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bookshelf-in-progress · 3 years ago

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Beneath the Surface: A Retelling of “The Frog Prince”

If I’d had any choice, I never would have taken the underground train. I had accompanied Roger to a political summit in the city of Roshen, but spouses leave after the opening speeches, and since I couldn’t leave Roger without the hovercar, I had to use public transportation. The train--built by the natives decades before humanity absorbed Arateph into the Interplanetary Coalition--was a horrible excuse for technology. It rattled me to my destination, jolted me into an underground station, and left me so shaken that I could feel my bones clattering as I climbed up the stairs to the street.

The crowd surged around me as I emerged onto the sidewalk. There were far too many tephans. You know what Arateph’s natives look like—almost like humans, but it’s an unsettling almost. Their eyes just slightly too high on their heads, their ears just slightly too far back, and hands (ugh) split into only three fingers and a thumb. Like a person shaped by a sculptor with a hazy memory of how humans look. I can take them in small doses, but in groups? My skin was crawling. I powered through the crowd as quickly as possible and tried not to let any of them touch me.

I sped several blocks away from the train station before I realized I was nowhere near my hotel. The buildings in this neighborhood were old, made of crumbling stone bricks that had been stacked by physical labor rather than printed by machine. Half the windows were made of colored glass, and half of those were broken. Garbage rustled in the gutters, holes marred the concrete sidewalks, and all the signs were written in an unfamiliar alphabet. I was, somehow, lost in a tephan neighborhood. And not a nice one.

I turned in circles, trying to figure out which way I’d come. Tephans watched me from storefronts and doorsteps and alleyways, and I kept walking to prevent them from figuring out just how lost I was. I was Priscilla Overton, wife of a Coalition finance minister, pillar of this planet’s elite—and human. Some groups violently opposed human rule, and tephan attacks against humans were on the rise. Who knew what these savages would do if they knew how helpless I was?

I rushed through narrow, dark streets until I reached a wider thoroughfare--a residential area with slightly less grimy apartment buildings. Still not a nice neighborhood, but not a place where I suspected otherworldly rats would tear the flesh from my bones or criminals would murder me for my technology.

I pulled my datapad out of my purse to look for directions. Dead.

I unfolded my wristcomm and tried to call for help. No signal.

I put my fist to my mouth to stifle a frustrated scream. Why did these things happen to me?

I stormed further down the street, cursing Roger for ever bringing us to this planet. We’d been happy on Earth. Comfortable. Respected. With no chance of wandering into streets where aliens stared at you with their off-kilter eyes. The rewards we got for helping to civilize this backward planet weren’t nearly enough to make up for this torture.

I turned a corner and found myself in front of a long, low yellow-brick building with dozens of small windows. The window boxes had flowers in them—fist-sized bundles of tiny red and gold petals. Not something you’d find on Earth, but...nice. Nice enough to pull me down from my fury and make me think I could give my wristcomm another try.

I powered down the wristcomm and stood next to a pink metal lamp post (Arateph has strange color trends) while I waited for it to restart. A metal grate was below my feet. These primitives still used storm drains! I shouldn’t have been surprised, since the road clearly wasn’t made of Draincrete, but it was still jarring. Living on Arateph was a strange combination of living on another world and living in the backward past.

My wristcomm buzzed, still powering up. I was ready to explode with anxiety. There were tephans straggling by—not many of them, but too many and too poorly dressed for my taste. To calm myself, I played with my wedding ring—a gold band with a spray of amethysts and pearls. The ring had been in Roger’s family for centuries. Some days, it felt like my last tie to a familiar world.

I kept my life on Arateph as Earth-like as possible, but it could never be the same as living on Earth. Alien things always lingered at the edges. Trees that turned purple in autumn instead of familiar orange. Toothy red-and-purple-feathered birds that rooted through the trash and woke me with their awful screeching. And around every corner, people who looked like grotesque parodies of my own kind. An entire world conspiring to make me constantly aware of how far I was from home.

My sisters were going about their own lives on Earth, and the few times we could afford appointments at synced comms stations, we found little to talk about--we literally came from different worlds. If Roger and I ever had children--doubtful but possible at our age--our families would only know them as data-images.

This was why I hated being alone on this wretched planet. Gave me far too much time to think about these things.

My wristcomm chimed—finally awake. I unfolded the screen and attempted to bring up my list of contact codes. I found Roger’s; he’d be in the middle of a meeting, but I couldn’t help that. I pressed the code and waited.

A discordant note sounded. No signal. I threw down my hand in frustration. My ring flew down with it. The golden band slipped off my finger, tumbled toward the ground, bounced off the edges of the grate, and fell into the drain.

I gasped in horror and fell to my knees. It couldn’t be, not now.

The ring sparkled in the sunlight, caught on a lip where the structure of the drain met the tube of the deeper pipe. I put my purse on the ground and slid my arm through the grate, but my arm got stuck just above the elbow. The ring was still a foot beyond my reach.

I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. After the day I’d had—lost among tephans, fighting faulty technology, no hope of help from people who looked like me—this was the last straw. This planet had taken me from my home, my family, my friends, everything familiar, and now it was taking my one reminder of it all. Anybody would have cried.

Long before I felt any relief, a harsh voice broke through my sobs. “Are you finished yet?”

I looked up, furious at whoever was rude enough to interrupt my misery.

A tephan girl sat in the stairwell of the long yellow-brick building next to the gutter. I yelped and reeled back, tears still flowing. Have you ever seen a tephan child? They’re ten times worse than the adults; all their slightly-wrong features stretched even further out of shape, their eyes big and bulging in their heads. This girl was gangly. Her skinny limbs dangled out of baggy green clothes, and a wild brown bush of curls frizzed around her face and over her eyes. By human standards, I’d have judged her to be about twelve years old (though I have no idea if these creatures age like humans). By any race’s standards, she looked positively feral.

I couldn’t believe the creature had spoken to me. “Did you say something?” I asked.

She held up a thick book, bound human-style but with blocky tephan letters on the cover. “Can you cry somewhere else? I’m trying to read.”

She spoke Anglese with only a lightly slurring tephan accent. Somehow, this child spoke the Coalition’s language better than most of the tephan diplomats at Roger’s interminable meetings.

In my shock, I blurted, “How do you know Anglese?”

The creature rolled her eyes. “I go to school. With humans and everything.”

Roger hadn’t been in favor of the integration policy, but it apparently had some benefits. Or would have, had I any interest in talking to the child. Before I could decide if I wanted to reply, I glimpsed the ring again and burst into another involuntary round of tears.

The girl closed her book with a sigh. “What are you crying about anyway?”

I couldn’t tell her that I was crying because of her terrible, technologically backward planet and all its inhabitants, but I had to talk to someone and it was so good to hear human words, even from an alien’s throat. I pointed to the drain. “My ring,” I gasped. “It fell...”

She picked up her book, scrambled down the stairs, and peered in the drain. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re making that much noise over that?”

I drew back my shoulders and snapped, “It’s an irreplaceable heirloom! Centuries of human history! You can’t get those stones anywhere but Earth!”

“Then you should have been more careful with it.”

That made me want to scream, but before I could gather enough breath, the child gathered the book to her chest and turned away. “Can you at least try to keep it down?”

As the girl sat on the building’s stone stairs, the wind tore a scrap of paper out of her book and sent it fluttering. She reached up and snatched it out of the air. My gaze fell on the girl’s arms—long, lanky things that were thinner than human arms. With four-fingered hands that could easily slip between the bars of the grate.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Little tephan girl! What’s your name?”

The girl cast me a dark, distrustful expression, but she finally intoned, “Tanza.”

Not bad, as far as tephan names went. I could pronounce this one. “Tanza,” I said, “Do you think you could reach it?”

The girl shifted her hand behind her back, her face becoming a hard mask. “What do you mean?”

I pointed to her, rambling in my excitement. “Your arms are thinner than mine. Just as long. You could probably reach...”

Her brow furrowed. “You want me to dig in a sewer?”

“Not a sewer,” I said. “A storm drain.”

“Still dirty.” She looked at the storm drain with narrowed eyes.“If I get it for you, will you go away?”

I wanted nothing more. “Immediately.”

"What'll you pay me for it?"

I felt like I'd been hit by a train. "What? Who said I'd pay you?"

The child pointed one long finger at the storm drain. “If I get dirty digging in there, it’ll be my tenth laundry demerit and I don’t get supper. I’m not doing it for nothing!”

The building behind her held one of the few signs I’d seen with Anglese translations beneath the tephan words: Alogath Charity Home for Unwanted Children. I could see why this child was unwanted.

“I don’t carry cash,” I told her.

“Do you have a credit stick?”

I put a protective arm over my purse. “It’ll be deactivated the moment you touch it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need the whole stick. Just buy me something with it.”

A truck—a noisy, clanking tephan thing that actually rolled on the ground—roared past us. The glimmer on the ring shifted closer to the drain pipe. If I didn’t act fast…

“What do you want?” I asked her.

“A lot of things.” Her eyes went blank as she stared at imaginings only she could see. Finally, she declared, “A meal at the High Palace.”

She really said that! As if it were a reasonable request! I don’t know how this urchin even knew about human restaurants, much less the finest of fine dining establishments.

“That’s ridiculous!”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I lose a meal, you buy me a replacement. That’s fair.”

“Do you know how much a High Palace meal costs?”

“A lot less than it’ll cost you to replace that ring.”

I growled in frustration. The child had me backed into a corner and she knew it. I shuddered at the thought of taking this…thing into the sparkling society of a High Palace dining room.

I pointed a fierce finger at the child. “Only if you give me the ring immediately. Understand? There’s not a place on the planet a creature like you could sell it without suspicion.”

“I don’t want your ring. I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. And you’ll live up to yours, or that ring’s staying where it is.”

Of course I couldn’t really take her to the High Palace, but one more street-rattling truck could take the ring forever out of anyone’s reach. I’d have agreed if she’d asked for a hovercar.

“Fine!” I shouted. “I’ll buy you the meal. Just save my ring!”

The child placed her book on a clean patch of sidewalk and returned to the edge of the street. I snatched up my purse and stepped aside while the girl laid face down in the gutter. She slid her arm through the grate, all the way up to the shoulder. I held my breath for an eternal moment and didn’t release it until the girl emerged with a ring of gold and amethyst in her hands.

The ring sparkled merrily at me, grimy but whole. I snatched it from Tanza's hands and tucked it into an inner pocket of my gray blazer. I wouldn’t wear it again without resizing it—and not until I was in a neighborhood where I didn’t have to worry about it being stolen from my finger.

The child picked up her book and looked at me expectantly. Demandingly.

I couldn’t give her what she wanted. She was a complete stranger. I’d made the promise under duress. Not a court in the universe would hold me to it. What right did a tephan child have to make such ridiculous demands of a woman of my stature?

“Thank you,” I said. “You did a very good thing.” Then I sped down the street.

The creature was right at my heels. “The High Palace is the other way.”

I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. I walked faster.

She yanked at my arm. “You promised me a meal!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t get you into the High Palace.”

“A human lady dressed like you? You could get me in if you wanted to.”

I yanked my arm away from her. “What a pity I don’t want to.”

She gave a feral yowl. I started sprinting—or as near as I could manage in the heels I was wearing. The girl kept pace with me. I was a foot taller than her; why couldn’t I outrun her? Could I lose her in her own streets when I was lost myself?

Just when I thought I’d never be able to escape, I rounded a corner and saw the green-and-silver uniform of a Coalition policeman. My heart soared as I raced toward him. Help, protection, guidance, all only a few steps away. Something wonderfully human in this alien world.

“Officer!” I shouted to his retreating back. “Please, I need help!”

The officer stopped and raised a hand. A four-fingered hand. When he turned around, his face had the skewed proportions of a tephan face.

I nearly screamed. I’d stumbled into a nightmare.

The officer said, with the crisp diction of a tephan overcompensating for an accent, “Have you a problem, morik—madam?”

I’d heard that a few tephans had been admitted into the police forces, but I’d never thought I’d meet one. This tephan was young. Wiry and blond. Almost insignificant-looking if it weren’t for the uniform and the stolen sense of authority. Would he help a human?

Tephan or not, he had an obligation to assist the public. “Officer,” I gasped. “I need directions to the nearest train station. I’m trying to get home and this child is harassing me.”

The girl stormed up to him and shrieked, “She’s a liar!”

She shouted a stream of gibberish, and it wasn’t until the officer responded with similar sounds that I realized they were speaking the tephan language. Flowing, musical vowels were interrupted by harsh consonants, like rocks in a river. The sounds sent chills down my spine that only grew fiercer as the officer’s expression grew darker.

When the girl finished, the officer looked at me, not like an innocent victim needing help, but like a criminal who needed hauling to one of their barbaric tephan jails. “You have wronged this girl.”

I lifted my chin. “She’s lying! I’ve done nothing to her!”

“She claims she rescued your ring in exchange for a meal at the High Palace, and you are attempting to break your word.”

“I owe her nothing!”

“Did you promise her a meal?”

I threw out my hands in frustration. ��It’s not like we had a contract or anything!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your promise means nothing without a legal document?”

“She had no right to hold me to a promise. I was desperate!”

He put a brotherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. “And she was kind enough to help you.”

I scoffed. “For a heavy price.”

The child shouted, “It’s one meal!”

The officer examined my face carefully. “You are Priscilla Overton, are you not? The wife of the finance minister?”

My jaw dropped. I’m prominent enough in human circles, but I’d never dared to consider that my face was known among tephans. It terrified me, but I knew it could be my ticket out of this. “I am, and when my husband finds out about how I’ve been treated—”

“Your husband is not a popular man. Not among tephans.”

I had never cared about Roger's reputation among the tephans. These primitives didn’t know what was best for their planet. But that wasn’t something I could say when I was alone in a strange neighborhood with two of them.

The officer continued, “It will not help his reputation if his wife is known as a promise-breaker.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you threatening me?”

He leaned toward me and said in low tones, “I am helping you.” He gestured to the street around us. “Do you think I’m the only one who heard the girl’s story?”

I shuddered to see a handful of tephans staring at us from among the crumbling buildings.

The officer said, “The Coalition doesn’t care much for tephan opinion, but if there is enough outcry against one man, even a human representative can be released from his job.”

At first, the thought lifted my spirits. Sent home! To Earth! It was what I’d wanted from the moment we’d stepped foot on this planet. But sent home in disgrace? Roger would have no future in government after such a public failure. It would mean everything we suffered here would be for nothing.

I asked the officer, “You really think they’d protest? Just because I didn’t bow to a child’s ridiculous demands?”

“If a person can’t keep a promise made to a child, how can anything they say be trusted?” His tephan gaze raked over me, like he was dissecting my inner thoughts. “Your people may have different ideas, but tephans still value virtue.”

How dare he—this puffed-up primitive in a human position of power—accuse humanity of being inferior?

My opinion didn’t matter. These creatures thought it a matter of morality that I feed this ragged brat finer cuisine than their planet had ever produced, and nothing I could say would change their minds. Now it seems ridiculous to think that those tephans could ruin us, but in that moment, alone in those unfamiliar streets, seeing how these two strange aliens teamed up against me, I could believe their kind capable of anything.

I looked down at the child. Her big eyes. Her frizzy curls. Her long limbs clutching the book to her chest. The grimy, bog-green clothes that fell short of the wrists and ankles. The smug smirk of a spoiled child who knew she was about to get her way. I had never loathed anyone more in my life.

“Do you have a name?” I asked her. “I’ll need a full name for the restaurant register.”

“I told you,” she said, as though she’d expected me to remember. “It’s Tanza.”

“What’s the rest of your name?” Most tephans I’d met had at least three or four names and were obnoxiously eager to explain them.

The girl's face darkened like I’d offended her. “Just Tanza.”

The officer looked at her with new pity, and even I understood why. You know how important names are to tephans. One name was a badge of dishonor--forever marking her as a child who’d never been claimed by any family, who’d never been given anything beyond the minimum necessary label. Tanza would have felt the shame of that, and I wasn’t quite so surprised that she’d turned into such an irritating little brat.

But I had no room for pity. “Do you have anything better to wear?”

She tugged at the cuffs, trying to stretch them over her arms. “Just more green. And all in the wash. Laundry demerits."

The officer said, "It'll do." He knelt in front of the girl, then looked at me and held out a hand. "I'll bet a fine lady like you carries all kinds of cleaning tools."

I sighed and handed him the nanocleanser from my purse. I showed him the power button, then he waved the metal wand over the stains on Tanza’s clothes. After a few seconds, the stains evaporated and the dirt from the gutter fell away as dry sand.

“Good as new,” the officer said, while Tanza gaped at her freshly-cleaned clothes. These primitives were astounded by the simplest things.

The child brushed through her wild curls with her fingers, swept them back over her shoulders, then stood with her hands at her side and feet apart, as if presenting herself for inspection.

I sighed. “I guess it’s as good as we’ll get. Let’s get this over with.”

Tanza tucked her book beneath her arm and her eyes sparkled with victory.

I looked balefully at the tome. “The book’s coming with?”

“Well, I can’t leave it here.”

I considered insisting that she take it back to the home, but I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Bring the book.”

I was seriously planning on entering the dining room of the High Palace with an alien who thought the proper attire included a set of green work clothes and a giant book. I had gone insane.

The officer stepped aside and gestured for both of us to walk past him. “I’ll escort you there.”

And there went my last hope of escape.

The officer escorted us through winding streets, side alleys and dried up canals until we finally crossed a bridge into a civilized portion of the city with human-designed buildings. One sprawling building of white stone-print bore a black sign with elegant script that proclaimed it The High Palace.

As we approached the building, Tanza suddenly skittered across my path. I almost tripped over her feet.

I glared at her as she fell into step on my right side. “What are you doing?”

She glanced warily to the street corner. “Kids from school.”

I glanced back and saw a pre-teen human boy with short black hair and immaculate clothing. He leaned against the corner of a building while he spoke with a handful of human friends. Well-groomed, friendly, human—why couldn’t that child have rescued my ring? I’d have been glad to take him as a guest to the High Palace.

As I engaged in fruitless wishes, the human children disappeared, and I arrived with my tephan escorts at the entrance doors of the High Palace. Wide glass windows showed a sparkling three-dimensional display of Old Paris in springtime. Tanza studied the images of bakeries and floral shops and fluttering Earth songbirds, as if attempting to dissect the technology. The few people passing by looked askance at the tephan pair with me.

Tanza asked, “Are we going in?”

I looked back at the officer. He just smiled at me and waved us toward the door.

I took a deep breath, put a hand behind the girl’s shoulders and pushed her inside.

The interior was a vision of white and cream: pale artwork on the walls, a glass fountain trickling crystal-clear water, rugs in intricate shades of vanilla, beige and ivory upon white marble floors.

The street sounds disappeared when the door closed behind us. No foot traffic, no rumbling vehicles, no screeching of alien animals. Just the hush of quiet voices, the gentle strings of a European symphony and the trickle of the fountain. It was like we'd stepped into a different world. My world. Except for the alien next to me.

The host standing guard at the dining room entrance stared at Tanza, then looked at me with the horrified compassion of someone trying to tell you there’s a wasp on your shoulder. “Madam, are you aware…?”

The only way to get through this with any dignity was to brazen my way through it. “I’d like a table, please. Two seats. For Priscilla Overton and guest.”

I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “Your guest? You mean she—?”

“Is my guest. Is that a problem?”

He stared as if incredulous that I didn’t know the problem. I didn’t even blink.

Finally, he put a stylus to his datapad. “Does this guest have a name?”

The girl stood as straight and dignified as I did. “Tanza.”

He poised his stylus over the datapad. “Anythin—”

“Just Tanza.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he set his stylus aside. “Two seats for Priscilla Overton and…Tanza.”

The host led us into a blindingly beautiful dining room. A full wall of windows overlooked a river that glittered in the afternoon sun. The other walls were meshed with holonet that made the room look like a small nook in a formal European garden, with the tables and chairs surrounded by roses, tulips, lilies, and a thousand other flowers whose names I’d forgotten in my years away from Earth. Real potted plants scattered among the tables added to the reality of the image and the string quartet played some of the finest music from Earth's history. The room was a bastion of civilization in this barbaric world. A taste of home. It was more filling than any food could be.

The host led us to windowside tables with an excellent view of the river. My heart lifted. Prime seating—a sign of my place on this planet, which not even a tephan could take away. And it was flanked by two potted gardenia plants that would screen my guest from the handful of other diners.

I took the right-hand seat and motioned for Tanza to take the chair that sat closest to the shrub. Its branches brushed her as she sat down.

The host left us as a waiter handed us our menus. As Tanza sat down, she reached toward the branch above her head, plucked a single white gardenia blossom, shoved it in her mouth, and began to chew.

I froze in terror, then glanced at the waiter. Had he noticed?

If he had, he’d been well trained. He didn’t even stumble in his recitation of the day’s lunch specials.

“Would you like a few minutes to make a selection?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said, waving him away before my guest could decide to take another nibble of the greenery.

He bowed and vanished toward the kitchen.

When he was gone, Tanza spit the flower into a gold-embroidered napkin and wiped her tongue on the far corner. While her mouth contorted in the most disturbing shape, those tephan eyes glared at me. “That’s not a spiceblossom bush.”

“No,” I said, my tone stretched with scorn. “It’s a gardenia. And the blossoms aren’t for eating.”

She wiped her tongue on another corner of the napkin. “Why do they put flowers by the table if you’re not supposed to eat them?”

“For decoration,” I hissed. “And if you can’t behave in a civilized manner, we’ll leave this restaurant, promise or no promise.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t know all the fancy human rules of eating.”

