#come to the conclusion that he needs to truly liberate himself from these forces

[divorceblogger]

underrated louis line from 2.08 is that he doesn’t read the bible anymore -> i.e. he’s not a practicing catholic anymore. I’m not necessarily saying I don’t enjoy views about him developing an attraction to lestat’s specific capacity to fulfil, replace and reinvent his relationship to religion by transforming him into a vampire and therefore fashioning himself as his father and all-loving god by giving him an outlet for his feelings; but that line changes everything, the same way louis thoroughly exploring and discovering his sexual preferences in paris also changes everything about how he’ll approach future romantic relationships. ​so if and when he chooses to resume a relationship with lestat it will truly be on his own terms, freed from any social and culturally mandated obligations, and not because he feels lestat is able to complete him as a person. he’s companion enough for himself right now

[my-timing-is-digital]

The degree of alarm that fluctuated in the Captain's voice, accompanied by the name of the source of his apprehension, caused the android to divert his attention and focus solely on Dahj. His words of consolation were ineffective and when she separated herself from Data, he let her — he did not deem it necessary to detain her as long as she governed herself, or could be governed by them, if need be. However, the shove that ensued, and the force behind it was disconcerting, especially since she managed to influence, and thus temporarily suspend his equilibrium — his systems adroitly took the discrepancies into account and computed an adequate rectification sequence to correct and stabilise him. Nevertheless, that sequence might have involved direct tactile contact with the floor, had Vega not impeded his journey down.

Within seconds, he had fully recuperated from the unanticipated assault; the phrases she pronounced were enigmatic and inundated him with a tsunami of confusion, a farrago of queries. He was not him? A tilt of the head; a nonverbal invitation for her to elaborate on her statement, but an explanation was not forthcoming — at least, not from her, not right away...

'What are you implying?' he asked inquisitively, his voice gentle and devoid of alarm, unlike Picard's. He exchanged a look with his brother, who shrugged his shoulders to indicate he was just as mystified about this episode of eccentrics as he was. 'We are not him?'

Data would have let Picard proceed, had it not been for the subsequent destruction of the console and the receding of synthetic human skin — confirming his suspicions. She was an android, devised to resemble a human. Ingenious...

Protectively, the Soong type android leapt forward. There was no time to marvel at her immaculate and innovative design, because if she was anything like the other androids, she could send Picard on a oneway trajectory to the other side of the transporter room — and possibly through the duranium bulkhead in the the adjacent corridor, if she so desired. He manoeuvred himself in-between Dahj and Picard, Lore followed suite, but became stationary several metres behind him, serving as reinforcements should Data fail in his endeavour to subdue the overstimulated Dahj.

A blur of pearlescent and black rushed toward her, seizing her wrists and pinning her against the wall, restricting her movement so she could not lash out. Data had no intention to harm her, and therefore, his grip on her was gentle, but he made certain she could liberate herself while he executed the next step...

'I am truly sorry about this, but you leave me no other choice. I promise, you will be fine when you come to,' Data whispered, the cadences that formed the foundation of his words rang true as he moved to incapacitate her.

Without any additional announcements pertaining to the conclusion of his procedure, the android placed his thumb, fore and middle finger in the base of her neck, at the shoulder, hoping fervently that her creator — whoever that was — had incorporated a nervous system — or synthetic variant of its organic counterpart — and trigger the nerves or pathways to shut her down, temporarily.

When Dahj was finally rendered unconscious and sagged to the floor, Data held on to her, carefully setting her down. The expression that ornamented his synthetic features was inappropriately inquisitive while his chartreuse eyes surveyed her vaguely familiar countenance — his face recognition subroutine still failed to connect her profile with any of the profiles in his database. Curious...

'Are you alright, brother?' Lore asked, having approached him noiselessly.

'I am,' Data reassured his brother and tore away his gaze from the mysterious female android and glanced up at Picard, a quizzical look in his eyes.

'Captain, who is she?'

From the moment she collapsed, painful, bone-deep exhaustion crashed over her. It wasn't a calm darkness that tried to overcome her, it was harsh and tumultuous, and she felt like she was fighting a riptide as she struggled to maintain consciousness. Her world was dim, narrowing, and growing dimmer. She struggled against excruciating, clawing unconsciousness--she was drowning in it.

The hand that extended toward her seemed luminous.

It was a lifeline and, despite her previous trepidation, Dahj took it. Her head swam as Data pulled her to her feet. She weighed nothing at all, not in comparison to him and his brother, so the fact that he was supporting her whole weight may not have occurred to him. She held onto his hand, clasped it tightly to keep her feet, and there was something deeply reassuring about the contact. His strength, the warmth of his palm--it was uncanny--

The world shifted with transport, the ground seemed, to her, to rock and roll like the deck of a ship in a storm. She kept her footing, dazed and unresponsive as she was, but something was wrong--terribly wrong. Dread shot up her back--she had no idea why--but it tasted inexplicably green. Picard was talking but it was indistinct, sounded far away despite his standing right at her side. She could hear him, hear others conversing, but she couldn't pick out the words.

Dahj was adrift, underwater, and she didn't know why. She didn't have the capacity to wonder. Her balance was precarious, maintained entirely by the strong hand that held hers--course language could have knocked her over at this point.

'Before you start spewing accusations, Captain--'

That voice.

She knew that voice.

That voice cut through the maelstrom and washed over her with perfect crystal clarity. Dahj stopped breathing. Her gaze shifted, tracked upward to the luminous face of the android at her side, and she watched that voice spill out of him. Felt the reverberations in his hand as it did.

No.

No, it wasn't real.

It wasn't possible. He wasn't--

Her father's voice sounded from afar and she swayed as her gaze snapped to the side--that face again--that face paired with that voice--it couldn't--

A thousand precious moments, every memory that she was fondest of, hit her at once. Her father carrying her to bed when she was six and had the flu--she heard his voice through his chest as a hand rubbed her back. They sat together, Dahj watching the rain on the windows as her father worked, quietly humming some song she didn't know. He called her down for dinner, amused and ribbing because she was engrossed in her task. His shouting for her in alarm when she fell down the stairs and broke her leg. The pride in his voice when he showed her his hybrid--he'd named it after her.

Dahj's design was a masterwork, but it her synthetic and organic parts were not balanced. Her cellular components were meant to act as camoflage and little else. Those systems, the human template that her synthetic components were overlayed atop, were meant to be overridden in all cases. It was a drive slaved to a synthetic master, a delicate facade wrapped around a trillion networked parts.

Her system was meant to work in one direction, it granted absolute primacy to her processors in all instances, but her autonomic response to this was too great. It shattered her world view, ripped her memories from her, and was so strong that it wrested control from her synthetic systems.

Hearing Data speak broke something inside her.

Dahj was frozen, still and lightheaded. Horror dawned on her slack face, then betrayal, and then a surge of impossible, all-consuming grief.

"Dahj?" She didn't hear Picard, didn't see as he lifted his hands again, nor as he tried to gentle her at Data's side.

"It's alright," he hazarded, his expression going just slightly alarmed as he stared. "You're alright."

Without warning, Dahj ripped her hand away from Data's. She recoiled, planted both hands on his side, and pushed him away. She employed her full synthetic strength in the maneuver and threw herself back as she put distance between them. She stumbled backward and hit the wall, expression lost and broken.

"You're not him--" Dahj snapped, her tone childish and desperate as her wide-eyed stare whipped from Data to Lore. "Neither of you are him!"

"Dahj! Stop--" Picard tried to step in front of her and block her view, to avert however much of this breakdown as he could. Dahj flailed her arms as she retreated against the wall and Picard narrowly avoided a sudden, spasmotic wave of her arms. The console by the wall was not so fortunate and her flailing hand tore through it like tissue paper.

"Get away from me!" Dahj sobbed frantically and her attention darted around the room, desperately searching for an escape. The air took on an acrid, horrible quality as she moved, as she backed along the wall away from everyone in the room. Everything hurt so badly, but she was consumed by her grief. She couldn't see the way her hands began to smolder and pale, as layers of organic components burned away in place of the elements her activation should have consumed.

She was never intended to work in this direction--

[jeanandthedreamofhorses]

Life without the Will to Life: Zeke’s Epiphany

Restless struggling and suffering for the sake of an impossible goal: in a sentence, that is how the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer saw life. Despite the inevitability of death, we are enslaved by an instinctual compulsion to preserve ourselves.

This compulsion, the Will to Life, is the characteristic that defines life itself.

The Will to Life manifests in many forms, not only in struggling to survive. Any attempt to improve the comfort of our existence is a manifestation of the Will to Life. That is to say, all human striving is a naïve denial of the reality of death.

And when the fundamental drive of our existence is that irrational, we cannot be free to make rational choices regarding how we live our lives in spite of death. Instead, the Will to Life forces us to live like tortured prisoners, suffering pain and inflicting pain on others all for the sake of fulfilling that Will which can never truly be satisfied.

We are like addicts putting ourselves and our loved ones in danger for the sake of our next fix - and it will never be our last one. So long as we satisfy the urge, the addiction will never go away.

Evidently, Zeke is in agreement.

About a year ago now I wrote a two-part series on Schopenhauen themes in SNK. Back then I wasn’t sure how much of the correlation was a co-incidence, but Zeke’s philosophising this chapter has convinced me of Isayama’s familiarity with Schopenhauen thought. 

Multiplying is the means by which life survives, and therefore a function of its Will to Life. With that in mind, if you replace ‘in order to multiply’ with ‘in order to fulfil its Will to Life’, Zeke expounds Schopenhauer’s philosophy almost word-for-word: the Will to Life is the fundamental aspect of existence, it is pointless in the long run, and it condemns people to unnecessary suffering.

The intricate sandcastle Zeke builds while describing the Will to Life illustrates the concept further. No matter how much effort is put into building a sandcastle, the nature of the material it is built with means it will inevitably crumble away. Likewise, no matter how life struggles to survive - whether that be an individual, a nation, or a species - it cannot overcome its fundamentally finite nature.

The only lifeform that has managed that impossible feat is Ymir Fritz: the tantalising goal of the Will to Life, which is always forever beyond reach, was reached by Ymir through a miracle.

The power of the Nine Titans made it possible. Now living in a world where death does not exist, she should no longer be enslaved by the compulsion to live. She should be the only human who is able to find true peace and happiness within life rather than outside it.

But instead, she continued to involve herself in the affairs of the mortal world, taking orders from the royal bloodline and, eventually, turning on them to help Eren destroy the world. Zeke is immensely confused by this. 

Where Ymir could find peace and tranquillity, instead she continues to struggle, strive, and suffer. She continues to subject herself to the Will to Life because, although she cannot die, she remains deeply involved with a world of people who will inevitably die. The goals that Ymir helps them with are ultimately pointless, destined to fade away to dust - and Ymir knows that. So Zeke is confused as to why she did not simply reach out and take the freedom from it all in front of her.

This is why Zeke chose not to help stop the Rumbling. Engaging with the mortal realm at all would be to continue to enslave himself to his arch-enemy, the Will to Life, just like Ymir did. Now he is in this deathless realm, he demands that he at last has the satisfaction of being free of that Will, and so chooses to do nothing.

The situation Zeke found himself in would be Schopenhauer’s ideal: life without the Will to Life. Only, Zeke is hardly blissful in this state. Despite his determination not to be like Ymir, he too is still enslaved to the Will to Life. Rather than rejoicing at his freedom from it, his thoughts are grounded in the mortal realm, lamenting its enslavement by the Will to Life. He remains attached like Ymir is. 

It would seem that humans are just too used to living with the Will to Life to be free of it, even when deathless; perhaps this is why, despite vocally rejecting the Will to Life, in practice Zeke preserves his life by staying in the Path Dimension. Even Ymir’s miracle is not enough to liberate humanity of the Will to Life.

So what is there left to do? Die, or never be born in the first place.

Zeke’s plan for euthanasia was the inevitable end-point of Schopenhauen philosophy.

As part of his crusade against the Will to Life, Zeke believes it would be kinder to remain in the Path Dimension and allow humanity to be wiped out. It is the only means of freeing them from the tyranny of the Will.

With this logic, one wonders why Zeke and Schopenhauer did not simply kill themselves. Why live when living can only mean suffering?

Schopenhauer’s justification for life was that there are small avenues within it through which one can escape the Will to Life - where one, for the briefest of precious moments, could appreciate existence without restlessly striving after something. Tranquillity, presence in the moment, peace of mind - for Schopenhauer, these are the things which redeem existence.

And this is exactly Armin’s counter-argument to Zeke. He argues that these things are beautiful precisely because they have nothing to do with the urge to multiply - that is, they are free from the Will to Life.

Those moments are freedom for Armin and Zeke - being able to appreciate the moment without finding fault or desiring anything beyond it. Zeke is able to appreciate the fact of his birth purely because of those moments playing catch with Mr Xaver, where he was free from the compulsion to restlessly strive.

Zeke sees the pinnacle of his life not in the enactment of his euthanasia plan, but in playing catch. 

This is because the euthanasia plan, though intending to liberate Eldians from the Will to Life, was itself a form of restless striving and so an expression of that very same Will. Likewise, his depression in the Path Dimension was because his mind was still fixated on the tragedy of the Will to Life. The only way to be free of the Will to Life is not to understand its true nature, but to forget about it entirely.

Zeke has had to restlessly strive ever since he was a child, with the enormous expectations placed upon him by his parents; so those moments of playing catch and not having to think about anything else were beautiful to Zeke. That’s why he took the time to play catch with Colt, just like Xaver did for him. 

Zeke comes to the conclusion that those simple moments of satisfaction were brilliant enough to justify all the suffering of striving that exists elsewhere in life. Something finally justifies his birth, and so he thanks his father for the gift he once hated him for.

It is telling, though, that Zeke does not renounce the worth of his euthanasia plan. This is because Armin argues with Zeke within the frame of his Schopenhauen ideology. He does not try to convince Zeke that the Will to Life is desirable after all; he appeals to Zeke to value life precisely because it provides moments where one can reject the Will to Life. Thus Zeke can appreciate his own existence while still believing that there is nothing heinous in preventing further manifestations of the Will to Life: in both situations, the Will to Life is opposed.

So Zeke dies in truer accordance with the same ideology he has always lived by. In all his restless striving to end the need for restless striving, Zeke never took a moment to appreciate the beauty that exists in those small moments free of that urge. Like his brother, he had been so focused on destroying his enemy that he was unable to appreciate what he was trying to protect.

And so, in a final rejection of the Will to Life, he leaves behind immortality, the ultimate longing of that Will, to embrace death within the realm of the mortal. He calls over the person he knows wants to kill him more than any other.

Zeke’s yell of “Can’t say I wanted to do the same!!” reveals that he does not want to die. The Will to Life is still strong in him, but Zeke overcomes it and allows Levi to kill him in the hope that countless lives will be saved - lives that, for the sake of those brief windows free from the Will to Life, are now worth something to him. So where once he claimed he was saving his victims from the Will to Life, he finally regrets "all the killing” he has done.

By Schopenhauer’s definition, Zeke finally found his freedom. Ironically, he could only face his death when he had once again found meaning in life.

[ihatetaxes99]

The Paranormal Headcanon Files - File 34-B: Hikaru Bushida

 Suspect: Hikaru Bushida

 Believed Alias: Atomiser

Recommended Rank: S

 Quirk: The Nuclear Option - The user emits strong radiation from within their body, radiation that can be built up and harnessed as extremely strong pulses of energy that can override a person's body and kill them in seconds upon contact. The pulses can be flung a range of about a metre, after which they begin to fizzle out without the constant contact to the host's body.

 Equipment: Detnerat-patented Prolonged Sustainability Apparatus (PSA) - Taking the form of a helmet piece in the form of whatever the customer desires with a series of tubes extending to each part of the body, the latest and greatest in Detnerat Technology can allow your loved ones to extend their life by up to fifteen years. Terminal illness? Life-threatening injury? Your PSA can fit to serve whatever may be looking to bring down your or your loved one's life. So don't delay, purchase a PSA today. (Retail Price ¥800,000, Detnerat Incorporated is not responsible for any negative health effects that may come from wearing a PSA without the correct specifications, technicians hold the right to refuse certain designs for the mask, always consult a registered medical professional before purchase.) (Quote sourced from official Detnerat promotional material)

 Origin: Born to prosperous landowners in the Shikoku Region (both parents are now deceased; Elder brother refused to comment), Bushida lived an ordinary childhood, mostly unaffected by his Meta Ability, and would go on to take a job in construction, where his simple, easygoing nature and hardworking outlook made him popular amongst both peers and clients. However, in his mid-twenties, things were to take a turn for the worse for the previously-healthy man as it was revealed that his Quirk had in fact been poisoning him slowly over the years as a result of the large radiation build-up; Within a few weeks, he was starting to show signs of illness and was soon left unable to work. While his parents were more than understanding, they were rapidly approaching old age themselves and were unable to do much to assist him. Within a year, Bushida was hospitalised and his chances of survival were looking low.

