#does not insulate you from pain and in fact only makes it more difficult to bear. reaching out and accepting the aid of others is a central

[badolmen]

He knew he was going to die.

It was something you only understood if you had died before. He had - briefly, long ago, revived by a beloved friend and his magic. The revival he didn’t remember as clearly as death. The growing dimness of the world, the warm ache of organs slowly failing. The way he felt now was familiar, and he took comfort in that.

His beloved couldn’t bring him back this time. For all their magic they couldn’t bring themself back. That’s why he started this damn quest - to find someone who could.

That’s why he was dying, alone in a cold dungeon; tricked by the castle’s lord who promised aid only to proffer treachery instead.

His breathing was growing shallow, wounds deep and hands numb with cold. Soon. Very soon he might see his beloved’s face again. How disappointed he would be with him. But he would be forgiven, he knew he would be.

He hoped he would be.

The skittering sound in the shadows could have been rats, waiting for the mangled man to be more palatable with decay. But it was something else - a small lockbox, hardly the size of his hand, squirming on uneven legs to sit in the open.

He would have laughed if he could draw a breath deep enough to do so. What a weak mimic. Nothing like the cruel and powerful warlock that had brought him so close to death and left him to rot in this dungeon. It skittered closer, lid slightly ajar - just enough for him to see it’s pinprick teeth.

“Hungry?” He voice was raspy, the stony walls echoing it back to him. The mimic froze, lid screwing shut as it teetered on unsteady, half formed imitation legs. “Here, I’m not gonna use these anyway.”

The rations from his bag were meager but pristine - he rarely had a need to rely on stale bread and hard cheese when taverns and game offered far tastier choices. His shaking hands tossed the ration bag toward the mimic, the creature squelching as it scrambled back to the shadows as though it excepted a blow.

Slowly, painfully slowly it crept back to the center of the room. Flickering torch light illuminated its drool slicked teeth as it snatched the bread and ran off, disappearing into the recesses of the dark, damp dungeon.

One last kind act. He could rest easy with that.

—

He didn’t expect to wake up. Not considering the state he was in when he had dozed off - bloodied and bruised and feeling the cold, steady hand of death squeeze his heart.

“What?” He croaked, voice too loud in the silent dungeon. There was an empty glass vial beside him - shattered, remnants of the red liquid that it once held staining his hand. And beside it, a lockbox with a cluster of yellow eyes, watching him carefully. “Where did you get - wait!”

The mimic startled when he raised his hand, scampering to the opposite edge of the room and watching. He leaned forward to follow it, and found not all of his injuries were magically healed. With a grunt he managed to crawl toward the creature a few paces before stopping to catch his breath.

The healing potion residue on his hands was sticky, and smelled as sweet as melons.

The mimic across the room made a sound - a throaty gurgle that, if he thought too hard about, sounded curious. He breathed a humorless laugh, pressing his face to the cool stone as he fought back a sob.

He was done. He wanted to be done. Why couldn’t it just be over?

“Sorry, little buddy - I, I don’t have anymore food. You should go, go off and try somewhere else.” There weren’t any other people in the dungeon besides him. He knew that. And the only person who might check on his would-be corpse was a warlock more powerful than any magic user he had met.

The mimic cooed, a warbling noise as it’s body shifted. It’s shape changed, smaller and thinner. A key. He lifted his eyes to the iron gate of his cell.

If the warlock found him trying to escape, that would be the end of him. He could finally be at peace.

“Okay, fine - fine! We’re leaving. Happy now?” The mimic trilled happily as he picked up the key shaped creature, reaching through the bars to undo the lock.

The mimic was warm in his hand, a gentle pulse of life in its perfect imitation of a key. It was nice, against the chill of the dungeon. He started walking, a vague memory of the direction the warlock had dragged him.

The mimic hissed, pseudopods waving wildly as he took a left instead of a right.

“What? You know a better way out?” The mimic hummed at his question, body contorting into something sleek and metal. A compass, though the arrow clearly pointed away from the passage the warlock had used.

If this was a trap to feed him to larger mimics, he welcomed the possibility of a swift death.

“Whatever you say little buddy.” He just wanted to see his beloved’s face again.

The pair walked in darkness, no torches beyond the main cells. He held the mimic close to his face to read the needle, the creatures pinprick glowing eyes lining the brass case of the compass. It hummed to him - not quite a tune, but certainly some patter of clicks and trills not meant to communicate anything specific.

It somehow managed to bring a smile to his face, the warm, gently illuminated compass in his hands the closest he had felt to happiness in a very long time.

It was a dead end. His shoulders fell, the ache of still healing wounds aggravated by the long trek in the cold and damp. The mimic jumped from his hand - or fell, given how his fingers fell limp at the sight of the boulders and cobbles piled high.

It whistled, pseudopods flailing as it crammed itself in a crack between the rocks.

“No.” Frustration was welling in his blood. He just wanted to do one last good deed. He didn’t want his wounds to heal. He didn’t want to escape. He didn’t want to live without his love. “No - I can’t fit; dammit what was I thinking! Gods you don’t even understand me.”

He held his face in his hands, hot tears welling in his eyes as his breathing grew uneven and hitched. He didn’t know the way back - he didn’t know how to get the warlock’s attention. He was going to starve to death in the dark because he followed a half-witted, strange little mimic.

He dropped to his knees before the pile of rubble and sobbed openly, a gentle draft of cool air on his face.

A draft of air that smelled fresh and clean and so, so close.

The mimic was standing in front of him, shape changed once again to a shining pick axe. It trilled softly; golden, pupil-less eyes beckoning. A gaze between disappointment and hope. The same gaze he imagined his lover watching him with if he was here with him now.

“Please,” It seemed to say, “Get up.”

He rose to his feet, the wooden handle of the mimic smooth in his hand. He struck the stones, cobbles shattering under the force of the blow.

He didn’t want to always be hurting. Another blow, the air on the other side flowing steadier. He didn’t want to stay here, alone in the dark. Another blow, thin threads of golden sunlight shimmering in the dust. He didn’t want to live without his love, but he would want him to. Finally, a gap large enough for him to squeeze through was opened.

He scrambled over the stones, escaping into the sunlight. The grass beneath him was green and vibrant, the air sweet and clean. The mimic in the grass beside him chirped as sweetly as any song bird.

“Thank you.” His tears were different, streaming down a face that wore a wide and earnest smile. “Thank you so much.” The mimic curled on his chest, warm and alive and purring softly.

He knew he was going to live.

Edit: Donate to Palestinians in Gaza

Why did you give the last of your food to that poorly disguised mimic? You were finally at peace with letting go, but now this odd thing won’t leave you alone and is even turning itself into various items in an attempt to aid you.

[curtklingermanposts]

Unforgiveness is Not a Form of Self-Defense

A Sign You Are Harboring Unforgiveness

One way to know if you are harboring unforgiveness toward others, is having the desire for them to not repent, and change for the better. You prefer the status quo, so you don’t have to reconcile with them. It gives the excuse to keep them at a distance. In addition, it gives one a sense of superiority, especially if one was deeply wounded by the other. It is a form of compensation. For some, not forgiving others is a form of retaliation. This is evident when a person asks for forgiveness, and the other refuses. He wants to see the other suffer, therefore, refuses to release the other from his transgression. This is where that superiority thing surfaces, in that he wants to see the other grovel at his feet for forgiveness. It’s a form of vengeance. And what does the Bible say about vengeance? Romans 12:19-21 Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.