Her sarcasm made my blood boil—until I saw her blush. She was prickly, yes, but unless I was very much mistaken, she was embarrassed. Now she was lost in an alien world, and I’d experienced that sensation too recently not to feel a little sorry for her.

But only a little. She had demanded this, after all, at great expense to me. Let her suffer the consequences.

“Rule one,” I said. “Don’t put anything in your mouth unless I tell you to.” I tugged her napkin out of her four-fingered hands before she could run it across her tongue again. “That includes napkins.”

With the napkin gone, Tanza's tongue was on full display in front of her chin as she kept the taste as far out of her mouth as possible. I don’t know if you know this, but tephan tongues can stretch further and thinner than human tongues, and this child made hers come almost to a point. I couldn’t look at that for the entire meal, but I couldn’t have the child destroying all the table linens either.

I waved over a waiter carrying a carafe of water, and I pointed him to our empty glasses. He leaned over our table and filled my glass almost to the brim. Then he turned and saw my guest—her pale skin, green clothes, those big eyes and that long, thin tephan tongue. He yelped, recoiled, dropped the carafe, and knocked over my glass. Water flooded the table and spilled onto my lap.

The child yelped, shouted something in her alien language and scrambled to pull her book out of the path of the water. An old man at the next table dropped his fork and stared at her. Fortunately, the few other diners in the room were too far away to see.

I hushed the child and found myself in the strange position of apologizing to the waiter while I was the one standing drenched. I didn’t know what reznat meant, but I was sure it wasn’t a nice thing for a tephan to say to her waiter.

“Could we...” I asked as I ran the nanocleanser over my clothes, “have another table?”

“C...certainly, madam,” he said, looking at Tanza as if waiting for her to pounce. I half-expected it myself, from the fierce way she curled around that book.

Once my clothes were dry, the waiter brought us to an empty table nearer the center of the room. No window view. No shielding plants. But it was further from the kitchen—where I was certain all the servers would be gossiping about us as soon as this klutz left us.

Once we were settled with new water glasses and dry menus, the server scurried away as if the girl were a poison frog. Tanza muttered alien words while she brushed water from the edges of her book, and gulped water until she got the taste of the flower out of her mouth. Then she glared at me and reverted back to Anglese. “He almost wrecked my book.”

After watching her lug that book around for an hour, my curiosity—and frustration—were mounting. “What’s that book about, anyway? And why are you willing to curse out waiters over it?”

“It’s a biography of Queen Marastel.” She set the book deliberately on the table, and looked around the room as if daring waiters to spill more water on it. “And it’s mine. I finally have a book of my own, and I don’t want it wrecked by an idiot with a water pitcher.”

The book was thick. What I’d seen of the print was small. It was not a children’s history book. I hadn’t expected this grimy alien child to be the biography type. Was there a developmental disorder that gave children irrational attachments to academic texts?

“Who is Queen Marastel?” I asked.

Tanza showed me the book’s cover. It had a picture of a young tephan woman—in her mid-twenties, to my human eyes—with a pale, narrow face, and deep eyes. The woman's dark hair was covered with an elaborate system of veils, and she wore a dress covered in so many white jewels and so much gray and white beadwork that I almost couldn’t see the ivory fabric underneath.

“Her,” Tanza said. “The last queen of Arateph.”

“Arateph had queens?” I asked in surprise. They hadn’t had queens when humanity had found them. It must have been part of their history.

I’d never thought of this planet as having a history. If I’d considered it at all, I suppose I’d assumed that they’d been muddling along the way we’d found them for the last few centuries, waiting for us to show up and drag them into modern civilization.

Tanza said, “The planet was ruled by a monarchy until about forty years before the Coalition showed up.”

“The whole planet?”

Tanza sat straighter and her diction became crisper—she looked like a little lecturer at one of those cultural symposiums that Roger and I always had to make appearances at. “After Kepha joined the other eleven kingdoms, the entire planet was united under the monarchy for three hundred and fifty-eight years.”

Not just a monarchy, but a planet-spanning monarchy. Such a thing hadn’t happened in all of human civilization, and these people had accomplished it when they were still on their home planet, believing themselves alone in the universe. I hadn’t thought such an archaic form of government could rule an entire continent without overextending itself, yet it had ruled their world for centuries. For the first time, I found myself wanting to learn something from the tephan people. How had such a government come about? How had they managed it?

Why did the woman on the cover look so sad?

I didn’t ask any of these questions because just then, a waiter appeared—not the water-spilling one, thank goodness. (I didn’t trust my guest to look at that one without throwing something at him.) This one was older, with crisp lines in his clothes and face. He looked like he could have won a staring contest with a statue—perfect unshakable professionalism.

“Are you ready to order, Madam Overton?” He didn’t even look at my guest.

Tanza’s eyes brightened as she picked up the menu, flipping through the pages to examine the options.

I asked her, “What you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had human food.”

My jaw fell. “You wanted to come here and you didn’t even know what you wanted to eat?”

She gave me a withering stare, as though I was the stupid one. “I wanted to try it.” She closed the menu. “Besides, you said I can only eat what you tell me to eat. So what am I allowed to eat, Priscilla?”

I picked up the menu and realized with horror that I didn’t know the answer. What could tephans eat? Were there foods that were delicacies to us and poison to them?

I asked the waiter, “Do you have any suggestions?” I doubted these people served many tephans, but food was their area of expertise, and we were on Arateph.

The waiter looked at Tanza for the first time. “I’ve heard that people of her...race...are rather fond of the amphibian.” He pointed to an entry on my appetizer list. “The frog legs are popular. And a specialty of the chef.”

I hadn’t eaten frog in years. But if I could choke it down for Roger’s political dinners, I could manage it to satisfy a petulant tephan child. “We’ll have that.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else?”

I didn’t want to give Tanza any more chances to upset the wait staff. “No. Just get us our food as soon as possible.”

As the waiter walked away with our menus, an afternoon crowd filled the dining room; within a few minutes, we went from being nearly alone to being surrounded by other diners. I could tell by the sideways glances that most of them noticed my tephan guest. And I could tell that Tanza noticed them. She sat silently at first, growing more and more tense as we all tried to ignore each other, but when a bald man at the next table stared at her for several long moments, she finally snapped.

“Can you stop it?” she barked at him. “You’re giving me the shivers.” The man, red-faced, studied his menu as if his life depended on it.

Tanza turned back to the table, muttering, “You humans look so creepy when you stare.”

I was too stunned to scold her. I’d never considered that the distaste for the other race’s looks went both ways. If she’d lived her life in a mostly-tephan neighborhood, a human face would look just as slightly wrong to her as a tephan face did to me. It sounds strange, but the idea that she found us ugly made me like her more. It certainly made her more relatable.

But I couldn’t have her making a spectacle. “Please, don’t bother the other diners.”

She seemed ready to protest, but I spoke before she could argue. “That woman in your book. You said she was the last queen of Arateph. What happened?”

Her eyes lit up, rude diners forgotten, as she flipped open the book. “Revolution. The People’s House took over and had her and the king executed.”

I shivered. “So violent. And so young to die.”

Tanza gave me a confused look, then glanced at the cover and understood. “Oh, that’s from her first years as queen. She was almost seventy when she died.”

I pictured the woman on the cover with hair turned gray, but the same dark, sad eyes, facing an angry mob as they led her to the scaffold or the firing squad or however these people killed their leaders. It was brutal, but humanity had often been equally brutal, so I couldn’t dismiss it as their backward alien culture.

Tanza flipped through the pages. “They say she was weak and self-absorbed, but this book gives her more depth.” She looked at a page near the cover. “Verai’s a good scholar. Uses lots of primary sources. Very readable.”

Now that her interest was unleashed, Tanza talked on and on, taking me through an alien history, the tale of a queen beset by tragedy upon tragedy as she helped her husband rule a crumbling planet and struggled to produce an heir. All the scholars at those Coalition events were nowhere near as enthralling as this alien child sharing her favorite book.

As fascinating as the story was, I was even more entranced by the pictures—dozens were embedded through the text. Tanza condescended to turn the book around so I could see. It was grandeur like I’d never seen, buildings in alien colors and shapes and patterns, but bringing to mind the grandest palaces in human history, from Versailles to the Forbidden City to the red spires of the North Martian Emperor's summer home. The people in the pictures wore elaborate, brightly-colored clothes, and feasted upon vast tables full of unfamiliar food—including blossoms from the potted trees next to the tables. No primitive civilization could have created such a culture. No wonder this alien urchin was enthralled, and no wonder she’d seized the chance to attend the closest modern equivalent to such feasts that she knew of.

The return of the stone-faced waiter snapped me back to reality. He planted himself next to the table, passing blank-faced judgement by how thoroughly he didn’t look at the book or the way we bent over it. Face burning, I sat back in my chair and felt ashamed to be caught hanging upon an alien’s story like a dim-witted child.

Tanza swept the book under the table and sat primly as the waiters placed the food in front of us. First a gold charger, then the crystal plates bearing the food—ten frog legs, crisply fried in butter and lemon, dotted with parsley and surrounded by a handful of greens.

Half a dozen nearby heads surreptitiously craned in our direction.

The waiters set a similar platter in front of me, and after I’d arranged my napkin on my lap, I thanked the waiter, picked up the silverware, and began to cut the meat.

Tanza watched me carefully as the waiters left. She picked up her silverware, examined it closely—did tephans even have silverware?—and tried to imitate me, but when she touched the food, the prim little professor became the feral street child again. She still used the silverware, but that was her only concession to decency as she gobbled her foot, downing the frog legs almost whole. The butter sauce ringed her mouth and splattered on her clothing. She made the most inhuman snorting noises as she swallowed.

Now everyone was staring—the red-faced man at the next table, his three dining companions, the ten people sitting at the other nearby tables, the waiters who'd halted on their way to the kitchen. People murmured to their companions. Diners flagged down waiters and asked discreetly if there was something that could be done.

My face burned in embarrassment, but I couldn’t stop the girl. With all these eyes watching me—watching me, Priscilla Overton, entertaining an animal at the finest restaurant in Roshen—I couldn’t even speak. I wanted to sink into the carpet. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to run from the restaurant, flee from this planet, and return to comfortable, civilized Earth. But mortification left me paralyzed. I just sat and did nothing as Tanza devoured her food and licked every last drop of sauce from the plate.

Finally, she dropped her plate back on the charger and leaned back with satisfaction. Her big tephan eyes were bright. “That was amazing.” She licked all eight of her fingers, so lost in the euphoria of her food that she was unaware of the horrified crowd surrounding us. She looked at my plate with confusion. “You’ve barely touched yours.”

I let my fork drop to the tablecloth. “I’m not very hungry.”

Her eyes brightened. “Can I have it?”

“No.”

She gave me a disapproving look. “You can’t waste food. At least try to eat it.”

After that display, I’d never be able to stomach another frog leg. “It doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Then I’ll eat it.” Before I could react, she leaned across the table, speared a frog leg with her fork, and was chewing it before she settled back in her chair.

I wanted to scream. I could have tried to correct her, but I had no idea where to begin, and by now, it was far too late.

The stone-faced waiter leaned over my shoulder. He was pale and his eyes were wide—apparently there were some things that could rattle him. “Madam, if you cannot eat your food here, we can send it home with you.”

He was offering me a doggy bag. The finest restaurant in the city, which usually recoiled in horror from such vulgar practices, was so desperate for me to leave that the staff were sending me home with leftovers. I was, in effect, being kicked out.

I didn’t even care. “Yes, thank you.”

In seconds, another waiter appeared, carrying a green box that had probably held some kind of produce in the kitchen, repurposed into this restaurant’s first take-home container. I sat in silence as they poured the frog legs into the container, then I handed them my credit stick, and when I examined the payment screen of their datapad, I added on a gratuity that cost twice as much as the food did. Perhaps with a tip like that, they’d let me show my face here again. At the moment, I doubted I’d ever want to.

I gathered my purse and stood. That creature gathered her ridiculous book and followed me, smiling, out of the dining room.

When we reached the lobby, I thrust the box into the child's hands. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

The girl's eyebrows rose. “You don’t? Are you sure? It’s really good.”

“I think it appeals more to tephan tastes.”

She thanked me as though I’d given her all the jewels that the queen on her book was wearing, then tucked the box under one arm and the book under the other.

I put a hand behind her shoulders and pushed her out the door. When we emerged onto the sunlit sidewalk, all my frustration exploded.

“There!” I snapped, giving her one last push beyond the awning of the restaurant. “You’ve had your meal. Take your food and go!”

She stumbled forward, then stared at me in bewilderment. “What set you off?”

My laugh was tinged with hysteria. “What set me off? Maybe I’m just a little peeved at being disgraced in front of some of the richest people in the city by a tephan who gobbles her food like an animal.”

She stood with her mouth open, struck speechless. Those big green eyes showed surprisingly human-looking hurt. “Was it that bad? I know I’m not fancy, but...”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice all those people staring.”

The creature turned red. She stammered, “I thought it was because I’m tephan. You told me not to bother them.”

I couldn’t bear to have that creature looking up at me with those big, sad eyes. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Maybe in a few years they’ll let me dine there again.” I pushed her steadily but firmly away from the restaurant. “I have more than paid you in full. Thank you for saving my ring. Goodbye.”

Still looking baffled, the girl trudged away from the restaurant. I walked in the other direction.

My anger started fading the moment the child was out of my line of sight. Each step away from the restaurant felt like a step back into a normal world. There were humans around me. I could read the signs. I even knew how to find my way to the train station. I’d be back at the hotel within the hour and I could pretend that this whole horrible afternoon had been a bad dream.

Light footsteps skittered behind me. A green-clad tephan child with a book and a box appeared to my left.

I yelped and reeled back. “What are you—?”

Tanza fell into step beside me. “I’m really very sorry for embarrassing you. I need to make it up to you. Let me show you the way to the train station—”

My previous anger felt like a candle flame compared to the volcano that those words set off within me. “Leave me alone!” I towered over her in my fury. “I gave you your meal! I fulfilled the promise! Now leave!” I stormed away, but at the first sound of footsteps behind me, I whirled around. “I swear, if you take another step toward me, I will see you arrested!”

The child’s face hardened into the petulant mask that I recognized from my first sight of her from the gutter. “Sorry for helping.”

“Helping,” I mocked. “Your help comes at too high a price.” I gave a short, cynical laugh. “I see through your plan. You think you can trail after me demanding handouts all day. Well, I have had enough.” I secured my purse over my shoulder like I was holstering a weapon. “Get out of here!”

Face white and lips tight with anger, Tanza bowed her head and turned away. I strode away in triumph.

An old man looked at me sideways, shaking his head. I made it to the end of the block before the guilt hit me. The old man had reason to disapprove. Tanza had made an offer of help, and I’d responded by screaming at her in a public street. Perhaps she had felt remorse. As embarrassing as it had been to be seen with a girl who ate like an animal, how much worse would it feel to be the one who’d done it? I thought of those pictures in that book of hers. Would I have fared any better at a tephan feast?

I turned around. “Tanza, wait—“

“Hey, Tanza!”

The voice, coming from the other end of the block, was louder, harsher, and younger than mine. A crowd of boys stampeded down the sidewalk—all humans, about twelve years old, and led by a boy with slick black hair and gray and white clothes in the latest crisply-cut fashions. The children Tanza had noticed when we’d first arrived at the restaurant.

Tanza—standing near where I’d left her—tried to move away from them, but hesitated when she saw me standing at the other end of the block. In seconds, the boys had her surrounded.

The ringleader prodded her shoulder. “Escaped from your cage, Tanza? What are you doing among civilized people?”

His yellow-haired friend poked at the box of frog legs. “Looks like she’s looting houses.”

Tanza yanked the box away. “I’m not a thief!”

The ringleader tugged at the book under her other arm. “That’s a big book. Still playing at being smart, small-brain?”

Tanza pulled it back. “Don’t touch that!”

One boy pried up her arm while two others slid the book away from her. “Ooh, it’s a small-brain book!” the ringleader said in mock delight. He flipped through the pages with dirt-stained fingers. “It’s even written in their pretend letters.”

Tanza snarled, “Give that back!”

He slammed it shut and pulled it toward his chest. “Why? Scared it’s too complicated for me?”

“It’s mine!”

He looked at it thoughtfully. “Is it, though? I don’t think a charity case like you can afford a big book like this.”

“It’s mine!” she repeated, nearly shrieking now. “Teacher gave it to me!”

“Bet she stole it,” said a voice from the crowd. “She’s just a grubby little nameless charity house thief.”

Tanza, driven past the breaking point as the ringleader held the book just beyond her reach, shrieked in outrage and pounced. She tore at the book while the boys yanked it away from her. The individuals disappeared into a storm of arms and legs and paper. Five against one. I watched in terror for a few moments before thinking to call for help. I had my wristcomm. I could hit the emergency button….

It was over before I could lift my wrist. Tanza was sprawled across the sidewalk, surrounded by the shredded, dirty pages of her book. Her box had been torn open. Fleshy frog legs were scattered on the ground as though the animals had been thrown against the wall.

The boys, barely scuffed, loomed over her, mocking. They lifted the empty binding of the book like a trophy, cheering over it and slapping each other on the back. Then, satisfied with their destruction, they ran off the way they came, leaving their victim on the ground.

Numbly, I shuffled toward her, feeling lost in a different sort of nightmare--one where I was one of the monsters. Those boys had been waiting for her. If she’d had an ulterior motive for coming after me to apologize, she had been hoping for protection, not handouts. And I’d thrown her to the wolves.

Tanza pushed herself onto her knees and pulled the pages toward her, like a mother hen gathering up chicks. She looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her, eyes wide and glistening, her face slack with horror. Her emotionless mask was gone. She pressed an armload of shredded pages to her chest, curled into a fetal position, and cried.

Curled up like that, face and hands hidden, she didn’t look like a tephan. Not like the rude negotiator at the gutter. Not like the little professor or even the animal at the table. She was just a friendless little girl, surrounded by the wreckage of her most prized possession.

I thought of the last time I’d seen her lying in the street, arm threaded through a storm drain while she reached for my ring. The ring was in my pocket, safe and whole. How had I thanked her for her service? Tried to duck out of the promise, treated her like a savage, screamed at her in the streets, and left her at the mercy of bullies.

The ring I loved so much was one of dozens that I’d brought from Earth, and my day had been destroyed at the thought of losing it. This book was the only one she owned, and it was gone forever. I couldn’t imagine her distress.

How had I thought her the savage?

My stomach twisted with loathing, and for the first time all day, it was directed toward myself. I could fool myself no longer; I’d done nothing to be proud of today.

But that could change.

Approaching Tanza with soft, careful steps, I crouched next to her. “Tanza?” I brushed a finger across her shoulder.

The girl recoiled from my touch and turned away. She came up on her feet, but stayed scrunched into a ball, protecting her pages and hiding her red eyes.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Her voice was thick with tears. “Go away.”

I grabbed one of the pages. “I can help—“

She whirled her head toward me and snapped, “I said go away!”

I stumbled back, and for a moment I was ready to do as she wanted. This was not my problem and she didn’t want my help.

Then my good sense returned, and I barked, “Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to leave a child in the street.” I started gathering pages. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

I looked around for help. The crowd had merely started taking a wider berth around us, but after a moment, I saw the green and silver flash of a Coalition policeman’s uniform—on a policeman with tephan hands.

I’d never thought I’d be glad to see that officer again. I waved toward him, shouting, “Officer! Please, can you help?”

My voice startled the officer, and his surprise turned to concern as he neared and saw the devastation. He crouched next to us and asked me, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I said. The twist in my stomach reminded me that those words weren’t the complete truth, so I amended, “I didn’t destroy the book. There was a group of boys...”

The officer had already turned his attention to Tanza, speaking low-toned words in their tephan language. When they finished, his demeanor toward me was less hostile but more disappointed.

“Now you want to help her?” he asked.

That now was an accusation that cut like a knife. I deserved it, but I met his gaze boldly. “Yes,” I said, daring him to deny me.

He spoke a few more words to Tanza, then told me, “Gather pages.”

He helped Tanza to her feet while I gathered what I could of the paper. Torn edges, smeared alien words, and pictures of long-dead royals who stared at me with accusing eyes. The queen providing food to the poor, shelter to the homeless, clothes to shivering orphans. She’d done all that and wound up executed; looking at Tanza and the tephan officer, I couldn’t help wondering how much worse they thought I deserved.

When I’d gathered all the pages I could into a crinkling, crunching mess, I followed in silence as the officer led us along the route we’d taken, every block seeming as long as a mile. When we reached the familiar yellow building where everything had started, I gave the pages to the officer, and he motioned for Tanza to go toward the stair of the building.

“Is there anything else I can do?” I asked Tanza, almost desperate.

Tanza just turned her head away.

“I think you’ve done enough,” the officer said. The words were soft, but I heard the condemnation in them.

I shouldered my purse more firmly, avoided Tanza’s eyes, then asked the officer, “Can you tell me where to find a train station?”

The officer pointed down the street in the opposite direction from where I’d originally approached the building. “The nearest one is just beyond the Killing Square.”

The words shocked me out of the numbness I’d been feeling. “The what?”

But the officer was already rattling off directions, and I was too busy memorizing the steps—left, then right, past the purple tower, turn two blocks after the bridge—to ask what exactly a Killing Square was. I didn’t think a uniformed police officer would purposely send me to my death, so I assumed something had been lost in the translation.

“Thank you, officer,” I said when he finished. Then I looked at the girl and added, “Thank you, Tanza.”

Tanza's green clothes—now scuffed from battle—hung loosely off her slumped shoulders. After a long moment, she raised her head and looked at me from beneath lowered lids. “Goodbye,” she said.