 This was until, by chance, Detnerat Incorporated donated a significant sum of money into the hospital he was interned at. As a result, the company's head, Rikiya Yotsubashi (see: File 15-A), learned of the man, whose life was nearing its conclusion, and decided to offer him a chance, using him as a test subject of sorts for the then-work in progress Prolonged Sustainability Apparatus. To the shock of everybody, not least Bushida himself, this actually began to have a positive effect on him. Although he needed to wear the device at all times, he was soon able to walk around freely again, he regained some of his body mass and overall returned to something resembling his original strength. As a result, indebted to Yotsubashi, he took on the name Atomiser and proved himself worthy of earning a position within the Metahuman Liberation Army. It is uncertain if he truly believes in the ideas of Liberation or is more so incredibly grateful to the man who gave him a second chance at life.

 Investigator's Notes: Bushida is an extremely dangerous lunatic, only made more dangerous by his lack of any clear ideology. While he appears to have no true hangups with hero society for the most part, he has no issue murdering as he sees fit (see: File 79-H, Section D: The Midnight Incident.) If any of the remaining Paranormal Liberation would be advised for an S-Rank, I would bet money on him. His reliance on his PSA to remain alive only makes him more fearsome; There's nothing more terrifying than a man with nothing to lose.

Daisuke Fukushima, Paranormal Liberation Front Task Force, National Police Agency.

---

So, this was a short thing I thought I'd try out on a weekly basis, writing down my headcanon for various PLF soldiers each Sunday, from the perspective of an in-universe police report following the events of the Villa Raid. I'll probably continue next week, although I am not yet sure who to choose. Hope you enjoyed, regardless.

[ncfan-1]

Because I feel like we’re being set up to encounter Sabine once more in The Mandalorian, some of my more discontented feelings regarding what happened to her in the epilogue of Rebels have been coming to the surface, because I just can’t be 100% okay with anything, can I?

But I really, really do not like what is implied to have happened with Sabine in the epilogue of Rebels. Over the years, I have become more cognizant of the problems I have with certain things in the back half of Season 4 of Rebels, but I think my problems with what happened with Sabine were there in the forefront of my mind from nearly the beginning, even if it was a while before I was willing to really engage with it.

Okay. The natural culmination of Sabine’s character arc over the course of Seasons 3 and 4 was for her to accept the mantle of leadership. We’re all in agreement about that, right? I remember having problems with her shirking that role on Mandalore back in the Season 4 premiere, but I had thought at the time that, from there, her arc would culminate in her accepting the mantle of leadership within the wider rebellion, rather than merely in the Mandalorian Resistance. After all, Sabine has had Hera as one of her most important role models since early adolescence, Hera who decided that it wasn’t enough merely to liberate her own homeworld, but that for liberty to last, she had to go out and free the whole galaxy. Sabine might more readily follow Hera’s example than, say, her mother’s, or Bo-Katan’s. It would have made sense for Sabine to transcend the need for just her own people’s liberation, would have made sense for her take everything she has learned since she was cast out of Mandalorian society as a child and dream bigger than just the dream of a liberated Mandalorian society.

And she really did seem on track for that culmination in the finale. There was a moment that I was sure was the culmination. You guys can probably think of what it is yourself, but it bears pointing out here. It was that moment after Sabine spotted Ezra sneaking off to carry out his own plane, that moment after she covered for him, that moment after the others realized that Ezra had gone off on his own. It was that moment when Sabine stopped Hera from trying to force Ezra to come back, that moment when Sabine took charge of the situation and formulated a plan of action for the team—and her leitmotif started playing.

This was the moment to me. I watched this play out, and I well and truly believed that Sabine had finally reached the culmination of her character arc. I believed that this was Sabine finally pushing past all of her doubts and insecurity. I believed that this was Sabine overcoming her feelings of unworthiness and taking up the mantle of a leader. I believed that this was Sabine accepting herself, accepting the fact that she was capable of being a leader, that she was a leader. And every part she played in the finale after that moment seemed to bear this out—it was Sabine acting as a leader without hesitation, without doubt, without second-guessing herself. She’d finally overcome that block.

And then, the epilogue. Then, Sabine’s voiceover talking about the parts everybody else played in the events to come—and behold, she is nowhere to be found in those recollections, and behold, the absolutely hideous implication that she completely abandoned the fight after the liberation of Lothal, and spent the rest of the war on the planet.

No, it’s never said outright, and that’s the one saving grace of it all. But it certainly is implied, isn’t it? It’s implied, and it’s such a monumental step backwards for her character, so out of left field, that the only way to make sense of it is to look at the man behind the curtain and think about it Doylistically, instead of Watsonianly.

It feels to me like Sabine was forced to abandon the culmination of her character arc in favor of shouldering the natural culmination of Ezra’s arc. Ezra’s arc would have had a natural conclusion in him remaining on Lothal to protect the planet from further reprisals and help it heal from the damage done to it, but it really hits differently when it’s a character whose arc was never heading in that direction before the last five minutes of the show. It’s not natural, is it?

Now, I don’t have as many problems with what happened with Ezra as I do with what happened with Sabine, and I honestly think that what happened with him works fairly well as an alternate culmination of his arc. But it doesn’t work with Sabine, does it? It does not work with Sabine to have her character arc mutilated this way, because what’s happened is that the implication that she abandoned the fight and stayed on Lothal makes her regress as a person as a character. I was originally going to say it regresses her to her early Season 1 self, but actually, it doesn’t, because even in early Season 1, Sabine was still willing to take the fight to the Empire, even if she was daunted by her doubts and all of her baggage. Where it regresses her to is her pre-series self, right after she and Ketsu escaped Mandalore, and Sabine is so utterly discouraged and heartbroken by her family and society’s rejection of her that she abandons the idea of fighting the Empire for a long time, and turns her heart away from the suffering of the galaxy at large.

It makes no sense, but then, forcing one character to take on the arc of another character rarely ever does.

Now, like I said, it is the strong implication that Sabine abandoned the fight after the liberation of Lothal. It is strongly implied, but never outright stated, and like I also said, that’s the one saving grace of all of this, that it’s never outright stated in the show itself. If The Mandalorian has her saying that oh, she actually was out doing stuff with the Rebellion during the war proper, it might go against the implication, but I’ll still accept it, because it would be so much easier to engage with a Sabine I actually recognize, rather than the stranger who was dropped on us in the epilogue.

--

I write all of this both to get it off of my chest, and as a long, long preamble explaining why I am writing this. I write it because I think that after meeting Bo-Katan, the next logical step for Din Djarin is for him to meet Sabine. He’s met someone who performs the Mandalorian identity differently from himself, and by the end of ‘The Heiress’, he seems to be on the way to accepting that there is more than one valid way to perform Mandalorian culture and identity. Sabine is the next logical step in the progression, the next step after Din coming to accept that there is more than one way to perform their culture: someone who has a deeply complicated relationship with her cultural identity as a Mandalorian, someone who has done harm to that culture while also deeply harmed by it, someone whose identity as a Mandalorian includes not only battle and loyalty to her family, but self-expression through artwork.

I think that self-expression through art, always so important to Sabine’s character, might be introduced here as well. Because Din’s unpainted armor has always been jarring to me, and I think that his ability to engage in self-expression might have been just a little stifled (or more than a little stifled) by his raising in the Watch, and the values the Watch inculcated in him. Sabine might well introduce him to the concept of painting his armor, whether in his clan colors (and if he doesn’t have any at present, there could well be a scene of him deciding what they are), or in colors and designs that he chooses, that are personally meaningful to him, without clan affiliation or loyalty to the Watch entering.

There is something else about Sabine that I think will be of interest in this show, especially since she is most likely to turn up in Ahsoka’s company. Sabine provides an interesting inverse to the Child’s present situation—where the Child is a Force-wielder sheltered and cared for by a Mandalorian, Sabine was, once upon a time, a Mandalorian child sheltered and cared for by a Jedi, a Mandalorian child who was in her adolescence brought up alongside a child who was a Jedi.

I don’t think that Din’s journey leads him ultimately to give up the child to the Jedi, because that would be a betrayal of the bond that has formed between them. I think that his journey leads to him finding the middle way, finding that place where Mandalorians and Jedi can coexist, held fast by bonds of care and loyalty and love. That Sabine has all of these bonds with Jedi—with Kanan and Ezra, and by the implication of the finale, with Ahsoka as well—may well be the thing that proves to Din that it can be done, that just because Mandalorians and Jedi have traditionally been enemies, does not mean that they must always be enemies.

Din has gone out into the galaxy as the man who has everything to learn about life and how his can be richer than it has been, who has everything to learn about how his own people can be more than just one thing. Both he and Sabine are alienated from their culture in their own ways, and I’m interested to see the way they might play off of each other, what they can learn from each other, and especially what Din is willing to learn from Sabine. I know it’s not a sure thing that Sabine will show up, but it feels right, and I’ll be interested to see what role she has to play in the show.

[shutupandshipit]

Sleepless Nights - Oneshot

Summary:  It's a sleepless night for Kaminari. When he goes to see if Midoriya is still awake, he finds something he wasn't really expecting.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T (just for language)

Notes: Have another one of my outside POVs of BakuDeku, this time from Denki's POV.

This was inspired by the doujinshi Antinomie which is a Subverse universe. Subverse is similar to Omegaverse, but there are only two dynamics, Dom and Sub which are chemically determined and do not physically change the body. There are three parts to the doujinshi, but if you decide to check it out, be warned there are hard noncon/rape aspects in the first part between Katsuki and the villain.

Anyway, enjoy my love of this verse!

Kaminari groaned, turning over beneath his covers. He really needed to sleep, but he knew sleep wouldn't come. Not after Monoma had so liberally flexed his dynamic on Kaminari during their joint training that day.

He absolutely hated the whole Dom/Sub dynamics thing. He hated how he was one of the only male Subs in class, in the whole Hero Course! It wasn't really that surprising, Subs were more common in the General Course because it was hard for Subs to become heroes. Some still made it though. Kamui Woods was a Sub as well as Bubble Girl. Probably most surprising of all was Mr. Aizawa. With a quirk like his, it would have made more sense for him to naturally be a Dom, but no. He just rarely reacted to any Dom other than All Might, Present Mic and Midnight.

Midnight was a special case though. Everyone reacted to her. It was a special part of her quirk, but Kaminari wasn't mad about that. Who would be?

He also hated his dynamic because he could feel his body react to any Dom in the area, especially if he didn't take his suppressants regularly. If he missed a day or his time was off, he would be fighting his instincts all day. If Mina was irritated and cut a glare at him (which didn't happen often, but still), he'd be on his knees in an instant clutching at her ankle until she let up.

He noticed though that in his case, it was a little easier for him to resist Doms who didn't have a personal bond with him. If it was Kirishima, Mina, Jirou or Sero though? He was a goner.

The only Dom he never reacted to was Bakugou which was probably the most curious thing about the dynamics. Bakugou was always angry and raising his voice, but never once did Kaminari react to him. It was almost like he was a Sub, but that didn't make any sense because he never reacted to anyone.

Bakugou was indeed an anomaly, but he must have just had an extremely weak dynamic. Or he never flexed his dynamic which also didn't make any sense for his personality.

Kaminari's biggest hope for making it as a Sub Hero was finding his Pair early on. If he found his Paired Dom, then he'd be set. Once a Sub found their Pair, they would never react to another Dom's commands unless that Dom had an exceptionally powerful dynamic like Midnight or All Might.

He never wanted to meet someone like that, but he'd heard that Shinsou had a strong dynamic. He'd had very few interactions with Shinsou since the Sports Festival, but every time they talked, there was a sharp tugging in his chest. He had to wonder what it was, whether it was his natural instincts to react to a strong Dom or if it was something more, but he wouldn't know without truly submitting to Shinsou. He wasn't ready for that as much as he boasted, so he'd just have to wait.

What he couldn't wait for was sleep.

Sleepless nights happened few and far in-between for him, but when they did, they really were sleepless. He'd just lay in bed until his alarm went off in the morning, so usually, he just found something else to do. Or found someone else who was still awake to bother. Generally, he just went to Midoriya who was the only other person who had the occasional bout of insomnia and could help him during times like this without needing anything in return.

So, he wasn't surprised when he padded down the dark hall to find light filtering from beneath his door.

Knocking lightly so he didn't wake anyone else up, he pushed open the door when he heard a soft mumble in return.

He was not expecting to find Midoriya sitting on the edge of his bed with Bakugou between his knees, head pillowed against Midoriya's ample thigh. A thin black leather collar hung loosely from Bakugou's wrist.

Midoriya nodded off, head dipping and lifting every few seconds. His hand was buried in Bakugou's blond spikes, completely still in his doze.

Bakugou looked completely blissed out in his sleep. It was the calmest and sweetest Kaminari had ever seen him look.

His heart raced and jealousy bloomed hot and green in his chest. Frozen in the entryway, he could only stare at them.

'Katsuki is a Sub. Katsuki is a Sub. Katsuki is a Sub. Katsuki is-'

"Holy crap, you're a Sub!" Kaminari shouted before he could stop himself.

Bakugou and Midoriya flung themselves away from each other. Katsuki hit Midoriya's desk with a grunt. Midoriya slammed against the wall by his bed and groaned. The collar flew through the air before landing and rolling to a stop at Kaminari's feet.

The soft air of the moment went up in flames.

"What the fuck?" Bakugou snarled, glaring from Kaminari to Midoriya, "Fucking Deku! I thought you said you locked the door!"

"I thought I had!" Midoriya gasped breathlessly, clutching at his chest, "What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep because of what Monoma did earlier, and I knocked and heard you reply, so I came in, and... and..." His mind leaped for the only logical conclusion. "You're a Pair!"

"Shut it, Dunce Face! Do you want the whole damn dorm to hear you?"

Kaminari paused, pulse still thumping hard enough that he felt his skin pulsing along with it. Dropping his voice, he whispered, "Is it a secret?"

"Well, it sure as fuck ain't advertised!" Bakugou snapped, as irritable as always.

"'Stop'," Midoriya sighed, sliding to the edge of his bed again. They both went still immediately, and relief flooded through Kaminari at the gentle command. "'Kneel, Denki'."

Kaminari sank to his knees with a shuddering sigh of relief and pleasure, and Bakugou glared over at Midoriya.

When Midoriya spoke next, it lacked the flex of his dynamic. "Don't look at me like that, Kacchan. You don't have to deal with being forced to submit like Kaminari does, and you don't realize the strain it puts on his body. We've been through the classes, but it's not the same as experiencing-" He cut himself off with a shuddering sigh. "Class doesn't explain it because the curriculum is geared more towards Doms. It's not like I'm going to do anything with him, this just helps mitigate the effects from others."

"And how often do you two have this little pow wow? Were you going to tell me, or just leave me in the fucking dark?"

Kaminari snorted, and did his best to stifle his giggles. This was the first time he had ever heard Bakugou sound like a jealous boyfriend. It was more fun to watch than he thought.

"What the fuck are you laughing about?" Bakugou snapped at him. The effect was lessened by the fact that not only were they both on the floor, but Bakugou was still propped up on his arms from when he'd thrown himself away from Midoriya.

"It all just makes so much sense now." Kaminari grinned widely. "I'm glad you have your Pair. I mean, I don't think you would have gone through what I do anyway. You're so stubborn, you probably wouldn't react to a Dom's command out of sheer force of will. But it's better to never know, right?"

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, but glanced away, red tinging the tips of his ears and his cheeks.

Midoriya smiled at him. "I probably don't have to ask you this, but um, our relationship isn't something people know about? We'd rather keep it under raps, so if you could..." He trailed off meaningfully.

It took Kaminari a moment to understand, but when he did, he grinned. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me! Who would believe me anyway? But I guess this means I should probably find another Dom to help. Don't want to step on anyone's toes or anything."

Midoriya caught Bakugou's eye, and after a moment of silent conversation, Bakugou huffed. "Whatever. It's fine as long as you don't do anything together. Until you find your Pair or a Dom, I guess."

Kaminari launched himself onto Bakugou. "I'll look real hard, I swear! You're such a good friend, Bakubro!"

"Don't call me that, Dunce Face, and get the fuck off!" Bakugou snapped, but not as harshly as normal as he shoved at Kaminari's body, "Now, if you're all fixed or whatever, get the fuck out."