Some Reasons for the Unforgiveness

Why would a person refuse to forgive? One reason is pride. Sometimes the ego gets a bit bruised, which causes him to react negatively. Quite often it escalates into anger.       Another reason people will not forgive is pain, which tends to have a profound effect. It too, may lead to anger. because it gives a sense of power. Even though this may state the obvious, it would be good remember that some of angriest people are deeply hurt. They weaponize anger to keeps others in check. Pain often joins forces with fear. Because of the fear of being hurt again, individuals will not let down their guard enough to forgive. This creates an emotional barrier, which insulates them from further pain. One of the mechanisms of our brain is self-preservation. It uses fear as a means to alert us to danger, which causes us to fight or flee. It influences our willingness forgive.  

Consequences of Not Forgiving Others

Unforgiveness can be spiritually detrimental if there is no repentance. Yes, the one who refuses to forgive needs to repent, even if he is an innocent victim. Not only does it place a gap between people, it places one between the individual and God. Matthew 6:14-15 For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses. Additionally, that lack of forgiveness will cause more pain, as it leads to bitterness. Sadly, because unforgiveness tends to shipwreck relationships, it destroys the possibility of having the deep, meaningful ones that bring much joy. Not only does it affect those directly involved, it can have negative consequences with other relationships. Have you ever been caught in the middle of a dispute that wasn’t yours? The list goes on.

When It Seems Impossible to Forgive

As previous stated, strong emotions can make it rather difficult to forgive; but it is not impossible. Otherwise, Jesus would not have commanded us to do so. It is an act of the will; not the emotions. In fact, when we obey in spite of what we feel, the emotions will come into alignment as a result. Mark 11:25 And when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any: that your Father also which is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses. Part of the process of forgiveness is remembering humans are not perfect. Sometimes, they do hurtful things for various reasons. For example, hurt people, hurt people. We won’t examine the various reasons people do what they do. God’s grace enables us to do what we are incapable of doing ourselves. By going to Him in prayer, He can and will empower us to forgive the “unforgiveable.” We simply need to be honest with Him. “Father, I know I’m supposed to forgive, but I’m stuck, and I need your help.” It does not have to be complicated. Hebrews 4:16 Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.

perfectfaith.org

[gffa]

SO HOW DOES THE FORCE WORK?

     “The core of the Force–I mean, you got the dark side, the light side, one is selfless, one is selfish, and you wanna keep them in balance. What happens when you go to the dark side is it goes out of balance and you get really selfish and you forget about everybody … because when you get selfish you get stuff, or you want stuff, and when you want stuff and you get stuff then you are afraid somebody is going to take it away from you, whether it’s a person or a thing or a particular pleasure or experience.      “Once you become afraid that somebody’s going to take it away from you or you’re gonna lose it, then you start to become angry, especially if you’re losing it, and that anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering. Mostly on the part of the person who’s selfish, because you spend all your time being afraid of losing everything you’ve got instead of actually living.      “Where joy, by giving to other people you can’t think about yourself, and therefore there’s no pain. But the pleasure factor of greed and of selfishness is a short-lived experience, therefore you’re constantly trying to replenish it, but of course the more you replenish it, the harder it is to, so you have to keep upping the ante. You’re actually afraid of the pain of not having the joy.      “So that is ultimately the core of the whole dark side/light side of the Force. And everything flows from that. Obviously the Sith are always unhappy because they never get enough of anything they want. Mostly, their selfishness centers around power and control. And the struggle is always to be able to let go of all that stuff.      “And of course that’s the problem with Anakin ultimately. You’re allowed to love people, but you’re not allowed to possess them. And what he did is he fell in love and married her and then became jealous. Then he saw in his visions that she was going to die, and he couldn’t stand losing her. So in order to not lose her, he made a pact with the devil to be able to become all-powerful. When he did that, she didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore, so he lost her.      “Once you are powerful, being able to bring her back from the dead, if I can do that, I can become emperor of the universe. I can get rid of the Emperor. I can make everything the way I want it. Once you do that, you’ll never be satiated. You’re always going to be consumed by this driving desire to have more stuff and be afraid that others are going to take it away from you. And they are. Every time you get two Sith together, you have the master, the apprentice, and the apprentice is always trying to recruit another apprentice to join with him to kill the master. The master knows that basically everybody below him wants his job.      “Only way to overcome the dark side is through discipline. The dark side is pleasure, biological and temporary and easy to achieve. The light side is joy, everlasting and difficult to achieve. A great challenge. Must overcome laziness, give up quick pleasures, and overcome fear which leads to hate.”

--George Lucas

“Happiness is pleasure and happiness is joy. It can be either one, you add them up and it can be the uber category of happiness.      “Pleasure is short lived. It lasts an hour, it lasts a minute, it lasts a month. It peaks and then it goes down–it peaks very high, but the next time you want to get that same peak you have to do it twice as much. It’s like drugs, you have to keep doing it because it insulates itself. No matter what it is, whether you’re shopping or you’re engaged in any other kind of pleasure. It all has the same quality about it.      “On the other hand is joy and joy is the thing that doesn’t go as high as pleasure, in terms of your emotional reaction. But it stays with you. Joy is something you can recall, pleasure you can’t.  So the secret is that, even though it’s not as intense as pleasure, the joy will last you a lot longer.      “People who get the pleasure they keep saying, ‘Well, if I can just get richer and get more cars–!’ You’ll never relive the moment you got your first car, that’s it, that’s the highest peak. Yes, you could get three Ferraris and a new gulf stream jet and maybe you’ll get close. But you have to keep going and eventually you’ll run out.  You just can’t do it, it doesn’t work.        “If you’re trying to sustain that level of peak pleasure, you’re doomed. It’s a very American idea, but it just can’t happen. You just let it go. Peak.  Break. Pleasure is fun it’s great, but you can’t keep it going forever.      “Just accept the fact that it’s here and it’s gone, and maybe again it’ll come back and you’ll get to do it again. Joy lasts forever. Pleasure is purely self-centered. It’s all about your pleasure, it’s about you. It’s a selfish self-centered emotion, that’s created by self-centered motive of greed.      “Joy is compassion, joy is giving yourself to somebody else or something else. And it’s the kind of thing that is in it’s subtlty and lowness more powerful than pleasure.  If you get hung up on pleasure you’re doomed. If you pursue joy you will find everlasting happiness.”

--George Lucas

#THE FORCE IS ALL ABOUT OVERCOMING THE TEMPORARY DARK SIDE #AND EMBRACING THE EVERLASTING LIGHT SIDE #THE FORCE IS ALL ABOUT WHAT YOU PUT INTO IT IS WHAT YOU GET OUT OF IT #MOTIVATION AND INTENTION AND BEING MINDFUL #IE, AWARE OF AND ACKNOWLEDGING YOUR EMOTIONS #ARE THE KEYS TO THE FORCE #THAT’S IT THAT’S THE FOUNDATION OF THE FORCE

[luvvewan]

promptsssssss!!!

13: “Just listen to the sound of my voice.” 🥺🙏❤️

Thank you for the prompt, @sanerontheinside ! I went full Obi-whump, so I hope you like it.

—

The healer crouched at the edge of the bunk and took Obi-Wan’s bare feet in his hands.

Obi-Wan cried out, trying to pull away from the touch, twisting in the blankets.

“Caht, nah.” The elderly man, Hagit, said softly. He glanced up at Qui-Gon. “Numo.”

Qui-Gon had garnered only a handful of words in the native tongue, but he didn’t need to know what the healer said; he could see it in his eyes. Pity. For Obi-Wan, yes. But also for him? Fear lodged in his throat.

“Evvi, eh. Uh…here. Boy…numo.” Hagit motioned to Obi-Wan’s foot.

“Keep him still, Master Jedi, please.” Evvi, their young interpreter and Hagit’s grand-niece, translated. “He sees the spine in the left heel.”