Her tone meant, “Good riddance.”

My pride flared at that. I thought I'd been rather compassionate--helping her gather the pages, hailing the officer, even trailing her all the way to her home to make sure that she arrived safely. Surely she could show a little gratitude.

But as I walked through the narrow, battered streets, it was my own rudeness that haunted me. Snatching the ring from her fingers as though afraid she'd contaminate it. Fleeing from her rather than fulfilling the promise. Leaving her to fight five against one when a moment's action on my part could have saved her. All day, I'd thought myself better than her because I was human, but my actions had been inhumane.

I tried to put it behind me. There was nothing else I could do. The book was gone, beyond repair. Tanza probably never wanted to see me again. It was best to move on and forget all about the tephan girl and the dark-eyed queen that so fascinated her.

Then I turned the corner and came face to face with Queen Marastel. A picture on the gray stone wall, larger than life, showed the woman whose face I’d seen a hundred times in Tanza’s book. I stopped in my tracks, mesmerized. The image was a photo, more or less, but not like any photo or holo-image I’d ever seen from human technology. The colors were more muted than reality, while a strange vibrant shimmer added depth to the image, so it looked as though I could walk inside the pictured scene with a little effort.

The queen’s hair had gone completely gray, her jewels were gone, and her vividly colored gowns had been replaced by a white fabric sheath. What I noticed most were her eyes—they were striking in most of the book photos, but here, her gaze knocked the breath from me. Surely no human gaze could show that much sorrow.

How was she here? Would this queen haunt me wherever I went on this planet, reminding me of my sins against the child?

I noticed a small plaque next to the picture, with a tiny Anglese translation at the bottom, which explained that the image showed Queen Marastel in front of this very building, moments before she was led to death in the center of the square. “Oh,” I said aloud, turning slowly to examine the streets and buildings around me as understanding struck. “The Killing Square.”

This was the center of the revolution that had ended this planet’s monarchy. It was a hauntingly bland neighborhood; no sign of the violent destruction that Tanza had told me of, not after more than eighty years’ worth of repairs. But pictures and plaques decorated almost every building I saw, telling the story that time had erased. Seven brothers from Kepha stood scarred but proud before a jeering band of executioners. A red-haired older woman tried to cheer up three children as armed rebels escorted them all to prison. The king himself stood tall and white-haired, every line of his face showing his fierce love for his planet even as his people tried to kill him.

I could list examples all day, but I could never make you understand the feeling of being there, gazing at these people in the moments before their deaths. They were young and old, tall and short, had hair and skin in every imaginable shade. They came from regions I hadn’t known existed--desert wastes and mountain ranges and snow-covered tundras. These people had families they’d hated to lose, homes that were as familiar to them as the cottage by the Atlantic had once been to me. They’d made mistakes and suffered for it. They, too, had regrets.

Fear, anger, hatred, love, bravery, cowardice--every possible human emotion filled those alien faces, and it didn’t take long for me to stop seeing them as alien at all. They were people, who’d lived on this planet just as I did, who had loved it the way I’d loved Earth.

I’d never even wanted to know about this world before, but now I was desperate to understand every story these pictures presented. Without Tanza’s book providing context, would I even have paused to look at these pictures? Would I have cared about these people? I doubted I would have. Tanza's childish enthusiasm for a book had upended my world--as I’d upended hers.

With that thought, I found myself back before the picture of the queen. Her sorrowful eyes pinned me in place. It seemed, to my overworked imagination, that she was disappointed in me.

I glared at her. “What else do you want me to do?” I demanded. “What’s done is done. I can’t fix it. I don’t even know what book it was.”

In that hall of death, it seemed a pitiful excuse.

I tore my eyes away from the picture, and my gaze landed upon a door I’d wandered past in my history-induced daze. It was brown and wide, with a sign above proclaiming it the entrance to the Museum of the Alogath Execution Center. I wandered toward it, then froze in my tracks only a few steps away. Next to the entrance was a window—and through the window, I saw books.

This was a museum! Museums—even tephan ones—had gift shops! If there was one place in this world that sold books about Queen Marastel, it was likely the museum that displayed her face on a public street.

I raced into the building, almost giddy, and found the shop just beyond the main entrance. The tiny nook held pamphlets and trinkets, and at the front of the room, a big, silver BookVend machine printed and bound volumes with lightning speed.

I raced through the door. The tephan woman behind the counter dropped her book in surprise as I leaned, panting, against her counter.

The woman asked in smooth Anglese, “Can I help you?”

I stood up and tried to look less like a maniac. “Yes,” I said, in my best politician’s-wife voice. “I need you to help me find a book.”

The door to the charity home loomed large in front of me. I hesitated with my hand before the door. Was I doing something stupid? The freshly-printed book under my arm might not change the fact that the child would want nothing to do with me.

This wasn't about me. I had to try.

My knock was answered by a pale, knobby tephan woman with wisps of blond hair hanging around her face. She stared when she saw my face and clothes. “Madam?”

“Excuse me," I asked, "but does a girl named Tanza live here?”

The woman's eyes glazed over as she struggled to translate my Anglese.

I tried again, speaking more slowly. “Is Tanza here?”

“Tanza…” She trailed off in confusion before her eyes lit with understanding. “Oh!” Gently, she corrected, “It’s pronounced Tanza.”

It sounded exactly the same to me. I was starting to believe those people who said tephans could speak and hear sounds that humans couldn't.

The woman called into the building, and after a storm of voices and footsteps, a slight tephan girl in green clothes came to the door, her curls making a curtain over her still-puffy eyes.

Tanza scowled when she saw me. “What do you want?”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to apologize,” I said. “For what happened. How I treated you. You saved my ring and I treated you like an animal. That was wrong.”

Tanza crossed her arms. “Glad you noticed.”

This child kept finding ways to irritate me, but I swallowed my words before I snapped back in response.

I pulled a book from under my arm. “I know this doesn’t erase what you went through, but I wanted to undo some of the harm that I’ve done today.” I handed her the book, which had the same cover as the book she’d brought to the restaurant. “This is for you.”

Warily, Tanza examined the queen on the cover. “It looks the same.” She flipped through the pages, and her eyes brightened. “It is the same!”

“I printed a new copy. There’s a BookVend down the street. You rescued my ring; it was only fair that I replace your book.”

"Yes, but I didn't think..." She examined the book in amazement before turning that astonished gaze upon me. "This is really mine? To keep?"

“Yes, of course,” I said.

Tanza clutched the book to her chest and smiled at me, positively radiant. That smile transformed her from a feral orphan into a polite little princess.

I couldn’t keep from smiling back.

“Thank you,” Tanza said. Then she saw the other book under my arm. “What’s that one?” she asked, as though hoping it was for her and not daring to ask.

I pulled it out and showed her the cover. It showed the same image of the queen, but this time above an Anglese title—The Queen of Sorrow. “The Anglese edition,” I explained. “This one’s for me.”

If I’d thought she was happy before, it was nothing compared to her radiance now. “You’re going to read it?”

I shrugged. "I couldn't resist. You made it sound so interesting."

She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Wait until you get to Chapter Five. That’s when she first meets the king, and you would not believe the uproar it causes."

She set down her book, grabbed mine, and started flipping through the pages, desperate to show me the start of the story.

From down the hall, an adult voice barked, “Tanza! Don’t bother the woman. I’m sure she’s busy.”

Embarrassed, Tanza closed the book. She pushed it back into my hands. “Sorry. I don’t get to talk about it much.”

“I don’t mind. You’re an excellent instructor.”

Her eyes brightened with hesitant hope. “I could show you more. If you want.”

“I’d be grateful.”

Tanza called over her shoulder. “Garsa! Can I have a visitor in the study room?”

The tephan woman appeared in the entryway. She blinked, taken aback. “As long as she leaves before supper."

Tanza looked up at me. “Do you want to stay?”

No tephan had ever asked me that question before. In all my time here, I’d been an outsider. An invader. I’d never had the desire to be anything more. But those words, coming from Tanza, felt like a welcome.

I was glad to receive it.

I put a hand on Tanza’s shoulder and smiled. “I’d love to.”

#arateph #fairy tale retelling #sci-fi

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qqueenofhades · 3 years ago

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So I’ve been thinking about the end of empires lately, the way they behave, the patterns that emerge, things like that. Yes, I know. What a lovely topic. Lol. My brain likes punishment. Shhh. Anyway, I was wondering what we have learned from past ended empires that could help us understand today’s world? Do you have thoughts? Any book refs on this? Thanks qqueen!

Aha, okay, I'll give this a crack. I'll try not to get bogged down in too much pedagogical woolgathering about how it is defined, determined, decided, or otherwise applied as an analytical concept, but we'll say that an "empire" is a geographical, political and territorial unit that comprises multiple countries/regions, is united under one relatively centralised administration, ruled either by one all-powerful figure or a small circle of powerful elites (usually technically answerable to the former), and held together by military, financial, and ideological methods. The basic model, as established by the Romans: take their sons to serve in the army, make them pay their taxes to you, and worship Roma, the patron goddess of the city, alongside their own preferred religion. Simple, straightforward, and lasted for five hundred years (almost a thousand if you count the Roman Republic which preceded it). We hear a lot in Western history classes about the "Fall of Rome," which is usually presented in popular narratives as the moment when everything went to pot before the "Dark Ages." Is this true? (No.) If so, did it happen because, as is often claimed, "barbarians/savages were attacking Rome and overthrew it?" (No.)

The collapse of the Western Roman Empire is way more than we can get into in the course of one ask, and there are other fallen empires to consider: for example, the Aztec, Ashanti, Russian, and British ones. It's a subject of debate as to whether modern-day America should be termed an empire: it fits most, if not all, of the historical criteria, but is an empire only an empire when it declares itself to be one? The long and sordid history of American imperialism, whether it's a rose by any other name or otherwise, is covered in American Empire: A Global History by A.G. Hopkins, How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States by Daniel Immerwahr, and A People's History of American Empire by Howard Zinn. All are worth looking into.

Overall, I think the basic similarities for what makes an empire fall would include:

it geographically overextends itself (Roman, British)

it is attacked by foreign rivals and internal enemies (Roman, Aztec, Ashanti)

it becomes massively financially indebted and deeply politically unstable (Roman, Russian)

it resorts to heavy-handed attempts to punish dissatisfaction among its people, spurring popular resistance (Aztec, Roman, British, Russian)

it is emerging from a period of long war internationally and internally that has strained it militarily (Roman, British, Russian)

it simply gets devastatingly unlucky thanks to a combination of unforeseeable external factors (Aztec, Ashanti)

And so on. Basically, the administrative bureaucracy gets too big to manage itself, the ever-increasing financial exactions can't pay for the necessary wars to maintain and expand its borders, people become dissatisfied both outside and inside the imperial system, and since no human institution or nation-state lasts forever, down it comes. However, I would caution against too much insistence on a total or categorical end of any of these societies. You've probably heard of Jared Diamond, who wrote uber-popular bestsellers including Guns, Germs, and Steel and Collapse, focusing on how human societies survive, or not, from an eco-scientific perspective. However, Diamond is not a trained anthropologist, archaeologist, or historian, despite writing extensively about these subjects (he's a professor of geography at UCLA) and a whole bunch of eminent historians and anthropologists got together to write "You're Full of Shit, Jared Diamond," also known as Questioning Collapse: Human Resilience, Ecological Vulnerability, and the Aftermath of Empire.

This book basically blasts Diamond (as he deserves, frankly) for removing all social/cultural factors from his analysis in Collapse and only focusing on ecology/science/environment. Geographical determinism can shed light on some things, but it's very far from being a total explanation for everything, completely divorced from the human societies that interact with these places. For example, did the Easter Island society of Rapa Nui collapse because the Polynesian people "recklessly" overexploited the environment (Diamond) or the impact of European diseases, colonialism, slave trade, and other direct crises, combined with the introduction of the non-native rat to the islands? (Spoiler alert: The latter. You simply can't write about these societies as if they're just places where things somehow happened thanks to natural processes, entirely outside of human agency and cultural/social/political needs.)

Anyway, the silver-lining upside, especially in an incredibly gloomy political milieu where the current American system was nearly overthrown by the last president and hordes of his fascist sympathisers (as they were talking about on Capitol Hill today, incidentally), is that the usual story of human societies is resilience rather than disappearance. None of the empires listed above, with the exception of the Aztecs (conquered by the Spanish, decimated by smallpox, and resisted by internal indigenous enemies) totally vanished. Their structures and ethos often just got a change of paint and name and carried on. For all the ballyhoo about the "Collapse of Rome," the Western Roman Empire had been an almost entirely ineffective political entity for years and the capital had already been transferred to Ravenna well before 476. There were outsider attacks, but Rome had weakened itself by a constant succession of military coups, palace intrigue, too-heavy taxes, and a simply too-vast area to effectively control. The Eastern Roman Empire, however (aka the Byzantine Empire) carried on being a major political player straight through the medieval period and only ended in 1453, with the Ottoman sultan Mehmed II's conquest of Constantinople.

Even the Ashanti Empire still exists today, as a small independent kingdom within the modern African country of Ghana. The Russian and British empires no longer exist under that name, but few would deny that those countries still retain considerable influence in similar ways. When people talk about the "collapse" of societies, especially non-Western societies, it also produces the impression that they did in fact just disappear into thin air, often as no fault of the invading Westerners. (Sidenote: I suggest reading "Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native" by Patrick Wolfe in the Journal of Genocide Research. The whole thing is online and free.) How many times have we heard that, say, the Mayans/Mayan Empire "vanished," when there are up to seven million Mayan speakers in modern Mexico? If you're insisting that they're gone, of course it's easier to act like they are.

Anyway. I think what I'm trying to say here is that in terms of lessons for the modern world:

empires always (always) fall;

this comes about as some combination of the above-mentioned factors;

however, the societies previously organised as empires almost never disappear, so the end of an empire does not necessarily mean the end of its attendant society, culture, countries, etc;

empires often re-organise as essentially similar political units with different names and can maintain most of their former status;

empire is an inherently unequal and exploitative system that often relies on taxonomies of race, gender, power, and class, with the usual suspects at the top and everyone else at the bottom;

empire is usually, though not always, related to active colonialism and military expansion, and as soon as it cannot sustain this model, it's in big trouble;

the idea that human societies just disappear solely as a result of inadequately correct economic choices and/or ecological determinism is a lot of shit;

And so on. The end of an empire isn't necessarily anything to fear, though it can, obviously, be incredibly disruptive for those living within the country/countries affected. And until we learn how to move, as a species, permanently away from political and ideological systems that give so many resources to so few people and nothing to so many others, we're going to continue to experience this cycle.

#history #history of empire #history of racism #flynnanimal #ask

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

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part 3 of Strange Creatures Brothers Be (aka WWX & NMJ sworn brothers) - part 1, part 2

The few days it took for the Wen sect to arrive at the Nightless City counted as among the worst in Wei Wuxian’s life, right alongside the destruction of the Lotus Pier and the continuous agony of that one night and two days on a bare Yiling peak, watching as the cultivation he’d worked so hard to nurture was taken away forever.

Each day, they moved slowly in their caravan, and he followed behind them; each night, he heard screams of agony coming from their camp and thought it might be Nie Mingjue making them.

Each night, the Stygian Tiger Seal pulsed at his breast, resentful energy thick and black and tasting of tar; each night, Wei Wuxian thought: not yet.

The common roads used by all were cleansed of resentful spirits on a regular basis – even with the seal, he might not be able to summon enough of them to defeat the Wen sect’s forces. Not these ones: these were the soldiers Wen Ruohan prized the most, cultivated the most; they were powerful and dangerous, and Wei Wuxian would only ever have one shot at a rescue attempt. If he tried too early, if he wasn’t quick about it, wasn’t smart about it, someone would just cut Nie Mingjue’s throat before Wei Wuxian could get to him.

That was the Wen sect’s way of doing things. Better the other side lose, even if they couldn’t win.

Wei Wuxian had never hated anyone more.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon they would arrive at the Nightless City: the bulk of the army would remain outside, in preparation for any external attack, while the prisoners would be taken inside…and who didn’t know the sort of atrocities Wen Ruohan perpetrated in his Fire Palace?

There would be all the corpses he could want and more.

It was clear that waiting gave him the best chance for victory. It was obvious, even, that Nie Mingjue would prefer to suffer pain now in favor of a successful rescue later, and yet each night Wei Wuxian’s resolve was stretched almost until its breaking point.

Nie Mingjue was suffering – his brother was suffering, his da-ge, the man who’d seen the sorts of atrocities Wei Wuxian had perpetrated, the sort that he could perpetrate, and who’d still chosen to trust him and treat him as the righteous man Wei Wuxian so desperately longed to be. Who’d given him his good name as a shelter from the disdain of the world, who’d shared his sect’s secret history with him, who’d stood beside him…

And Wei Wuxian, who could do something, did nothing.

What sort of indictment of his character was that? He, who thought himself righteous, saw an injustice, an abomination of this magnitude, and did nothing! It was utterly intolerable; he should act at once, free and unrestrained, he should do the impossible just as the Jiang sect always said –

Quicker to anger is quicker to act, but you can’t take an act back once it’s done. If you persist in your path, you will need to be twice as cautious as before.

Wei Wuxian kicked a tree to vent his fury, grimacing as the mild pain in his foot cleared his mind of the rage and fear that clouded it. He was being foolish: the Jiang sect motto said to attempt the impossible, yes, but nowhere did it say that it was advisable to do so without adequate preparation. If you were going to scale a mountain, it wasn’t being weak to first invest in some good shoes and a sturdy rope.

The same principle applied here.

Getting into the Nightless City wasn’t hard at all – elite corps or no, the Wen sect cultivators had been recruited from a myriad of different sects, and they didn’t know each other’s names and faces all that well. Wei Wuxian kept watch at the doctors’ tent, waiting for someone meet their fate; the second they did, he summoned their corpse at once, letting them stand and walk out of the tent.

With the corpse’s eyes averted to avoid anyone seeing that they were white and mindless, Wei Wuxian allowed himself to be seen conversing with them while wearing stolen Wen sect robes. After a few of these, he unleashed the corpse to cause some havoc, ordering it with a whistle to ram itself onto the sword he had stolen – moments later, the other Wen sect cultivators were there, chopping off its head.

“He must have been hiding an injury, and passed away without us knowing it,” the team captain said, and put his hand on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. I know you were friends.”

Wei Wuxian, who’d fallen to his knees with his head bowed, hair covering his face, murmured something in a voice too low to be heard, allowing the pain of the past few days to come to the surface. He covered his face with his hands.

This team captain was inexperienced, newly promoted, and unsure of himself; his predecessor among the Wen sect elites had fallen to Nie Mingjue’s blade, and he himself was suddenly facing the realization that being a talented soldier didn’t mean anything about his capacity to lead men. He shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable with the blatant display of emotion, and eventually ordered Wei Wuxian to return to the formation.

Wei Wuxian obeyed, kept his head down, and passed successfully through the gate to the Nightless City.

Once inside, he lingered with his formation only long enough to ensure that he wouldn’t be missed, that no alarm would be immediately raised, and then headed towards the Sun Palace, where the prisoners had be taken. He dredged up ancient memories of the archery competition that felt as if it had happened in another life to try to remember where the receiving hall was – there was no doubt in his mind that that was where Nie Mingjue would be.

Wen Ruohan wouldn’t be able to resist seeing his enemy forced to kneel before his throne.

The only question was whether, after that, he would order him to be taken to be tortured, or if he would simply execute him at once –

No, Wei Wuxian couldn’t think that way. He had to find Nie Mingjue before anything like that could happen.

(The Sygian Tiger seal was hot under his robes. There were plenty of corpses around.)

He found a wall and climbed up, hoping to orient himself. Hoping to find –

“– guess how many times Sect Leader Wen will need to slap your saber to break it?”

Wei Wuxian froze, feeling his fingers clench and his head burn with rage, wanting to immediately murder the person who had said such a thing, and in such a slimy, intimate voice, too – who didn’t know how much Nie Mingjue regretted his father’s death? Who didn’t know that this was Nie Mingjue’s sore spot, his bottom line?

There was the sound of a blow, then the wet sound of a bloody cough – “How dare you dirty Sect Leader Wen’s eyes with your actions!” – the sound of a boot against flesh, followed by the sound of a sword shattering.

A sword, and not a saber: from the sound of metal hitting the floor, it was two-sided, not one, and that meant that Nie Mingjue had been pushed too far; he was fighting back.

They were going to kill him!

Wei Wuxian dropped off the wall at once, landing lightly on the ground and running at top speed around the maze that was the interior of the Sun Palace, pulling out Chenqing as he went – running was not conductive to playing, but he didn’t care. Let the song be ugly and wretched, let it be too sharp and too broken, just like he would be if he lost anyone else.

The seal’s power amplified his playing even though he wasn’t actively using it yet, and the corpses beneath the Nightless City began to rise up to his call: there were so many of them, countless numbers; even he hadn’t thought there would be so many. With the seal, he would be able to summon them all –

“Wei-gongzi?”

Wei Wuxian’s head turned in shock, and he even stopped playing for a moment. “Sect Leader Lan? How are you here?”

“I’ve led a combined set of forces to attack the western gate,” Lan Xichen explained, and that made sense: the forces Wei Wuxian was with had come from the southern gate, and the Nightless City was large enough that they wouldn’t cross paths until they came here to the center. “The gate there was left open for us – I have a spy on the inside that’s helping us. He’s going to try to assassinate Wen Ruohan when he’s not expecting it…Wei-gongzi, why are you playing? You can’t summon corpses now – if you interfere before my spy sends the signal…”

Wei Wuxian stared at Lan Xichen. “I don’t care about your stupid signal!” he shouted. “They’re going to kill da-ge!”