Kaminari took a moment to take stock of his body, and while the tightness in his chest was still there, it was less than before. Now, he just needed to calm down, and he could take walk to accomplish that. "Sure thing."

"Wait, are you sure?" Midoriya stuttered, and Kaminari grinned back.

"Yeah! I'll see you guys in the morning!" He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Scooping up the collar on his way passed, he tossed it back to Midoriya who fumbled to catch it.

Before he closed the door completely, he paused to peak back and watch his strange pair of friends.

"'Come'," Midoriya murmured quietly with a gentle flex in his voice. Bakugou crawled willingly back to him, expression exhausted as he found a comfortable seat between Midoriya's knees again. When he settled his head on Midoriya's thigh, head craddled in his hand and their fingers twined together, Midoriya began murmuring too quietly for Kaminari to hear.

The serene air from before settled back into place as if it had never been disturbed.

Bakugou hummed in response, just a quiet rumble in the room, and Kaminari finally shut the door silently.

Padding down to the common room, he found his way out onto the street. He breathed in the cold night air, clearing out the rest of the excitement and knots in his chest. He wondered if those knots were panic, panic at being commanded by someone he didn't trust, panic at wondering if that person was going to command him to do something he didn't want to do, panic at not having a say in what happened to him during those times. Nothing terrible had happened so far, he'd been lucky. There were horror stories of Doms abusing their Subs, and it terrified Kaminari every time someone commanded him that it might be his turn.

The scrape of shoes close by startled him bad enough that his heart started racing all over again. Spinning around, he found Shinsou staring sleepily at him.

"Sorry," Shinsou said in his deep voice, scrubbing a hand through his purple hair, "Didn't mean to startle you. Didn't expect anyone else to be out this late."

The tug was back, strong and insistent as it always was when Shinsou was near. They stared at each other. "I couldn't sleep."

"Same. I don't sleep well. At all really."

They lapsed into silence, and after a moment, Kaminari mustered up the courage to blurt, "Do you have a Pair? Or a Sub?" Heat crowded his face, and Kaminari wanted to chide himself. After seeing Midoriya and Bakugou though, feeling that immediate jealousy, he thought he might have been more ready than he first realized.

When Shinsou considered him for a moment and said, "No, never really thought about it or had the chance," he knew he was ready.

Kaminari smiled despite the heat in his face. "Do you want one?"

[apricuscity]

Love In The Time Of Revolution!

“Welcome back everyone! We hope you’ve been enjoying the show so far. Please relax and enjoy the thrilling conclusion to Love In The Time Of Revolution!”

Act Two:

War has broken out across the kingdom. Villages are burning, people are losing their lives, chaos has consumed the once peaceful land...and madness is beginning to consume the Emperor..

Augustus and Baskerville are alone in the war room. Baskerville explains his grand plans to wipe out the rebels. (War). While yet again asking for Mia’s hand in marriage. Augustus agrees and says when the time comes Baskerville will have the throne he desires but not until this war is won.

Mia is horrified at what her father is allowing to happen and begs her mother to speak to him (War). Zelina claims Augustus will speak to no one except Baskerville and fears all is lost. She has her loyal servants pack Mia’s things in preparation for her departure.

Across the kingdom Soldiers, and Townspeople wonder how they got to where they are now (War). Benjamin has become the leader of a group of awakeners. Their number only seems to grow with each village they liberate. (War).

Before she leaves the castle Mia speaks one last time with her mother. Telling Zelina of the man she met at the festival. Zelina tells her daughter that love can happen in the most unexpected ways and most of the time Love doesn’t “see” classes. (Love Is Blind). She tells Mia that as strange as it is, she must follow her heart. She doesn’t want her daughter to end up in a loveless marriage such as her own. Mia bids her mother farewell and is escorted out of the castle by Zelina’s loyal guard.

Baskerville stands before a large crowd of people. He explains he knows none of them is an awakener but it doesn’t matter. All of them are filth and if he doesn’t eradicate them now they’ll likely be a problem during his rule. (Unthinkable). A few young villagers are seen hiding behind the elders. Baskerville smirks as the soldiers open fire.

The carnage continues as Baskerville has given up on trying to find just awakeners. Deciding to just burn it all and start over. Eventually his path takes him back to the fishing village where this all started. Walking through the streets as his soldiers burn down everything. Only to come face to face with Benjamin and his rebels.

Benjamin had been following the trail, knowing eventually he’d catch up to Baskerville. Baskerville and Benjamin’s forced engage each other. The sight of all this destruction has been taking it’s toll on Benjamin. Despite his resolve Benjamin isn’t as skilled a fighter as Baskerville and is stabbed in the side.

Baskerville explains that once he’s done with all of this he’s going to marry Mia and take the throne. He tells Benjamin he knows all about their festival meeting and Benjamin shouldn’t worry. Baskerville says he cares nothing for Mia and will gladly send her to meet Benjamin after he becomes emperor.

A sudden feeling overcomes Benjamin..time itself seems to stop as he feels a burning within his very soul (Awakened). His blood flow begins to greatly increase. His strength and speed are amplified. As time seems to return to normal he throws a punch as Baskerville prepares to strike him with his blade. Benjamin’s punch shatters the blade, a shard of it flying back and slicing Baskerville’s right eye.

Baskerville howls in pain and covers his eye, staggering backwards as Benjamin rises. Baskerville calls for a retreat but just before Benjamin can rush after he feels a tremendous pain in his body and drops to his knees. The other awakeners assure him he’ll be alright and congratulate him on becoming one of them.

Baskerville demands to speak to the Emperor alone. Augustus allows this but questions Baskerville’s authority. Baskerville claims Augustus has lost control, the awakeners are gaining ground, and Mia is gone. Baskerville demands they activate the chimera project. Augustus refuses.

Baskerville concedes that perhaps he’s taking it too far...or perhaps Augustus is simply a fool who doesn’t know when to stand aside. Baskerville produces a dagger from his sleeve and plunges it into Augustus’ heart. Augustus’ ceremonial mask falls from his face and shatters before the the emperor drops to the ground. (What Have You Done)

Baskerville has one of his spies plant the dagger in Zelina’s chambers. Calling for help and claiming he was attacked and the Emperor was slain. He places the blame on Zelina and has her arrested. Claiming the throne for himself and initiating project chimera.

As they ride through the countryside Mia and her guard are confronted by Baskerville’s soldiers. Mia proves herself capable as she fights off her attackers but the numbers catch up to her. Just as she and her guard about to be captured, Benjamin arrives. Demonstrating his newfound ability and dispatching the soldiers effortlessly. Mia and Benjamin embrace. (Fated).

As the strange chimera beasts begin to ravage the land, the awakeners find themselves having to save the very soldiers they were once fighting. The chimera threaten to wipe out everything and everyone. Mia learns of her father’s death and mourns him even though he was never truly kind to her.

Benjamin realizes the only way to stop this is to confront Baskerville who has left the castle and has secluded himself in the facility the chimeras are coming from. Despite protests Mia decides to come with him (No Second Chances). Mia refuses to lose another loved one.

Baskerville decides to increase the chimera production. He’ll outnumber the rebels and end this war. They had their chance to surrender..now everyone is simply expendable (No Second Chances).

As Benjamin, Mia, and a large contingent of awakeners march toward the chimera facility they see the scope of the destruction. Forests destroyed, the land itself scorched, wildlife and people alike either killed or devoured. The awakeners battle against a seemingly never ending amount of chimeras as Benjamin and Mia rush toward the facility.

They find the building strangely empty, Baskerville’s soldiers lay dead as a demented Baskerville sits on a makeshift throne. His chimera rushes Benjamin and Mia. Benjamin finds despite his new powers the chimera is proving too tough to handle. Baskerville explains the chimeras are designed to counter awakeners. They are the superior lifeform.

As the chimera pins Benjamin on the ground Baskerville steps forward, drawing the emperor’s blade. Claiming Benjamin took his eye...it’s only fair he repays the favor. As he’s about to strike, Mia tackles him to the ground. The chimera diverts it’s attention just long enough for Benjamin to punch through it’s heart. Tossing it aside.

Baskerville shoves Mia away and stands, smirking as Benjamin draws close. It’s only then that Mia notices something dripping from Baskerville’s blade. She realizes the truth. Baskerville knows he can’t beat Benjamin fairly so he’s poisoned his sword. One small cut is likely all he needs. Benjamin is already filled with rage as he charged.

Baskerville waits until the opportune moment and slashes hoping to simply land a small blow on Benjamin...Baskerville and Benjamin pause as they finally see Mia in between them. Baskerville’s sword stopped by her hand..and her blood dripping to the ground.

Mia stumbles back and Benjamin catches her. Baskerville takes a few steps back as Benjamin cradles Mia. Mia tells Benjamin to save their people. Benjamin looks to Baskerville who taunts him.

Benjamin lays Mia down and promises to return as he rushes Baskerville. Knocking him back into some equipment. As Baskerville slashes with sword he begins to strike more and more of the strange equipment. The machinery begins to spark, flames erupt as more of it is destroyed. Baskerville strikes a cable, causing sparks to blind Benjamin.

Baskerville tries to flee, running up several flights of stairs as fire begins to engulf the building. Benjamin regains his sight and pursues Baskerville. The floor itself begins to crumble as the building falls apart. Benjamin backs Baskerville into a corner.

Baskerville goes to strike with his sword but the ground gives way beneath him. Baskerville’s sword falls into the flames. Benjamin reaches out and grabs Baskerville’s hand. Baskerville pleads for his life and despite his rage, Benjamin pulls him up.

Baskerville admits defeat but as Benjamin turns he pulls another dagger from his sleeve. Much like he did with the Emperor he goes to strike down Benjamin. Unfortunately Benjamin sees this coming and dodges the attack, causing Baskerville to stumble and fall through the crumbling floor into the inferno below.

Benjamin hurries downstairs and retrieves the still conscious Mia, rushing her outside. As the facility burns the chimera begin to fall dead. Mia and Benjamin embrace as the sun begins to set. (Setting Sun).

Mia tells Benjamin that whatever comes next will need him. The empire will fall and the people will rebuild. Mia asks Benjamin to help Zelina, that her mother deserves to know what happened. Benjamin says he can’t lose anyone else, he doesn’t know if he can go on.

Mia smiles and says she knows he can. That he needs to. For her. Because tomorrow the sun is going to rise on a new world. They kiss one final time as the sun sets.

The curtains close.

“Thank you everyone! Can we get a round of applause please?” The curtain opens to reveal the entire cast.  “ Emperor Augustus - Sorin Nightingale,  Queen Zelina - Alabaster Brahms,  Princess Mia - Lye Marigold,  Commander Baskerville - Rudolph Donnerov, Benjamin - Amias Zelly,  Village Elder - Shin Goodfellow!”

“Have a good night everyone!”

[murdochmysteriesimagines]

The Rose of Texas

Request: Female S/O and George writing love letters to each other please.

A/N: What was asked of me and what I provided are completely different. I had an idea and it snowballed into a product not only longer than intended but something I plan to work on further. In the end I wrote something that I wanted to write. I hope you enjoy it.

__________________________________________

12/02/1910

My Sweetest George

I assume its too late to say Merry Christmas while I’m writing to you, no doubt when you finally receive it. If it manages to get through whatever blockade is set up for the Red Cross Couriers. I should have written to you when I first departed. That night I left it felt like I hadn’t said enough to you, now I can barely think of any words that could explain the world I find myself in.  But like you say George, its best to start from the beginning. What I ask myself is what is the true beginning of this? I suppose your start would be me sneaking off in the middle of the night. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I said to you that evening, or to be more accurate, to say what I yelled at you in blind anger. All the trouble I’m going through seems to be an appropriate punishment for my sins, but I still feel guilty for it. I guess I’m not as heartless as you think. Kidding aside I am truly sorry for what I said about you George, you are one of the best men I know. No man I’ve met can hold a candle to you, such a man does not deserve to be branded a coward because he refuses to follow every whim I have like a trained dog. Regardless of what you believe me to be, just know I deeply regret what I said to you. I love you George, do not ever think otherwise.

To most Canadians this ugly situation would have officially started back in ‘01’, when McKinley was shot dead and our beloved Roosevelt ascended to the Oval office, to the rank of self-appointed King. Another Caesar stabbed in the senate house with an opportunistic Augustus looking to forge his throne from the blood of the opposition. For every Pure Food and Drug Act making headlines, there was a coal miners strike repressed by federal troops. For every shining railroad built off the labour of the Southern states in his so-called relief camps, political opponents arrested and shipped out west. Corruption in the government pulled out like a weed and replaced with a loyal lap dog. Any man could see Roosevelt moved against anyone who dare opposed him with a vengeance, quickly and decisively. The press would say it was all in the name of stability and security; those journalists untouched by the Bears Claws at the cost of singing him endless praise and justifying every sin they could not cover up. The press in Canada more than happy to parrot their kin who looked up to the ever kind, ever present presidential king. How many truly knew the light of democracy that all sources held on the highest pedestal was being snuffed out. Fuel to the flame being cut by a tyrant who would stop at nothing to consolidate power around himself. Roosevelt’s party switch in the ‘04’ election should have been the wake-up call to the world, yet most remained ignorant. From the Republicans to the newly founded Progressive Party of America. The medias favourite figurehead as the acting chair; old officials sent to replace the ‘corrupt’ surprisingly changing sides to the governing party. The ignorant sang their praise at the man, no longer was America a two-party country, surely liberty and prosperity would follow us into the new century. The naïve and unenlightened will maintain that rhetoric, those paid to believe that it was the ungrateful south that opposed our King who kindly kept us under the federal government’s thumb. I guess we should be grateful to Roosevelt George: he had generously allowed our suffering to continue rather than slaughter the disgruntled southern population entirely, although even his media sources would have a rough time justifying that atrocity.

To me George, this started all the way back in ‘65’ with the end of the civil war. I’ve heard the cries that we are nothing more than a second coming of the Confederacy, succession is the last thing on our minds George. Instead of state and property rights; our cause is against tyranny and for a liberation of our enslavement. Only Lincoln wanted to reintegrate the confederates into the union. When he died so did any hope of unification. They liberated the slaves only to create a new breed to replace what was lost. While the new states in the west would thrive, we were kept in limbo, we were added back to the boarder but treated like foreigners, a conquered population, an enemy. P.O.W’s were sent home branded as traitors, permanently disfigured, or not at all. Their labour was used to rebuild the country they supposedly destroyed. If they refused: beatings would be felt, if they persisted: executed. All vailed as righteous punishment for a war that was spouted to end such treatment. When the work force gradually trickled back to their impoverished states the federal government still needed bodies for their factories, to build their rails, roads, to work for starvation wages. They have been stealing our men since the war’s conclusion, leave it to the Bear to expand upon a profitable idea. The men before him content with only conscripting the innocent for a camp or costly war abroad.

I remember the stories Pa would tell me of his time in the labour camps, whips, a hot iron and chains placed onto the worst offending farmers and militia men, not one rich enough to own a slave. That fact still true when they passed reforms for meager wages to be paid after years of free imprisonment. He’ll never tell us the full story of how he made it back to Texas. Just whispers about riots and hard choices being made. You’ve seen photos of him back when I was a youngling. It’s hard to imagine that moustache wearing the skin of an old gray back bludgeoning a guard for his freedom. He wore the uniform so his sons and daughters could wear suits and dresses. That fantasy gave way to reality when the Bear took the office. We all know now that was the turning point, the final act calm before the storms return.

When that French self-proclaimed Marxist revolutionary tried to rob Roosevelt of his life outside the senate building last September, we all knew there would be no turning back. A final push for greater political power while he was still in the hospital; forced eradication of opposing political parties, arresting any figure suspected of discontent towards the Bear, tightening the reigns on labour camps; all in the name of security and stability. Just short of a throne and crown for the new set appointed Royal and his noblemen. That revolutionary expected to trigger an uprising of the workers of America. Perhaps the French immigrant will be disappointed he mistook the civil discontent for an overthrow of the upper class. Maybe he’s in such a state with the provider answers given to him from outside that cell, upset that the only revolution to come is for the fate of our democracy rather than his ideology.

They call us Confederates, slaver, traitors: we are no such thing George. We didn’t betray the constitution, our foundations of the Republic. Our police forces haven’t arrested innocent diplomats and citizens for imagined crimes. The re-emerging National Unity Party did not crown a king. The Federalists fight for the Progressive Party and their oligarchies own interests. The Union States Of America fight for a greater purpose than self improvement; we fight for our republic, our constitution, our freedom. That is why I went home George, to save my country, not destroy it. The territory of an old enemy along with states tired of Washington’s rule now harbor the government they once opposed.