Qui-Gon suppressed a shudder and turned away, leaning over his insensate student. Obi-Wan’s face was covered in sweat, eyes half-lidded, lips cracked and quivering. His Learner’s braid had plastered itself to Obi-Wan’s pale neck and chest. Qui-Gon smoothed it carefully between his fingers. “You are doing very well, Padawan. Just stay still. I know it’s difficult but you must not move,” he used a gentle voice better suited for younglings, despite the fact Obi-Wan was twenty three years old and a newly senior apprentice.

He watched Obi-Wan try to look at him, but another wave of pain erupted through their connection in the Force, and his eyes rolled back. Qui-Gon absorbed what he could, wanting to take it all, though even the echoes of Obi-Wan’s agony were enough to make him briefly light-headed.

He noticed Hagit was speaking again, a distant noise. Evvi said something back to him, then Qui-Gon heard several small, hesitant steps. A hand touched his arm.

“I’m sorry, Master Jedi. Removal is very painful and delicate. He does not want the spine to break apart while still in the foot. It will release more poison.” Evvi explained. “Can you hold him down?”

Obi-Wan was more powerful than his small frame would suggest. The pain and delirium made him combative, and when Qui-Gon gripped his arms he thrashed and snarled. He had never seen Obi-Wan, obedient and self-possessed Obi-Wan, untethered this way. Fingernails raked down his forearm, tore at his robe sleeves.

Sedation was not possible. The medical supplies were limited anyway. They were lucky to have Hagit, who was old enough to remember when the stone-fish were plentiful, before a plague wiped them out. Now it was exceedingly rare to catch a stone-fish on the shore, due to both its near-extinction and impressive camouflage. Obi-Wan had accompanied some of the village’s children to the water, or really they had accompanied him, starry-eyed at the presence of an offworlder, a Jedi. He had been stepping along a path of craggy rocks leading to the ocean when his foot landed on a stone-fish, its spiny, algae-crusted body hidden amongst the rocks and sand.

The pain had been immediate. The children had run, screaming, for help. By the time Qui-Gon found him, Obi-Wan was screaming too.

Other villagers had come. Among them was Hagit, helped along by Evvi at his elbow, his grey eyes milky and grave. Obi-Wan was administered a general anti-venom there on the beach, already overwhelmed by the agony that radiated from his foot through his entire body.

Evvi had told Qui-Gon the poison was brutal and quick. It was not always fatal, but it triggered something nearly as cruel: most victims were gripped by an unbearable sense of dread, demanding to be killed before the poison could fully take them.

From his admittedly foggy calculations, it had been close to an hour since Obi-Wan was attacked. Qui-Gon’s stomach lurched. He did not look behind him, where he knew Hagit was hovering at the wound site, arthritic hands shaking, preparing to perform a task of great precision.

“Still, Master Jedi. He must be still.”

He brought the Force to bear down on his Padawan while using his own brute strength to pin Obi-Wan’s wrists back onto the bunk. Obi-Wan whimpered and moaned, whipping his head to the side. Tears streamed freely down his face, snot and sweat dripping from his nose.

“Help!” He kicked his legs, trying to free himself from the healer’s grasp.

Hagit made a sharp noise under his breath, likely a swear.

“Obi-Wan, listen to me! We’re trying to help you!” He barked hoarsely, wiping sweat from his own brow before straddling his Padawan and laying over top of him, using his weight to hold him down. Their heads were pressed together and Obi-Wan wept and keened in his ear.

Qui-Gon’s heart found new ways to break. The Force was overrun with panic and hopelessness. Obi-Wan twitched and fought under him, desperate to get freed. Qui-Gon tried to use a sleep suggestion but his Padawan’s aura was clouded, elusive.

And time was draining away. He imagined the spine lodged in Obi-Wan’s tender heel, the poison seeping into his blood and causing more damage. “Just…breathe with me, Padawan, alright? There is no pain, there is the Force.”

“I can’t.” Obi-Wan whimpered.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Obi-Wan’s temple. “Leave it to me, then. Trust in me, young one. Whatever else is happening…it doesn’t matter. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”

He knew it was a risk, to appeal to the dutiful instinct in Obi-Wan that very well might be overridden by poison-fueled anxiety. But what else could he do? Hold his delirious student down with every last bit of strength he possessed, and possibly break his bones in the process?

Obi-Wan bucked against him, sniffling and gasping. “It won’t stop it won’t stop oh gods…”

“Shhh,” Qui-Gon smoothed his damp hair. “You are so far away from that, aren’t you? Safe with me. Safe and very tired. Only you and only me, far away.”

Nerveless fingers clutched at him. “M-Make it stop make it stop I can’t—“

“Of course I will. Hold onto me and keep your legs very still. You can do that, I know you can. Put your arms around me and hold on, as tight as you can.” Qui-Gon blinked back the sweat pouring into his eyes, body vibrating with hope and dread as Obi-Wan slowly obeyed. “That’s it. Now I want you to keep the rest of your body very, very still, Padawan. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan heaved an exhausted sob, but nodded. His arms gripped around Qui-Gon’s back while his legs gradually relaxed on the bunk.

Hagit murmured to himself. Evvi touched Qui-Gon’s leg.

In the stuffy little room, everyone tacitly understood what would happen next.

Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan begin to tense. “Far away,” he continued, as if there had been no interruption. “We can go anywhere, can’t we? We’ve been to so many places together.”

“Nuh, Evvi.”

“Uncle says now, Master Jedi.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and released his fear to the Force. “Where do you want to go, Obi-Wan? I remember you enjoying Alderaan, with all the beautiful trees. The people there were so kind, weren’t they?” He did his best not to think of the fragile procedure happening inches away. His muscles shook, ready to react if necessary. He knew once Hagit began removing the spine it could not be halted. “I can’t remember…did we visit in the summer or winter?”

Obi-Wan was holding onto him for dear life, strangled moans catching in his throat.

My brave boy, Qui-Gon thought to himself. The pain was unreal. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it felt like for Obi-Wan.

“Kill me Master Master oh Force I can’t…”

Qui-Gon squeezed him close. He thought of what Evvi had said--the poor victims who begged for death. He had not thought Obi-Wan would reach that point. But even the Force could not insulate the young man from such all-encompassing agony.

Obi-Wan wept openly against Qui-Gon’s neck. “Master, Qui-Gon...it’s moving..what….what is it doing..?”

“Don’t move,” Qui-Gon warned. “Do you want to go to Alderaan? Or someplace else? Someplace warm?”

They had just finished an extended mission on a frigid planet, yet Obi-Wan shook his head. “N-No deserts.”

Qui-Gon chuckled. Obi-Wan sunburned easily, returning from desert assignments with pink cheeks and ears. “Of course not. No, someplace cool enough to sleep out under the stars. Kodasta, perhaps? Remember how the stars seemed so close, as if we could nearly touch them?”

Obi-Wan clutched at the robe on Qui-Gon’s back. ���Y-Yes…ahhh…”

“What was the constellation you saw? I can’t remember. It was quite rare, wasn’t it? I’m never any good at that but you spotted it right away. What was it called?”

“…Th-The El…usive Mage.”

“Oh yes. That was it.”

Obi-Wan moaned into Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

Qui-Gon held him steady. The pain was beyond excruciating and Qui-Gon could only feel the edge of it; Obi-Wan had long since given up any attempts at shielding from him. It was a testament to Obi-Wan’s endurance that he had not passed out.

“Nearly done,” Evvi said.

Thank the Force. “You’re doing so well, Padawan,” Qui-Gon praised him quietly. “Keep right here with me, can you see the Mage? Close your eyes and see if it’s there.”

“M-Master…”

“I know. But we are so far away from that, aren’t we? Among the stars on Kodasta. I see them when I close my eyes. Close your eyes and you’ll see them too. No, no, you can’t twitch like that. Squeeze me instead. That’s better. Now look for the Mage with me. Help me see it.”