Lan Xichen’s eyes widened. “Mingjue-xiong? But he’s at Heijian –”

“No, he’s not; he’s here. He was captured at Yangquang; it was a trap – a trap we went into based on your faulty information, no less! Your spy on the inside, how sure are you of him?”

“I’m certain –”

Wei Wuxian sneered, the resentful energy he’d already summoned up cloaking him; the seal’s resentful energy beating against his chest like another heartbeat. “Well, I’m not.”

He had always known that he would only have one chance to rescue Nie Mingjue – he wasn’t going to risk missing it. He lifted Chenqing to his lips and played.

Lan Xichen’s sword was drawn, but he didn’t turn it against Wei Wuxian the way he’d almost half-expected he would; instead, with a helpless expression, he turned to defend him as the Wen sect finally noticed they were there, rushing against them to stop Wei Wuxian’s playing.

As if a few Wen sect cultivators could stop him when he was using the Stygian Tiger Seal.

The power was unlike anything he’d ever felt before: the Burial Mounds had been like this, full of seething energy, but he hadn’t had the seal then; this time, he was in a place of death, death and murder and torture, dishonorable deaths that could only lead to resentment and regret, and the seal was finally able to fully unleash its true power.

It was a mistake.

Wei Wuxian realized it too late. The resentful energy was like a wild horse refusing to take to the rein; it was like being a child again and trying to control Suibian, except that Suibian had been his, made for him and bound to him with his blood, and it had loved him even before he’d become its master.

The Tiger Seal had no love for him, barely any use for him – except as a vessel.

He couldn’t make his fingers stop moving over the flute, couldn’t stop the resentful energy from filling his heart and lungs; he was summoning too many of the dead and he knew it, they would kill everyone they saw, kill them all, Wen sect and Sunshot Campaign alike – he himself would die, ripped apart by the backlash, and Nie Mingjue would be dead, too, and it would all be for nothing, a victory for the Sunshot Campaign crowned in ash and blood –

Arms wrapped around him from behind.

There was no intent to attack that he detected, or he would have responded; they are firm, unyielding, but not angry. Nie Mingjue’s voice rang in Wei Wuxian’s ear: “Stop it.”

Wei Wuxian wanted to, he did, he longed to stop it, but he couldn’t –

“Wei Wuxian. I know you can do this. Stop it now.”

Wei Wuxian bit his lip, summoning all the frayed parts of his willpower, and – stopped.

It felt as if his heart stopped with it.

Chenqing fell to the floor.

“Well done,” his sworn brother said. “Well done, A-Xian.”

And suddenly his lungs could work again, his heart could beat again; his soul dropped back down into his body. He turned: Nie Mingjue was standing, somehow, body broken and bloody as it was, with Lan Xichen and another man in Wen sect robes – a small man, Nie Huaisang’s height or less, but with a gentle face – not far behind him.

“Da-ge…” Wei Wuxian whispered, his lips and voice cracked and painful. “Da-ge, Wen Ruohan…”

“Wen Ruohan is dead,” Lan Xichen said. “A-Yao killed him before he could kill Mingjue-xiong.”

There was a flicker of anger on Nie Mingjue’s face, but it died quickly. “We need to get the situation stabilized,” he said. “The Wen sect is distracted by the army of fierce corpses – we should retreat and leave them to it, recover our own strength even as theirs is depleted.”

“And leave the Nightless City to the dead? We can’t do that!” Lan Xichen protested. “If we don’t purify the corpses soon, this city will become another Burial Mound!”

“Purification will not be any more or less difficult if it waits a few days for Wei Wuxian and I to heal,” Nie Mingjue argued, implacable – and oh, Wei Wuxian liked that, he liked that they were a group in Nie Mingjue’s mind. It was as it should be: sworn brothers standing together, shoulder-to-shoulder, against all threats, against all comers.

He smiled and closed his eyes, resting his head against Nie Mingjue’s shoulder, utterly depleted by his use of the Stygian Tiger seal. He had faith that Nie Mingjue would win this argument.

“To abandon the living, even our enemies, to the dead goes against all principle –”

“We are not abandoning them,” Nie Mingjue said sharply. “A retreat will enable us to summon reinforcements from the remainder of our forces, which will allow us to avoid unnecessary losses. If any Wen cultivator wishes to seek refuge with us, they will be welcome to become prisoners of war, to be treated in accordance with the law.”

“But –”

The smaller man cleared his throat. “Xichen-xiong, perhaps we should defer to Sect Leader Nie for now; we would not want to aggravate his injuries any further by being – unduly intransigent.”

His voice was intimate and gentle, seeming almost inappropriate in a place of death like this.

Wei Wuxian opened his eyes even as his hands clenched into fists, his knuckles going white with fury.

He knew that voice.

This was the man who’d been torturing Nie Mingjue inside the hall just now.

#mdzs #wei wuxian #nie mingjue #lan xichen #jin guangyao #meng yao #my fic #my fics #strange creatures brothers be #sworn brothers au

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neo-culture-mafia · 4 years ago

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VI.

mirror masa by dathan

Damn

The waves of love came crashing down on Jeno’s head. His wish to break free from the suffocating feelings topped his head in a weighted suspense. Was he drowning from love...or high from devotional ecstasy?

“Not this. Anything but this.” He begged with his reflection in his fogged bathroom mirror. The reflective surface was cloudy with the shower steam. Yet, he could see himself clearly in the water’s trails as it cascaded down the mirror. It was one of the few times where he wasn’t high, but, his brain told him that he was anything but sober . Jeno was watching his life through his eyes like a movie.

“This isn’t real.” He muttered as he shook his head in disbelief. “you,” his words were getting trapped in his throat, “this isn’t you. You’re not real.” His hands could only grip the white marble of the countertop in hopes to ground himself to actual reality.

This was scaring him. The way he didn’t even know if his life was actually his. He didn’t love you. He couldn’t. He was incapable of love. From the hours of that sentence being shoved into his brain-- he finally believed it. However, he looked at you and knew that he was alive...and he was human. A human capable of making mistakes and finding love.

“Let’s go, Jeno. Practice started 5 minutes ago.” Jaemin knocked softly on the door. Jeno whipped the door open with a stale look on his face, “huh?” his throat was dry and felt like it was closing up by the second. The want to cry suddenly made its home in his chest. “Practice. It’s already started. We’re late.” Jaemin could only stare in confusion. Jeno hadn’t been the same for a while now and all Jaemin could do was sit back and hope he could find peace within himself.

“Oh. Yeah. Coming.” Jeno dismissed the platinum blonde boy as he grabbed his stuff and threw it in the dirty laundry bin. He grabbed his gear and was off towards the training center.

It was like his body moved on its own. He wasn’t in control-- only a passenger as he watched his life develop through eyes that didn’t seem like his own. It was if he was looking through a lens of someone else's movie-- someone else's life. His name was the only thing reassuring him that he hadn’t been switched.

Damn

When Jeno saw you, it was as if he got the moment of sanity he had been craving and itching for. “Please don’t go.” Was the only thing his autopilot flashed onto the back of his eyes.

Your skin was as soft as velvet and your embrace was nothing short of a hug from an angel. You were his personal drug. Only he could have you and he wanted it to be like that forever.

“Why do you hurt me?” Is his intimate question whenever he sees you walking away from his presence. “Please don’t leave.” He cries inside his mind, the rest of the group still surrounding him in loud and boisterous outcries of happiness as he is dying inside.

He watched you be swept away quickly by your group of friends and towards a distant adventure he wouldn’t be apart of. “Yo. Snap out of it, creep.” Jeno felt a hit to his chest and reacted seconds after the blow was laid. Renjun had his eyes trained on his far-off friend. “Sorry.” Jeno mumbled, fixing his glasses accordingly to make sure he caught one last glimpse of you.

“What’s wrong?” Renjun’s question had no appropriate answer. “I...I don’t know.” Jeno shrugged as he kicked his feet out one at a time in front of him. “You never know.” Renjun sassed as Jeno gave a cheeky smile. “I’m always here to talk. Also, on the subject of talking?” Renjun leaned in closer to whisper the next back-handed remark.

“Just talk to her. People are catching on and finding it creepy.” Renjun muttered before walking off in a lonesome daze. Jeno became more awakened and tuned in to what was happening around him. Someone caught on. The students were bustling around him and the group of teachers. It was barely noon and he was already craving the sweet release of laying in his bed alone.

The textured ceiling above his bed made perfect the kaleidoscopes for his dry and weary eyes. He made a home in his head. Where he lived with you in peace and harmony. Both of you stayed harmonious and didn’t have to experience loss anymore; happiness was a drug both of you could afford; education and a stable career were monotonous things. This life...reality didn’t exist.

“Class is about to begin. I’ll see you all later for pizza.” Hyuck was always a smooth talker and never feared a group of people. He was confident with anyone he talked with and never had a dull moment...or at least that’s what his facade portrayed. ‘See ya’s.’ were heard among the group as Hyuck grabbed Jeno and started dragging them back to their spaces.

Rockwell Hall, East Wing, Back-most Corridor. Rooms 143 and 144.

‘The Lee’s’. - the combination of teachers who worked off of each other. No one had a dull moment in the classes. It was their place. Their lives where they could manifest what they wanted. Taeyong didn’t have a say in their classrooms where the only things taught were to be real...and to live because no one was promised tomorrow.

“You okay, Jeno?” Hyuck asked as his arm was tossed over his buddy’s shoulders. “Yeah. I’m fine-” “Like,” Donghyuck raised his thumb to wipe off the bottom of his nose a couple times. “Yeah. I’m not high.” Jeno couldn’t help but chuckle at the relieved face of Hyuck. “Thank goodness. Cause I was gonna put a movie on and let my kids do whatever today. I didn’t want to have to babysit.” He laughed and Jeno could only laugh lightly.

“I need help with something.” Jeno finally blurted and the laughing had ceased entirely. “Of course. What’s going on?” Donghyuck’s arm now drooped to his side as he shoved his hand in his jean’s pocket.

“I’m in lo-” Jeno forcibly bit his tongue as he could sense Hyuck’s side eyes. He didn’t need to know how bad it is yet.

“I think I like someone.” Jeno breathed and it felt like a weight was taken off his shoulders. “Oh yeah?” Jeno’s eyes bolted around as he saw Hyuck’s feet kick tiny pebbles in their path. “Mind if I know who?” Was all that was muttered. “I’m not ready to say who yet.” The light sigh of defeat had Donghyuck knowing that this wasn’t a new problem. “Just go for it.” Was all the advice the younger boy had to offer. “What?”

The door of Rockwell Hall was opened by Hyuck as both walked into the air conditioned lobby where all the students were congregating. “Lees!” Some of the shared students waved to both of the young teachers as they made their way through the clusters of kids.

“Just go for it.” Hyuck smiled and waved to most of his students as some ran up to hand in almost-late reports and worksheets. “What do you mean by that?” Jeno was struggling to keep up with his friends thought process. “We always tell our kids that- oh hello JinHae, how are you? - that they can’t be afraid to do things.- I need to talk to you after class.” Hyuck pointed to a troubled student as they both passed. “That they can’t be afraid to do things because who knows if we’ll be here tomorrow.” Hyuck finally finished as they both walked towards the back hall.

Donghyuck had a point and Jeno hated to admit it. He needed to do it soon...or never. “And I can help you as much as you want with this mystery person.” He offered and Jeno wanted to puke at the offer. “No thanks.” He backed out of the un-agreed upon deal. They got to their rooms and stood outside of their doors. “That’s fine. But, if you ever need help-- you know where to find me, lover boy.” Hyuck winked and waltzed into his classroom in a graceful manner.

Jeno could only hang his head as he slugged into his own classroom to greet the over-achiever students. It’s as if they never left in the first place. He zoned out as he started writing some standard chemical equations on the chalk board. Students started to trickle in as Jeno’s anxiety filled his body to the brim.

The bell rang and Jeno put on the best fake smile he could as he turned around to see his students seated and eager to learn. “Good afternoon class. It’s amazing to see all of your faces once again.” The class droned on their greetings as Jeno flipped open his lesson packet. “Today’s Lesson: Ecstasy.”

I think I’m Fallin’ For You

It had been 3 weeks. 3 weeks of Jeno puking his brains out over the thought of you rejecting him. He had already said hi to you but where was he supposed to go to from here? You both had talked about mundane things that any young adult would talk about in this day and age. Jeno could feel a connection and he prayed to any higher being that you did too.

He was going to do it. He was going to confess. He just didn’t know when. But he knew that he would lose his chance if he were to wait too much longer.

Hyuck was still the only one who knew about the mystery person and was the only who was going to know for a long time. Even if it were to work out, the attention of dating on duty was too extreme. Most of the elite soldiers agreed that nothing would be revealed till the 1 year mark. Out of respect for each other, the rule has never been broken.

“Please just tell me who.” Hyuck whined as soon as the last one of Jeno’s students exited the classroom. The desperation in the man’s voice made Jeno chuckle. “Nope.” He shook his head and went back to grading the quiz he had just administered.

“I promise I won’t tell.” Jeno didn’t even acknowledge Donghyuck’s existence as he wrote a 96% on the top of the paper.

“Fine.” Hyuck came over and laid on-top of the stack of papers. “Rules, Donghyuck.” “So you confessed? And you guys are dating?” Hyuck scrambled up to start hitting Jeno’s side. “I didn’t say that.” Jeno said as he packed up his laptop and put his bag on his back.

“This is so unfair-” “It’s really not.” Jeno muttered as he looked to his friend with the grown out brown hair. “I wasn’t even supposed to tell you that I liked someone in the first place. I’m not going to willingly break a rule, excuse me, a group agreement just to gossip. If anything happens...you’ll find out eventually.” Jeno stated at the boy who had his arms crossed.

“Fine. Be stubborn. See if I care.” Hyuck started to walk out of the room and into his own classroom. Jeno thought he was home free. “Are you coming to get beers with us or not?” Jeno called out and the younger boy swung his head into the door opening. “No. I have a couple more papers to grade then I’m going to the gym.” Hyuck ran a hand through his hair. Jeno brushed it off as he was just happy to stop the before conversation.

“Also. I better be the best man at your damn wedding in 2 years-” “Out.” Jeno raised his voice. He could hear Donghyuck giggle his way into the other classroom. Jeno grabbed his stuff and headed out of the door and down the hall.

He was going to go out with his friends tonight. He was going to forget his problems and just let loose and live free. He wasn’t promised tomorrow so he was going to make sure he forgot tonight if he was alive by the morning.

The beer shelf was wiped clean by the group of elites in the on-base bar. “We need to go clubbing.” Lele said and everyone turned to him boozed up and unaware. “Lele...you’re so young,” Mark laid his hand heavily on Chenle’s right shoulder, “but you’re so smart, I’ll get Johnny to drive!” Mark said as he grabbed his phone and had a hard time getting his passcode in.

A group of cheers were heard as Mark went outside to dial the chauffeur for the night’s activities. “It’s 10 o’clock? Where the hell is the son of a bitch?” Jaemin slurred as he laid over the shoulder of his best friend.

“At the gym. I’ll go fetch him and drag him along.” Jeno who was the most sober out of the group decided that the night was incomplete without Hyuck. “You tell him that I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t show up.” Jaemin whispered groggily into Jeno’s ear. “Will do, Jae.” Jeno laughed as he got up and shoved Jaemin down into the stool with a deep groan.

Jeno cascaded out of the bar and into the courtyard. “No. You listen to me Johnny-hyung. You drive or I drive-Stop yelling I was joking.” Mark slurred on his words. Jeno could hear Johnny through the phone. He wouldn’t be happy to take them but he still would. The fear of guilt looming over the oldest’s head.

Jeno’s feet carried him towards the gym where Hyuck was, benching the night away. For the first time he hasn’t thought about you- awe wait...he just did. He cursed out loud and slapped a hand over his mouth with a giggle. He turned to make sure no one heard and laughed himself to the gym.

He walked in the door and no one was there. No students...no Donghyuck.

“He fell asleep doing papers again.” Jeno gasped and chuckled lightly as he walked back out the door and twirled over to Rockwell Hall. “Rockwell...Rocks...Drugs...” Jeno had fun tying words together as he opened the main door to the lobby. The marble floors were free from any students or teachers.

“I’m coming to get you.” Jeno whispered as he got down and ran down the main hall. He tripped halfway and ended up rolling a couple of halls down. Jeno sang his own special effects music as he tried to do cartwheels and more flips down the hall.

His back hit the wall right around the corner of the back hall. The lights shone from Hyuck’s classroom. “All clear, kkrrkrk.” Jeno copied the sound of a walkie-talkie as he continued to roll down the hall. He stopped right infront of the open door and stood up. He looked left and right. “Cover me, I’m going in. kkrkkrk.” Jeno swooped into the lit up classroom. Jeno was ready to run towards the desk and pick up his best friend to sweep him off to a night on the town.

There he caught you and Hyuck making out in the empty classroom. You were sitting on the desk with him pushed up to you. His hands gripped your face like Jeno imagined he would. Your own delicate hands grabbed bunches of his best friend’s black t-shirt. Jeno’s best friend.

You both were too in the heat of the moment to hear the sound of Jeno’s heart cracking into a million pieces.

“Uh.” Jeno could only drone a little. It was enough to break you both up. Donghyuck stood in front of you as you tried to shield your face. But it was too late. Jeno could’ve spotted your face from a mile away. He already knew too much.

“Hey, Jeno. What’s up?” Hyuck tried to de-puff his face in the moment. Jeno’s eyes started to gather tears as if they were going to run out. The long silence made all of you get an ache in the stomach.

“10 months.” Was all Hyuck said and Jeno tried sealing up his feelings as soon as they were escaping. Jeno nodded, still too intoxicated to feel anything but numb. Donghyuck didn't steal you from him...you were never his in the first place.

He was sent into auto-pilot again. Where he was just in attendance to the premiere of his heart break. He wasn’t real. None of this was.

“I’m happy for you.” Jeno nodded and an unimaginable weight was taken off of Donghyuck’s shoulders. His shoulder dropped and a smile came onto the longer-haired boy’s face.

“Thank you.” He nodded with a genuine smile. Jeno didn’t dare look at you even though you stood behind Jeno’s best friend. You were so close but he finally realized that he would never be able to get closer.

“We were going out to the club. Jaemin said he would beat your ass if you didn’t come.” The alcohol was talking again as Jeno numbed himself to all the pain that was crashing down on him like harsh waves.

“Oh. Well.” Donghyuck seemed flustered as he looked around and finally behind him to where you stood as stiff as a board. “I’m a little busy tonight. I promise next time I’ll buy a round.” Hyuck tried to compromise with the upmost form of sincerity.

“Alright, deal.” Jeno mused and came closer to dap up his best friend.

“I’ll catch you tomorrow then at practice.” Jeno hummed as he showed himself the door. “Jeno. Wait.” Jeno turned around to look at Hyuck.

He had never seen his most confident friend riddled with so much fear.

“Please.” Was all he said and Jeno already knew what he meant.

“Don’t worry. 2 more months.” He waved Hyuck off and the confidence washed over his friend’s face once more.

As soon as Jeno turned the corner, his tears fell in hot lines.

This wasn’t real. None of this was.

He met the rest of the group near the entrance once he got rid of his tears and hurt.

“Whats wrong?” Renjun asked and Jeno sighed. “I know what’s wrong.” Jeno nodded to himself. Jeno was finally confronting his feelings. “Are you going to tell me?” Renjun asked and Jeno only shook his head no. “No.” Now that he knew what was wrong, he wasn’t going to broadcast it to the world. “Fine. I’ll just bug you tomorrow- Wait. Where’s the sober one?” Renjun asked as he realized Jeno came back alone.

“Donghyuck is stuck making lesson plans. He promised to buy us all a round next time though.” Jeno relayed the message. “I won’t kick his ass then. This time.” Jaemin sang as he dolphin dived into the van.

They all climbed in the van. Jeno was the last one in as he rested his head against the window.

He watched the city light streak as his tears rolled down. Jeno wasn’t sad. He was happy. Jeno knew that you would be happy with Hyuck. Hyuck could give you things that Jeno wished he could have. But, he’s happy knowing your happy...

...even if it hurt like hell to realize he wasn’t going to be the one you fell for...

#nct jeno #nct haechan #nct donghyuck #lee donghyuck #lee jeno #nct angst hours #nct angst #nct dream angst #nct mafia au #mafia nct #nct mafia #nct reader #nct reader insert #kpop angst #kpop mafia au

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chibivesicle · 4 years ago

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i’d like to hear more about what you think the consequences of asirpa’s crush on sugimoto will be! do you think sugimoto knows? i find it hard to believe that asirpa would think that sugimoto would just go “aw shucks” and stay in hokkaido with her if botarou steals all the gold (if that’s the reason why she let go).

I’m combining two asks which are pretty much on the same topic. What do I think about Asirpa’s crush on Sugimoto? First off, thanks for your asks!

I have complicated feelings on Asirpa’s crush on him. Personally, I’ve never been a fan of this plot point/plot device since I’d like to have a female character not being driven in part by a male character.

I’ve been wondering more recently if Asirpa’s crush is a way for Noda to remind us that she’s still not an adult and that despite her best intentions, she’s still going to approach things as a child or young teen. As icing4me states, I too find it hard to believe that Sugimoto would be like, “Welp, no gold to get that expensive eye surgery in the States for the woman I love, Umeko. Might as well stay here in Hokkaido with my adopted kid sister/personal pure icon.”