When we departed from Toronto, I expected the worst, years of training and work in hospitals as a nurse has filled my mind with standards for the dead and injured. All were surpassed when we arrived. Medical tents filled with victims of the Bull Run offensive executed by the federalist along the Virginian boarder. Such audacity does not surprise me: expecting us to falter at a single push into the Tennessee mountain ranges and entrenched divisions. Their hastily assembled army under Pershing has failed to end this war in the one fell swoop that the Bear has promised. As the winter snows began to set in November, we all knew this would be another long war.

However, we are determined to fight until our flag flies over Washington. The problems of the old war are gone. Allies from South America and Europe not blinded by the Tyrants propaganda rally behind us, bringing with them the newest toys of war. Self loading rifles from Mexico, artillery and generals from Germany, raw materials from Chile; manpower from all. I’m curious if it was more surprised to hear the Kaiser’s finest were getting involved rather than the United States got caught in another war. The old guards of Europe stay neutral for the time, I doubt the British will stand idle if an ally to the Germans were to set up south of their biggest dominion, not while world tensions are on the rise. I pray that this war stays contained to a single country. Perhaps with some luck the Germans, Unionists and British can unite against the tyrants of the North.

It must have been a field day for the parliament and press when the German Kaiserliche Marine flying the new flag of free America appeared off the eastern coastline. We don’t always get the best information of their front, rumours of skirmishes between the two fleets at best. It’s ironic: after the Spanish American war the federalist tried to bring their armada into the modern age. Their expensive steel monsters laying at the bottom of the Atlantic or under siege in harbour to another European power; neutralized, useless. Unable to halt the merchants and never-ending convoys bringing supplies into the bastion of freedom that will be their undoing. The southern men they conscripted as canon fodder returning home with knowledge of war. Liberated slave labour taught the craft of large-scale production under the threat of death now building our infrastructure from the rubble it was left in. All in due time George, we will rebuild our homes into a flourish state.

The war was quiet for most of December; everyone was busy drawing lines on maps to lay claim to whatever they could get their hands on. When the dead and wounded came down to what the regulars call “acceptable levels”, the medical staff finally got some rest. I got word from my older brother; he’s been stationed in loyal Missouri as a mechanic. Apparently, he learned a few more tricks with a wrench while interned in Wisconsin last year. He’s still not pleased I moved up to Canada, it’s not my fault there was no work in Texas. He’s a stubborn man, stuck in his own mind most of the time. He really is a spitting image of my Ma at times.

He did tell me something wonderful. Since the actual constitution was re-enacted after our schism the original voting laws have been put in place. Any citizen who owns property has a formal vote in government affairs. My brother wrote to me and informed me that after I left Pa added my name to the family homestead. I was able to vote George; man or woman, gender and race made irrelevant in a single move. Now I know they say a man’s vote is his own business, but I won’t pretend I’m not pleased with President Wilson being sworn in as the true leader American republic. God willing, he’ll be able to see us through these trying times.

In more personal news George, I have an update. I received a promotion of sorts, although I’m sure you would have a less glamorous title for it. Back in January our medical unit got assigned to the 12th Union Division near the Missouri, Illinois boarder. We were near the front providing what we could to soldiers on rotation to reserves when our dressing station was attacked by the federalists. Apparently, they exploited a breach the line and rushed into gain land. We were doctors and nurses being targeted, fresh faced recruits and wounded apparently a grave threat.

Pa always said I had the best shot in the family, hunting rabbits in my youth to avoid starvation has paid off. I managed to organize what soldiers remained and we held the federalists off, long enough for the reserves to come in. I’ll spare you the details George, but shooting an animal isn’t much different than a man. Not here at least.

We managed to push them back to the starting line of trenches before they gave up. In the heat of the moment no one noticed or cared about a nurse with a rifle and ammo pouch along side them. It came to a marksman battle between the two trenches cut short by an artillery barrage. When the explosions and flying dirt came back down to earth the Boots finally noticed the out of place skirt.

I received a medal for my work. “For outstanding bravery in service of the American Republic, her citizens or sons of war in the daunting presence of the enemy.” Words inscribed on the back of a silver wolves head now pinned to my new uniform. The same animal that occupies our flag. The red and white stripes guarded by a ferocious beast.

I expected to be chewed out for stepping out of line. Instead, punishment gave way to practicality and I was given the ability to be more than a subject for propaganda.  I agreed to become a Lance Corporal for the first company in the division. A hybrid of marksman and field medic, whatever the situation calls for. I’m happy to serve my country however I can, even if the task has become more deadly. I will answer the call, even if I maybe one of the only woman on the battlefield of this war. I know I still have to earn the respect of the men around me, citizen soldier or foreign volunteer. I know I can rise to the challenge George. I know I can prove myself to be a model soldier, perhaps an officer if I get lucky. I know I can be the strong woman you believe in. I know that together our united effort from around the globe can crush the tyrants of the North.

I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I’ve sin to you George. I want nothing more than to be back by your side. To be held in your arms that seem to protect me from the horrors of the world. We might be in for a lengthy war, but I have eternal confidence, our armies, our allies, our mission for freedom for all Americans; not just those in the Bears preferred party. Our armies will march north until we reach the Canadian boarder, crushing all resistance in our path. Then George, perhaps we can be together once again.

Lance Corporal y/n Crabtree.

[starswornoaths]

A Promise Made, A Promise Kept (1/3)

With Nidhogg slain, all that stands between Aymeric and fulfilling his promise is to finally, at long last, have a treaty firmly in place between Ishgard and Dravania, to officially end the Dragonsong War.

So naturally, this is the worst part of their slow burn and I’m sorry.

Word Count: 3,381

While the conclusion of the Dragonsong War was a great relief — to Aymeric, and to his people — the Lord Commander still found himself fighting a seemingly endless battle. Though the horde that yet besieged him had now taken the form of a mountain of documents to sign until his hand went numb rather than Dravanians raining fire upon him, though whether it was an improvement for him personally was still...debatable. 

So many were of little consequence that a small, petty part of him wanted to just toss them in the fire and be done with it all. He refrained, though only just. Until the treaty between Dravania and Ishgard was signed and officiated, every document that crossed his desk demanded his full attention, more than ever; one slip up, and the whole thing could come crashing down around them, and every drop of blood, sweat, and tears that he and his had poured into this effort would be wasted. 

Perhaps it was because of that need for precision for so many things at once, all mundane and dull after such an explosive conclusion to the war itself, but his nerves felt singed at the edges, and he found his concentration slipping by the time he’d signed off on what must have been the hundredth document to pass his desk that day alone. Forcing his hand to remember how to let go of the pen he’d been holding practically since his feet hit the ground that morning, he tried to stretch his hand out, wincing at the creaking and popping in his knuckles. 

Aymeric took a moment to study his hand, shaking and sore. His mind began to wander— and just for a moment, he was inclined to let it. Unsurprisingly, it made a mad dash for the Steps of Faith, to watching Serella march toward the dread wyrm, march toward the chaos his own men had been made to retreat from. He felt guilt begin to gnaw at his gut anew. Regardless of his own want for otherwise, once more Serella was forced to champion the fight for his nation without him. 

While she had certainly not done it alone — her brother, as well as a select few close companions of hers had been by her side — she had still fought on behalf of a nation that, at the eleventh hour, had ultimately left their fate — and their burdens — in her care. And she had shouldered it gracefully, not saying a word of complaint for the onslaught they endured, not even to him in the stillness after the fighting, not even when he had gone to check on her as she was being treated for her wounds, grievous as some of them had been.

Not even when he could not fully surrender to her kiss. Not even when she had fallen asleep in his bed. Not even when she had asked him to stay.

All it took was the memory of her dedication for him to pick up his pen again. He ignored the protests of his fingers, aching and uncooperative as they were; Ishgard’s new republic had to be worthy of such selflessness — he had to be worthy of it. And of her.

Else his promise would mean nothing.

When he leaned forward to write he felt Serella’s hairpin shift in its box, safely tucked into the front of his jacket. He had been meaning to give to her since its restoration, but had simply not had the opportunity. Unsurprising, truly; between his administrative duties and her running between Ishgard and Dravania besides, it was little wonder they had seen neither hide nor hair of one another since the night she had fallen asleep in his bed.

A sharp knock came at the door, and Aymeric could not stop himself feeling dismayed — surely there could not be more things to attend do already? But he straightened just in time to see the door swing slightly open, just enough for a comfortingly familiar figure to slip in and shut the door behind her. What trepidation he might have felt vanished.

With a smile, he set his pen down again and met her gaze, though only barely managed to stop from flinching at the ache in his bones. Words with which to greet her seemed empty—  they were well beyond them.

“Figured I’d check in, see how you’re getting on.” The Paladin explained, as if she ever needed to, and glanced down at his desk. “And...evidently you’re rather busy.”

“Please,” he waved the hand still capable of feeling and smiled. “I am merely signing documents— though admittedly, I have yet to see an end to them.”

“And I have yet to see an ilm of your desk.” Serella said, finally looking up from the piles of parchment surrounding him. She asked in a quieter voice, “Have you had even a moment to breathe?” 

“I will breathe— and breathe easier, once the treaty has been signed and chronicled within the Vault. There has been much work to do.” Aymeric instead replied. “And there is much more yet to be done. I am fine.”

Serella hummed, unconvinced.

He ignored the way she studied him thoughtfully in favor of rallying his attention back to the numerous papers strewn about his desk— though whether he could recall where he had left off at that point was, at best, debatable. A twinge in his hand made him wince, and he fought the urge to huff. Perhaps he did need a moment. Only ever one, if he allowed himself at all.

“May I see your hand?” She asked softly, holding her own out. "You’re holding it strangely."

“I am fine—” he repeated, even as he looked up and placed his hand in her palm, though the moment she used her other hand to gently flex his fingers to fully stretch and straighten them, he could not bite back the undignified “argh,” that sprang up from the sharp, tingling of his muscles protesting at her attentions.

“Oh, aye.” Serella said flatly. “Sounds ‘fine,’ alright.”

She did not stop him from taking his hand back, though he barely stopped himself from grumbling.

“I will be fine, then.” Aymeric groused, though only barely hid a wince at the ache in his fingers returning with a vengeance.

Though she said nothing long enough for him to look over another draft of another variation of the creed of the House of Lords, he felt her concerned stare burning the top of his head.

“I think you should step away from your desk, Ser Aymeric.” Serella finally said liltingly.

When he looked up at her again, she had a playful smile tugging at her lips. The way her eyes glittered in mirth almost made him simply take her hand and go wherever she led him, but he reminded himself that such a flight of fancy was unbecoming with all that was left to do. Such thoughts did little to quell his want, however.

“Would that I could—“ He began to protest glumly.

“You must!” She reached over again and threaded her fingers with his with a laugh. “There’s still a very important part of the ceremony you've been neglecting!”

“Have I?” Aymeric asked, his voice only just level enough to hide the panic now spearing sharply through his chest.

“You have.” Serella said with a firm nod. “‘Tis precisely what I’m here for, my lord!”

He rose from his seat at her gentle prodding— though fear bade he stand abruptly enough for his chair to skitter away from him loudly across the stone.

“And what is it that I have forgotten?” He asked her, hoping it came across as playful rather than petrified.

“Nothing that can’t be easily remedied,” she reassured him, leading him by the hand from around his desk and to the lift.

He only hoped it was something as easily fixed as she claimed it to be. Because if he ruined this…he ruined everything. For Ishgard, for Dravania, for everyone.

The anxiousness that had begun to tear at his stomach eased into curious confusion when she led him outside of the Congregation, up the steps through the Pillars, past the Arc of the Venerable, and to the airship landing—where a familiar dragon had perched himself just beyond the gate, idly dozing.

“Midgardsormr?” Aymeric addressed him with no small amount of surprise.

The Father of Dragons lazily lifted his head and let out a snort. 

“At least one child of man deigns address me by name.” He turned his head just enough to shoot a withering look at the Warrior of Light. “Mine true name.”

“I’m still not sorry for calling you ‘Midadsormr,’ if that’s what you’re getting at.” Serella said flatly.

“I have endured such outrage from thee for only a brief while.” He complained with a toss of his head. “But it hath felt an eternity.”

She scrunched her nose at him.

Aymeric faintly wondered whether the Dragonsong War would resume if he started laughing, so he covered his chuckle with a cough behind his hand.

“Forgive me, Midgardsormr,” he said diplomatically, and smoothed the front of his coat. “Serella has brought me to you but I confess, I am at a loss as to why.”

Though he did notice that the saddle that he had been wearing, along with an extra traveling pack, were nowhere to be seen, he remained silent, unsure of what Dravanian etiquette dictated was appropriate to speak of in regards to one’s state of undress, as it were.

“That is of no surprise,” the wyrm said blithely. His wings flexed outward as if to stretch out for a moment before letting them fall back to rest. “Ever hath she had a proclivity for such enthused prodding whilst milling about in her mystery.”

“I learned from the best.” Serella said, unaffected as she stepped toward Midgardsormr and gave him an affectionate pat at the base of his neck. “Anyroad,” she turned to Aymeric with a broad smile. “Come on, then. Time we practiced your balance on dragon back.”

“Now?” Aymeric asked, unable to hide his surprise. “But I—“

“You’re in the middle of preparing for the treaty ceremony, right?” She asked patiently. He nodded. “Then this is still a part of that, isn’t it?”

“‘Tis true, I suppose.” He conceded slowly, his gaze drifting over to the platform of the airship landing, out to the sweeping skyline beyond.

The rush of liberating adrenaline when he rode on dragon back in Sohr Kai had punctuated a newly awakened wanderlust that had stirred in him while in the Churning Mists— a feeling he had done his level best to tamp down upon. Now that he to take wing again, as it were, he felt its ache all the more keenly in his heart. He shuffled his weight between his feet, unaccustomed to the feeling. 

Despite his best efforts, he could feel his resolve waver.

“I know you’re reluctant to step away,” Serella spoke up softly when he had not replied. “But this is just as important as that mountain of paperwork back at your desk.” She paused, lowering her gaze to his collar, to the silver wyrm that coiled loosely around his shoulders. “More than, in my opinion. We have to make sure you’re safe to fly with Vidofnir at the ceremony." She peered up at him through her lashes. "Your safety is more important to me.”

“Than the ceremony?”

“Than most things, to be frank.” She quietly admitted with a wry twist of her lips. “But for the sake of argument: more important than all that paperwork you can get back to in a little while. So!” She paused for a moment before holding out her open palm with a grin. “Up for an adventure, Lord Commander?”

“With you, Mistress Arcbane?” He asked with a playful lilt, robbed of his stoicism by the crook of her smile. He felt his face warm, but he smiled as he stepped forward and took her outstretched hand in his. “I would go anywhere.” When their hands aligned, he turned them that he might lay his other atop hers, beseeching her in all but words for the things he dare not ask of her just yet. “Always.”

Though it was only a moment— only the one, as ever— where she seemed surprised by his declaration. Her smile bloomed as vibrant as any flower he had ever seen, and looked twice as soft and warm. That it was one of the more frigid days in recent memory did not matter in that moment: when he was with her, he remembered how spring used to feel.

She smiled as she gave his hand a squeeze. With a bright laugh, she showed him where it was safe to step in order to mount the dragon without causing pain or discomfort, how to sit so he would be balanced without impeding the movement of himself or Midgardsormr. Though he stumbled from inexperience he was a swift study, and mounted behind Serella in a motion that almost passed as fluid.

“Good, good,” Serella said with a thoughtful hum. “We’ll go back to that a bit later. Now, then.” She swept an arm toward Midgardsormr’s head. “You’ll notice there are neither reigns nor riding seat.”

“I did.” He replied. “I had wondered why.”

“Vidofnir won’t have them— and really, you’re not meant to steer her anywhere—it’s just the symbolism of the thing.” Serella must have realized he was about to ask her the necessity for training, were that the case, because she added, “but it’s symbolism a few hundred fulms above ground, so it’s better you know how to hold on without those to guide you.”

Somehow the height of it all never quite occurred to him.

“So for now, just follow my lead.” Serella said, already turning back to face forward. “You’ll have to lean against me for the next bit, but place your hands against Midgardsormr’s neck.”

“Against…?” He hoped she did not catch the way his voice broke.

“You know.” She gestured with a hand and a shrug of her shoulder. “Just reach past me— or put your arms through my arms, makes no difference to me. All I care about is you not falling.”

“A-ah.” He cleared his throat and sucked in a breath. Unsure of what to do with himself, he settled for placing his hands on the wyrm’s neck, leaning just close enough to Serella’s back to properly reach without touching. The second Midgardsormr moved, however, he let out a startled noise as he was pushed flush against the Paladin’s back. “—Right. Pardon me, then.” He said in her ear. 