“Ugh…” Obi-Wan groaned and panted. “Mmmmph…”

Qui-Gon could not let their progress unravel, not now. “Is it there, towards the left?”

For several strained seconds, Obi-Wan made harsh, pained sounds and struggled for breath. Then, finally: “Y-Yes. You have to…un…ah…unfocus your eyes to see. Look for the hat f-first.”

Qui-Gon smiled, blinking back the tears gathering in his eyes. “Ah, of course.”

“It’s out, Master Jedi.”

“I see it now, Obi-Wan. It’s beautiful.”

His Padawan sagged under him, unconscious.

—

Qui-Gon went to the shore and walked along the rock paths, fingers hooked in his belt. The stone-fish had been immediately killed, its remaining spines safely collected and the rest of it burned by a few of the villagers. Evvi told him some of the men searched the beach until dawn, out of caution.

They had not come across a single other stone-fish. Obi-Wan’s foot had apparently found the only specimen on the entire beach.

But then, Obi-Wan had always been blessed with a particular sort of luck.

He came to the place where Obi-Wan was stung. Specks of blood stained the rocks there. His instinct was to throw them into the ocean.

Instead, Qui-Gon left everything as it was, sea spray misting his cheeks as he turned back towards the village.

—

When he returned to the little cottage, Hagit was sitting at a sun-bleached wooden table in the kitchen. The red-tinged spine, still full of venom, was sealed in a plastibag and held loosely in his liver-spotted hands.

Hagit looked up at Qui-Gon. He was quite old, skin sagging and eyes permanently wet.

“Boy…yes.” Hagit nodded firmly at him.

Qui-Gon found it difficult to swallow. He bowed before the healer. “Graz-ta,” he said. Thank you.

—

Obi-Wan was curled up on the bunk. A heavy blanket was wrapped around him, his bandaged foot sticking out from the bottom. Though he had improved since the day before, his face still looked drained of its color.

Qui-Gon glanced around the quiet, dark room. He noticed Obi-Wan’s clothes and boots tucked under a chair. Evvi had done it, probably, but it was still a familiar sight, reminding him of how Obi-Wan tended to neatly fold his tunics, no matter where they found themselves. His heart tightened; he let it pass. He knew he would feel this way after such a close call. Small, tender things about Obi-Wan were going to strike him at odd times—he knew that, unfortunately, from experience.

Like the way he would hold his braid between his fingers when he slept. Qui-Gon could not recall Feemor or Xanatos ever doing that.

He sat on the bunk beside Obi-Wan and listened to the quaint sounds of life beyond the door. He appreciated the borrowed sense of domesticity that came with staying in family houses: home cooking, careworn sheets, a calmness and mildness in the Force. He wished they could stay here until Obi-Wan fully recovered from his ordeal, but the Council had already sent them their next assignment.

Qui-Gon brushed his fingers against Obi-Wan’s forehead. Glassy grey eyes fluttered open.

“Only a slight fever now,” Qui-Gon told him.

Obi-Wan kept his braid laced between his fingers. He looked swallowed up by the thick weave of the blanket and the night shirt that was several sizes too big. Or was it simply the absence of Jedi trappings that made it more obvious that he was young, human and fragile? “Well,” he croaked, voice ruined from prolonged screaming followed by prolonged silence, “I didn’t die.”

Qui-Gon tried to laugh, but it came out as an awkward huff. He touched Obi-Wan’s cheek. “No. You seem very much alive to me.”

Obi-Wan smiled, his eyes already drifting closed. “I didn’t sense it. The…ah…thing.”

“Neither did I,” Qui-Gon admitted, gazing out the window above Obi-Wan’s head. The villagers had searched the beach, but who could search all of the sea? He began to think of other dangers on other worlds, the unnamed masses of threats that awaited Obi-Wan in his life, on their next mission, even tomorrow. “If we could sense everything, our lives would be much easier.”

“Mmmhmmm. Less interesting?”

“I’m slipping. You’re guessing my lessons before I can give them.”

“Mm, but I can…always sense you, Master.” Obi-Wan mumbled. He would be asleep soon.

Qui-Gon leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “May the Force be with you, my Padawan.”

—

They rarely dreamed together, but that night they did, climbing through constellations in the dark sky, safely above the sea.

[elizabeethan]

Find Strength in Pain, Find Strength in Me 2/3

After defeating the wraith, Emma Swan is dragged through the portal they sent it through and suddenly finds herself in the land in which she should have grown up. Lost, overwhelmed, and desperate to get home to her son, she accepts help from the gruesome pirate Captain Hook— and his accomplice. 

A Season 2 AU in which Emma ends up the the Enchanted Forest alone, and she and Hook (try to) work together to get to the Land Without Magic.

Hi! here is part 2! thank you to @the-darkdragonfly for being an incredible beta and to @donteattheappleshook for forcing me to write being instrumental in the creation of this fic.

Rated T (for now) (I have no idea if that’ll change) (bit fat maybe)

~4800 words

Read on Ao3

Read my other stuff

Tagging: @courtorderedcake​ @kmomof4​ @stahlop​ @klynn-stormz​ @laschatzi​ @emelizabeth88​ @lfh1226-linda​ @kday426​ @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story​ @captain-emmajones​ @gingerpolyglot​ @ebcaver​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @teamhook​ @superchocovian​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @tiganasummertree​ @gingerchangeling​ @jrob64​ @onceratheart18​ @xhookswenchx​ @winterbaby89​ @swampmedusa​ @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy​ @love-with-you-i-have-everything​  @shireness-says​ @snowbellewells​ @hollyethecurious​ @ouatpost​ @daxx04​​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @donteattheappleshook​ @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay​​

Despite her circumstances, Emma does not feel like a prisoner of fearsome pirate Captain Hook. In fact, she’s been made to feel quite comfortable in his quarters, and after he was sure that their interests aligned and that they were useful to one another, he told her she could have free reign of the ship to do as she pleased until they made landfall. 

 “No one on this vessel will harm you, love,” he assured her when she became bored of exploring his quarters, and she believed him immediately. 

 Maybe she was bothering him as he peered over his logs and maps and she tinkered with the exotic items he’s collected— perhaps that’s why he encouraged her to explore. Either way, she didn’t have to be told twice, and found out that the men aboard were surprisingly pleasant as well. Mr. Smee was a shy and timid man, but friendly and caring all the same. The rest of the crew wore snarls when they looked at her, but broke down easily the moment she began casual conversation with them. 

 Maybe it’s because they know how instrumental she is in their Captain getting his revenge. 

 As she leans against the rail of the upper deck after a day of learning about ships and pirating, she watches as the sun sets behind them, painting the sky an intoxicating shade of pink that fades into purple and black. Hook is at the wheel, navigating through the ocean that almost claimed her, and despite her situation, she feels safe. If she had to be dragged from the sea and rescued by pirates, she supposes she lucked out with the Jolly Roger.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it, love?” he asks her, and she turns to face him so she can respond. 

 “It’s beautiful.” 

 “Never been aboard a ship before, I take it?” he calls from the wheel, giving her a smirk at the look of wonderment on her face. 

 “Nope, never had much of a need to,” she responds as casually as she can.  

 “Or an opportunity?” 

 She laughs, a bit awkwardly, and says, “I guess not. It’s not something I've really thought about.”

 “I see,” he concedes when she gets closer to him, leaning against the rail just across from the wheel he commands. “So, tell me about your boy.” 

 She sighs wistfully and looks up to the sky, wondering what he could be up to, what he’s thinking, if he’s worried about her. “His name is Henry. He’s almost eleven, but he acts like he’s 32. Super smart, very passionate about the things and people he cares about.” 

 “Sounds like you,” he chuckles.

 “How would you know?” she asks with incredulity. 