Based on the number of times that her crush on Sugimoto has been pretty obvious to characters like Ogata and Boutarou, I’m both surprised and not surprised that Sugimoto is oblivious to it. We know that Sugimoto’s ultimate goal is to make a quick buck to get the required surgery for Umeko and he isn’t afraid to do bad things to achieve this goal based around some unresolved guilt about Toraji’s death. We know a bit more about this from Sugimoto’s flashbacks, but I think we are missing some key points about it. Sugimoto also can be pretty dense about things when it interferes with his own opinion and worldview. Sugimoto wants to paint himself as a black and white kinda guy. I also think Noda is a decent artist by making Sugimoto not respond to her crush whether or not he is actively aware of it. I really think he doesn’t know.

As our Anon ask indicates - the big question is if Asirpa will confront this crush of hers. And if so, it be a very interesting aspect to the story. One of the most important angles around her crush is how Ogata tries to use it to his advantage to convince her to give him the code. Before he has his meltdown on the ice floe, he creates a horrible but somewhat believable story to get Asirpa to trust him, driven by the fact that he knows Sugimoto’s motive in the gold hunt.

By focusing on Sugimoto’s distant female love interest he tried to appeal to breaking her crush on Sugimoto and to have her feel sorry for him in his apparent death and would give Ogata the information to help this unnamed woman which results in Ogata using the name Tome.

I among many other readers of GK thought that Ogata’s story, though a lie to try to manipulate Asirpa, was likely grounded in truth based on his own experience. e.g. Tome is his own mother and that Sugimoto was the stand in for Hanazawa as he is there to witness his end as well as his declared love for Tome. He also made Sugimoto say that he liked anglerfish nabe ,which we know Ogata liked as well as his father according to his mentally ill mother. One part of me wonders if this was actually true seeing that Ogata’s father was a wealthy elite and instead his Mother made up this story to help Ogata connect with the dish something like “Oh your father loved this nabe, it is great you love it too young Ogata!” Anyways, the manga has made it clear that Ogata’s mother suffered from mental illness and had what one may call a crush on Hanazawa. Therefore, Ogata has seen the negative effects of an unrealistic crush on an unattainable man.

I honestly had expected that after Asirpa had time to digest what happened on the ice floe, that she would have been able to reflect on her own feelings for Sugimoto seeing how Ogata almost had her convinced. I’ve never been able to shake off the gut feeling that Asirpa’s crush on Sugimoto and Ogata’s own mother are intrinsically linked in the story. Hell, Sugimoto’s own crush on Umeko and feelings for her left him bitter as he watched his ‘best friend’ marry the woman he loved and then he beat him up to prove - well something and having Umeko validate her love for Toraji.

Instead, she seemed to double-down on her crush of Sugimoto where she tells herself that she’d be willing to kill for Sugimoto’s sake. Of course as a reader, I don’t want to see this happen since she has so far avoided killing directly, but as I’ve argued before she isn’t innocent in all of this in the same way Yuusaku was not innocent as a flag bearer in the war. Maybe this double-down was to make sure that Boutarou would observe her and the use it to his advantage in the recent chapter. With Ogata out of the group for the time being having Boutarou examine things while she denies her crush allows him to plot how he’ll make his moves. We know that Sugimoto, despite saying he’s in Hokkaido to find gold/quick cash to help Umeko, he never had the guts to talk to her about his plans. Instead, he’s doing things without ever telling her of his intent which lets us know that he’s in part running away from reality and this might be part of his own PTSD response.

At the same time, Asirpa has run away from her own responsibility to grow and develop in her own community. Wilk wanted her to be the next leader of the Ainu/Partisan fight against imperial powers and part of that was to have her redefine what type of Ainu woman she would become. I’m in favor of the idea of her being a new type of Ainu woman, but running away for your own community to develop that in a crazy quest to find hidden gold that your mastermind father hid may not be the best way for her to come into her own. Early in the manga, comments are made about her lack of facial tattoos (though the Japanese government was working hard to ban them) and when she first meets Kirawus, he calls her a weird kid.

It makes me wonder if her crush is also an excuse for her to ignore reality and growing power of the Japanese over the fate of the Ainu. If anything, it seems that Asirpa may be a more conflicted character than she has revealed to date. She wants to help the Ainu. She wants to help Sugimoto b/c of her crush. But she also wants to go home and just be her best Ainu self and spend time with her Huci. I think that Asirpa knows that she can’t have all of these things. But as long as she clings to her crush and this ‘childish dream’ it can continue. When Ogata was talking to her on the ice floe, the idea of Sugimoto being dead was a good reason for her to find heading home to be a good option. She lost her ‘partnership’ and her role in the quest for the gold could be complete if she told someone the code.

It has been clear that Asirpa holds her emotions down and she tries her best to act mature and pretend like she’s cool and collected. This is where she has overlap with Ogata again; both of them try to suppress their emotions relating to a wide variety of things and they have more similar backgrounds than either of them have with Sugimoto. I’ve debated if Ogata has actively tried to ‘help’ Asirpa by rationalizing that she lost her mother when she was young and raised by her grandma like him and also having an absent father who was perhaps looking for a pure icon (though that pure icon bit is total Ogata-vision). One could argue that Ogata ‘lost’ his mother long before she died of poisoning and Noda has beat us over the head about this. Specifically, the link between Asirpa’s fine line of being involved in a bloody conflict while keeping her hands clean with that of Yuusaku, now ‘haunting’ Ogata’s mind. It is easy to understand that both Hanazawa and Wilk ‘abandoned’ their children for their own personal career/gain. Hanazawa ignored Ogata due to the questionable state of his mother and her likely poor social standing/embarrassment potential while Wilk had to sacrifice himself to the system and leave Asirpa clues to lead her to what he would like her to perhaps do.

The manga started on the concept of a partnership between Sugimoto and Asirpa which is a thought provoking concept on many levels. Adult with teen. Man with girl. Japanese man with Ainu teen. The Japanese man isn’t abusing nor sexualizing the Ainu girl. This premise is what really caught my attention. As the manga has unfolded, even though the Asirpa - Sugimoto partnership was an initial spark, I have always been more fascinated by the huge amount of overlap between Ogata and Asirpa which I’ve written about before. What we do get is some of the ‘pure & innocent’ native stereotype from Sugimoto from time to time which Ogata never applies to her. Sugimoto was ostracized being a survivor of TB (or the fact he somehow never got it) but he has always seen himself as a Japanese man not questioning the policies of the government he fought for.

Asirpa in contrast isn’t happy with things, but in part refused to participate in the changes to Hokkaido to avoid dealing with the issue. Wilk told her to learn Japanese and she didn’t. Wilk didn’t do this because he wasn’t proud of his own background, he told her because it was practical and would help her in finding the gold.

Honestly, I want her crush to be shattered by a realization that her denial of the possible outcomes is indeed childish. I think she let go of the door handle since Boutarou is telling her the reality that destroys her dream. Asirpa was enjoying this crazy quest to avoid making a single decision and being an adult about things. She can help her people; she can be with Sugimoto; or she can just head home to Huci. Her hesitation and the fact that Boutarou goes straight for that indicates that he likely knows that she’s attempting to balance the impossible.

Frequently, I’ve made fun of Tanigaki about how he was avoiding reality by treating Asirpa like a side quest. But, Tanigaki is the most obvious character who is hiding from going back home to the matagi native range and facing his father. Yet, we could argue most of the characters are avoiding heading back to face reality. Sugimoto is avoiding Umeko and the disappointment and guilt. Ogata is working towards his mysterious goal related to Tsurumi. Shiraishi could have just gone back to the mainland and bounce around going to brothels and drinking. Hijikata could have found Nagakura and they could have just retired to be two old guys drinking tea and hanging out but he’s on a quest to find a fight worth dying for.

This reply has spiraled out of control; whoops. My main opinion is that Asirpa will have to face her crush and what it means for the rest of her life and how she will interact with the rest of the cast. My gut also thinks this will get tied back to Ogata due to her overlap with his mother’s own ‘crush’.

#golden kamuy #golden kamuy meta #asirpa #sugimoto saichi #ogata hyakunosuke #boutarou the pirate

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blackcloverdatabase · 5 years ago

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English Translation of Novel 3: Chapter 1 – Gold & Black - (Part 1 of 2)

Here’s the first half of chapter 1 from Book of Yuno! If the manga is killing you right now (it’s certainly killing me), please enjoy Yuno, Klaus, and Mimosa being very nervous and awkward as they collect information on a dangerous magic tool, the ‘Original Sin’. William also makes an appearance… and he’s also awkward. Honestly, the Golden Dawn is too much.

And on the ‘Black’ side, we have Yami and Asta, the exact antithesis of nervous and awkward. One could argue that they’re downright shameless.

--- Gold & Black: Part 1 ---

“……At last, it has begun.”

Klaus Lunettes, member of the Golden Dawn, said anxiously as he pushed up his glasses, his hand shaking with nervousness. Another member of the Golden Dawn, Mimosa Vermillion, took a deep breath. Her facial expression was uncharacteristically meek.

“Okay. I’m…… ready now……!”

Next to Mimosa flew Bell, a small spirit in the shape of a young girl, no larger than the width of a human hand. Their nervousness caused her to shudder.

“W-wait!? What are you so afraid of!? This isn’t such a big deal! If Yuno and I combine our powers, we can trounce any foe, no matter how strong they are!”

She was acting tough, but her voice somehow seemed smaller than usual. Even one of the Four Great Spirits, the wind spirit known as Sylph, was hesitating.

“……Bell, I told you to get in my breast pocket.”

The one who quietly said this to Bell was the boy she had chosen, Yuno. He held a four-leaf grimoire, not unlike the grimoire the first Wizard King was said to possess, and in just one year after joining the Golden Dawn, he has become one of the squad’s most celebrated knights. In short, he was a mage of prodigal talent. He slowly opened his eyes, quietly walking toward Klaus and Mimosa until he stood before them.

“You two should get ready, too…... they’re coming.”

The Golden Dawn - even within the Order of the Magic Knights, a group directly under the Wizard King’s supervision, it was considered to be an elite squad, where only the best of the best were allowed to belong. Their duties were incredibly diverse, but they were always rigorous to the extreme. The mission Yuno, Klaus, and Mimosa were just given promised to be quite rigorous as well. At worst, it could even make them lose their sanity. Though Yuno and the others have reached the verge of death many times now, their current assignment was so perilous, and, above all, special, that their minds were filled with anxiety. This mission was…...

“Um, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for gathering here today. I am the head of this estate, Ryde Virule.”

When a young man named Ryde used magic to augment his voice as he greeted the crowd, Yuno and the others stiffened. The venue for the party they were now attending was about twice as large the place where the conferment ceremony for the Magic Knights was held. The venue was teeming with women in dresses and men in suits. As he stood behind the podium on the upper floor of the venue, Ryde continued his greeting.

“Now then, the time has arrived, so let the party begin!”

That’s right. Yuno and his friends have infiltrated a party organized by a certain nobleman. However, this was no ordinary party……

“Everyone, I hope from the bottom of my heart that you will meet your destined partner here, tied together by the red string of fate!”

This was a matchmaking party. They were told to infiltrate this party and gather information from the nobles in attendance. Such is the task that was imposed on Yuno and the others. To do so, they must deepen their relationships with the other people here, at least, to some extent. In other words, they must spend their time talking about hobbies and work, the latest fashions, and even love stories with nobles and aristocrats they were completely unacquainted with, and they have to look like they’re having fun while doing so.

They were all excellent knights, but that doesn’t mean they excel at that kind of communication. Of course, none of them had any experience with matchmaking parties. In the first place, they don’t even have any experience talking to the opposite sex for that sort of thing. In other words, they were all so nervous that they wanted to throw up.

“……E-eek!? They all started moving!”

The men and women at the venue began to shuffle around, causing Mimosa to visibly tremble.

‘U-uh, what was it you’re supposed to do first? First… a-are we supposed to talk to the other person about their appearance, like their good points and their bad points!?’

Klaus was lost in his thoughts. Then, a girl whose cuteness reminded him of Mimosa suddenly spoke to him.

“Hey, you look nervous. You’ll go bald if you let yourself get too stressed out.”

‘This isn’t good. We’re only three seconds in and my heart is already pounding,’ Klaus thought.

“Calm down, Mimosa! Apparently, it’s perfectly acceptable to be a little rude here, too! F-first of all, delve into the occupation and hobbies of your partner, and find something that might be related to the thing we’re looking for!”

With that, Bell peeked out of Yuno’s chest pocket and joined the discussion with a whisper.

“But Klaus, what are you going to do if someone asks you the same thing!? Your hobby is architectural appreciation, right!? Are there really going to be any girls here interested in that!?”

“G-gh! T-that’s…!”

Stabbed by her words, Klaus grinded his teeth in frustration at his weak point on this mission – his niche hobbies. This caused Mimosa’s confusion to grow even further, making nervous noises as she sputtered,

“Aah, what do we do, what do we do……? T-then, what if we ask our partners what their annual income is!?”

“Don’t say that like you just had a good idea! That’s the last thing you should bring up the first time you meet someone!”

The discussion continued without progress. Glancing away from everyone else, Yuno sighed.

‘This doesn’t suit my character, and yet…...’

Though that was what Yuno was thinking, he refrained from saying it out loud. They were assigned this task a few hours ago, and they only arrived at the venue a few minutes ago. This means they arrived here without formulating a strategy.

‘We’ll need to take some time to talk it through.’

Yuno turned toward his chaotically confused comrades and admonished them.

“……Please calm down. First, let’s go over the details of our mission.”

If you don’t know where you should go, it’s important to first trace back to where you started. This is the same routine Yuno has been doing since he was a child. Whenever he was lost, experiencing hardships, or feeling sad, if he thought about the oath he made as a child, he would feel as though those thoughts were pushing at his back, directing him to where he should go.

……Well, every time he thought about that oath, that guy’s optimistic smile came to mind, which would invariably cause Yuno to smile, too, so Yuno had to be careful.

That aside, Yuno thought back to when the four of them were assigned their current mission.

--- A few hours ago, at the base of the Golden Dawn ---

Yuno and the others stood side by side, having just been urgently summoned into the office. Klaus stood in front of them, repeating what their captain had told them.

“There are nobles trading away illegal magic tools…?”

Their captain, William Vangeance, who sat at his desk across from Klaus and the others, quietly tilted his head downward and replied,

“Yes, this has become apparent after an investigation done by your peers.”

He had his usual elegant smile, but the tone of his voice was a little more serious than usual.

“Well, it’s certainly not unusual for nobles to have secret dealings with each other. I wouldn’t go so far as saying that those secret dealings aren’t a problem, but it’s also usually not something the Magic Knights need to be dispatched to handle.”

“…But, this time, these ‘illegal magic tools’ are a problem?”

In response to Klaus’s question, Vangeance nodded his head as he continued,

“We’re still investigating for more details, but this magic tool, called the ‘Original Sin’, is shaped in the form of a grimoire. It explosively boosts its owner’s magical power, but it also makes them violent, before finally making their magical power spin out of control. Ultimately, it sounds like a dangerous tool.”

“Such a dangerous tool is…!?”

Klaus started thinking as he answered - To what extent does it increase the owner’s magical power? How long does it last? Once induced into violence, how much does the affected person’s personality change, and how do you turn them back to normal? There were many uncertainties, but one thing that was certain was that if such a thing were to fall into the wrong hands, it would become a significant threat. That was something they must prevent from happening.

Moreover, the annual festival for Magic Knights, the Star Festival, was fast approaching. If they make a huge achievement here, then they will earn themselves a large helping of stars. In other words, he’ll be able to show his loyalty to the captain. Feeling a greater sense of responsibility than usual while also hiding the sliver of excitement welling up in his chest, Klaus asked,

“So, Captain Vangeance, what is it that we should do?”

“Right. I’m sorry for springing this on you so suddenly, but, starting now, I would like you to infiltrate a party hosted by a certain nobleman.”

Saying this, Vangeance opened a cloth bag on his desk. Inside, it contained one lovely dress and two well-tailored tailcoat suits. It seemed that they were expected to wear these and infiltrate the party. Klaus took the bag and said,

“I see. So, the owner of this magic tool… the ‘Original Sin’, will be among the nobles attending this party. Or, is it that a transaction involving this tool will take place at the party?”

“You catch on quickly. That’s correct. I want you to investigate with both possibilities in mind.”

Vangeance reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a bundle of parchment.

“This contains a brief summary of the party, its sponsor, and its participants. This was only compiled recently, so I haven’t yet read the details, but please look at this on your way……. hm?”

With one glance at the data, Vangeance’s expression stiffened by just a little bit. It was a facial expression he didn’t normally show, causing Klaus to call out without delay,

“What’s wrong, Captain Vangeance?”

“Umm……. no, it’s fine. I just found out, but……”

It seemed as if he was being very careful with his words, which was incredibly unusual for him.

“The purpose behind this party is a little unique……. it’s a party where people with the same goal in mind gather together, or, how should I put it? This goal is rather specific…… Well, you’ll understand once you read the document.”

“Then, there’s no problem. We will look over it on our way there.”

“……Okay. I see. Then, there’s no problem.”

Vangeance said awkwardly as he handed the documents over to Klaus. Taking note of how uncomfortable he looked, Klaus sandwiched the documents under his arm and did a 3-leaf salute with his other hand.

“Well then, we’ll be on our way, Captain Vangeance! We’ll round up every single one of those ‘Original Sin’ tools, as well as every evil noble who’s distributing them!”

“Y-yes. I’m counting on you……”

“Yes sir!! We absolutely, positively won’t let you down!”

After such a formal(?) exchange of words, Vangeance, as if he were coming to terms with feelings of guilt, said so quietly that he was barely audible,

“……Um, if I find any Magic Knights who are free, then I’ll send them as reinforcements…… so, I hope you can forgive me.”

With those parting words, Klaus and the others left the office.

--- And now, in the present ---

“…………”

Klaus turned toward Yuno, whose eyes were closed in recollection, and said mild-mannerly,

“……How is it, Yuno? Were you able to make a breakthrough?”

Yuno slowly opened his eyes and stared at Klaus with an exceedingly calm expression as he said,

“Yes, I have reconfirmed that you, Klaus-senpai, in your rush for success, accepted this mission without properly confirming its contents. In other words, we are in this mess because of your mismanagement.”

“That’s no breakthrough, but I cannot deny the validity of your claim! I’m sorry! I didn’t think things would turn out like this!”

“Also, when you replied to Captain Vangeance at the end, I find it odd that you yelled ‘Yes sir!!’. A simple ‘yes’ would have been fine, so why did you raise your voice like that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that! I was just brimming with fighting spirit! If you’re going to make me explain myself, then there’s your explanation!”

With that, Bell and Mimosa raised their hands at the same time, joining the conversation while Klaus pouted.

“While we’re on the subject, I thought it was odd when you said “absolutely, positively”! Why did you add “positively” to that!?”

“Also, this has been bothering me for a while, Klaus-san, but why are you only growing out the bangs on your left side! It’s so long that it flutters smoothly in the wind, but why!?”

“Don’t join in with Yuno! Plus, stop that! You’re making me embarrassed for all sorts of reasons!”

Yuno smiled a little when they began their exchange with each other. With this, they’ve become a little less nervous. He left the bullying at that and started talking about his breakthrough. Well, it wasn’t so groundbreaking that it could be called a breakthrough, though.

“First of all, we should act as we usually do, just as you were doing just now. We’ll look out of place if we act that nervous, and if we get swallowed up by the atmosphere of this place, we won’t be able to fulfill our goal.”

“……You’re… right. Sorry. It seems that I misunderstood what our goal should be.”

Klaus scratched his head awkwardly as he continued,

“Our goal is to retrieve the ‘Original Sin’ and capture the culprit who has it. Getting close to someone and collecting information from them is just a means to an end. Getting nervous about a means to an end is like putting the cart before the horse.”

With Klaus’s words, Mimosa breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness. I was seriously thinking that we would have to participate in this matchmaking party and get close to someone.”

‘If you were serious about this, you wouldn’t suddenly ask them what their annual income is…,’ Yuno thought as he said,

“That would be the best way to obtain information, but it’s not absolutely necessary. If it makes you that nervous, then you shouldn’t even bother. This document has all the information we need. Instead, I think we should watch for any suspicious figures.”

“That’s my Yuno! You said everything I wanted to say!!”

Bell said with smug face before suddenly pointing her finger at Klaus and Mimosa.

“Listen up, you two! For the time being, you should be inconspicuous while you keep your eyes peeled for any dangerous looking people! Got it? I repeat, you should be inconspi-Oomf!”

Before Bell could finish what she was saying, Yuno pushed Bell back into his pocket with his index finger. ‘You’re the one who stands out the most’, he thought.

Staying hidden as they watch the enemy… he was bothered by such a passive strategy, but there were too many uncertainties in this mission, such as the identity of the enemy and the true abilities of the ‘Original Sin’. With what little information they have, they should tread cautiously.

“……Hm?”

While he was looking around the venue, he noticed that one section of it had become very noisy. It seemed that someone was at the center table, where the food and alcohol were all lined up.

“UWOOOOOH! I’VE NEVER SEEN SOME OF THIS FOOD BEFORE!! IS IT ALRIGHT IF I EAT ALL OF THIS!? I MEAN, WHY HASN’T ANYONE ELSE EATEN THIS YET!? WHY!?”

“Huh, you serious? This is Ryuuzencagula wine. I can drink as much of this rare shit as I want?”

The owners of those voices were a teenage boy and a large man. They seemed to be excited about the high quality of the food and alcohol. The nobles around them were staring at them while they either giggled and chuckled or backed away to put some distance between them.

“Hey lady, can I get a to-go box!? It doesn’t look like anyone else is gonna eat this, so I’ll bring the rest of this home! Ha ha, it tastes so good that it’d be a shame to waste it~!”