He breathed a nervous laugh and settled his arms on either side of her.

Being pressed as he was against her back, he was reminded once more of the slim box in the front of his coat. Perhaps today would provide him with the opportunity to give it to her properly. He tried not to dwell on it— and what he meant to ask when he did present it to her. He subtly adjusted himself that the box would not press so hard against his chest from their position.

“Now, then. Launch is the second most nerve wracking part.”

“Second most? What is the worst part?” Aymeric asked.

“Landing!” Serella laughed. Midgardsormr walked toward the launching platform’s edge. She leaned forward, her hands framing the dragon’s spine. “Right then, Midgardsormr! No need to be fancy—just an easy takeoff from the ground!”

“As opposed to…?” Aymeric asked her hesitantly.

“Oh, I usually just let him leap first.” She commented idly. “Then he opens his wings. Eventually.”

“You wha—” He choked on his incredulity as Midgardsormr opened his wings and lifted off the ground.

As they took off from the airship landing, Aymeric decided that the delightful, swooping feeling of his stomach flying into his throat was a sensation that he was not familiar enough with. 

As he pressed his hands tighter against the base of the great wyrm’s neck he fought against the urge to look behind him at the rapidly disappearing streets and spires of the Pillars, knowing that this was meant to be educational. He lost all the same, and as he watched his home fade into the mists, shimmering and splendid, he decided it was a defeat he could certainly live with. 

Though the view in front of him, just over Serella’s shoulder, was even more splendid. With the howling aether below them and the crystal sky stretched beyond them, it looked as though there was no horizon for them to fly toward, save for the mountaintops and the trees he could spy through the thick mists that shrouded them. The wind lashed against his face and he could not help but grin broadly at the sense of freedom that came from being so far from reach. A freedom that he had not ever felt— and never wanted to stop feeling.

With the winds caught fully beneath Midgardsormr's wings, his speed slowed to a soft glide, slow enough that Aymeric could hear more than the wind howling in his ears.

“Will we be practicing the same path that I will take with Vidofnir?” Aymeric asked, leaning in to speak into Serella’s ear that he might be heard without shouting.

“Not quite,” Serella answered with a shake of her head. She turned her head to better speak to him. He felt his face flush for how close they were for the movement but he did not extricate himself. Seemingly unfazed by their nearness, she continued, “we’ll just circle the Holy See a few times, get you used to it— though...this isn’t the best way to train you, now that I’m thinking on it.”

“Is it not?” He asked in her ear.

“You’re not really learning on your own,” she answered, angling her torso to better face him. His flush deepened. “Not with me like this, anyroad.”

“Should we land again?” He offered— while he was unsure of what she meant, if she needed things to change, he would be happy to comply. 

“No,” Serella said with a shake of her head. “Last thing I want is you sneaking off.” 

“I would not—” he started to argue.

“I know the moment your feet touch Ishgardian stone, you’ll be back in your office diligently working your hand toward resembling a gnarled tree root before your fortieth summer.” She said wryly. “And barring that, someone will find some excuse or other to throw you in the nearest conference room for the next day and a half. Again.”

Though he pursed his lips, he found he could not contest the point.

“What needs adjusting, may I ask?” 

“You need to practice riding alone— but I’m just going to get in the way of that.” She said with a frown. “Even if we swapped places, you wouldn't be able to practice balancing on your own.” She clucked her tongue in self admonishment. “Wish I’d thought of it sooner, but it’s an easy enough fix.”

Aymeric watched, curious, and then enraptured at the way Serella pressed more firmly against him to swing her leg over to sit sideways. She wriggled in the space between his arms, though the mischievous glitter in her eyes made him wary of what she planned.

“What,” he asked, flustering as she scooted closer to him, “would you suggest we do to correct that?”

“Us? Nothing.” She paused a moment and frowned. “Well— not nothing. Move your arm a moment?” When she lightly tapped the arm directly in front of her, he did as she asked. “And, err...don’t panic?”

“Why would I panic?” Aymeric asked warily, watching with curiosity when she brought her fingers to her lips and whistled sharply. It rang in his ears and echoed in the vast nothing surrounding them.

“Because I’m going to jump.” Serella said as casually as she would discussing the weather. “And my bird will catch me.”

Something uncomfortable and dense and cold settled in the pit of his stomach. His shoulders tensed as he tried to call her bluff— for it had to be a bluff, “You jest—”

She was not bluffing, he realized a few seconds too late, as she leapt.

Part 2

[miscellanasaurus]

The next phase in mha society

While i`ve already mentioned this in my previous post looking back on it i don`t think i delved deep enough into the issue facing MHA Society ,especially since i had to cut a chunk out after seeing just how huge my post was including a rather neat post on the Quirk Liberation Army, and that if i didn't build upon my theory then i`d be doing Horikoshi a disservice so without further ado lets delve straight into the topic.

The fist drastic change we see in MHA come`s from the Hero Killer Himself 

This walking embodiment of a anti hero believes that hero culture has become over-saturated with false heroes ,those undeserving of the title, through their own selfish reasons and as such starts culling those he deem`s unworthy those who become hero`s for fame or money, i would delve deeper into this but this isn't a stain analysis though i`l probably do one in the future.

Here Gran Torino compares stain to All Might as a man with strong conviction`s Someone who strives to be the change within society, much as all might did,    And who posses the same kind of charisma that the former number 1 hero possesses. acting as a magnet to villain`s or potential Villain`s working as a foil to All Might. And this is proven true by spinner who is supposed to reflect the everyday in society a man who had no drive and who`s words spoke to him.

It`s this quirk-ism that has been a recurring theme throughout the manga. First with Shinsou who was discriminated due to his quirk being "Villainous in nature" it was this Quirkism that was slowly dragging him down a path of villainy as shown by the way he manipulated people,not just through his quirk but emotionally as well.

Or how about the blatant Quirk Racism concerning Gang Orca? a man who was voted as #3 in Hero`s who look like villains ,it`s not as if he even mentions it showing that this Quirkism is normal and even excepted in this society.

in theory it`s an endless loop the constant discrimination for their quirk`s lead them to a life of crime reaffirming society`s biases causing them to discriminate against them and leading them to a life of crime.So I could see how the ideal`s of a man who wishes to change the society that discriminates against people due to things inherently out of their control to be appealing and by extension of that the league as seen when Re-Destro says.

From the stain arc and straight onto the Training camp arc

Here Dabi mentions that the fact that U.A can`t stop these attacks and have a student kidnapped.will just reaffirm stain`s message of false hero`s after all at this point in the time line All Might is still the #1 hero so society would question why he couldn`t stop this from happening.it wouldn't matter if he couldn't at this point All Might is not only the symbol of peace but the very image of a hero.       In fact this panel summaries`s the effect both this event and stain had.

“Yeah but still...i`m sure all might can pull it off in the end” This quote speaks volume`s as it show`s that society is starting to doubt all might after all he`s no longer in his prime and as such his heroic activity has been dwindling especially since he has to keep up this persona around his student`s while only having a hour in the first place. All Might is the pillar of society so in a sense his wavering is also metaphorical as he weakens so does society.

After this we move towards all might's retirement.

It`s this forced retirement that ,while temporarily, rally`s society together  until it realises the aftermath of  losing the #1 hero and pillar of said society.

It`s here we see how All Might`s retirement has not only affected hero society but villain society as well with low level criminals not only committing crime`s in broad daylight but teaming up ,something rarely seen shown by their ambush of the pirate hero, showing that villains have become more confident since the fall of the number 1 hero with society`s reliance on hero`s backfiring as the heroes`s are no longer enough to keep the peace this also reinforces stains belief into people of false heroes`s monopolizing the profession not being able to stop  simple street crime let alone anything on the scale of Kamino Ward.

From the Retirement of All Might to the Rise of endevour , it`s this event that returns society to the status quo as endevour mimics All Mights iconic pose albeit a mirror image a rather accurate visual metaphor of the new number one hero. Both Endevour and Shoto`s development revolve`s around overcoming each others past with  Endevour trying to make up for his past by reconnecting with shoto so in Shonen fashion it`s not a stretch to believe that society won`t fully except endevour until shoto come`s to terms with his father in a metaphorical sense.

And i`ts with this final event that we move into what i predict will be the next phase in hero society .

It seem`s that the 100K in book sales is a reference to the 116516 members of the MLA soldiers ,which to be fair could simply mean those devoted to the cause, and it`s in this one panel that show`s the current state of society.

If the hero`s who follow Quirk restriction laws couldn’t stop the league but a political facet who seek`s to unregulate them could leaves only that conclusion, that removing quirk regulations`s is what`s needed in modern society.            after all the villains will use their quirks whenever they want by restricting them your bringing unnecessary harm.

My personal headcannon is that this arc will reveal the truth behind stain and his back ally brawl with Shoto, Izuku and Tenya after all they broke the law by engaging with him and what better way to convince society that quirks need to be unregulated then by showing how by breaking these law`s these three saved countless hero`s from death, perhaps even bringing in an era of vigilante`s a subversive take on the effect of stain on society and his will being truly carried out by self sacrificing individuals. Those not in it for money but to make the world a better place. chapter 224 should hopefully confirm my theory.

Quick Note

Yes i did copy the previous paragraph from my 223 review however i was so happy with the way it came out that i couldn't just delete it. I`ll be making a post on the Meta Liberation Army as i haven`t been focusing to much on them either. Also i just wanna say thanks for all the love on my post`s it means a lot .

[saiyanhajime]

DBS: Broly - Review

I was excited to see “Dragon Ball Super: Broly”, obviously… It’s Dragon Ball! But I wasn’t expecting to be as blown away by it as I have been, to fall in love with it. For me, Dragon Ball has always been more about the fandom than the official media. When I first formed a love for the franchise, it was elusive and unattainable, so I had to get my kicks elsewhere.

I think DBS Broly might be my favourite piece of DB media, ever. It’s everything I ever wanted and everything I didn’t realise I needed from this franchise. I haven’t loved a piece of media like this in a long, loooong time.

Worth noting that, at the time of writing, I have only seen the English dub. I’ll wait for home release to see the subtitled Japanese audio version as I struggle to keep up with text and visuals at the same time!

The Cinema Experience

My first viewing was a small, packed screen on opening night here in the UK. The audience seemed to be mostly around 25-30 year olds, almost entirely fellow guys (my friend was one of maybe 5 women - seriously, where are you all??). But the ethnic diversity of Dragon Ball’s audience is something most movies could only dream of attracting. It was a great time, with people audibly laughing out loud and clapping at the end. The movie is genuinely so brilliantly funny, a surprise in itself.

My second viewing, the following night, alone, was a larger screening. Roughly the same audience demographics, but this time, the audience erupted into cheering with each transformation… It was so fucking incredible to be a part of. I was grinning the entire time. It’s hard to overstate just how important the social aspect of enjoying this movie in the cinema was.

It’s incredible to finally be living Dragon Ball “up to date” like this and the excitement shows.

Spoilers incoming...

Story Isn’t King

That's coming from someone who has always wished for more depth to DB, but what I've realised recently is that the level of storytelling the community plugs into this franchise is not something that belongs in the official media. We do it better, because we do it free of constraints the official releases require to be Dragon Ball, that it requires to be so widely popular. The official text is a framework, not a rulebook. I think one of the things that contributes to Dragon Ball’s insane popularity and ability to speak to so many people in so many cultures is how vague it can be. The snippets of depth are there for us to draw our own conclusions. DB doesn’t need canon absolutes in backstory.

Overall, I prefer the old “Bardock - The Father of Goku” telling of the prequel events that set up the Broly movie, though man it's been an age since I saw that. I wonder how much of my preference is just nostalgia? How much is knowing that Bardock: Father of Goku wasn’t “canon”, and so didn’t really matter? That is liberating. Now Dragon Ball Minus and DBS: Broly seem to demand that this is the way it actually happened with no room for headcanon and I feel a little turned off. There is plenty to like with this retelling. Gine is a delight, more of the saiyan homeworld is welcomed and just look at small details like Bardock actually moving his tail in this scene rather than it constantly being wrapped around their waists ready for combat. Ideally, I would like a perfect blend of the best elements from both tellings. And ya know what? That's the beauty of fandom... I can have that.

It is so obvious that huge chunks of story are missing here, yet it already drags for me a little... I’m not sure what the solution is, really. I’ve seen people suggesting it should have been two movies, but I’m not sure I agree.

Once the movie skips forward to present day, the storytelling revolving around the discovery of Broly, Paragus and their recruiting into the Freeza force is entertaining and I’m way more invested. So maybe it is just apathy for a prequel story retold a slightly different way…

But when the insane 30-40 minute non-stop action starts in the latter half, that’s when the movie comes into its own for me. This is Dragon Ball.

Overall, the narrative does something new for the series. It sets up, foreshadows and references back in a more conventional pattern than ever before. It feels, I dunno. It feels… Westernised? It feels, both narratively and in overall quality, more like a movie and not just a tacked on side-story. There’s no unnecessary inclusion of side characters irrelevant to the plot making cameos. Everyone is here for a reason.

Character Personalities

The characters behave like themselves again, and not just through exposition dumping monologues the series is famous for, but through visual storytelling! There is so much not said, so much told through the fight, through their expressions and movements.

From the moment Vegeta’s playful spar with Goku ends at Bulma’s vacation house, you get a very different Vegeta to the one we’ve seen through Super. His turn to listen to Goku and Whis's conversation is full of character. He's so on edge about something. And proceeds to tell us why with a humorous but genuinely livid jab at Goku for wishing Freeza back to life. Vegeta is worried. In the scene where Bulma is reviewing the CCTV footage of the Dragon Ball theft, Vegeta double takes and glares at Goku when it becomes obvious the thieves are Freeza’s men. They say nothing. It’s all character acting. It tells us so much.

Vegeta's anxiety continues on, affecting his fight with Broly… He barely has a chance to enjoy the fight at all. We get so little cocky Vegeta enjoying a battle and instead a very serious Vegeta who feels the need to to end this threat right now. What I take from all this is an example of quality character development - instead of Vegeta simply becoming more friendly, his personality that we all love is still there, but his morals have changed. His entertainment isn’t as important as protecting his family. And having witnessed Goku’ recklessly endanger their friends and families in throughout DB Super, Vegeta is not prepared to take any chances here, attempting to deliver a finishing blow very early on.

And Goku, who’s characterisation in Super felt so utterly insulting at times, is back on form here. His idiotic moments don’t feel so absurdly stupid that they’re unbelievable, but instead come across as cute and heartwarming. Moments like his talk with Broly mid fight, with Piccolo when he’s lying on the ground battered and bruised and when he’s simply watching Broly transform into a super saiyan for the first time convey Goku’s ability to be serious and regretful. It was so refreshing to see Goku back on form. The first half of his fight with Broly is incredible - going from excitement, to confidence that he could talk Broly round, to being put firmly in his place, on the ground. People who criticise the series for having no stakes fail to understand that the stakes are truly nestled in the characters personalities and their pride. The stakes are whether they will be able to overcome their flaws, both metaphorically through transformations, and literally.

Voice Acting (Dub)

Whilst on the subject of the characters, the voice acting is unbelievably good… Chris Ayres as Freeza steals the show, but the others are brilliant also.The line delivery is one thing, the ability to so brilliantly match that to the mouth flaps another, but the writing for a Western, English speaking audience is just superb. I cannot wait to see what differs in the original Japanese - I’ve heard that Freeza’s “Hello Monkeys!” line was a dub change from “Greetings!” for example, which in my opinion is so appropriate and elicits an uncomfortable, awkward laugh from the aforementioned ethnically diverse audience in the west in a such good way. Freeza as a tyrannical, racist, piece of shit, is an important character trait to a Western audience. The jokes that ride on line delivery alone are so numerous - one personal highlight for me is Whis’ ever-so-gay coded “Oh my…” when Gogeta bursts in. Took the words right out of my mouth, Whis. The voice acting is on a whole different level to anything before now from the American team. The scene I’ve already mentioned where Goku is contacted by Piccolo, Schemmel really sells the pain Goku’s in. And lets not forget Broly himself, played by Vic Mignogna, whose line delivery really conveys him as this Tarzan-like character in his sane scenes… But really shines in moments of mania when he’s flailing, yelling, crying as a cornered, manic, rabid ape who cannot control his emotions or immense strength. The scene where he’s just making noises at Goku, copying his fighting stance before he launches at him - wow. Even new side characters like Lemo have an outstanding quality to their voice acting that blows any previous English speaking Dragon Ball performance so far out of the water it’s insane.