 “You're an open book. And you did hold a knife to my throat yesterday. I can only attribute that to your passion and assume that you want to get home quite badly.” 

 “Of course I do,” she rolls her eyes, stepping closer to him until she’s leaning against the helm and glaring at him. “I’m his mother,” she insists. 

 He nods and says, “of course. But I sense that there’s more to the story.”

 Caught off guard, she answers, “well, just… he’s been through a lot. Especially in the past year.”

 “I see. And you don’t wish to contribute to his turmoil.” She shrugs, looking away from his gaze. “You don’t wish to contribute... further?”

 Her breathing falters at his accuracy and she says, “let’s just say I wasn’t always there for him in the way I should’ve been. He deserves better and I need to get home to make sure I can give him that.” 

 He nods thoughtfully, pursing his lips and looking ahead towards the horizon again, as if anything before them has changed in the last day and a half. “I understand, love.” It’s as if he shakes himself out of a trance when he says, “try your hand at the wheel?” 

 She raises her brows and gives him a disbelieving look. “After I just told you I’ve never even been on a ship?”

 “It’s not difficult to learn,” he tells her as he lifts his hand towards her, gently guiding her behind the wheel. “Besides, the Jolly is enchanted. You can’t hurt her.” 

 She snorts softly, shaking her head as he leads her and places her hand upon a handle, letting his fingers linger on the top of her hand for a moment too long. “How do you manage to get your ship enchanted?” she asks amorously once his fingers leave her skin, taking with them a feeling of gentle warmth.  

 “You know the right enchantress,” he flirts back, his mouth just a bit too close to her ear. She can almost feel his voice rumbling through his chest as it presses to her back, keeping her warm against the whipping winds of the sea. “There,” he says softly. “You're sailing.” 

 She laughs lightly, unaware of how exciting she actually found this until he put it to words. Seriously, she’s captaining a pirate ship! Henry is gonna be so excited when she tells him this story. “I guess I am,” she says happily. 

 “I think she likes you,” he says in a way that she knows isn’t a joke, despite how ridiculous it sounds.

 “Why, because she isn’t sinking?” 

 “Aye, she doesn’t always take kindly to strangers.”

 “And you let me do this?!”

 He laughs, but doesn’t respond with words, as if he knows he’s been caught. “I had a feeling.”

 They’re quiet for a moment, and while he’d dropped her hand and is letting her steer on her own, she notes that he doesn't back up and keeps her back pressed gently to him. “We’re going to get you home to him, love,” he murmurs into her ear, so softly that she can barely hear him over the sound of the wind. “I know-- well, I would wager that you have some experience with abandonment and… Well, I’m not going to let your boy go through that.” 

 She draws her brows together in thought, considering how perceptive he is, how well he seems to know her after such a short time. She turns around to face him, seeing just how close he truly is to her, and cocks her head. He reaches behind her to take control of the wheel, bringing himself even closer. “How do you know?” she asks. 

 His smile is small, sad. “I’m no stranger to a lost soul.” 

 “Are you accusing me of being a lost soul?” she asks in a tone as soft as his own. 

 “Perhaps I'm simply trying to tell you that I understand.” 

 With a hum, she says, “what are you saying, Captain? Are we kindred spirits?” 

 He cracks a brilliant smile, his eyes crinkling and glimmering in the moonlight, shining like the stars above them. “Aye, I suppose we are.”

 She’s so calm with him. It feels wrong to let herself relax into his hold, to let herself enjoy the feeling of his chest vibrating against hers as he speaks. She should be focusing on getting home, on getting to Henry and protecting him from Regina. Not fantasizing about a pirate she thought was fictional. 

 But then he leans closer to her, his hook on the wheel and his hand reaching up to cup her cheek, and she doesn't even try to stop herself from pressing onto her toes and capturing his lips in a slow yet chaste kiss. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss her back, and she feels warmth flitting through her and settling in the deepest depths of her center until he’s tangling his fingers in her hair and getting his rings caught in the strands.

 She breathes out a soft giggle at the sharp tug, pulling from him and attempting to detangle herself from him. “Apologies, my darling,” he practically purrs against her mouth. 

 “It’s okay,” she whispers, planting her forehead against his and trying to catch her breath. They had only kissed for a second, but their close proximity and the raw, ardent nature of his observations weigh heavily between them and she feels something. 

 He kisses her lips again, one, twice, three times, before saying, “time for dinner.” 

 She groans and rolls her eyes. “Not more of that tack shit is it?” 

 He laughs heartily and says, “tonight you’ll get some more jerked meat, darling. Perhaps some rum to chase it down.” 

 “I’d love some rum.” 

 With a smirk, he steps back slightly and reaches his hand into his coat, taking out a flask and passing it to her, but not before removing the cork with his teeth and popping it onto the ground. She takes it happily from him, smirking back and stuffing the feeling of warmth that traces through her as deeply as she can. 

 ~~~~

 The ship is enchanted in several ways, she realizes. Hook told her that it’s impossible to damage her, but she’s discovered other quirks as well. For one, it’s never cold. Not only is his cabin toasty warm, as if it’s well insulated, but  the rest of the ship is comfortable as well. For another, although it rained last night and the deck should have been slick, it was completely dry. And now, music is playing, and she can’t for the life of her find the source. 

 The wind is whipping but the lanterns stay lit, maybe another side effect of the enchantment, and the crew lounges happily on the deck, enjoying their rum and their opportunity to relax. Hook leans against the ladder that leads to the helm, and she can’t help but stare through her lashes at his confident posture as he laughs at the crewmen dancing wildly. 

 They shout boisterously as a slower, more romantic song replaces the shanties, laughing and hollering at their Captain until he stands and holds up his hands in defeat, shaking his head and smiling. She isn’t sure what they’re all talking about, but she’s excited to see him do what he seems so adamant to avoid. 

 That is, until he comes up to her and holds out his hand, offering her a small, shy smile in replacement of the smirk she was expecting. “Dance with me, Swan?” 

 “Dance with you?” she asks in outrage. “I can’t dance!” 

 “Aye, another thing you haven’t had the opportunity to learn, I’m sure, but I happen to be a brilliant teacher.” 

 “You’re ridiculous,” she accuses, although she can’t deny the grin splitting her face that matches his. “Are you saying you know how to dance to this?”

 He takes her hand with a salacious smirk and practically drags her to the middle of the deck, placing his own on her hip. “It’s called a waltz,” he tells her, “and there’s only one rule.” She feels a heat radiating off of herself that’s different from anything she’s felt before, as if a light is glowing from her skin and hair as he spins her. “Pick a partner who knows what they’re doing.” 

 She’s breathless, and every fear and worry she's had since she went through that damn portal has evaporated out of her pores and into the salty sea air. He holds her closer, likely forgoing the proper form they were practicing, and she melts into him. 

 “You’re glowing, darling,” he murmurs, his lips grazing against her ear lobe in a way that makes her shiver. She looks down at her hands and sees the soft golden glow he must be referring to and gasps, noting it fading. “Relax, love, it’s very fitting. I’m assuming this hasn’t ever happened in the Land Without Magic.”

 “No,” she says thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway until after—” She cuts herself off, careful not to reveal the truth; that Gold brought magic back to Storybrooke after the curse broke. Then she stops to think… is this magic?

 “After what?” he interrupts her thoughts.

 She clears her throat. “Uh, after I broke the curse.” 

 “The one the Queen cast? You broke it?” he asks, suddenly serious rather than warm and flirtatious. She wonders how he would’ve known about that, but figures he must’ve been a child when it was originally cast; maybe he remembers. 

 “Yeah.” She feels guilty lying to him. Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe she should just continue to savor the feeling of his hand running along her back as he pulls her closer. As much as she’s been enjoying their time together, she reminds herself that she needs him to get home, and she’ll need to do whatever it takes for their plan to take fruition. 