“Can you bring as much of this wine as you have? What, you have a whole barrel? Hey~, you serious? What do you plan to do if I get drunk? This matchmaking party sure is sexy~”

Unbothered by all the eyes that were on them, the two of them continued to act in high spirits. In inverse proportion, Klaus and Yuno became increasingly pale. The owners of those voices were two people they were very familiar with. In other words, they sounded an awful lot like the captain of the worst squad in the Magic Knights, the Black Bulls, A.K.A. the God of Destruction, Yami Sukehiro, and Asta, an optimistic member of the same squad. For the second time that day, Klaus looked as if he was about to vomit.

“…..W-what? Yuno, when the captain said he would send us reinforcements……don’t tell me he…”

“It’s just our imagination. They must be someone else, and they just happen to resemble them. There must be nobles like that, too. Talk about shocking.”

Yuno spoke quickly. There was just no way. This was a mission where they weren’t supposed to stand out, so why were the two guys who stand out the most in the Magic Knights dispatched? No, if those two were the only knights available, then it’s possible, but…

“……Anyway, let’s not get involved with them. Even among the Black Bulls…… Captain Yami and Asta are the worst possible combination.”

“You’ve already admitted to knowing their names out loud, though!”

No, even Klaus was already aware. They’ll have to join Asta and Yami at some point, but right now is absolutely not the right time for that. They haven’t even found anything yet, so there was no way they could start working together with those guys.

“Let’s leave this area for now. There’s other rooms, so let’s split up and…… hm?”

Klaus looked around, realizing that Mimosa was gone. He had a bad feeling, so he turned toward the direction where Asta and Yami were making a ruckus, and,

“Huh~! It’s Asta-san and Captain Yami! I’m so glad! Being surrounded by all these people I didn’t know was making me feel so discouraged!”

Her smile was practically sparkling as she spoke with them.

‘HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!’

Klaus looked as if he was about to scream in anger, but it was already too late. Asta and Yami, who were dressed in tailcoat suits, had noticed her, and they were now talking to her.

“Oh, it’s Mimosa! You should try this meat! It’s delicious!”

“Ah, now that I think about it, you guys came here before us. So, who else is with ya?”

“Yuno-san and Klaus-san are over there! Let’s go talk to them together!”

“……..”

Yuno and Klaus silently exchanged glances with each other, both of them thinking the exact same thing. For now, it’s going to be impossible for them not to stand out.

“The enemy might be here, and yet you’re acting so stupid…... Just what are you thinking?”

Klaus said to Asta, pressing his temples as if he had just developed a migraine. They stood at a corner in the room where several tables and chairs were placed. They were too conspicuous in the main hall, so they relocated to this room, where Klaus explained their strategy to Asta and Yami in an attempt to rebuild it. Yami leaned back on his chair, speaking as if the whole thing had nothing to do with him,

“My bad, strait-laced glasses. But, it’s not like we meant any harm, so let it slide.”

“No way, you were making a racket with Asta, were you not!? While Asta was acting like that, you…...”

“……I was what, exactly?”

“……Ah, no, um……. sorry.”

Feeling threatened by Yami, Klaus reflexively apologized. It was power harassment from a superior. As a middle manager who also has had to deal with workplace harassment from his juniors… such troubles were something that Klaus became very well-acquainted with this year. Unaware of Klaus’s thoughts, the man who had just harassed him drank some wine as he said,

“Well, don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to stand out more than I already have. You all continue with that strategy of yours.”

Noting that Yami was once again acting as if it were someone else’s problem, Yuno leaned forward as he asked,

“Aren’t you going to take the lead, captain?”

“Nope. This time around, I don’t plan on movin’ all that much. If the higher-ups are always buttin’ in, that doesn’t leave any chance for newbies to grow. I’m sure Vangeance was thinkin’ the same thing.”

“…Is that so?”

Despite his casual reply, Yuno’s respect for Yami went up a bit. He doesn’t usually act like it, but a captain is still a captain. Yami, too, was thinking about how he can cultivate newcomers. While Yuno was admiring him in secret, Yami slowly stood up, carrying the wine he had just received from the waiter over his shoulder.

“And so, I’m gonna go get drunk off my ass and take a walk through the garden or somethin’. Call me if anythin’ comes up. Ah, but don’t wake me up if I’m nappin’. I’ll send ya flyin’ if you do.”

With that, Yuno’s respect for Yami dropped back to where it was before. Actually, it dropped a little lower. Yami patted Asta’s head and started walking toward the exit.

“Well, see ya. Do your best while you’re rehabilitating, kid.”

“Yes sir! Be careful out there, Captain Yami!”

With that exchange of words, Klaus sighed heavily at the figure that so quickly left them behind.

“Goodness. Why did he even bother coming here, that man……?”

“Well, still, he’ll come help us if something happens. He’s always like that! More importantly……”

Asta slapped Yuno’s back with a wide smile on his face.

“It’s been awhile, Yuno! You’re acting as cool as usual, ya jerk!”

With a slight smile on his face, Yuno retorted,

“Shut up. That hurt. We saw each other at Kiten, so it hasn’t been that long. I see you’re still short.”

“Rejected right away!? Also, my height has nothing to do with this!”

“Come to think of it, Captain Yami mentioned something about you rehabilitating. Are you unwell? Is it your head?”

“What makes you say that!? It’s my arms! My arms! They were all bandaged up when we met at Kiten, remember!? They’re all healed now, but they were both totally messed up!”

“If only they could cure the rest of you.”

“Shut up! What’s will all the verbal abuse!?”

Klaus couldn’t help but laugh as he watched the two quarrel so happily. Mimosa also couldn’t help feeling warm and fuzzy inside as she mumbled “Asta-kun’s so sweet, so tiny…...”. It was a scene that Klaus should bring to a halt, but it had truly been a long time since the two of them were able to talk at their leisure. Klaus knew they were rivals, but, before that, they were practically like twin brothers to each other. Nobody would blame him if he let them play around a bit more, he thought, but then something started fidgeting about in Yuno’s breast pocket.

‘……. That’s right. I forgot. There’s one person here who couldn’t read the atmosphere around her to save her life, even though she’s a wind spirit.’

“Wait a minute! Why are you chatting things up with my Yuno while completely ignoring me!”

Just as Klaus was expecting, Bell poked her face out of Yuno’s breast pocket and yelled at Asta, causing Asta to step back in surprise.

“Woah!? What the heck, wind spirit! I didn’t know you were here, too!”

“Of course I am! Yuno and I are always together! Isn’t that the first thing they teach you at school!? What kind of life have you been living if you don’t even know that!”

“Don’t say that as if its common knowledge! I’ve been enjoying a completely normal life!”

“……Bell, house. What will you do if someone sees you?”

This time, it was Yuno who stopped the war of words that was unfolding. Just after he stopped their argument with a sigh,

“……Yuno-san, aren’t those people over there acting strange?”

Mimosa gently tugged on Yuno’s sleeve and pointed to a corner of the room with her other hand. When he looked to where she was pointing, he could see about ten men trying to woo five young women. It wasn’t a particularly rare spectacle to see at a matchmaking party, but……

……No.

The rest of the men were being led by one rather rotund individual. Yuno could hear the exchange between him and the five young women.

“Considering that you’re all nobles from the backwoods, you lot have some nerve refusing an invitation from me, the next head of the Burlington family!��

“……Ah, no, um…… it’s not that we were… refusing you, but, um……”

“Then accept my invitation to my estate! I’m telling you that I’ll let you all visit my private room!”

Despite the fact his invitation was clearly in deviation of proper manners, the other partygoers around them pretended not see anything, and the waiters and waitresses hurriedly continued their duties without stopping them. The Burlington household. It was a name Yuno had never even heard of before, but it must be a name that holds some weight around here. Considering the circumstances surrounding their mission, it wouldn’t be good to stand out more than they already have, but……

Yuno asked Klaus as if the answer was already obvious,

“Klaus-senpai, I can go help them, right?”

“No way…… even if I were to say that, you would still go anyway, right? Asta’s here, too……”

Klaus sighed, but smiled in the next instant and said,

“Well, I don’t intend to turn a blind eye, either. However, please wait for a bit. We should think of a way to resolve things quiet-“

Before Klaus could finish, Asta rushed into fray with blazing speed.

“HEEEEY! You bastards! Those girls clearly don’t like you, so stop that!”

“Can’t you listen to what other people are saying before acting out!”

Asta managed to weave his way through the crowd. The fat man who lead the group shouted aggressively,

“What the hell, you bastard! Don’t you know you’re speaking to Zable Burlington!”

“I don’t care if your name is Zable or Cable! No matter who you are, trying to force a girl to go out with you when she doesn’t want to is wrong!”

“Oh? These girls don’t want to go out with me? So, they rejected me? I see! Then, it’s fair for me to say that they committed a heinous act of disrespect toward me, right!?”

Not understanding what was going on, Asta turned to look at the girls, only to see them shake their heads in denial, looking as if they were about to cry. He didn’t know anything about the circumstances of nobility, but he did understand that, right now, those girls’ circumstances were terrible.

Watching Asta fall silent, Zable’s mood became cheerful as he sneered,

“So, which household are you from? You’ll have to atone for your rash remarks toward me…. Huh? Who are you, you bastard!?”

Klaus had arrived at the scene, coughing once to catch Zable’s attention before speaking,

“I apologize for my companion’s rude behavior. However, please leave it at that. This spectacle is starting to bother everyone here.”

Klaus chose his words carefully, trying to discourage his opponent without sounding contemptuous. As a result, Zable dialed back his arrogant attitude a little before responding,

“W-what’s with you? Are you trying to lecture me!? Tell me which household you’re from! Your household!”

“For reasons I cannot divulge here, I cannot tell you. However, it’s a household with quite a bit of status.”

‘I-I should say something, too!’ Thinking this, Mimosa stepped forward and said,

“T-that’s right! That’s right! Umm…… t-that’s right!”

“Mimosa, please, just stop. You don’t have to say anything,” Klaus said.

Yuno slowly lowered his gaze toward Mimosa. In truth, her household name probably easily surpasses Zable’s in terms of power, but there would be a big fuss if they revealed her name, which would impact their mission. He probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway.

Zable was a little bit frightened by Klaus’s firm attitude, but he scoffed in an attempt to hide that fact.

“Ha, ha ha! I bet your household isn’t all that big a deal, right!? That’s why you’re keeping your mouth shut, right!?”

With that, Yuno stepped forward with cold eyes.

“We can tell you once the party is over, but…. would you really be okay with that?”

Yuno made his bluff with a lowered voice and sharp eyes. When it came to applying silent pressure, Yuno was better than Klaus.

“The world of nobility is a vertically structured one. I’m sure you can figure out what happens…… when one with lower status attempts to snarl at those above him.”

“……Tch.”

Zable finally fell silent, making Yuno and Klaus confident in their victory. They were ready to say something like, “For now, let’s all pretend that none of this ever happened,” and leave things be, but…

“……What the hell? What the hell is up with you!? Why are you getting in my way again!!?”

“……Huh?”

“Why did bastards like you show up again!? I’m, I’m……!”

Yuno’s and Klaus’s mouths hung open at Zable’s incoherent words. His eyes became bloodshot, and he clenched his teeth so tightly that blood began to ooze from his mouth. There was no reason for him to be this agitated.

‘What’s wrong with this guy? Something weird is going on…...’

Sensing the strange atmosphere around him, one of Zable’s followers purposefully yelled loud enough for the rest of the venue to hear him,

“Z-Zable-sama! You were invited to play a game in the garden by a very important nobleman earlier, right? We have plenty of time, so why not check it out?”

“……Y-you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I have no time to waste on this lot!”

It appeared that Zable returned to normal. He turned around to leave, and, as he passed by Asta, said with a low voice,

“Hmph. That face of yours lacks character. I can tell that you, at least, are a nobleman of low status…… I won’t forget about your earlier rant.”

With those biting parting remarks, he took his followers and left the vicinity. Though he left behind such inflammatory words, Asta let him leave in peace. Seeing this, Klaus put his hand on his chest in relief, and Yuno karate chopped Asta’s head.

“Ouch! What are you doing!?”

“Don’t give me that. You shouldn’t just rush in without thinking.”

“I mean, I couldn’t just ignore what I was seeing! Still, you guys really helped me out! Thanks!”

“What’s with the mixed reaction? Are you angry or are you grateful? Pick one.”

“……Just leave it at that, you two. We’re already standing out, badly.”

Thinking that they’ve already stood out enough as is, Klaus decided to intervene. After seeing their exchange with Zable, the other party-goers have started avoiding Yuno and the others. It’s only natural. Nobody would willingly associate themselves with people who have earned the resentment of a noble with considerable political power. With this, it’s going to be difficult to collect information.

……. Well, that was bound happen. It was clear to Klaus when they joined with Asta that if he saw someone acting so blatantly terribly, Asta would be unable to ignore it and cause a fuss.

“Uh…… um, t-thank you very much!”

“Hm? Ah, you are…”

While Klaus was feeling dejected, the girls they saved came forward. A blonde girl stood in front, and, with flushed cheeks, said to Yuno,

“Apologies for the late introduction, but I’m Dina of the Habelot household. What’s your name?”

“Ah, I’m Yuno. Umm, my last name is……”

Yuno scratched his head, trying to decide on an alias. In that instant, something in his breast pocket began squirming about.

“Hey, don’t look at my Yuno with such amorous eyes!”

Bell leaped out of his pocket.

“H-hey! Bell!”

Seemingly unable to hear Yuno’s attempts to restrain her, Bell zipped around Dina, who stood dumbfounded.

“What’s with you, anyway!? Wearing a V-neck just because your boobs are kinda big! Plus, you’re wearing a pushup bra to give yourself more cleavage, aren’t you!? I have you all figured out, so……… Gasp!”

After going off for some time, she suddenly returned to her senses and stopped what she was saying. Then, with a stiff smile, she sputtered awkwardly,

“N-nice to meet you. I’m Bell…… I-I was on a diet to get ready for today’s party, and I went a little too far with it, so…… I became this tiny. Eh he he.”

‘What kind of excuse is that!?’ Everyone thought, realizing that their mission was done for. Of course, Dina, the girls behind her, and even the other nobles in the vicinity froze in complete and utter shock, thinking, ‘What the heck is that!?’. Everyone could feel that it was only a matter of time before their shock would turn into an uproar. Yuno alone remained calm. Looking at Bell like a parent looking at their child in disappointment, he picked her up by the nape of her neck and said,

“I’m sorry for startling you. This is my magic tool. Isn’t it amazing? It even talks.”

“M-magic tool!? Who’re you call-OOF!”

Yuno pinched a little harder with his fingertips, and Bell started moving her mouth like a toy.

“……Y-yes, that’s right. I am a magic tool. Yuno’s magic tool. A cute magic tool,” she said obediently.

“Y-yeah……”

The rest of Yuno’s group looked at each other’s faces in doubt, not finding his explanation particularly believable, but they knew that this was their only way out. After all, Bell’s true identity was just as unbelievable. Yuno took advantage of the situation and asked,

“I like collecting unusual magic tools like the one you see here. Do you know if there’s anyone at today’s party who’s knowledgeable about that sort of thing? If there is, I would like to talk to them."

Dina looked uncomfortable as she answered,

“There is, but…… this person is rather difficult to talk to.”

“……How so?”

“Stop putting on airs and answer his question already! You’re one of those types, right? You think that a man will be yours if you show off a little collarbone and expose your wrists and ankles? That kind of shallow thinking is-GAH!”

Yuno pinched a little harder again, impressed by how quickly this chatterbox spirit could talk. Watching the two of them, Dina couldn’t help but laugh before answering,

“One of the participants of today’s event is a famous collector of magic tools…… his name is Zable.”

“Zable? You mean that guy from earlier who was acting all self-important?”

Dina nodded in response to Asta’s question. Once again, she looked disgusted as she continued,

“Yes. Just recently, he was boasting about how he just obtained another rare magic tool.”

“…………….!”

Hearing this, Yuno and the others frowned as they exchanged glances. Now that she mentioned it, during the quarrel they had earlier, his words had become incoherent, and he suddenly started acting violent. Those were both symptoms of one who holds the ‘Original Sin’. It’s too quick to say for certain, but if a guy like that has the ‘Original Sin’, then there’s going to be trouble.

“What should we do? I’d love to go ask him about it, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to talk to us,” Asta said to Klaus.

“And guess whose fault that is! Anyway…… if you end up talking to Zable again, don’t say anything that might irritate him. We don’t know what could trigger him.”

Realizing just how dangerous their earlier exchange with Zable actually was, Klaus’s blood ran cold.

“Yeah, you have a point there……,” Asta agreed.

“We need someone to talk to him and get the details, someone he hasn’t met already……”

In other words……

“Ah…. I know! We can ask Captain Yami to talk to him!”

Mimosa piped up as if she just had a wonderful idea. Of course, Klaus had thought of this as well, but if they ask that guy to do it, then he’ll end up torturing the poor fellow rather than interrogating him…… However, they had no other options, so they’ll just have to prepare for the worst. Klaus sighed deeply before turning toward everyone to say,

“……Let’s search for Captain Yami. Though this makes me uneasy, we’ll have to ask the captain to listen to what Zable has to say.”

“Shit……Shit…… to think I’d let people like that make a fool out of me……!!”

Zable stood in a garden on the east side of the mansion, cursing as he played his game. There were a variety of easy to use tools prepared for the game. Currently, Zable was playing a game called “Child’s Play”, a peacefully simple game where players manipulate life-sized wooden puppets with magic and have them compete in foot races and arm-wrestling contests. However, Zable was using his wooden figure to smash his opponent’s figure to pieces, so he wasn’t exactly playing the game by the book.

Incidentally, his opponents were a man and a woman who had been walking through the garden. They had a good atmosphere going on between them earlier, so Zable forced them to be his opponents and beat them down. He found it hysterical that the man looked as if he was about to cry. Even so, this wasn’t enough to dispel his melancholy.

“……..-ble-sama, Zable-sama.”

“…….Yeah?”

Zable noticed that one of his followers was calling out to him. Apparently, he had been calling his name many times now, but he never noticed. He sounded frightened, looking at the wooden puppet as he spoke,

“Um……I think you might be overdoing things, just a little…….”

“………..”

Looking at his opponent’s doll, he noted that its head was smashed, and both his doll’s and his opponent’s doll’s fists were crushed.

“……Ah, my bad, my bad. These dolls are just too weak, so I broke them. Let’s go.”

He waved his hand at his opponent, who hurriedly took the hand of the woman he was with and left. As he watched them leave, Zable put his hand on his chest. Right now…… there was a magic tool in the shape of grimoire inside him. Ever since he obtained this tool, he has become much more aggressive. Lately, he has felt as if the tool has been spurring him on.

Well, now he has much more magical power flowing through him thanks to this tool, so such trivial details are hardly a problem.

‘Besides, if I didn’t have this power, then I would once again be……’

“……Now then, let’s look for another opponent.”

Zable shook his head lightly as if to dispel his thoughts and looked around the garden. Doing so, he spotted a man sleeping on a bench not too far away. He was large man, about 30 years old, with an unshaven face. Noting the bottle of wine the man was holding under his arms as he slept, Zable figured that the matchmaking party must not have gone well for him, and the man was trying to sleep off his disappointment.

“……Perfect. Let’s take a short break, then we’ll make that old man our opponent.”

— To be continued in Part 2—

As usual, I’ll post the second half of this chapter next week. The Golden Dawn is such a cute squad. They’re all so shy, and William felt so bad for sending them to a matchmaking party…..

I feel bad for Klaus, though, having his hobbies dissed like that. And then he was getting bullied by not only Yuno, but also Bell and Mimosa, and later, Yami. He and Marx need a support group.

#Black Clover #Yuno #klaus lunettes #william vangeance #yami sukehiro #mimosa vermillion #Asta #my translations #book of yuno

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ordelion · 3 years ago

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[ 👨‍🏫 ] how much does your muse care about image? how would they react if something personal got leaked about them?