Broly

Having a Dragon Ball story focus on so many characters who aren’t Goku is refreshing for a franchise that’s been so heavily criticised for being The Goku Show… For years we’ve wanted to see other characters step into the limelight. I still haven’t forgiven the last movie, Resurrection F, for stealing the win out from under Vegeta.

Vegeta still doesn’t get the long awaited limelight here… But this “new” saiyan, Broly, is something rather special. I wasn’t a fan of the original Broly. Loved the idea, but never liked the execution. His visual design I found personally off-putting, but more importantly it failed to convey his character very well. He looked so prestigious?  And the idea of being so affected by Goku crying as a baby next to him, that it sent him into uncontrollable rage whenever he heard the same “Kakarot” is so laughably stupid. I’m glad that’s not here.

The cool concept of the legendary super saiyan, though... I think most people dig that. Here that’s kind of gone too - but the idea of a freakishly strong saiyan from birth who is the embodiment of their animalistic heritage and rage-induced potential is beautifully executed. The great ape form, or rather Broly having found a way of accessing that power without transforming, is referenced more than once throughout the story. There’s this sense that the way Goku and Vegeta have learnt to control themselves has perhaps potentially hindered them. That maybe the ultra-instinct forms Whis has foreshadowed for so long is related, or could be used to tap into the natural potential of saiyans. Huh.

With a visually pleasing design to boot, Broly is absolutely awesome as the star in his own movie as a tragic menace. So much is done to sell this as Broly’s movie, from his sheer amount of screen time and characterisation in both his placid and manic states, to that awesome first person perspective part of his fight - incredible.

Animation and Aesthetics

You don’t need me to tell you this film looks gorgeous and I’ve already mentioned some scenes where the characters convey so much through movement alone. This looks like Dragon Ball never has. It feels nostalgic, but refreshing. It’s stylistically so unique and fluid and choreographed and magical. Impacts hit with such full-force conviction, the characters gracefully zooming around each other in dueling harmony, the electrifying ki beams piercing through the bleak environments with their vibrant colour and form. For once you really believe just how powerful and fast these superhumans are… Perhaps one of the reasons why the first half of the film is so much weaker for me is simply because there's less of this beautiful action. But the entire film is steeped in impressively bold and emotive colour pallets that sell the mood of each location so well.

But there’s a great big elephant in the room… The cgi.

It would seem I have a different opinion to most on this subject. I don’t mind the environmental cgi, but the character animation is jarring and I hate it. It is a blemish on an otherwise gorgeous piece of art. Now, I’m really funny about “bad” cgi. I also don’t know dick about animation. I just know when something looks really, really wrong. It’s as if the cgi characters have no squash and stretch applied that keeps them fluid. They’re stiff. There’s no elasticity, no umph. They move like someone just put strobe lights on. Their joints like that of action figures. I’ve seen so many people say it’s not bad or they even like these parts and I’m really glad it didn’t ruin it for most people, but my god does it ruin those scenes for me. Just look at the awkward mouth flaps and dead eyes, especially on Goky, in the Kamehameha/Galick Gun combo scene. Yuck.

Soundtrack

I love the score.

Before I saw the movie, I heard a lot of people talking about the chanting and how weird it was - but the second it started my first thought was how much it reminded me of Akira. And yeah, it’s kinda weird. And I love it. It hypes up this epic match and I don’t find it cheesy at all. I love it both in context and even when listened to in isolation.

The entire score is all over the place yet manages to feel whole as it attempts, and succeeds, to convey the atmosphere and emotion of each location, narrative beat and every swing of a fist or blast of ki. The only track I’m not keen on is the rendition of Chala Head Chala. I think it’s a pretty pants rendition of the song and is immensely distracting in an otherwise moving soundtrack. The movie totally needs a rendition of Head Chala right there, but not this rendition. I just don’t like it. The weird boingy sound is awful.

Final Thoughts

The success of Dragon Ball Super: Broly, especially in the west, is a joyful reminder what this 30 year old franchise means to so many people. Very few non-fans are going to have set foot in a cinema to see this movie, and yet the current total earnings at the time of writing on January 29th 2019 is $98,584,176 according to Box Office Mojo.

That is truly insane.

It feels like this movie was made especially for me and for that I am eternally grateful. Speaking to fellow fans and reading their reviews, it’s so clear that everyone has different things to love about this movie. There’s so much content here for every fan to find something they love. I cannot wait to get hold of a home release and I cannot wait to see what’s to come, ho-ly shit! What a time to be a Dragon Ball fan.

[ilianquisition]

    It wasn’t so unusual for people to react… poorly to an inquisitor’s presence; Curran was plenty used to it. And an entire town of cultists? They’d be crazy to not give him some distance. Not that Curran himself was going to take any action–the whole experience seemed to have scared them out of whatever questionable practices they’d been up to. Getting turned into living books for a few weeks was probably punishment enough; he’d just have to collect enough information to report back to the Church.

    Which meant returning to Hethiwood once again. The Prince and his pals all return to the Halidom, after a bit of persuasion--Curran insists that they’ve done enough, that he really just needs to handle the red tape part of the job now. Heinwald is still… well, Ilia only knows what he’s doing in that damn library. 

    And then there’s Lathna.

    He’d felt sorry for the kid when he thought she’d been too traumatized by the whole ordeal to so much as speak. The truth, it turned out, was much more alarming. Once everyone had filtered back into town, Lathna had very politely asked “Mister Curran” to walk her home, and--hey, those puppy eyes were too damn cute for him to say no to. Besides, maybe he could get a few answers to sate his own curiosity along the way: why Nyarlathotep had picked Lathna to impersonate--as opposed to any of the other children in town, at least. 

    His first assumption was convenience--it became evident fairly quickly that Lathna was an orphan, with no one in town coming to reunite with her once the spell had been broken the way many of the other families had. (Ouch. Talk about hitting home.) It probably would have been easier for Nyarlathotep to assume the guise of someone without many belongings or much of a family for Heinwald and Curran to properly investigate. 

    It didn’t take long for a wrench to be thrown into that conclusion.

    He only vaguely recognized Lathna’s home from when he and Hein had first scoured the town for clues: she opens the door, giving him a clear view of a simple little cottage, only one room, with the kitchen partitioned off from the bedroom by a folding screen. He found it hard to believe a child lived here, much less all on her own. It wasn’t until his second glance around the room that he noticed the bookshelf--and the glaring empty spot between densely packed novels.

    Ah, fuck. He remembers this place now. They’d been wandering around town for any clues they could find once they’d realized (the false) Lathna wasn’t going to be saying much, and had come up disappointingly short. A few odds and ends in the Church the priest that had been sent here established, but little of consequence... then they’d stumbled on this cottage. It seemed like yet another normal old house, if more modest than some, until Heinwald perused the bookshelf. This had been where they’d picked up that copy of the Liber Grimortis.

    Talk about a red flag. If only they’d known the house’s occupant sooner--it would have saved them a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it? But neither of them had suspected a child lived here; there was a pretty stark absence of toys, or anything else suited for a child Lathna’s age, for that matter. They hadn’t bothered to peruse the closet--the Grimortis was plenty for Heinwald at the time--but, fuck, that raised even more questions now--

    “...Mister Curran?” Lathna’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Did you hear me?”

    “Er--no, I didn’t. Sorry, kiddo, I’m kind of tired.” Does he sound hoarse, or is that just his imagination? 

    “It’s okay. I said thank you for bringing me home, and good night.” She punctuates the goodbye with a little curtsy, which, frankly, tugs on Curran’s heartstrings even despite the world-shaking realization he just came to.

    “Oh. Y-Yeah, of course. But, if it’s okay if I ask, are you gonna be alright staying on your own? What about food?” Leaving her doesn’t quite sit right with him. There’s no way she’s old enough to cook for herself, right?

    “Oh! Don’t worry, everyone in the village takes care of me!” She assures him with that little dreamy smile. “I’m not very hungry right now anyway, but someone will come with breakfast in the morning.”

    Funny, that did the exact opposite of reassure him, but what the hell is he supposed to say? “Ah... Alright. Well, you get some rest. You’ve had a pretty rough day. I’ll be around town for a few more days, so if you need anything, you can always come find me.” 

    Needless to say, he doesn’t sleep particularly well that night. Hethiwood’s one and only inn isn’t exactly top-of-its-class to begin with. Paired with the general horror of everything that had occurred that day, the stress, and the new questions bouncing around in his head, it didn’t make for a restful evening. But, hey, if he was going to take the high road, at least it meant he was able to get up bright and early to start wrapping up the investigation.

    So around town he goes, collecting whatever information he may need. Picks up the priest’s diary, takes a few accounts from the townsfolk whenever he can catch them before they conveniently have “something else” to do--that sort of thing. He keeps finding himself drifting back towards Lathna’s home throughout the day, checking to see if anyone has paid her a visit. Nobody. Not one, all day--he tries to dissuade his worries about the kid by telling himself he’s probably just checking at all the wrong times, that surely someone dropped in to make sure she didn’t starve--but he can’t even buy his own story. It’s not until sunset that he finally gives in and goes to check in on her, abandoning any pretense of believing anybody had paid her a visit all day.

    He has to restrain himself from practically pounding down the door. “Lathna? Hey, kiddo, are you still in there?”

    The response comes a few moments later when the door opens not to, say, an adult, but the same pale little girl he’d walked home a day ago. Except this time her face was a blotchy red and cheeks still damp with tears. It’s clear she tries to toughen up when she sees Curran, quickly wiping her face clean with her arm and tilting her chin upward in some attempt at feigning courage.

    “Lathna!” He quickly drops to a kneel to meet the girl at eye level. “Are you alright? What happened?”

    “N-Nothing.” She says quickly, sniffling away the remainder of the tears. “It--Nobody has--n-never mind, it’s nothing.”

    “...Are you sure? You can tell me the truth, you know.” Even if he’d already figured it out for himself.

    She avoids his gaze, staring instead at her own two feet as she shuffles back and forth. “I’m really hungry. Nobody has come to check on me all day.” 

    Yeah, he’d thought so. Now for the question he was dreading the answer to: “...Couldn’t you have gone to get somebody?”

    She shakes her head. “I’m not allowed to go out on my own.”

    The proverbial alarms were blaring in his mind. Just what the fuck kind of life was this kid leading?! He’s not sure how he’s maintaining a straight face right now, but it’s about all he can do to nod knowingly.

    “Well, we can’t have you going hungry, can we? How about I take you to get supper, then? That way you won’t be going out alone, right?”

    Lathna looks up at him, equal parts surprised and... alarmed? He can practically see her doing the mental math on whether or not that was acceptable, before--

    “Okay.”

*

    In a town of barely 200, the options for meals were fairly slim. Sure, it probably wasn’t the best, but some bread and cheese would do better for Lathna than nothing. The inn he’d been staying at had food, right? The walk there, however, only raises more red flags in Curran’s head.

    Again, Curran wasn’t a stranger to a few cold stares and closed doors--the reputation came hand in hand with being an Inquisitor, and he’d come to accept that over the years. A “close your shudders, lock your doors, and hide” sort of reaction, however? That was new. Anyone passing seemed to flinch away. Mothers clutched their children and scurried to the other side of the street. A couple of them, honest-to-Ilia, turned and ran. They were reacting to Lathna, and Curran could see she was noticing. She looked... distressed. Confused. Like she genuinely didn’t know why people seemed so afraid of her--but she still knew it was her that was making them afraid.

    He tries not to let it bother either of them. Food first, mysteries later. 

    Nothing in his life was ever really that simple, was it? The barmaid has the same reaction when they arrive to the inn. She disappears for a moment and fetches the owner while Curran and Lathna, ignoring the frigid welcome, pick out their seat. Both the barmaid and the owner seem to be trying to slink into the back. Curran tries to tolerate it for about ten minutes before he’s had enough.

    “Lathna, can you stay here for a minute?"

    She nods and Curran rises from his seat, making no attempt to muffle the harsh screech of wood-on-wood as he shoves the chair back. The one nice thing about an Inquisitor’s reputation: people tended not to argue too much when you demanded something. He makes his way past the bar and into the backroom, catching the door as the owner tries to swing it shut. 

    “Hold on a moment.” He puts on a sickly-sweet tone, far too aggressive to be truly polite, and claps a hand on the owner’s shoulder with just a bit too much force as he shoves his way through the door. “I’d like a word outside, sir.”

*

    “I--I---I swear, sir, I didn’t do nothin’...! I was jus’ caught up in what everyone else was doin’ with the whole--r--ritual thing, but I didn’t ever really believe in it none--”

    “Funny, that’s what about two hundred other people have told me. But that’s not what I’m here for.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the inn, not loosening his grip on the man’s shoulder. “The little girl. Tell me about her.”

    “That--That thing ain’t no little girl!”

    Oh, great. Once again, it was the same answer he was dreading. He’d been piecing together in his head the details of it all for a while now--trying to figure out why the villagers were reacting as if they knew Nyarlathotep had been posing as Lathna when logic said they shouldn’t? IT had only assumed her form after the fact... right? But the more he thought about it, the more he began to suspect that no, maybe that wasn’t true. The priest’s journal had implied the “ritual” took place before the whole town had been sucked into the library--meaning its purpose must have been to summon Nyarlathotep in the first place. All he needed was confirmation of his suspicion. 

    “Well, fuck, she sure looks like one! Explain to me what that’s supposed to mean.”

    “Okay! Okay--jus’ don’ hurt me!” (By the Goddess, what a coward. Curran hasn’t so much has made a move towards him.) “She ain’t a kid anymore--s-she’s the Emissary--”

    “How do you know that? What, you see her turn into a goddess-damned dragon?”

    Ah, that’s the winning question, isn’t it? The guy’s face goes pale and he stammers, searching for words that - presumably - won’t implicate him in whatever the hell this town did to the poor kid. “W--We--”

    “We? So now you’re involved?”

    “We--Th-They! They--She was raised for it, a’ight?! The girl was bad luck, nobody knew who her pa was, and she killed her mother--”

    “She what?”

    “When she was born! Her ma’ died when she was born, that’s bad luck! She was born cursed, but w--th’ town decided she’d be a good--” Gulp. “A--A good sacrifice--a--a vessel for the Emissary.”

    Well, congratulations to Hethiwood for taking home the grand prize of “Most Fucked-Up Place Curran Had Ever Visited!” That would explain why they’d found the Liber Grimortis in her home, didn’t it? Why she wasn’t allowed to go out on her own? It explained the lack of toys, the distance everyone kept from her, the dense tomes on her bookshelf--they’d been grooming her to sacrifice to their fucked-up god her whole life.

    “You sacrificed a child,” Curran spits, “for your own ‘salvation’?”

    The innkeep doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. He’s too busy (quite literally) shaking in his boots. Bastard. What kind of person can even think that’s okay?! Hell, how does a whole town of people convince themselves that it’s okay?! And now that they’ve given up on their bullshit cult, they plan to just let the kid who’s life they’ve already ruined--what? Starve to death?

    Curran releases his grip on the innkeep’s shoulder--finally--and gives him a shove back in the direction of the building. “Go. Just get us our fucking food and get out of my face.”

    He happily obliges, leaving the inquisitor alone outside. Fuck. Now he knows he can’t leave her here. Lathna seems smart--and based on her reactions to how things have been going this evening, he can’t imagine she’d be too against leaving town for good--so trying to explain it to her is... somewhat less daunting. The question of what to do after that, though--an orphanage? Ilia, no, that would probably make things worse for her. He could always take her in, but--

    ...Shit. He was going to adopt her, wasn’t he? He really couldn’t see any way around it. Plus--who was he kidding? He couldn’t help but feel sympathy for poor Lathna--it was hard not to have a soft spot for orphans when you were one--and, well, she seemed like a nice kid, all things considered--Hein would probably have some choice words for him when he found out, but they could cross that bridge when they got there.

*

    Curran returns to the table a few minutes later, and his expression must be enough to draw Lathna’s concern, based on the way she looks back at him. He sighs. It was going to be another long night--he could already tell.

    “Hey, Lathna, when we’re all done eating, do you think we could talk? There are a couple things I wanted to know, if that’s okay with you...”

[theculturedmarxist]

Frederick Engels on Thomas Malthus and Overpopulation

“The struggle of capital against capital, of labour against labour, of land against land, drives production to a fever-pitch at which production turns all natural and rational relations upside-down. No capital can stand the competition of another if it is not brought to the highest pitch of activity. No piece of land can be profitably cultivated if it does not continuously increase its productivity. No worker can hold his own against his competitors if he does not devote all his energy to labour. No one at all who enters into the struggle of competition can weather it without the utmost exertion of his energy, without renouncing every truly human purpose. The consequence of this over-exertion on the one side is, inevitably, slackening on the other. When the fluctuation of competition is small, when demand and supply, consumption and production, are almost equal, a stage must be reached in the development of production where there is so much superfluous productive power that the great mass of the nation has nothing to live on, that the people starve from sheer abundance. For some considerable time England has found herself in this crazy position, in this living absurdity. When production is subject to greater fluctuations, as it is bound to be in consequence of such a situation, then the alternation of boom and crisis, overproduction and slump, sets in. The economist has never been able to find an explanation for this mad situation. In order to explain it, he invented the population theory, which is just as senseless – indeed even more senseless than the contradiction of coexisting wealth and poverty. The economist could not afford to see the truth; he could not afford to admit that this contradiction is a simple consequence of competition; for in that case his entire system would have fallen to bits.