 ~~~~

 The next afternoon, Emma lounges in the Captain’s bed and reads one of the many diaries recounting his adventures. After they danced the night away, they came back to his room and she expressed interest in hearing about his journeys between kisses and soft touches. He stood and retrieved a leather bound book, handing it to her and telling her that she’s always welcome to his stories, and that he’ll happily tell her whatever she wants to know. She read until she fell asleep, with him sleeping soundly on the floor beside her, protectively positioned between her and the door.

 She knows she’s behaving ridiculously. She can’t possibly let whatever is going on between them continue once they make landfall. But it isn’t like she can accomplish anything while they’re out at sea, so she lets herself indulge in his soft lips and deep eyes and profound declarations in the meantime, making a promise to herself to let him go once they land. 

 She hears a commotion above deck and starts a bit, putting the book down on the bed and standing. Can pirates be attacked by other pirates? Certainly that’s a thing. She straightens the black linen shirt as she stands, the one Hook let her borrow while her clothes are being washed, tucking it more neatly into her jeans, and makes her way towards the door, pressing her ear to the wood and listening closely for trouble. She hears rustling and shouting, and her heart begins to race. It pounds harder in her chest when she hears a distinct set of footsteps making its way towards the door she’s pressed to. 

 When she hears the footsteps grow too close for comfort, she turns and presses her back to the door in hopes of blocking out an intruder. They try to push it open and grunt in surprise when it only moves a bit, and she plants her feet more firmly into the floor. Her panic subsides, though, when she hears a cocky chuckle. “Swan?” he calls through the door. “Are you playing hard to get?” 

 She breathes a sigh of relief when she hears his voice, moving from the door and carefully opening it just a crack to peek her head out. “What’s going on?” 

 He smirks, of course, and says, “We’re docking, love. What's the matter?” 

 “I thought… I dont know, I thought something was wrong.” 

 He shakes his head and squeezes by her to enter the room, shutting the door behind him and touching her arm gently. “Nothing’s wrong, darling. All is going to plan.” She doesn't miss the way his eyes trail down her body, slowly and obviously taking in the sight of her.

 “Stop looking at me like that,” she insists, pulling the shirt closed some more and hugging her body with her arms. 

 “I’m simply admiring the way my shirt fits you, Swan,” he smirks. “You wear it much better than I do.” 

 “Whatever,” she rolls her eyes. “What’s the plan?” 

 He chuckles and moves towards the table, stopping to pick up the book she was reading and putting it away. “The crew is docking us now, and then we’ll go to find the compass and then meet up with our colleague. Shouldn't be long before you're home.” 

 She nods, taking a calming breath at the anticipation of finally getting home. He’s told her the plan: they need to find a compass from a giant’s lair, but to do that, they first need to climb a beanstalk. She isn't sure what that will entail, and she isn't really excited to find out, but she’ll do what she has to to get back to her son. 

 Her shirt hasn’t dried yet. Hook packs it in his satchel so that she doesn’t leave it behind, but now she’s stuck wearing his flowy blouse with her jacket over top of it. He keeps checking her out, and she isn't sure how she feels about it. She ignores the blush and the heat that floods through her. 

 The port they landed at is fairly run down and not very heavily populated, which she thinks is a good thing-- she would stick out like a sore thumb in her jeans and leather jacket, but she sure as hell isn't hiking through a forest in one of those damn dresses. 

 They trek for hours, Hook filling the time with more stories that leave her with a sense of wanderlust. She grew up an orphan, traveling from foster home to foster home, and she always longed for a place to settle down. She’s never found herself wishing to travel the world, because she never had a home to come back to, but hearing his stories change things for her. 

 He’s an incredible storyteller. Sometimes it’s clear that he embellishes some events to make them more dramatic, but everything he tells her is the truth despite the fact that it sounds so unbelievable. It seems he’s spent years pillaging and plundering, and while she certainly can't condone all of his actions, it also seems like he’s spent much of his time enjoying the different realms he’s explored. He tells her so many stories that she isn't sure how he could fit all of these adventures into one lifetime. 

 “Can I ask you something?” she finally asks when she can make sense of his life no longer. 

 “Perhaps,” he smirks. 

 She carries on despite his playfulness. “How old are you?” 

 “Physically? Or literally?” 

 She snorts, bumping her shoulder against his at his joke, but falters when she realizes he isn't joking. She stares up at him, pausing her steps for a moment, and says, “uh, literally? I guess?” 

 “Around 250.” 

 “What?” she chokes. 

 He hums. “Aye, I’ve recently counted and I believe I’ve been on this plane for about 250 years.” 

 She’s speechless, blinking at him but unable to make her voice work. Shaking her head, she asks, “how?” 

 “Well, after my run in with the Dark One, I spent some time in Neverland. You see, the Dark One is immortal, so I needed to stay alive long enough to find a way to get my revenge. Once I found it, I came back for a few years, and then the most recent curse essentially paused time, so I didn't age again. So, I estimate around 250 years.”

 With her mouth still agape, she says, “I thought you were, like… 30.” 

 “Why thank you,” he smirks. “Physically, I’m around 36, I believe, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

 “So when the curse was cast, you were… the same age you are now?”

 “Is that not how it worked in the Land Without Magic? I was under the impression that time would stand still.” 

 She narrows her eyes, wondering how he heard such details about the curse, and managed to avoid it, but chalking it up to his piracy. “No, that’s how it worked.” 

 “And how old are you, then?” 

 “28,” she says without thinking, though perhaps she should have kept that a secret if she doesn’t want him to know that she’s the Savior. She can see the gears in his head turning, although he says nothing else and seeks no further clarification. 

 They spend the remainder of the trip talking about Neverland, which is apparently much different from how Barrie described. He tells her of the Lost Boys and how terrifying they were, even to a fearsome and relentless crew of pirates. While they walk, they encounter some branches in the path and he cuts them down, and she notices a tattoo on his inner forearm that catches her attention. 

 “Who’s Milah?” she asks, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the forest. 

 He stills but doesnt turn back towards her when he asks, “pardon?” 

 “Milah, on the tattoo?” 

 His shoulders fall and he clears his throat. “Someone from long ago.” 

 “Where is she?” 

 “She’s gone.” His tone is dismissive. Pained. 

 She thinks of the first day, once she was awake, when she explored his cabin in secret before she trusted him and found a sketch of a stunning woman with thick, curly hair and soft, kind eyes. “Gold,” she says as the pieces fall into place, and he turns to face her. “Rumplestiltskin. He took more than your hand from you, didn’t he?” she asks softly. “That’s why you want to kill him.” 

 She hasn’t seen him look this broken in the few days she’s known him. The timeline starts to put itself together in her mind and she realizes he’s spent almost 220 years lying in wait to avenge this woman’s death. “You're quite perceptive,” he finally says. 

 The guilt is eating away at her again. How can she go on with him, convinced he has a chance to kill the Dark One, when she knows how hurt he is? What kind of a person is she becoming? 

 One who will do anything for her son, she reminds herself. 