Lysithea, as I interpret her, cares for her image quite a bit, yet in a diverse set of ways. One prominent place she cares for her image is in how she tries to give herself a very mature look- although her conceptualization of what a "mature" individual is can sometimes backfire on both her overall enjoyment of life, and this façade of maturity’s limited effectiveness. A few key ways she acts to look more "mature" include using an expansive, obtuse vocabulary, reading books that are text-heavy with very few pictures, enjoying sweet food only in private while eating meals with more difficult flavors in public, and spending meticulous amounts of time on her handwriting & signature to make sure it looks far above average in its detail, (although this level of meticulousness is an intrinsic element of Lysithea's character even aside from her image). Romantic inclinations are very much a point of dissonance in this facet of her image- while she realizes that most mature people are in search of, or already have, a romantic partner, she reviles the concept innately and has made it an open secret that she doesn’t wish to be married for a long time, far after she expects to have passed away. Occasionally, she tries to spin it as a mature disdain for “childish” tendencies for impossible crushes and useless pining, but most people probably brush it off as her age acting upon her considerations, even her parents. While I have dipped between headcanoning her as asexual, verses writing her as being merely disinterested- right now I hold to the latter- it has just never been a part of her life, and is not something she wishes to have for as long as she’s alive. That could change, but it would take a lot of time. At the same time, she also tries to give herself the image of someone who isn't too noticeable, and she has so far shied away from the societal norms of gossip among the nobility. She avoids controversies as best she can, primarily by talking about plain, inoffensive, academic topics while around any sort of noble clique, only speaking her mind's true opinions in close, one-on-one conversations. Yet, this refusal to engage with the social traditions of the nobles, combined with her fierce innate temper and inherently striking appearance & list of accomplishments, has ironically garnered her far more noble attention than any tiny scandal may have otherwise. So far, this attention is limited to a novelty, which she does not like, but can tolerate. How this develops remains to be seen. In contrast to this, she cares only moderately for the image of other people. She understands, for the sake of her parents if not herself, that she cannot be publically around places, people, or groups which are "beneath" her minor-noble status, although this understanding is entirely out of pragmatism instead of an internalized feeling of elitism. When outside of polite company, she doesn't take other people's reputation much into account, in part due to her disdain for noble norms and her own brash nature. She instead relies on her own gut instincts around people combined with how she's seen them act in the past to formulate an opinion on others. People without crests are an exception- she envies them and is intrigued by them inherently. In IntSys’ lovely game, I've noticed that Lysi's reaction to her secrets being leaked is rather muted compared to how they were being hyped up. Thusly, I've instead chosen to interpret her defensiveness of her secrets to be more radical than in, say, Linhardt or Hanneman’s supports. Reactions to such a leaking of secrets would vary depending on their level of magnitude- on one end, her secret of liking sweets being ousted to one non-gossiping friend would perhaps earn a cold shoulder or a small attempt at bargaining at most, while on the other end, having all of high society know of her time with TWSITD and her twin crests might very well lead to constant nervous breakdowns, swinging from being utterly, inconsolably despondent, to violently lashing out in rage. It also depends on her attitude towards herself, for if she’s more self-confident, more stable, or more supported by friends, these reactions could be less life-shaking- and even, if she can progress enough, come out by her own volition. Conversely, if she’s unstable, alone, or stricken by various ills already, even the most minor of leaked secrets could set her off into lunacy and misery. No matter what secret, however, a typical initial reaction is one of disbelief and confusion- perhaps even with her imagining it’s merely a nightmare. In terms of strategy for dealing with leaked secrets, she's got a severe case of "if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail”; in this case, the hammer is magic. While she may limit herself to verbal sparring in more minor cases, with her back against the wall, she’d certainly threaten to fling a dangerous spell or two, and she’d be more than willing to go through with this magical assault if pushed far enough. This is where my Lysithea diverges most sharply from canon- that capacity for retaliation that I suspected was bubbling beneath her in most supports, in which the conditions were set so that such a reaction was not possible. This defensiveness was influenced by her parent’s desire to keep Lysithea’s secrets locked up, out of a hope that she could escape having this scandal hook on to her throughout her entire life. Her parents are the few people she trusts and loves wholeheartedly, so their wishes and actions were taken quite a lot into her consideration on how she’d deal with her past. It was also affected by her days in TWSITD that I had previously headcanoned; her escape was only possible through violence and poisonings, so why not the same here? As well, her quick temper and propensity for insults only fan this flame.

#headcanons #meta ask meme #hahaha this is much longer than anticipated

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phroyd · 5 years ago

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When I ask my European friends to describe us — Americans, Brits, who I’ll call Anglo-Americans in this essay — they shake their heads gently. And over and over, three themes emerge. They say we’re a little thoughtless. They say we’re selfish and arrogant. And they say that we’re cruel and brutal.

I can’t help but think there’s more than a grain of truth. That they’re being kind. Anglo-American society is now the world’s preeminent example of willful self-destruction. It’s jaw-dropping folly and stupidity is breathtaking to the rest of the world.

The hard truth is this. America and Britain aren’t just collapsing by the day…they aren’t even just choosing to collapse by the day. They’re entering a death spiral, from which there’s probably no return. Yes, really. Simple economics dictate that, just like they did for the Soviet Union — and I’ll come to them.

And yet what’s even weirder and more grotesque than that is that…wel…nobody much seems to have noticed. There’s a deafening silence from pundits and elites and columnists and politicians on the joint self-destruction of the Anglo-American world. Nobody seems to have noticed: the only two rich societies in the world with falling life expectancies, incomes, savings, happiness, trust — every single social indicator you can imagine — are America and Britain. It’s not one of history’s most improbable coincidences that America and Britain are collapsing in eerily similar ways, at precisely the same time. It’s a relationship. What connects the dots?

Let me pause to note that my European friends’ first criticism — that we’re thoughtless — is therefore accurate. We’re not even capable of noticing — much less understanding — our twin collapse. Our entire thinking and leadership class seems not to have even noticed, like idiots grinning and dancing, setting their own house on fire. They are simply going on pretending it isn’t happening — that the English speaking world isn’t fast becoming something very much like the new Soviet Union.

So what caused this joint collapse? How did the English speaking world end up like the new Soviet Union? To understand that point, consider the fact that you yourself probably think that’s an overstatement. But it’s an empirical reality. The Soviet Union stagnated for thirty years. America’s stagnated for fifty, and Britain for twenty. The Soviet Union couldn’t provide basics for its citizens — hence the famous breadlines. In America, people beg each other for money to pay for insulin and antibiotics, decent food is unavailable in vast swathes of the country, and retirement and paying off one’s debt are impossibilities: just like in the Soviet Union, basics are becoming both unavailable and unaffordable. What happens? People…die.

(The same is true in Britain. In both societies, upwards of 20% of children live in poverty, the middle class has imploded, and upward mobility has all but vanished. These are Soviet statistics — lethally real ones.)

Politics, too, has become a sclerotic Soviet affair. Anglo-American societies aren’t really democracies in any sensible meaning of the word anymore. They’re run by and for a class of elites, who could care less, literally, whether the average person lives or dies. In America, that class is a bizarre coterie of Ivy Leaguers pretending to be aw-shucks-good-ole-boys on the one side, like Ted Cruz, and Ivy Leaguers pretending to be do-gooders on the other, like Zuck and Silicon Valley. In Britain, it’s the notorious public school boys, the Etonians and Oxbridge set.

That brings me to arrogance. What’s astonishing about our elites is how…arrogant they are…and how ignorant they are…at precisely the same time. Finland just elected a 34 year old woman as a Prime Minister from the Social Democrats. Finland is a society that outperforms ours in every way — every way — imaginable. Finnish happiness is way, way higher — and so is life expectancy, mobility, savings, real incomes, trust, among others. And yet instead of learning a thing from a miracle like that, our elites profess to know a better way…while they’ve run our societies into the ground. What the? Hubris would be an understatement. I don’t think the English language has a word for this weird, fatal combination of arrogance amidst ignorance. Maybe cocksure stupidity comes close.

And yet our elites have succeeded in one vital task — what an Emile Durkheim might have called “social reproduction.” They’ve managed to reproduce society in their image. What does the average Anglo-American aspire to be, do, have? To be rich, powerful, careless, selfish, and dumb, now, mostly. We don’t, as societies or cultures, value learning or knowledge or magnanimity or great and noble things, anymore. We shower millions on reality TV stars and billions on “investment bankers.” The average person has become a tiny microcosm of the aspirations and norms of elites — they’re not curious, empathetic, decent, humane, noble, kind, in pursuit of wisdom, truth, beauty, meaning, purpose. We’ve become cruel, indecent, obscene, comically shallow, and astonishingly foolish people.

That’s not some kind of jeremiad. It’s an objective, easily observed truth. Who else in a rich society denies their neighbours healthcare and retirement? Nobody. Who else denies their own kids education? Nobody. Who else denies themselves childcare and elderly care? Nobody. Who else doesn’t want safety nets, opportunities, mobility, protection, savings, higher incomes? Nobody. Literally nobody on planet earth wants worse lives excepts us. We’re the only people on earth who thwart our own social progress, over and over again — and cheer about it.

How did we become these people? How did we become tiny microcosms of our arrogant, ignorant, breathtakingly stupid elites? Because we are perpetually battling for self-preservation. Life has become a kind of brutal combat to the death. For jobs, for healthcare, for money, for the tiniest shreds of resources necessary to live. We wake up and fight one another for these things, over and over again. That is what our lives amount to now — gladiatorial combat. Meanwhile, elites and billionaires sit back and enjoy not just the spectacle — but the winnings.

People who are battling for self-preservation can’t take care of anyone else. If I ask the average Brit or American to consider paying for their society’s healthcare, education, elderly care, childcare, increasingly, the answer is: LOL. In America, it always has been. Why is that? The reason couldn’t be simpler. People can’t even take care of themselves and their own. How can they take care of anyone else — let alone everyone else?

The average person is living right at the edge. Not at the edge of the middle class dream and an even better one. But at the edge of poverty and destitution. They struggle to pay basic bills and never make ends meet. They can’t afford to educate their children, and retire, or retire and have healthcare, and so on. Let me say it again: the average person can’t take care of themselves and their own — so how can they take care of anyone else, let alone everyone else?

A more technical, formal way to say that is: our societies have now become too poor to afford public goods and social systems. But public goods and social systems are what make a modern, rich society. What’s a society without decent healthcare, schools, universities, libraries, education, parks, transport, media — available to all, without life-crippling “debt”? It’s not a modern society at all. But more and more, it’s not America or Britain, either.

What makes European societies — which are far, far more successful than ours — successful is that people are not battling for self-preservation, and so they are able to cooperate to better one another instead. At least not nearly so much and so lethally as we are. They are assured of survival. They therefore have resources to share with others. They don’t have to battle for the very things we take away from each other — because they simply give them to one another. That has kept them richer than us, too. The average American now lives in effective poverty — unable to afford healthcare, housing, and basic bills. They must choose. The European doesn’t have to, precisely because they invested in one another — and those investment made them richer than us.

We are caught in a death spiral now. A vicious cycle from which there is probably no escape. The average person is too poor to fund the very things — the only things — which can offer him a better life: healthcare, education, childcare, healthcare, and so on. The average person is too poor to fund public goods and social systems. The average person is too poor now to able to give anything to anyone else, to invest anything in anyone else. He lives and dies in debt to begin with — so what does he have left over to give back, put back, invest?

A more technical, formal way to put all that is this. Europeans distributed their social surplus more fairly than we did. They didn’t give all the winnings to idiot billionaires like Zucks and con men like Trump. They kept middle and working classes better off than us. As a result, those middle and working classes were able to invest in expansive public goods and social systems. Those things — good healthcare, education, transport, media — kept life improving for everyone. That virtuous circle of investing a fairly distributed social surplus created a true economic miracle over just one human lifetime: Europe rose from the ashes of war to enjoy history’s highest living standards, ever, period.

That’s changing in Europe, to be sure. But that is because Europe is becoming Americanized, Anglicized. It has a generation of leaders foolish enough to follow our lead — now remember the greatest lesson of European history, which is one of the greatest lessons of history, full stop. That lesson goes like this.

People who are made to live right at the edge must battle each other for self-preservation. But such people have nothing left to give one another. And that way, a society enters a death spiral of poverty — like ours have.

People who can’t make ends meet can’t even invest in themselves — let alone anyone else. Such a society has to eat through whatever public goods and social systems it has, just to survive. It never develops or expands new ones.

The result is that a whole society grows poorer and poorer. Unable to invest in themselves or one another, people’s only real way out is to fight each other for self-preservation, by taking away their neighbor’s rights, privileges, and opportunities — instead of being able to give any new ones to anyone. Why give everyone healthcare and education when you can’t even afford your own? How are you supposed to?

Society melts down into a spiral of extremism and fascism, as ever increasing poverty brings hate, violence, fear, and rage with it. Trust erodes, democracy corrodes, social bonds are torn apart, and the only norms left are Darwinian-fascist ones: the strong survive, and the weak must perish.

(Let me spend a second or two on that last point. As they become poorer, people begin to distrust each other — and then hate each other. Why wouldn’t they? After all, the grim reality is that they actually are fighting each other for existence, for the basic resources of life, like medicine, money, and food.

As distrust becomes hate, people who have nothing to give anyways end up having no reason to even hope to give anything back to anyone else. Why give anything to those people you are fighting, every single day, for the most meagre resources necessary to live? Why give the very people who denied you healthcare and education anything? Isn’t the only real point of life to show that you beat them by having a bigger house, faster car, prettier wife or husband?)

That is how a society dies. That is the death spiral of a rich society. In technical terms, it goes like this. A social surplus isn’t distributed equitably. That leaves the average person too poor to invest anything back in society. He’s just battling for self-preservation, and the stakes are life or death. But that battle itself only breeds even more poverty. Because without investment, nurturance, nourishment — nothing can grow. Having become poor, the average person only grows poorer — because he will never have decent public goods or social systems, let alone the rights and privileges and jobs and careers and trajectories they become and lead to.

A society of people so poor they have nothing left over to invest in one another is dying. It goes from prosperity to poverty, from optimism to pessimism, from cohesion to distrust and hate, from peace to violence — at light speed, in the space of a generation. That’s America and Britain’s story today, just as it was the Soviet Union’s, yesterday, and Weimar Germany’s, before that.

You can see how a society dies — with horrific, brutal clarity — in the self-destruction of America and Britain. The hate-filled vitriol of Trumpism, the barely-hidden hate of Brexit. Why wouldn’t people who have grown suddenly poor hate everyone else? Why wouldn’t they blame anyone and everyone they can — from Mexicans to Muslims to Europeans — for their own decline? The truth, as always, is harder. America and Britain’s collapse is nobody’s fault — nobody’s — but their own.

They are in a death spiral now, but no opponent or adversary brought them there. It was their own fault, and yet they still go on choosing it. They don’t know any other way now. Their elites succeeded at making the average person truly, fervently believe that battling perpetually for self-preservation was the only way a society could exist.

And though it’s too late to escape for them, let us hope that the rest of the world, from Europe to Asia to Africa, learns the lesson of the sad, gruesome, stupid, astonishing tragedy of self-inflicted collapse.

Umair December 2019

Phroyd

#decline #superpowers

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axiomsofice · 4 years ago

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Col

The Avs are entering a window in which they will ice a team among the best in decade. It doesn’t always translate to cups right away (see Tampa Bay) but they will have a good a shot as any from this point into the foreseeable future. Landeskog/MacKinnon/Rantanen has been a staple on a shortlist of the league’s best for the past couple seasons, but the rest of the team has really filled out. The rest of the forward group is slotted really nicely in support, Burakovsky/Kadri/Saad brings a variety of skills, speed, and intensity, Nichushkin/Jost/Donskoi are so effective, any fourth line with one of Bellemare or Calvert would look good. But the greatest change has cone on defence. Maker is otherworldly, leading the charge in group of young defenders ascending into perennial Norris conversation. Girard has looked like a super charged Letang/Hughes combination stylistically for a few seasons, but is finally converting that into a more profound dominance. Devon Toews was probably one of the best moves of the offseason. From there everyone else has been thriving. MacDonald has cone out of nowhere. Even when Makar missed games due to injury they almost haven’t missed a beat. And to top it all off serious help is still on the way, as Newhook and Bryan look poised to grow into key roles in the near future. Goalie health remains the main issue, but when everyone’s available there’s nothing not to like about where this franchise is. Sakic v Yzerman still going strong.

Vgk

Vegas has the Midas touch for sure, and this team is very established at this point. Their defence group is the best it’s been, Pietrangelo is the big addition joining Theodore as central pieces on the top 2 pairings, but we’re starting to see some Vegas draftees make impacts. Hague, Whitecloud, and Coughlin have all had strong seasons and that definitely raises the quality of the roster. In a way, they are a lot like what the Rangers are hoping to become, especially given both teams plethora of skilled wingers. Stone and Pacioretty among the best top line duos. Marchessault/Karlsson/Smith are still boarder line elite (as a compliment). Tuch is overqualified. Kolesar has fit in really nicely. This whole team is big and tough and definitely is a huge part of the team’s identity, as such even though the centre group is a little underwhelming for a top tier team, role players like Stevenson and Roy have been able to be effective in key positions in the lineup. It would be really exciting to see a young player like Cody Glass run away with the top line, but that seems unlikely to be the case this season.

Min

I recently wrote about the Wild so I’ll just point you to that.

Stl

A year removed from their first Cup, things have been a bit tumultuous for the Blues. Tarasenko is back and seems to be regaining his form, and the team needs him to be their top offensive threat. Goaltending is notoriously difficult to project, if not mystical, but I’m not necessarily a huge Binnington fan. I do see him as a tandem starter, meaning I think it is key to have someone behind him pushing the envelope a bit(FWIW I wouldn’t have him on my team Canada). Overall I’d say I’m a bit curious as to how the blueline has been handled, ie Faulk and Krug but not Pietrangelo, but this team is probably better than they’ve shown so far? I think my decision to put them below the Wild here is deserved, despite having a nice breakout from Jordan Kyrou.

Ari

At its best this roster is definitely plucky, feisty, definitely coyote-like in being scavengers more so than apex predators. There’s definitely some skills, a renaissance year for Kessel, Schmaltz and Keller have been pretty good, Garland is probably their best forward at this point though. Chychrun is really good and has needed to be with Hjalmarsson and Ekman-Larson being varying shades of their former selves. The team definitely puts its goaltenders in positions to succeed, enough so that despite the vast array of off ice dysfunction that defines the Coyotes’ existence, the on ice product has been far and away the best part of the franchise. Without much draft capital it will be interesting to see how the coming months will be approached.

Cal Peterson has been good in net. Doughty’s been a positive impact which is relieving. This team has a lot of good forward prospects on the way, so there should be a lot of internal competition for those spots in the coming years. With names like Byfield, Thomas, Turcotte, Kaliyev, and even Madden, Kupari, and Fagemo surely to push for jobs in the near future, how will the likes of Vilardi, Kempe, Anderson-Dolan and Lizotte hold them off? How much longer will veterans like Carter, Brown, and Iafallo be around for? Especially if 1-2 younger defencemen start to really step up, the Kings could easily be competing for a playoff spot as soon as next season.

Ana

Not quite the same as the Kings, but the Ducks do have a very exciting prospect pool. Zegras and Drysdale have already got a few games under their belts. Younger roster players are having a greater impact, like Comtois and Lundestrom, even Max Jones. Hakanpaa has earned top minutes on the blueline which is probably a little known fact. It would make sense to see one of the more established players, like Rakell or Manson or something, get moved if the package is right. The Ducks usually seem to have an internal cap, and I would suggest they have a pretty strong drafting and development record, so their path forward is most likely to rely on said avenues.

Maybe being in a division with La and Ana has helped the Sharks look a bit better? Either way, there’s just a lot of term, dollars, and 30+ year old players and not a lot of flexibility. I really don’t love the goaltending situation but it’s been better than last season. There is some talent here tho. It’s easy to think of Nashville being in a similar spot, although Nashville might even have a few more options. At least they have their 1st round pick this year, and I have caught myself thinking about how a certain 3rd overall pick in Ottawa would change the Sharks’ ceiling. Although that might not sound like a good thing, it does point to an infusion of talent being able to go a long way here.

#nhl #hockey #west division #san jose sharks #anaheim ducks #LA Kings #Arizona coyotes #st. louis blues #Minnesota Wild #vegas golden knights #Colorado Avalanche

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averycanadianfilm · 4 years ago

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READING GUIDE TO : Bourdieu, P. and Passeron, J.C. (1979) The Inheritors: French students and their relation to culture, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. - Dave Harris

Chapter one

Class chance data is presented for France, covering access to university and also choice of subjects. Generally, Arts and Sciences are preferred for lower class applicants, while the other professions attract upper class students. Gender is magnified by class in terms of access, especially for lower class students, and a strong influence on subject choice throughout. However, some Arts students are also relegated from the upper class: for them, arts subjects are a refuge.

There are therefore economic and cultural obstacles to success at the university. These include religion and age [in France, the older students are often those who have had to repeat grades].

Social origins produce different rates of financial provision, affect where people live, and affect the sort of work they do. For example, they influence the amount of parental subsidy.

As a result, students do not really have a common situation or experience. They come from very different cultural backgrounds, and quite different experiences from being at home or feeling out of place (13). They experience differential success according to their 'previously acquired intellectual tools, cultural habits' (14). Particularly important is their ability to manipulate 'the abstract language of ideas', which is much easier if you have done Greek or Latin. Cultural heritage is also amplified by various scholastic streams and channels, which produce 'sanctions which consecrate social inequalities' (14). For some, their educational past is a definite handicap, including the absence of classical languages or adequate advice on careers.

These inequalities are concealed by their belief that some students possess 'gifts', producing a disdain for practical techniques of study noted below. University life tends to be eclectic and dilettante, mostly because bourgeois students are 'more assured of their vocations or their abilities' (15). Those from other origins are far more dependent on the university. For the bourgeois, a liking for 'intellectual exoticism and formalistic purity' helps 'liquidate a bourgeois experience while expressing it' (15). Detachment and a willingness to take risks 'presupposes a greater security’ (15). Self assurance pays off in exams, especially in orals [presentations?]. This stance is helped by universities themselves who value 'remaining aloof from "academic" values and disciplines' (17).

Bourgeois students inherit 'habits, skills and attitudes… knowledge and know how, tastes and a "good taste"'(17), which do pay off even if indirectly. A suitable extracurricular culture is the 'implicit condition for academic success in certain disciplines'(17), for example coming from a family with experiences in the theatre, art galleries, concerts, knowledge of modern works even jazz or the cinema. These experiences display a combination of cultural and economic factors here [and strongly prefigures the work in Distinction, even with some initial survey data]. The absence of explicit instruction in universities makes this cultural influence more important. Influences are often subtle, for example in the displaying of knowledge of the past in the effortless reproduction of academic argument. Interests are often combined, enabling those from suitable backgrounds to distinguish themselves from those possessing purely scholastic knowledge. There is a whole constellation of knowledge to draw upon. There also important personal qualities such as 'ironic casualness, mannered elegance, or… assurance which lends ease or the affectation of ease' (20). [So common among the English upper classes as well].