For us the matter is easy to explain. The productive power at mankind’s disposal is immeasurable. The productivity of the soil can be increased ad infinitum by the application of capital, labour and science. According to the most able economists and statisticians (cf. Alison’s Principles of Population, Vol. I, Chs. 1 and 2), “over-populated” Great Britain can be brought within ten years to produce a corn yield sufficient for a population six times its present size. Capital increases daily; labour power grows with population; and day by day science increasingly makes the forces of nature subject to man. This immeasurable productive capacity, handled consciously and in the interest of all, would soon reduce to a minimum the labour falling to the share of mankind. Left to competition, it does the same, but within a context of antitheses. One part of the land is cultivated in the best possible manner whilst another part – in Great Britain and Ireland thirty million acres of good land ��� lies barren. One part of capital circulates with colossal speed; another lies dead in the chest. One part of the workers works fourteen or sixteen hours a day, whilst another part stands idle and inactive, and starves. Or the partition leaves this realm of simultaneity: today trade is good; demand is very considerable; everyone works; capital is turned over with miraculous speed; farming flourishes; the workers work themselves sick. Tomorrow stagnation sets in. The cultivation of the land is not worth the effort; entire stretches of land remain untilled; the flow of capital suddenly freezes; the workers have no employment, and the whole country labours under surplus wealth and surplus population.

The economist cannot afford to accept this exposition of the subject as correct; otherwise, as has been said, he would have to give up his whole system of competition. He would have to recognise the hollowness of his antithesis of production and consumption, of surplus population and surplus wealth. To bring fact and theory into conformity with each other – since this fact simply could not be denied – the population theory was invented.

Malthus, the originator of this doctrine, maintains that population is always pressing on the means of subsistence; that as soon as production increases, population increases in the same proportion; and that the inherent tendency of the population to multiply in excess of the available means of subsistence is the root of all misery and all vice. For, when there are too many people, they have to be disposed of in one way or another: either they must be killed by violence or they must starve. But when this has happened, there is once more a gap which other multipliers of the population immediately start to fill up once more: and so the old misery begins all over again. What is more, this is the case in all circumstances – not only in civilised, but also in primitive conditions. In New Holland [The old name for Australia. – Ed.], with a population density of one per square mile, the savages suffer just as much from over-population as England. In short, if we want to be consistent, we must admit that the earth was already over-populated when only one man existed. The implications of this line of thought are that since it is precisely the poor who are the surplus, nothing should be done for them except to make their dying of starvation as easy as possible, and to convince them that it cannot be helped and that there is no other salvation for their whole class than keeping propagation down to the absolute minimum. Or if this proves impossible, then it is after all better to establish a state institution for the painless killing of the children of the poor, such as “Marcus” has suggested, whereby each working-class family would be allowed to have two and a half children, any excess being painlessly killed. [emphasis added] Charity is to be considered a crime, since it supports the augmentation of the surplus population. Indeed, it will be very advantageous to declare poverty a crime and to turn poor-houses into prisons, as has already happened in England as a result of the new “liberal” Poor Law. Admittedly it is true that this theory ill conforms with the Bible’s doctrine of the perfection of God and of His creation; but “it is a poor refutation to enlist the Bible against facts.”

Am I to go on any longer elaborating this vile, infamous theory, this hideous blasphemy against nature and mankind? Am I to pursue its consequences any further? Here at last we have the immorality of the economist brought to its highest pitch. What are all the wars and horrors of the monopoly system compared with this theory! And it is just this theory which is the keystone of the liberal system of free trade, whose fall entails the downfall of the entire edifice. For if here competition is proved to be the cause of misery, poverty and crime, who then will still dare to speak up for it?

In his above-mentioned work, Alison has shaken the Malthusian theory by bringing in the productive power of the land, and by opposing to the Malthusian principle the fact that each adult can produce more than he himself needs – a fact without which mankind could not multiply, indeed could not even exist; if it were not so how could those still growing up live? But Alison does not go to the root of the matter, and therefore in the end reaches the same conclusion as Malthus. True enough, he proves that Malthus’ principle is incorrect, but cannot gainsay the facts which have impelled Malthus to his principle.

If Malthus had not considered the matter so one-sidedly, he could not have failed to see that surplus population or labour-power is invariably tied up with surplus wealth, surplus capital and surplus landed property. The population is only too large where the productive power as a whole is too large. The condition of every over-populated country, particularly England, since the time when Malthus wrote, makes this abundantly clear. These were the facts which Malthus ought to have considered in their totality, and whose consideration was bound to have led to the correct conclusion. Instead, he selected one fact, gave no consideration to the others, and therefore arrived at his crazy conclusion. The second error he committed was to confuse means of subsistence with [means of] employment. That population is always pressing on the means of employment – that the number of people produced depends on the number of people who can be employed – in short, that the production of labour-power has been regulated so far by the law of competition and is therefore also exposed to periodic crises and fluctuations – this is a fact whose establishment constitutes Malthus’ merit. But the means of employment are not the means of subsistence. Only in their end-result are the means of employment increased by the increase in machin-epower and capital. The means of subsistence increase as soon as productive power increases even slightly. Here a new contradiction in economics comes to light. The economist’s “demand” is not the real demand; his “consumption” is an artificial consumption. For the economist, only that person really demands, only that person is a real consumer, who has an equivalent to offer for what he receives. But if it is a fact that every adult produces more than he himself can consume, that children are like trees which give superabundant returns on the outlays invested in them – and these certainly are facts, are they not? – then it must be assumed that each worker ought to be able to produce far more than he needs and that the community, therefore, ought to be very glad to provide him with everything he needs; one must consider a large family to be a very welcome gift for the community. But the economist, with his crude outlook, knows no other equivalent than that which is paid to him in tangible ready cash. He is so firmly set in his antitheses that the most striking facts are of as little concern to him as the most scientific principles.

We destroy the contradiction simply by transcending it. With the fusion of the interests now opposed to each other there disappears the contradiction between excess population here and excess wealth there; there disappears the miraculous fact (more miraculous than all the miracles of all the religions put together) that a nation has to starve from sheer wealth and plenty; and there disappears the crazy assertion that the earth lacks the power to feed men. This assertion is the pinnacle of Christian economics – and that our economics is essentially Christian I could have proved from every proposition, from every category, and shall in fact do so in due course. The Malthusian theory is but the economic expression of the religious dogma of the contradiction of spirit and nature and the resulting corruption of both. As regards religion, and together with religion, this contradiction was resolved long ago, and I hope that in the sphere of economics I have likewise demonstrated the utter emptiness of this contradiction. Moreover, I shall not accept as competent any defence of the Malthusian theory which does not explain to me on the basis of its own principles how a people can starve from sheer plenty and bring this into harmony with reason and fact.  

At the same time, the Malthusian theory has certainly been a necessary point of transition which has taken us an immense step further. Thanks to this theory, as to economics as a whole, our attention has been drawn to the productive power of the earth and of mankind; and after overcoming this economic despair we have been made for ever secure against the fear of overpopulation. We derive from it the most powerful economic arguments for a social transformation. For even if Malthus were completely right, this transformation would have to be undertaken straight away; for only this transformation, only the education of the masses which it provides, makes possible that moral restraint of the propagative instinct which Malthus himself presents as the most effective and easiest remedy for overpopulation. Through this theory we have come to know the deepest degradation of mankind, their dependence on the conditions of competition. It has shown us how in the last instance private property has turned man into a commodity whose production and destruction also depend solely on demand; how the system of competition has thus slaughtered, and daily continues to slaughter, millions of men. All this we have seen, and all this drives us to the abolition of this degradation of mankind through the abolition of private property, competition and the opposing interests.  

Yet, so as to deprive the universal fear of overpopulation of any possible basis, let us once more return to the relationship of productive power to population. Malthus establishes a formula on which he bases his entire system: population is said to increase in a geometrical progression – 1+2+4+8+16+32, etc.; the productive power of the land in an arithmetical progression – 1+2+3+4+5+6. The difference is obvious, is terrifying; but is it correct? Where has it been proved that the productivity of the land increases in an arithmetical progression? The extent of land is limited. All right! The labour-power to be employed on this land-surface increases with population. Even if we assume that the increase in yield due to increase in labour does not always rise in proportion to the labour, there still remains a third element which, admittedly, never means anything to the economist – science – whose progress is as unlimited and at least as rapid as that of population. What progress does the agriculture of this century owe to chemistry alone – indeed, to two men alone, Sir Humphry Davy and Justus Liebig! But science increases at least as much as population. The latter increases in proportion to the size of the previous generation, science advances in proportion to the knowledge bequeathed to it by the previous generation, and thus under the most ordinary conditions also in a geometrical progression. And what is impossible to science? But it is absurd to talk of over-population so long as “there is ‘enough waste land in the valley of the Mississippi for the whole population of Europe to be transplanted there” [A. Alison, loc. cit., p. 548. – Ed.]; so long as no more than one-third of the earth can be considered cultivated, and so long as the production of this third itself can be raised sixfold and more by the application of improvements already known.”

– Frederick Engels, “Outlines of a Critique of Political Economy”

[scotianostra]

It's not often I can combine two events in the same post, but the consequences of the first event had massive ramifications and ended in the second event two years later, stay with me it will make sense.........

On January 30th 1647 the Scottish Covenanters marched north and back to Scotland having handed King Charles I over to the English in return for a payment of £200,000. 

It was the beginning of the end for the King and had started on 5the previous spring when Charles surrendered to the Scottish Covenanter army at Southwell and the first Civil War came to an end.

The Stewarts believed in the divine right to reign, granted to them by God and having been placed on the throne by God, Charles could not envisage a world in which he did not regain his throne by either political or military means. It was an attitude out of step with the times. I won't go into all the English Civil War thing, it was a bit of a side play for us Scots, yes the Covenanter Army was asked to help the English, but they had their own agenda, Charles had forced English Book of Common Prayer on the Scottish church, widespread riots broke out due to fears that the book was Popish. When Oliver Cromwell asked the Scots to help the main aim of Alexander Leslie and his religiously devout troops, was to rid the church of this threat and separate the King from interfering in Church affairs, on surrendering Charles was taken north where the Scots implored him to sign the National Covenant which demanded a parliament and a Church General Assembly that were free from influence by the King, if he did so Alexander Leslie, the Scottish general promised his army would get behind him against the Parliamentarians, Charles refused and his fate was sealed.

The Scottish military in England were feeling uncomfortable as a mercenary army in the land of the `auld enemy`, and an unpaid one at that. They had been forced to forage and take what was needed and were reviled as stealing the bread and butter out of childrens` hands. The Scots felt sorely treated by such abuse and ungratefulness from a people they had come to liberate, and were further disappointed by the Independents being prepared to allow toleration to all sects . In practice the Solemn League and Covenant was already broken. With Charles refusing to sign the Covenant they had a bargaining chip. Leslie wanted a payment amounting to some one and a half million pounds, but was prepared to accept £400,000 in two installments. This was voted them by the English Parliament when they also declared that by English law it would be a cause for war if the king was removed from the country, meaning if he was taken North into Scotland they would pursue them. Again the King was asked to sign the Covenant and the Scots were ready to do battle for him. When Charles refused it was a foregone conclusion that he would be handed over on the understanding that the English would do him no harm. On 3 February 1647 the captive king left the Scottish camp for Holdenby House, Northamptonshire, escorted by military wearing laurel on their head pieces.

Charles had not given up hope of reaching an agreement and the Scots coming to his rescue and agreed what is known as the Engagement.

The majority of nobles in Scotland, led by the Duke of Hamilton, and the Earl of Lauderdale, were sympathetic towards Charles and determined to restore him to his constitutional position. Charles, meanwhile had been faced with new laws in England that took away his command of the forces of the Crown and his veto over Parliament. The options of the Scots were more palatable and on 26 December 1647 he had signed the ` Engagement ` under which the Scots would provide an army to invade England. The King undertook to present the Solemn League and Covenant and the National Covenant to Parliament for ratification. He also undertook to accept Presbyterian government for a three year trial. So secret was the agreement that it was wrapped in lead sheeting and buried in the garden of the King`s residence at Carisbrook Castle on the Isle of Wight, where he was under house arrest.

On 11 April 1648 an ultimatum was given the English demanding the freedom of King Charles; the army to disband, the establishment of Presbyterianism and discontinuance of the Book of Common Prayer. For the English this sealed his fate. Before this, Charles had been regarded as an essential component of any peace settlement. The Engagement precipitated the Second Civil War, the English now saw Charles as the 'man of blood' an an impediment to lasting peace, he had to go.

Under pressure from the Army, Parliament placed Charles on trial in January 1649. Once the decision to place Charles on trial had been made, the result was a foregone conclusion. The charge was high treason against the realm of England. At his trial, Charles refuted the legitimacy of the court and refused to enter a plea. Not withstanding the absence of a plea, the court rendered a verdict of guilty and a sentence of death declaring:

"That the king, for the crimes contained in the charge, should be carried back to the place from whence he came, and thence to the place of execution, where his head should be severed from his body."

And so it was to come, the second event......

January 30th, 1649 was a bitterly cold day. Charles went to his execution wearing two heavy shirts so that he might not shiver in the cold and appear to be afraid.

The following account of the event comes from an anonymous observer and begins as the doomed King addresses the crowd from the scaffold:

"[As for the people,] truly I desire their liberty and freedom as much as anybody whomsoever; but I must tell you that their liberty and freedom consist in having of government, those laws by which their life and their goods may be most their own. It is not for having share in government, sirs; that is nothing pertaining to them; a subject and a sovereign are clear different things. And therefore until they do that, I mean that you do put the people in that liberty, as I say, certainly they will never enjoy themselves. Sirs, it was for this that now I am come here. If I would have given way to an arbitrary way, for to have all laws changed according to the power of the sword, I needed not to have come here; and therefore I tell you (and I pray God it be not laid to your charge) that I am the martyr of the people. . .

And to the executioner he said, 'I shall say but very short prayers, and when I thrust out my hands - '

Then he called to the bishop for his cap, and having put it on, asked the executioner, 'Does my hair trouble you?' who desired him to put it all under his cap; which, as he was doing by the help of the bishop and the executioner, he turned to the bishop, and said, 'I have a good cause, and a gracious God on my side.'

The bishop said, 'There is but one stage more, which, though turbulent and troublesome, yet is a very short one. You may consider it will soon carry you a very great way; it will carry you from earth to heaven; and there you shall find to your great joy the prize you hasten to, a crown of glory.'

The king adjoins, 'I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown; where no disturbance can be, no disturbance in the world.'

The bishop: 'You are exchanged from a temporal to an eternal crown, - a good exchange.'

Then the king asked the executioner, 'Is my hair well?' And taking off his cloak and George [the jeweled pendant of the Order of the Garter, bearing the figure of St. George], he delivered his George to the bishop. . .

Then putting off his doublet and being in his waistcoat, he put on his cloak again, and looking upon the block, said to the executioner, 'You must set it fast.'

The executioner: 'It is fast, sir.'

King: 'It might have been a little higher.'

Executioner: 'It can be no higher, sir.'

King: 'When I put out my hands this way, then - '

Then having said a few words to himself, as he stood, with hands and eyes lift up, immediately stooping down he laid his neck upon the block; and the executioner, again putting his hair under his cap, his Majesty, thinking he had been going to strike, bade him, 'Stay for the sign.'

Executioner: 'Yes, I will, and it please your Majesty.'

After a very short pause, his Majesty stretching forth his hands, the, executioner at one blow severed his head from his body; which, being held up and showed to the people, was with his body put into a coffin covered with black velvet and carried into his lodging.

His blood was taken up by divers persons for different ends: by some as trophies of their villainy; by others as relics of a martyr; and in some hath had the same effect, by the blessing of God, which was often found in his sacred touch when living."