 They’re silent for the rest of the trek. 

 ~~~~

 She nearly slipped off the damn beanstalk. She wasn’t listening to him, his cocky attitude back in full force and irritating the hell out of her, so she grabbed a loose branch and it snapped. She plummeted, thought for certain she was going to die, until it stopped suddenly and he had his hook in the collar of her jacket. 

 “You should listen to your Captain,” he tells her, and she rolls her eyes, but internally she knows he’s right. He pulls her up close to him, pressing her front against the beanstalk and his body to her back. “Alright?” he asks, his lips brushing her ear.

 “I’m fine,” she responds, and she takes a shaky breath. 

 “Almost to the top, love,” he assures her, breaking away once she feels her shakiness subsiding. “Try that one,” he suggests, gesturing for a different handhold.

 When they reach the top, he pulls out his flask and she scoffs at his need for a drink, but then realizes she could use some herself. Only he isn’t using it for a drink, he’s taking her hand in his and saying, “let me help.” 

 “What are you--” she starts, and then he’s pouring the rum over a cut on her hand and she’s shouting at the sting. “What the hell!”

 “A bloody waste, I know. But I'll not have you losing a hand to infection.” 

 “Hook,” she starts, but he cuts her off. 

 “Haven't you learned to listen to your Captain, love?”

 She gives him an incredulous look, but when he raises his brows in quick succession, she can't help but to grin at him and roll her eyes. She’s about to say something snarky and brush him off, but then he’s wrapping her cut hand in a scarf and biting down on it so he can tighten it one-handed, not breaking eye contact with her. “Fuck,” she breathes at the sight, and then blushes fiercely. 

 He smirks and chuckles deeply, leaning in close to her and stealing a quick kiss before he places his hook on the small of her back and leads her to the castle's entrance. 

 “The last of the giants died ages ago, so we should be safe, save for any other intruders. All we have to do is find the compass and we’re homeward bound.”

 She finds it difficult to admit to herself how much fun she has as they dig through the treasure room, searching for the compass and joking around with each other as they do. Hook pilfers a few pieces of gold, but she can’t exactly blame him; he is a pirate, after all. He finds a small broach, a golden rose, and presents it to her with flair and grandeur, bowing deeply as he holds it out to her and kissing her hand when she accepts it. “You're ridiculous,” she accuses through a laugh. 

 They finally find the compass after what feels like hours, but the time passes painlessly. He helps her up onto the platform it sits on, humming amorously when her ass comes into his view, and she kicks his shoulder lightly with a laugh. 

 It’s as they’re wandering through the castle, slowly making their way back towards the beanstalk, when he says, “I must say, Swan, I’m looking forward to seeing where you spent the last 28 years,” and she feels that guilt bubbling up again. He isn’t excited to get to Storybrooke to kill Gold, he’s looking forward to seeing where she’s from. It makes her think of why he agreed to help her in the first place. It makes her think of his lost love, of Milah, and she feels as if she’s taking away his chance of avenging her. 

 “Hook,” she says hesitantly before they leave the treasure room. “There's something you need to know.” 

 “What’s that, love?” he asks gently, as if she can do no wrong, and the guilt is flooding her now. 

 She swallows thickly and takes a breath before admitting, “I know that you want to come with me to Storybrooke to kill Gold because you think there's no magic there, but… that isn't true.” 

 He stills, turning to face her fully and drawing his brows close together pensively, angrily. “There’s magic? In the Land Without Magic?” 

 She nods nervously. “After the curse broke, he brought magic back.”

 He scoffs, shaking his head and turning to pace in agitation. “Damn you, Regina,” he says under his breath. “And you knew, all this time?” 

 Her ears practically perk up, her heart starting to race again. “Did you say Regina?” 

 “Aye,” he practically spits. “The witch who said there would be no magic. Bloody charlatan.” 

 “What do you mean?” she asks, horrified to hear him talking about someone he shouldn't even know. 

 “I mean I was promised a land without magic in which to slay the bloody crocodile, and here you are telling me that isn’t the case. How am I meant to get my revenge now? Cora should've seen this coming. She bloody well knows her better than most.” 

 “Who the hell is Cora?” she asks firmly, backing away from him. “I thought that was the daughter of the lady you're working with?” 

 He runs his hand along his face and shakes his head. “I said Cora is the woman we’re working with. She’s looking for her daughter in your Storybrooke. Regina.” 

 She feels her face going white, her blood running cold and her eyes bugging out of her head. “Cora is… Regina’s mother? You know Regina?” 

 “Aye, bloody fraud has already betrayed me once,” he huffs, obviously still irritated. “I’m sorry, love, I don't mean to take out my frustrations on you, I just-- what are you doing?” 

 He notices her take the small dagger from the sheath he gave her earlier, pointing it at him and she holds the compass firmly in her other hand. “Don’t come any closer.” 

 “Swan? What are you doing?” She reaches behind her to tuck the compass in her back pocket; her sheriff’s pistol may have been damaged beyond repair by the ocean waves, but the cuffs are still fully functional. She takes in her surroundings quickly and then rushes to him, locking his wrist to the cage beside him without thinking her actions through and backing away. “What are you doing?!”

 “Hook, I…” she sighs. “I can’t--” 

 “Emma, look at me,” he insists. “Have I told you a lie?” 

 “You didn't tell me the truth; you’re working with Regina’s mother!”

 “How was I to know that was a problem for you?! I told you who we’re working with.”

 “Not really! Regina is dangerous, she wants to take Henry away from me! Do you know how bad it would be if her mother was there to help her?!” 

 “I will help you, Emma. You won't have to go through this alone; you won't abandon Henry like you were abandoned. Let me go and we can figure this out.” 

 “If Regina wanted me dead, Cora probably does too.” 

 “Wanted you dead?” he murmurs in thought. He cocks his head, confused, and ponders her claim. “Who are you?” 

 She shakes her head. “I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about you.” 

 “Swan,” he calls after her as she turns around. “Swan!” She feels her eyes burning as she goes towards the beanstalk, but doesn’t allow the tears to fall.