This sort of cultural background works indirectly, casually and informally, it seems effortless, acquired by osmosis [some nice examples on page 20—like the casual disclosure of cultural interests, 'acquired without intention or effort']. Those from lower and middle class backgrounds try to catch up at university, for examples by going to film clubs. Schools could compensate, but they also tend to ignore social inequalities and devalue 'the vulgar mark of effort' (21). Thus universities offer only a misleading formal equality, and ignore marked social differences, whole areas which are clearly related to success. Teaching presupposes a level of knowledge, skills and culture which are the 'heritage of the cultivated classes' (21).

Secondary school uses a number of secondary significations which take for granted 'the whole treasury of first degree experiences’—books, entertainment, holidays as 'cultural pilgrimages', and 'allusive conversations' (22). The universal nature of education simply means all must enter. Working-class children can only imitate, and the whole experience for them is unreal.

Access needs to be not just a matter of economic background. 'Ability' should not be seen as a matter of a gift but the result of 'affinities between class cultural habits and the demands of the education system' (22). Knowledge and techniques are inseparable from social values. Some working-class students are willing to undertake university experience because they see academic knowledge as high status, and it 'symbolises entry into the elite' (22). However, social mobility via education is 'a fantasy, and abstraction for [most] manual workers' (23). Their ambitions are lower: they make an objective adjustment. The petty bourgeoisie are the most keen on education, and they openly support elite culture even though they find it just as difficult to acquire: they think they can make up the deficit with hard work.

Teacher judgments are ultimately based on the closeness to elite culture. Teachers classically devalue other approaches such as seriousness and hard work. Social advantages and disadvantages are cumulative as a result. Even geographical location is important because living in a city means greater access to cultural facilities.

There is no mechanical determinism here, though, since inheritance is not always successful. Upper class culture can merely lead to the 'superficial pastime of elegant parlor games' (25), but usually it is exploited to find a comfortable way through an education system. It is true that working-class entrants to university can gain in ambition and determination. However, those who succeed nearly always have some kind of unusual family background like a successful relative, who will raise their ambitions and reject fatalism. [In conventional research as well as in policy and common sense] isolated factors are seen as important [instead of seeing qualifying factors as well].

It is more common to persuade the underprivileged to drop out rather than to exert a direct influence on them, or to reveal open determinism. It would be wrong to attribute all the blame to economic or political factors, but social mechanisms work well despite minor adjustments such as scholarships. Indeed, these minor reforms can help to justify the system by locating 'giftedness’ as the issue. The same goes for moves to equalise the economic circumstances of students [grants?]—they would only legitimise a system which itself legitimises privilege.

Chapter two

There is no unified student world or culture, but a constant flux with only periodic routine. There are cycles of study leading to exams, but it is a unique time of life where normal oppositions do not apply, including the opposition between work and leisure [lots of quotes on page 30 from students saying that they regard their work as a form of leisure:

'It's the only time in life when you can put off what you've got to do, work when it suits you, be unemployed if you feel like it… (Senior executive' son, Paris, aged 26)… There's no such thing as leisure: I refuse to draw a line between work and leisure, I don't accept that dichotomy… (Junior executive son, Paris)… My work isn't unpleasant; it's not something I'm forced to do. I could almost say all my work is in leisure… (A junior executive son, Paris)… I don't separate work and leisure. If there's a decent movie on I go and see it, whether it's a weekday or a Sunday. The question really doesn't arise. There is no particular pattern to my leisure activities; I choose what I'm going to do but I don't organise it… There's nothing fixed (senior executives daughter, Paris)' (30).

However…

'Yes I waste a terrible amount of time; I don't know how to organize my work properly, and, since workhouse to come by for leisure… I have no time left for leisure (senior executives some, Paris). The fact is I don't seem able to discipline myself, it's always the same story (senior executive's son, Paris)'. NB Bourdieu and Passeron see this as an aristocratic form of lifestyle.

There is a characteristic student lifestyle with a lack of discipline and a ‘libertarian use of “free time”’ (31). Students are individualised, despite occasional ‘islands of integration’ (32). Integration has no institutional basis. It is therefore not easy to organise collective work, or cooperation, or small workgroups. Individualistic competition persists instead. The old traditions like student festivals and songs are in decline, and there are not even initiation rituals, except possibly in Law and Medicine. There are no real social divisions or any bases for solidarity—for example the rivalry between different disciplines or other signs of the persistence of sub cultures, including argot. Students are not even well connected through friendship groups, except where these depend on earlier shared schooling or regional identity. Upper class students are the most integrated socially. Friends’ advice is not sought in the choice of a subject or career, rumours spread but not information.

The student milieu is therefore not autonomised, but consists of a ‘fluid aggregate [rather] than an occupational group’ (36).There is a nostalgia for integration, but actual organisation fails. Girls are the keenest to initiate collective activity, following the ‘characteristics of the woman’s traditional role’ (36). Staff participation helps. The most common result of this lack of organisation is resignation or utopianism, especially in Paris students’ activism, which includes ‘conceptual terrorism of verbal demands’ (37). A belief in cooperative work, small groups and so on persists, but as the projection of an ideal.

Yet such projections reveal an underlying objective reality [by contrast]. Students want to identify individually with this mythical unity. Characteristic student behaviours are ‘symbolic’ indicators of this project. 'Student' is therefore a chosen identity, the rejection of past identities, including those associated with the occupation of one’s parents, part of a general denial of class determinism [but not gender?]. It is important to not conform, to distinguish oneself while labelling others. This is another example of the transformation of necessity into freedom (39) [so it is not just the working classes who have to do this?] Student identity means the rejection of any actual bonding. For example cafes are frequented because there, one encounters the ‘archetypal student’ [rather as students went to the library in Lille to conform to the archetypal student, in Academic Discourse].

Students live out their relations to their class of origin according to ‘the models of the intellectual class reinterpreted’ (40). They display a reaction to the discipline of the secondary school. By comparison, student identity is a sign of ‘cultural free will’ (40). Guidance from older students is important here, and prestigious examples can include university teachers. Everyone knows a high prestige professor who is far from being a mere pedagogue. This only disguises power relations.

The university is still a very important influence, though. Students still do well if they are ‘adapted to the university and can transpose its scholastic techniques and interests’ (41). So called alternative cultural worlds, based around jazz or cinema actually complement the university world [is this still the same with contemporary universities and contemporary commercial popular culture?]. [There is a hint of the cultural omnivore thesis here, 41]. Students’ public denial of the importance of university culture and teaching disguises the real influence at work through the ‘cultural goods market’ (42).

An important role in actually orienting the tastes of students is played by ‘Professorial charisma… The display of virtuosity, the play of laudatory allusions or depreciatory silences’ (42). Students are passive and willing to be taught, or to let teachers guide them. So close is the connection that ‘the study of consumption can be collapsed into a study of production’ (42). University culture includes ‘the scholastic consecration of novelties’ (43). As a result, university culture is more homogenous than it looks [in support, student prize winners are given as examples, revealing their conformist tastes, even if those cover the avant garde]. The ideal student is still a homo academicus, often the son and grandson of teachers, often wanting to be a philosophy lecturer, often showing some precocious talents. The university therefore ‘always preaches to the converted’ (43).

However, some students are only playing at having intellectual tastes, displaying ‘collective bad faith’, or deploying the ‘ruse of reason’ (44). An illusory intellectual life is possible. It usually involves ignoring social origins and destinations, and ‘autonomising the present of studenthood’ (44). It involves games and tricks, and is assisted by the ‘unreality of university practice’ (44), where there are no real sanctions, and even examinations are playful rather than work-like. Students do feel insecure, and lecturers do judge their work, but there is a constant ambivalence—for example students and lecturers commonly joke about examinations and yet still see them as a matter of ‘personal salvation’ (45) especially the dissertation. It is a very involving game. Even the student challenges are within the rules of the intellectual game of contestation: thus ‘Revolts against the system… achieve… the ultimate ends pursued by the university’ (45) [reads pretty much like Willis on working class lads rebelling but then ending up in manual work]. Even student rebels worship culture if not the university. Bohemian behaviour still equates to obedience to traditional models. Any escape into popular culture is still characterised as a form of literary discussion.

This is especially marked in the Paris Arts Faculty. Students are mostly bourgeois, but commonly deny their background and espouse left wing causes, but without adopting any particular orthodoxy or party membership. Instead, they adopt new labels. They have a mostly aesthetic commitment to an avant garde, which leads to a ‘conformism of anti conformism’ (46). Rebellion is little more than the ‘symbolic breaks of adolescence’ seen as an ‘intellectual self realisation’ (46). Any sexual liberation pursued by women can be seen simply as a formal reversal of the value of virginity. Extreme political views are best read as a symbolic break with the family. Symbolic differences are more important than the real differences provided by social origin. Student radical life features endless argument to establish differentiations within the general consensus of the avant garde. Concrete commitments tend to be applauded. Political debate is seen as a kind of play, and is work. Politics becomes a pastime. In reality, it is wealth and privilege that enables intellectual detachment, intellectual mastery, and political audacity. Privileged students are also better able to accumulate a ‘capital of information’, based on their membership of literary and philosophical political coteries, and the ability to attend lots of outside lectures and assemblies [in Paris] (49). Any diversity in the academic world produces the relativisation of professorial privilege [not enough to lead to serious criticism?] , and the opportunity for more intellectual adventure.

University life becomes an excellent preparation for the later literary games played among the Parisian bourgeoisie, and wider philosophical discussion, for example of the crisis in education, shows the ‘beginners’ illusion [masquerading as a] basis for a universal reflection’ (15). There is still a lot of studentanxiety however, and here, ideological debates offer assurance. A liking for student [revolutionary?] festivity is really a form of symbolic integration.

The ideal type Parisian Arts student draws from a literary education and from the cultural opportunities offered by Paris, and the ‘risk free freedom that a well to do social origin makes possible’ (51). Bourgeois students see university life as intellectual adventure, not as ‘an apprenticeship subject to the test of occupational success’ (51).

There are more working-class students now, but bourgeois values persist: those values ‘will not cease to be regarded as inseparable from the [student] milieu’ (51). Nevertheless, modern students can perceive university teaching as somehow unreal, possibly because they have experience of real occupations. Thus actual students will vary according to their commitment to the ideal type, and this will vary according to their social origins. ‘Serious’ students can be both critics of this unreality, and still prepared to consider only university problems as serious.

[What a condemnation of student activists! I do recognise the posturing bourgeois type from my own experiences during the student revolt at LSE, and, later at Essex, and I know exactly what they mean by the insistence on preserving literary forms of argument while discussing radical overhauls. During one sit in at LSE, friends made it their business to guard the library! Proles werestill mocked for their vulgarity. Several dreadful poseurs made fiery speeches proposing solidarity with the north Vietnamese army, and then fled at the prospect of being arrested by the metropolitan police! However, I think they do underestimate the impact on some working class lads such as myself, who did gain an insight into professorial incompetence that led to a lifetime’s scepticism. Nevertheless, I think they are broadly right. Interestingly, the ideal type bourgeois radical manifests itself best in education departments of respectable UK universities, where students are still harangued with idealist and utopian visions, and words like ‘oppression’ or ‘struggle’ are used both to describe third world radical movements and the need to cope with an inconvenient timetable].

Chapter three

[This chapter starts with an astonishing criticism of child centred and play-centred education—by Hegel! Such an education preserves immaturity, it is indifferent to the intellectual world, and it shows contempt for elders! (54)]

It is possible to construct an ideal type of rational conduct for student, based on the claims that characterise university life. However, the real issue is self-creation, and to be a participant in academic culture. The rational type will argue that university culture is to be mastered, yet this is denied in practice, and instead there is a goal of independence, the abolition of the distinction between the student and the teacher. However, this distinction is abolished only in the imagination, without going through the painful process of subjection first [very familiar terminology here!]. Indeed, there is often a straightforward denial of student passivity. This imaginary resolution is satisfactory to students and professors, although denied by both conservatives and revolutionary utopians. Rational conduct, however would involve seeing passivity as a means to an occupational end. The denials involve a view that the present should dominate the future, and that the status of student should become more autonomous.

Students occupy pre- constructed roles, like the 'exam hound' or the dilettante. Life goes on in a magical mode [compare with the notion of magical resolution in gramscian work]. Options can coexist in that world. The magical world is supported by professors, 'the students'opponents and accomplices' (57). Professors do not want to appear as having a rational role, as a mere 'teaching auxiliary' (58). The whole experience is therefore mystified or enchanted, and this mystical relation rather than the technical function of education affects the teaching experience. Professors claim they have some gift in transmitting culture, and this notion of gift is reciprocated by students [very similar arguments are made in Academic Discourse].

Students do vary, however. The awareness of an occupational destinations seems particularly vague for Arts students, and uncertain for sociologists: these views actually mimic the real possibilities! There is no occupational point to study for the students, so it is justified instead as an intellectual adventure. Their values ‘depend on mystified experience' (59). [There is a hint here that the enchantment of rationalised study is deliberate].

Women students have more reason to mystify, although for them reality dawns earlier. They often describe the substantial freedoms involved in using academic work to escape [rather like the stuff I have been quoting from Quinn!]. However, intellectual escape is still associated with the traditional female values, including their desired destinations as teachers, and their lower confidence in their intellectual capacities. They're still more likely to be instrumental, and to use their 'scholastic zeal and docility as a way of avoiding the question of the future' (61). Another option is female student apathy. [Or] female students report high levels of commitment to university life, again echoing traditional female values such as exalting sacrifice, and using words like relationship or enrichment, or talking about the development of personality [lots of examples PP. 61,62]. This can be an alternative to the magical concealment preferred by men. Female options echo the sexism of the university.

Social origin has effects as well. There are parallels between working class origins and being female. Neither are likely to get an intellectual occupation and so they are less likely to invest in the intellectual game approach. They need to bow to necessity and acknowledge the importance of an occupation. Upper class students are happier with vague projects, but working-class students are more focused, because they are more aware that they need not have been students at university at all. Upper class students are more distant, more prone to mystification, more contemptuous of pedagogy and methods, and of scholarly discipline. They, and many professors, would find any kind of practical instruction about coping with university life—like using a card index for drawing up a bibliography—as demeaning, the act of a 'vulgar schoolmaster' (63). The same goes for any kind of intellectual training—instead, upper class students and professors prefer the romantic image of free. inspired creation.

Magical perceptions are common. Professors collude by denying clear information, such as their criteria, and the techniques necessary to succeed. Students deny the importance of hard work and routine, and see success arising from a gift or by magic. This explains their following examination rituals, whether it be feverish last minute revision, or obsessive note taking—'a technique for spiritual consolation' (64) [modern students attend lectures and seminars obsessively, and even complain if they are cancelled—but never take notes!]. There are superstitions, guessing rituals, amulets and fetishes, and the repetition of successful conduct. Success is seen as a reward for having a gift, including the gift of successful guessing (65). There is 'overt contempt’ for any rational approach (65). Professors collude in this too: it is reciprocal—for example the lecture style means that students can enjoy anonymity [and ritual attendance]—and both professors and students oppose rational approaches.

These findings show the ultimate goal of the university system [social reproduction]. The rational approach contradicts these ultimate goals. Cultural transmission could be rationalised, and it would benefit the most disadvantaged students [more on rational teaching later].

Conclusion

Because real educational inequalities are never discussed, differences are seen as a result of ‘giftedness’ (67). Differences are tolerated only if they are seen as differences in gifts, or as the occasional social handicap faced by a gifted student. The lack of talent or enthusiasm in students is never explained. Formal examinations express a purely formal equality: as they are anonymous it is impossible to see how they reflect cultural inequalities. The formal policy of equal opportunity only ‘transforms privilege into merit’ (68). It is impossible to have any other outcome unless serious weight is given to the social origins of students [or value added?]. However, we would then expect unequal terminal performances. This could lead to a hierarchy of institutions, and the degree overall could be devalued. Experience in some communist countries might be cited, but even there there is often a tension [between rewarding 'redness' and expertise]. Overall, the roles of the game have to remain unquestioned. The lack of questioning is shown in the continuing attraction of the grandest institutions and most prestigious disciplines in French universities to all recruits. The credibility of the system requires that inequalities affecting students from outside the university are ignored. Insisting on the role of social differences is therefore a challenge to the whole system.

Giftedness is like charisma. It benefits the privileged and legitimates their contempt for the less privileged. Working-class students accept this as a kind of essentialism (70), and personalise their disadvantage. Indeed, working-class students are among those who believe most strongly in the idea of a charismatic gift. The tendency to reduce to essentialism is common among students because they are already prone to see who they are as what they do.

Teachers also assume their success arises from some personal gift, another essentialism. Often, the education system has been their only route to success, confirming this essentialism. It is often linked with the denigration of vulgar effort.

Students are only too willing to accept their status as victims rather than blame ‘clumsy teachers’ (71). Often their parents are over impressed by teachers' opinions or by the simple scores in educational tests, and are liable to say things like ‘He’s no good at French’, which naturalises inequality. Student objections to the system are often still couched in [victim vocabulary], and they expect solutions to be provided only by the generosity of teachers. Populist demands [such as that working-class culture has to be valued alongside elite culture] are also limited, since the dominant system is not just a simple class culture. Furthermore, academic skills and aptitudes can be learned.

The first requirement is to aim to affect the home environment. Teachers need to be fully explicit about what is required. The usual formulae are not enough [superstitions, but also including routine study skills advice?]. Teachers need to avoid any claims to have professorial charisma, and to develop a rational pedagogy, although this is ‘still to be invented’ (73). Scientific pedagogy is no good because it ignores social conditions [so a real difference between Bourdieu and the educational technologists here]. We need to evaluate different methods of teaching, modes and actual procedures—for example, should we give general technical advice or close direction of student work? Efficiency should be seen as related to students' social origins. We might need constant exercises to build up the skills needed. At the moment, this is denied by the myth of student autonomy and independent learning (74) which only help legitimates the charismatic teacher myth and see alternatives as pedantry.

Students vacillate between the perceived need for discipline and the myth of the aristocratic stance. Teachers also vacillate, taking an aristocratic stance until they have to do assessment (75). Professional judgments in reality are 'based on personal criteria, variable from teacher to teacher and… tied to the particular case' (75). Students need to decipher these criteria and try to rationalise them.

Students from upper class origins can adapt to these diffuse requirements, because of a 'clear affinity between school culture and the culture of the cultivated class' (75). When asked to undertake oral exams, upper class students just demonstrate the skills which are already unconsciously valued [in presentations too?]. Any open recognition of the effects of social origin 'would be regarded as scandalous' (75).

In a rational approach, there would be clarity about the 'reciprocal requirements of teachers and taught… the organisation of study… to enable students from the disadvantaged classes to overcome their disadvantages' (75). [Then a strangely utilitarian remark]: we should permit the 'greatest possible number of individuals to appropriate in the shortest possible time, as completely and perfectly as possible, the greatest number of the abilities which constitute school culture at a given moment' (76). This approach will be neither traditional nor technical/specialist. Until we develop it, education cannot overcome inequality. At the same time, a rational pedagogy is in its turn impossible unless recruitment of teachers and students is democratised.

Epilogue

The middle class demand for university expansion arises from the need to secure their social places [credentialist closure]. The response to the development of a modern economy has been to demand more kinds of education. Diplomas themselves have probably been devalued in terms of their role in regulating access to jobs. The rapid growth of more functional [vocational?] education and more functional jobs have devalued traditional diplomas, and excluded non holders of diplomas altogether. Academic qualifications have also helped to unify the whole system of qualifications [compare with the British government's model of 8 different levels].

As well as obtaining a diploma, it is important to exploit its value, and this requires further investments of educational and social capital. Those stopping at the lower levels, and new arrivals at the higher ones, are likely to suffer most from devaluation. They can fight back, for themselves and for their children, by demanding even more better qualifications [as in the credentialist spiral].

Educational qualifications can be converted to economic capital in several ways. Graduates might be able to demand higher wages: those holding diplomas have overtaken small independent businessmen in terms of income [almost a counterbalance argument here, based on some statistical evidence, the authors claim]. Alternatively, graduates might be able to shift into new businesses. This can be seen in the changes around craft work, for example, which now feature luxury and leisure goods. These require a more cultural capital (80). For such goods, value lies in the 'casual distinction of the vendor [as much] as on the nature and quality of the wares' (81), and it is important to demonstrate a mastery of taste rather than technical skills. These sorts of new cultural industries seem ideal for those with cultural capital rather than high levels of educational capital [as an example, the denser members of the UK royal family seem to be able to make a good living making very posh furniture].

Holders of devalued qualifications can try to retain their value [an interesting possibility relating to the recent work on knowledge economy in the UK, which also predicts falling returns to university degrees]. For example, the diploma can become a licence to gain privilege rather than an actual job, and to increase self esteem. Again more objective mechanisms are required, including a need to invest in valuable educational capital, perhaps by pulling out of unfashionable subjects [or unis]. It is possible to cling on to the old values to some extent, if you can persuade colleagues and the family of the value of your diploma, this can sometimes mask a real devaluation. In some circumstances, it might lead to actual revaluation [if particular degree subjects become fashionable, or if you can persuade employers that the prestige of the qualification is the most important thing]. Those who supply jobs however are likely to reward their real value of diplomas, especially if they are pursuing deskilling strategies as well. [I can still see a place for well educated but non technical people as decorative members of boards of directors]. In the worst case, diploma holders can be unemployed, and can see themselves as refusing to play the game [hence the moral drop out, who gains an engineering degree, finds it overtaken by technical developments, and gives it all up to run a smallholding in Devon].

#Oxford University #Oxford

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