[apenitentialprayer]

I think I’m just going to keep posting the editorials for the Catholic newsletter here. This one is about Acts of Reparation (and the First Friday and Saturday devotions)

As I mentioned last week, one of the goals of the Newman Center this year is to foster a sense of community and responsibility among our Catholic members. Last time we spoke a bit about prayer, and our duties as Christians to pray for one another. I’m going to shift gears slightly now, and talk about charity. The particular form of charity I am talking about is nonetheless close to intercessory prayer in that it is a type of prayer. And that means we need to talk about it a little more than we do about other types of charity. The type of charity I am talking about is the act of making reparation to God. This can be a very controversial form of charity; the more materially inclined among us may deride it as pointless because we do not see the effects of our work. The more ethically lazy amongst us may see this as an alternative to more physical and interpersonal forms of charity, even though this should be a supplement to and not a replacement for more commonly recognized forms of charity work. Some will wonder what the point of trying to make reparations to God is in the first place, if it is true (and it is true) that we can never repay God for the infinite mercies that He shows us. I guess we should first define what “reparations” are. Under the normal sense of the word, to act of making reparations to someone is the act of paying them back for an injury done against them. Following that understanding, most Christians reading this will be quick to point out that it is impossible to fully repay the debt that we incurred when Christ liberated us from Original Sin on the Cross. They are correct; the act of redemption was completely unmerited on our parts, and an act of God’s infinite love. So what is this reparation that we are speaking of? These prayers of reparation that I am mentioning are not so much attempts to “repay” God for what He has done for us, but rather signs of acknowledgement of His boundless gift of grace and an attempt to grow ever closer to Him in love. An act of reparation is an explicit expression of our sorrow at having contributed to Christ’s death, and an offering of ourselves entirely to Him in gratitude for His redemptive sacrifice, made for our sake. They are acts by which we remind ourselves to tell God that He is good and deserving of our love So how is this an act of charity? Well, oftentimes we perform acts of reparation in atonement for our own sins, but we can also do it for the sake of others. I’ll give you an example; in the past week, I have seen at least three instances of blasphemy against God. The first was a youtuber’s comment which stated that he’s more thoroughly convinced of the divinity of his own bodily waste than the divinity of Christ. At least, he says, he can look into the toilet and see that his own bodily waste is a real thing. The second was an article on a pagan website that encouraged the appropriation of Catholic rosaries in order to pray to “Mary the Mother Goddess;” it recommended removing the crucifixes from Catholic rosaries and replacing them with medallions, while switching the usual rosary prayers with paganized forms. Finally, last night I came across a blog post made by a Satanist that contained an image of a demon performing a lewd sexual act on the Crucified Christ. I could have reacted to these instances in a myriad of ways. In fact, I did go through a “stages of grief” type process. I was shocked upon seeing each of these things, and that shock quickly gave way to a visceral disgust and a violent anger. To witness the degradation of the Person of Christ, and to see someone encouraging the desecration of sacred items, was deeply troubling. Beyond deeply troubling, really. But then I remembered what I had written last week; we are under orders to pray for our enemies. So here’s the thing about acts of reparation. When we look out and see forces in our world that express a hatred towards our God, who actively mock our God, who try their very hardest to degrade the very essence of our God, acts of reparation give us a way to respond to these forces. We react not by striking outward in anger, but by turning inward to purify ourselves further. We respond to expressions of hatred towards Gods by expressing our own love for Him. Rather than sinking to their level, we rise, essentially telling God “I know that people have greatly insulted You, but I want You to know that there are people who love You very much.” And while we express this love to God, we beg the forgiveness of those who are blaspheming, the same way that Christ asked for the forgiveness of those who were crucifying Him (Luke 23:34). So, I have just mentioned the purpose of the acts of reparation, but I haven’t actually mentioned any methods so far. I am going to talk about three of them here. The first is a daily prayer that was revealed by the Angel of Peace to three Portuguese visionaries one hundred and one years ago. This is a prayer that we can say daily, or whenever we see an instance of blasphemy in our everyday lives. The wording is: “Most Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I adore You profoundly, and I offer You the Most Precious Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ, present in the tabernacles throughout the world, in reparation for the outrages, sacrileges, and indifferences by which He Himself is offended. And by the infinite merits of His Most Sacred Heart, and the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I beg the conversion of poor sinners.” You’ll notice that there are three aspects of this prayer. First, there is an explicit expression of love for God. Second, this act of reparation is made not to be used as a replacement for, but in conjunction with the Holy Sacrifice of Jesus. Thirdly, we’re not just apologizing for the blasphemies that have been performed, but we are praying on behalf of the blasphemers themselves. This is thus an act of charity to God (remember, our love is the only thing that we can truly say that we “give” to God) and also an act of charity for the rest of the world. Our initial repugnance gives way to our desire to include them in our loving relationship. The next two acts of reparation are the reason why it is so essential for me to include this specific topic in this week’s editorial; today, October 1st, marks the beginning of the first week of October (duh). Which means this Friday and this Saturday are the first Friday and first Saturday of the month. I am going to introduce you guys to the First Friday and First Saturday devotions. Both of these could probably merit a whole essay on their own, but this editorial has gone on for a while already, so I will only be talking about what you have to do for them, not the stories behind them or the promises attached to them. Just know that they are acts of reparation. The First Friday Devotion is the longer devotion of the two, and it takes nine months to complete. If that sounds scary, don’t worry; it’s actually pretty simple. All you have to do is go to Mass and receive the Eucharist on the first Friday of every month for nine consecutive months. On those days, however, you should be especially focused on God. Some priests recommend spending at least ten minutes before Mass meditating on the Eucharist and Christ’s True Presence, and because this devotion is especially linked to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, I would recommend praying in the name of the Sacred Heart on that day as well. So, why Friday, and why nine months? Remember, just as how every Sunday is an “anniversary” reminder of Christ’s Resurrection, Friday is an “anniversary” reminder of Christ’s death. That is why Friday has traditionally been a day of fasting among Christians. The question of nine months highlights the Marian quality of this devotion; a pregnancy takes nine months to reach a healthy conclusion. So in this devotion, we take on that aspect of Mary’s life, “carrying” Jesus within us for nine months before bearing the fruit of God with the conclusion of the devotion on the final first Friday. In a world that can be dark and cruel, you gestate and bear the Light of God. The First Saturday Devotion is the shorter devotion of the two, taking five months to complete. Again, the active aspects of this devotion are largely limited to the first Saturdays of these months. This one does require a little more activity, however. In addition to going to Mass and receiving the Eucharist on the first Saturday of each month for five consecutive months, there are three more requirements. First, you must go to Confession sometime during the week before you receive Communion. Second, you must prayer five decades of the Rosary (essentially one set of mysteries) on the first Saturday of the month. Second, you must spend fifteen minutes contemplating a mystery of the Rosary of your choosing. So you have two opportunities coming up to express your love for God in a special way. Some of you may argue, “But Aidan, the content of these devotions are stuff that we could be doing anyway. Do we really need to practice the devotions themselves if we express our love of God through similar means already?” And that’s a fair question. But let me ask you something else; do you actually go to Mass every Friday and Saturday without having to be asked? In a way, you can compare these devotions to holidays like Father’s Day and Mother’s Day. Of course, you’re supposed to express your love towards your mother and father on all days of the year. But Father’s Day and Mother’s Day (and the First Fridays and First Saturdays) are about intentionality; you are purposely taking the initiative to set aside time specifically for expressing love in a way that you might just not consider doing on a “normal” day. So really take the time and think about whether these devotions are something that you would want to do. If they are, email us, and we’ll even help you out; tell us which ones you’re doing, and we’ll even send you reminders at the beginning of each month to help make sure that you continue to perform these devotions to their completion. Together, we can show our love to God and intercede on behalf of the whole world. We are called to be the light of the world (Matthew 5:14) and the salt of the earth (5;13), aren’t we?

[curriebelle]

Episode Ignis Feels Like Fanfiction and That’s a Good Thing

Ok so I’m having a Thought.

You know when people say something reads “like fanfiction”, and it’s meant to be a criticism? The phrase is one of those intangibles, one of those agreed-upons, where no one can define it quite accurately but everyone thinks they know what it means. Usually it’s a combination of deviation from the original tone, bleaching out character flaws and complexities, a lack of understanding of nuance, and a reverent or worshipful attitude towards old characters, moments, settings, and iconography (and iconography is just the Stuff. Star Wars iconography is lightsabers, wookies and Jedi robes).

That’s a pretty reductive description of fanfiction of course, because a lot of fanfic - whether it’s well or poorly written - doesn’t necessarily follow those patterns. Weirdly enough, saying a sequel or reboot reads “like fanfiction” often implies that the writer doesn’t understand something about the source material - that they’re oversimplifying, or they’re fanning about while failing to understand what a “good” sequel would actually require. And that’s pretty ironic, because fans - obsessive detail-hoarding, secondary-character-worshipping pastiche-crafters that they are - often know the source material better than anyone, sometimes better than the creators themselves, and they are very aware of what they are erasing or changing when they move Marvel into a fluffy coffee shop AU. 

But I’m kind of digressing, because my point is that “this feels like fanfiction” shouldn’t be seen as a criticism, but rather as a gut feeling that we need to unpack. Sometimes it leads to legitimate criticism that, while worth addressing, actually has very little to do with fanfiction. And sometimes it leads to this weird 4:30 am conclusion: Episode Ignis is when “this feels like fanfiction” should be deployed as a compliment. Spoilers onward, for both Episode Ignis and FFXV.

I’m talking specifically about the alternate ending, here, which is tantamount to an FFXV fix-it fic. In this version Ignis averts the tragic ending of FFXV, and though he prepares to sacrifice his own life to do so, it ends up costing nothing. Ignis survives with even prettier hero-scarring than he gets in the regular plot. The episode fills in a sizable story gap after Leviathan knocks Noct out, and closes a few additional plotholes (I wondered what happened to that one obnoxiously overdesigned Imperial guy: turns out Ravus stabbed him). It spends some time with likable characters (Ardyn, yeeee) and underdeveloped characters (again, Ravus). Ignis gets roughed up and drenched, loses the glasses, and I’m 90% sure the animators made his eyes bigger in the cutscenes for extra pretty. He gains maximum plotline power, and Adam Croasdell voice acts the shit out of some sassy comebacks and anguished screaming (ok, this is unrelated, but when he’s doing the regular stormbind combo, it sounds like he screams FUCK in one of his battle grunts and it makes me laugh every time). He can liberate Altissia more or less by himself, and that’s before he drives a goddamn speedboat away from pursuant megarobots. So for anyone calling Mary Sue, yes, Ignis dives headfirst into that. He basically becomes Magic James Bond.

The whole episode is also pretty blatantly queer-coded. We get a very cuddly flashback to kid Noctis, and Ignis’s vow to stand at his side. Ignis is monomaniacal when it comes to finding Noctis. Noctis eiher drops the l-word, referring directly to Ignis and the freshly fridged Lunafreya (I’m still salty about that one, sorry), or says Ignis will always be in his heart depending on the ending. There’s a fantastic gifset going around of the official couples in previous Final Fantasies (Squall and Rinoa, Tidus and Yuna) declaring the exact same thing Ignis does in the alternate ending. “Rinoa, even if the world turns on you, I’ll be your knight”. “There’s no way I’ll let Yuna go”, even if I have to break all the rules of your stupid religion. Even if it costs my own life, I won’t let you take Noctis away. The queer subtext here is one of those things where it’s purposefully vague - just enough emotional evidence and physical contact that you can read romantic feelings there if you want, but just short of an actual romance to leave interpretations open. If you’re convinced Noctis and Luna were in love, Episode Ignis probably won’t debunk that.

So Ignis and his Episode are both powerful, emotional, pretty, potentially kinda gay, and ridiculously awesome.

And honestly, it is phenomenal.

Episode Ignis is a blast to play. His combat style is very fun and quick and fluid and flashy, and the grappling hook in the first portion makes you feel superheroic. Killing Ardyn, meanwhile, makes you feel godlike. It is an incredible surge of adrenaline to take on armies and deities by your lonesome. The gameplay and narrative reflect each other here, just like they do in the base game. FFXV seems happy at first, and the combat is pretty entertaining with all the goofy combo-attacks, but that game is a tragedy. It’s all the more tragic by how fun it is to begin with, and by the end it is painful to play. Characters get older, places fall apart, people die, and you have to escort Ignis around for a chapter while he grows used to being blind and Gladio constantly bitches at you for walking too fast. The photo mechanic is introduced to break your heart later, to show you how fleeting youth and pleasure can truly be under backbreaking destiny.

And in retaliation, Episode Ignis thrives on the power of Fuck You. Long commutes by car, mundane in the moment but peaceful upon reflection decades later? Fuck You, I have a grappling hook. Sections that force you to walk slowly through a dungeon and think about what you’ve done? Fuck You, I’ve got two daggers, lightning teleportation and button-mashing hands. Musings about the ravages of time, and aching nostalgia for youth? Fuck You, Ignis is prettier than ever. A tragic ending pre-ordained by prophecy? Fuck You, Ignis is going to re-write that fate by being clever, patient, and brave enough to sacrifice his life, but double Fuck You, he gets to live as well. Bullets flying, health bar low, multiple explosions and Atlas Ripped decking airships in the background? Fuck. You. It’s time to make some fucking soup.

With all that in mind, it makes sense that people might accuse Episode Ignis of being tone-deaf, of being fanfiction in all the “bad” ways - it neglects the nuance of the original, and papers over complex themes so everything can end up hunky-dory, but I still think that’s too easy.

Here’s the thing: Episode Ignis can only exist as fanfiction - or as alternate-ending DLC, I guess. FFXV is the story of Noctis and his story has an ending and it’s horribly, horribly sad, but it’s also what the story is built around. You might find it too depressing or too grim or you might find it just right, but it is well-structured. FFXV is careful with its themes and patterns and foreshadowing.

Because of that care, Ignis screwing Ardyn’s plans out of whack and saving Noctis from his fate couldn’t occur in the main game. FFXV is not about Ignis. It’s about Noctis. And the gameplay, built as it is around creating nostalgia - photographs, long car rides, camping, friendship - wouldn’t work if the ending wasn’t agonizing enough to make you long for the good old days. Maybe Noctis didn’t have to die or maybe he did, but the ending of FFXV was always going to hurt.

FFXV is an emotional project, and that project is to make the player painfully nostalgic. With that intriguing goal achieved, Episode Ignis exists as a response, and it can never really be more than that. It’s an ending I like better, but it is an alternate ending.

If you think about it, Episode Ignis didn’t need that alternate ending. It could have existed perfectly well as a companion to FFXV, filling in a much-needed blank (and without the alternate ending that’s exactly what it does). But in making a response to FFXV instead, they challenged a lot of assumptions FFXV needed to make in order to tell its story. FFXV assumes its prophecy is the only answer, as do its characters. FFXV yanks a great deal of agency away from Ignis, Prompto and Gladio when it asks them to sit still for a decade and wait for their friend to die without hunting for an alternative

Why can’t they try something else? Why can’t they defeat their nemesis on their own terms? I mean, who the heck does Bahamut think he is, anyway? Who says the ending can’t be happy, and the future can’t be bright?

Those are exactly the questions a fanfiction writer would ask. FFXV created those questions, and Episode Ignis addresses them, but in a way that acts as more of a breach than a closure. It’s one route to a happy ending - so maybe there are more. This is also the reason I brought up the queercoding in Episode Ignis. If there is any genre that needs a complete overhaul from grimdark tragedy into happy endings, it’s the scourge that is the modern queer romance story. There are so many of those bloody stories ending in anguish or separation or suicide or displeasure, and not nearly enough fairytales. Having a tragic ending overturned by the power of queer love is an insanely empowering experience, and that’s probably why you see so many posts about how Ignis’s gay love can pierce the veil of death and save the day. Episode Ignis didn’t need its queercoding any more than it needed its alternate ending, but the two make sense together: both of them are stories that people are absolutely aching for.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything quite like this - a company actively revising their story, overturning its mood, questioning its plot, granting a completely different ending, and then asking fans to pay 6.99 for it. It’s different from alternate film endings, because those are DVD extras and one always wins the theatrical release. It’s different from re-imaginings or adaptations because Episode Ignis is...just not quite that. It can’t exist on its own, unlike most remakes. Video games are always fluid texts to a certain extent, but now developers are even relinquishing the solidity of lore and cutscenes. It’s so odd.

At the decision point of Episode Ignis, you can use R1 and L1 to flip the camera back and forth, moving between a shot of Ardyn and a shot of Ignis. It’s a tiny, insignificant moment, one that almost feels like a mistake - like maybe the developers couldn’t figure out how to stage a normal shot-reverse-shot. But that moment became an oddly powerful synecdoche for what Episode Ignis was to me. If you want to look at this story from a different angle, well, go for it. Here’s another place you can point the camera. Maybe the sun will rise over there too.