, eyebrow raised. “Do you want me to open my pocket for you?”

“No! I am able!” the pitched reply was immediate.

“Of course. Of course,” Sam did very little to keep the amusement from their voice, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Sam felt a small bit of heat and when they looked down the button had fallen away, and smoke was coming from where it had once resided. “Did you really burn my button off?” Sam groaned. This agreement was not going to work out if Tim’s response to problems was to burn them.

Tim’s tiny head peeked out from the pocket, a happy chirp being the answer. Sam didn’t have time to scold as he was turning towards the cottage and chirping again. “It is pretty! I like it! It is quality home!” He crawled out of the pocket, scaling up Sam’s vest so that he could perch on Sam’s shoulder. His claws tangled in Sam’s hair for a grip. “We live there now? That is home you promised?”

Sam nodded, patting Tim’s head with a single finger. “This is it, buddy. Home sweet home.”

Tim jumped from Sam’s shoulder, growing in size to that of a house cat before running through the small garden. Sam couldn’t help but laugh at the excited chirps that filled the air.

The laughter faded quickly at the sound of a crash, and Sam flinched. “Tim!” they shouted a warning as they walked toward the source of the crash.

“The window looked open!” Tim yelled back before snickering, “now it is always open.”

“By the Goddess-” Sam grumbled. “Don’t break anything else, please,” Sam peered in through the broken window. They ignored the bits of broken glass and the prospect of cleaning it up in exchange for watching Tim poke around the living room.

“Why is all your furniture tacky?” Tim looked at the worn couch in disgust. “It is ugly. Do you not have standards?”

“Yeah, well, not all of us can hoard furniture.”

Tim threw a pout towards Sam. “Homes! I hoard homes!”

Sam rolled their eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Do you like the place or not?”

“The living room is horrid! My furniture will need to replace it!” Tim retreated back from the “tacky” couch and started to trot towards the hallway leading to the kitchen. “I look in other rooms now!” Sam rolled their eyes again before walking back towards the front door. Their was a clatter from the inside. “This kitchen set is quite cute! You do have taste!”

Sam looked towards the sky, “Goddess and celestial spirits above,” there was another crash from inside and Sam groaned, “don’t make me regret this decision.”

[thewilinisian-blog]

Autonomous Vehicles.

Don’t we all just want to sleep at the wheel? Be honest.

let me tell you about autonomous vehicles. They are on the road, and they are coming to a dealership near you. The only question is how soon are we going to get them on the road and, of course, save lives.

Moral Dilemmas.

What I imagine most people worry about are the moral dilemmas that are attached to these hyper-efficient beasts. Consider this, we have all heard of the trolley problem. Given a choice, would you save five peoples lives by diverting a trolley killing one person on the other track? Or, would you escape guilt and not condemn the lonely victim to death. While these dilemmas are difficult, they become much worse when we have to answer them once and for all.

To program a self driving car is to decide how it will act when lives are at steak. Should it protect the life of the driver? Should it protect the most lives at the expense of the driver? Or, should let the program choose at random to avoid any guilt? Either way, we would have to place our lives in the hands (or rather code) of computer.

What people seem to forget is that in the past, instead of putting our lives in the hands of computers, we put our lives in the hands of every other person on the road. This includes, but is not limited to, drunk drivers, high drivers, drunk and high drivers, young inexperienced drivers, old and visually impaired drivers, reckless thrill seeking drivers and all worst of all, average drivers.

Why you ask? Smart phones. The level of distraction that these hand held attention hoarders emit is something that no human being should have to handle. Ergo, we place our trust in autonomous cars.

Oh the Industry!

Another possible problem is a threat to the transportation industry. In the United States, 4’248’600 people are employed in the transportation and warehouse industry, which consists of about 3% of the workforce. [1] This means that when autonomous vehicles roll out, all of those people will slowly lose their job. What this means, is that as more automated technologies make their debut, more and more people will become unemployable. From what I can guess, I can see two outcomes because of this.

The bad one. As more and more jobs are being replaced by cheaper and cheaper technology, business owners will be forced to lay off more and more employees. As more and more people are thrust out of the work force, those who are able to maintain their businesses will reap monstrous profit. Unfortunately, those who are left on the streets suffer the kind of poverty regularly associated with the homeless. Perhaps those with money will act charitably to help the unemployable, but most people will be stuck.

The good one. The government will understand the implications of an autonomous world and introduces a basic minimum income. The basic minimum income would be enough for people in the country to feed themselves and perhaps, find a job. The amount of money the government would have to shell out could be raised be instating an AI tax on businesses that replace human labor with computer labor. Regardless of the tax, employers could make more money because they don’t have to feed computers, or give them perks and benefits, or very much work space.

Once it becomes clear that the country will have to distribute wealth equally among the employed and unemployed, people could start a career without it having to be lucrative. They could follow their passion. Sadly, all this is wishful thinking and I can’t imagine it would go so well.

Life Savers.

Now for what people undermine when falling down the rabbit whole of hypothetical situations and negativity. What, I believe, trumps all concerns regarding these automobiles is the sheer amount of lives they could save. Right now, 1’300’000 people are killed in car crashes around the globe. [2] That is about 3’287 every day. That means that if you spent twenty minutes on the road to work, over forty people would have died in a car crash. Count to thirty, another one bites the dust (or rather tarmac) because of human error while driving.

The frequency at which these tragic accidents occur is breathtaking (it literally takes peoples breath away) and the simple solution is to take these vehicles out of the hands of people, and into the never sleeping, always on task, circuits of the computer.

The Worst Drivers in History.

Okay, lets take a trip:

You hop in your white sedan, spend a minute adjusting the AC, and pull out of your driveway. You turn out of your street and make it the the first four way intersection of the day. A blue pickup in front of you they stop at the sign, you stop, they start, you start.

You realize that you could have easily stopped and started at the same time and pickup, no other cars where at the intersection this early, and you need to get to work on time today. You come to the first set of lights, at the end of Cherry Drive, ready to make a left hand turn. The pickup was out of sight because it had finished it’s right hand turn an hour ago. You know you could make the turn without a problem, no one drives this early, but the light is red, and will stay that way for some time.

The road you are turning onto, Walker’s Road, is usually cursed with heavy traffic, but this early it is empty. However, the traffic lights are still calibrated to assume that there are more cars on Walker’s Road and less cars on Cherry Drive. After another hour long minute, the light turns green and like the law abiding citizen you are, you have waited until now to make your turn.

BLEEP!!

You look up from your latest tweet complaining about traffic lights. The red minivan behind you is waiting for you to clear a path. Quickly, you step on the gas and complete your turn, the murderous glare of the minivan’s driver seared into the back of your skull. After an uneventful next several turns you have made it to the freeway. You cruise along at a healthy 119 km/h when traffic picks up behind you. Being at the front of the line makes you feel as if you are leading a charge.

Suddenly, across the highway you see the target of your charge, the enemy. You make out a fluffy brown tail and then a small spotted face, dominated by minute triangle peaks, uh oh, halt! You break hard, the anti-lock breaking system slams into high gear and you come to a halt. The spotted kitten jumps onto the hood of your car and grabs your windshield wipers for dear life.

The car behind you stops, the car behind it stops, and then comes a terrible realization. Every single car will now stop and start in a conga line of corroded terror. Not only that, but now that everyone is caught in traffic, perhaps they will get distracted by their next tweet, it could be hours before this jam cleared up. If only every single car could stop and start at the exact same time. It would be crisis averting coordination like that that would fix your morning routine and get you to work with time to spare.

Maybe, even enough time to sleep in.

[1] Employment Projections

[2] Road Crash Statistics