~~~~

~~~~

[living-in-the-state-of-dreaming]

Yandere! Minos Griffon: Head-cannons.

I’ve been wanting to do head-cannon’s for Minos for quite a while now, but the problem was I didn’t want to rush it and just spew out a bunch of head-cannons; because I didn’t think they’d be that great if I did that; but I watched the episode’s he was in again and with them in mind, I decided to write these. 

I hope you all enjoy these because I really love this series, The Lost Canvas specifically and I deeply believe that the characters in the anime, like Minos and, most especially, Alone, are not given enough attention. Plus I thought this would be a cool way for me to get back into writing since I haven’t written anything on here for a while. ^~^ 

Anyway, Please enjoy. ^~^ 

Warning: Due to the mentions of possibly adult subjects and dark and possibly triggering theme’s, this post is ONLY for those over the age of 18 only and not easily triggered. Minors please do not interact or read. Thank you. 

“ Entertain me won’t you? My beautiful puppet. “ 

As a judge of hell, Minos, the most sadistic and cruel of the three judges is one who delights in chaos simply because it brings entertainment for him--something that he has found increasingly difficult to find among his long life and otherwise boring duties as a Judge Of Hell-- but none more so than seeing someone or a multiple someone’s dance on the end of his cosmic strings to escape, no matter how futile that attempt may be. This only makes it all the more unfortunate for you when you happen to catch his attention, but it’s also something that at first inwardly shocks him when he finds himself interested and intrigued by a human, much less one without a cosmo.

Upon noticing this Minos will find it little more than laughable and you a passing interest who happened to catch his eye by chance when you, instead of cowering and begging for your life like the other humans, when your home was destroyed, instead stood up against him with defiance and resolve burning in your hues, how your lips curled up into a defiant snarl while you glared up at him with little intimidation and fear, regardless of how you knew he could easily kill you if he wished, despite your friends and family avidly advising you against it, something that was quickly met by anger by his men, who, outraged by your insulant tongue, quickly began moving towards you with the intent of silencing you. 

As much as he knows he should’ve simply allowed his men to kill you, he doesn’t and instead, with command clear and obvious in his voice, speaks against it, all while his gaze remains on you, his expression tinged with intrigue. Not giving any response to the confusion and surprise this causes in his men, Minos, silver eyes never leaving your face, approaches you, stopping only when he is standing directly in front of you. Primitively doing this as a test of sorts to see whether or not your courage and bravado would wither away once he stood before you, his intrigue only grows when it doesn’t, causing his eyes to narrow in amusement. Reaching out a hand of his, he takes a firm hold of your jaw amidst his cool, surplus clad hand and once he does, it’s only then that he sees the smallest hint of fear, by way he could feel your pulse quicken regardless of how that glare of defiance did not leave your eyes.

It’s then, while looking into your eyes and watching for any change of emotion, and listening to any change of pattern in your heart, like a griffon observing it’s next meal, that he comes to a decision: He won’t kill you. No. Destroying you would be too much of a waste, it would be too boring, instead, he’ll toy with you, play with you and see just how long it can take him to get fear to shine in those eyes of yours; until you're begging him for death. While he continues to hold your jaw in his grip, his lips curl into an anticipated smirk and before you can ask what he finds so amusing, his invisible strings are already wrapping themselves around your body, leaving you stunned for a long moment, due to knowing what that meant before your eyes shift back to that glare. The smirk remains, cruel and sadistic before his gaze returns to the people who had survived the onslaught he and his men had done, causing the town to be near rubble and when his gaze lands on one of your family members in particular, before glancing back at you, despite your best attempts to hide it, fear, more so for them, comes to you quickly, causing you to throw curses at him demanding he leaves them alone, to which he responds, the smirk still not leaving his expression and instead only growing as sadistic amusement dances on his tongue.

“ Whether I allow them to live or not is entirely up to you. Come with me like a good little doll, unless you want to watch as I break your friends and family right in front of you. “

It’s an amusement that only seems to be elongated upon noticing the way you deflate inside at hearing your family and friends beg the judge not to take you, including the ones who had shown courage and glares along with you but it’s a decision that you’ve already made, to keep them alive, despite how much you loathe the very idea. 

So beings your new ‘life’ although it is hardly what one would call life, stripped of your friends, your loved ones and your freedom, although Minos keeps you well-fed to keep his doll from death, the room that you are kept in at first is more so a dungeon than an actual room. Ensuring the comfort of a human is very low on the griffon's priorities after all and for a long while your sleeping arrangements will involve you sleeping on the cold floor with only your body heat to keep you warm at night. The most freedom you have is going to the toilet and bathing in the bathroom connected to your cell-like room and eating when he delivers you your food; anything else is off-limits to you to ensure no chance of escaping; and if you do try and escape, his punishments are cruel. One's which involve denying you clothes, or food until you beg him on your knees. Why he does this is simple, or at least, in his mind, as it’s to ensure you learn and accept your place as his doll and he, your master, one who gives you what you need to survive and can deprive you of them if you do not behave, it is all very dehumanizing, but a strategy that Minos believes essential, for his dear little puppet to learn proper obedience and it’s a method that slowly but surely works as, despite how much you tried to escape, defy and go against his wishes, the denial of basic human necessities atop of everything else quickly begins to eat away at your senses.

If he believes it necessary, Minos will not hesitate to break one or several of your bones with his Cosmic Marination, mostly to prove to you how powerless you are against him, or to escape him, before having those same bones mended and healed while you are unconscious, most likely due to having passed out due to the agonizing pain of the several broken bones. For a long while, Minos will purposely play and toy with you, giving you small tidbits of hope at escape, only to destroy them and then punish you for being foolish enough to believe such a thing. That this punishment is your fault. 

Yet despite how he enjoys knowing that he’s slowly breaking you down, a large part of Minos does not want to take that part of you away and have you become entirely submissive, at least, not entirely. Your courage and the will that burned in your eyes was what initially lured him to you, despite how he would never admit it, due to him being a rather prideful and arrogant man, like a certain god of death. To anyone who asks, be it his fellow judges, specters, or other gods, Minos will only shrug it off, referring to you as a means to keep him entertained, but he will never admit that his interest in you steams far beyond that of simple amusement, at least, now it does. His pride keeps him from admitting such a thing, but overtime you, his dear doll, have grown on him, very much in fact. Those moments where he will allow his fingertips to brush over your soft skin when he’ll thread his fingers through your soft, long hair; all while you're forced to sit atop his lap due to his strings; are moments that he has come to crave like the chaos that comes with every holy war. But that will be subject to change as his obsession with you, one that he will be in denial of for a large amount of time until the moment he finally accepts it, grows more and more.  

The strings will remain bound to you, but instead of you being kept in that cell-like room, you will now be kept in his private chambers, and due to how your rebellious nature and defiance has dwindled you’ll be given more freedom while you are inside of his room, but even then the threat that if you try to escape, he will hunt down and decimate your family as easily as he did your town, hangs over your head. You have no problems believing that to be true, especially with how keen he now seems to keep you by his side, often taking you to meetings he has with other judges solely to show you off. The means are cruel and sadistic, but it is one that, just like his initial treatment of you when he first brought you to the underworld, feeds into his sadistic side while also asserting his dominance once again, making it clear to you as to who the one in control is, despite his….Ill-advised but growing infatuation with you. 

How he will show you off will defer in two ways depending on whether or not you misbehave or behave. One is dressing you nicely, something that he can easily do given his authority and position as a Judge Of Hell, one of his arms being around your waist as he sits there with a satisfied and smug smirk, mentioning just how lovely you look, to both you and the other judges and the other is a far more inhuman way. Despite how he may find your stubbornness and defiance cute, Minos’s patience is not immune to coming to a grinding halt if he believes punishment is order and he will strip you of all your clothes, put a collar around your neck, and have you sit on his lap as punishment, the only thing that makes it less horrible is the fact that he sits you in a way no one can see the flower between your legs, only to whisper in your ear as you bury your face into his neck from shame and embarrassment, while his fingers thread through your hair. It is a means that quickly puts an end to any misbehavior; as you know, he can get quite creative with how he uses those strings of his.

This way of showing you off is one that is only given more cause by the irritating and annoyance he will feel; if he believes that you are acting ungrateful, especially with how kind he is now, or trying to, be to you. Letting you sleep not only in his room but also in his bed while ensuring your comfort while seeing to your needs and going out of his way to ensure that you had something to eat, instead of giving you food from the underworld. Things he would never even consider doing had you just been another human. During these kinds of displays, although you only see them as what they are, a type of punishment, your only relief is how he has yet to act on the desire you see whenever he looks at you in such a vulnerable and submissive state. Although you wonder how long it will be until that happens, despite how Minos has said, time and time again, that he’ll wait until you come to him.

If any of the specters that he commands show an interest in you, he will not be happy, but will simply give off a remark saying that it would be best if they’re interests lay elsewhere, but if that specter persists Minos has no problems putting that fool in his place. If the fool still does not get it and tries to so much as touch you, Minos’s strings will wrap around that specter's neck and snap it in half faster than you can say hell. You are his doll after all and the judge of hell does not take lightly to anyone, specter or human, trying to take what he now believes is his. 

“ You’re always so lovely when you dance for me. “

[cha-melodius]

The Definition of Madness Chapter 1

Whumptober No. 22: Drugged

Fandom: The Man from UNCLE (2015)

Pairings: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo & Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller

Summary: They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

Or, Illya gets stuck in a very whumpy time loop.

Ao3 Link

*****

You're ready for a new round Don't it look like it's gonna be fun, be fun Up from the floor on the count of ten Oh you get up, you get down and you try it again

“Fuck!”

Illya sits bolt-upright in his bed at the safehouse, and it’s barely another heartbeat before he has his gun in his hand and is ripping open the door to his bedroom. Have they been discovered? Is the safehouse compromised? Are they being attacked?

Instead he finds Napoleon in the kitchen muttering a litany of colorful swears under his breath as he holds his left hand under the tap. Gaby joins Illya in the doorway only moments later, the expression on her face a somewhat odd mix of concern and irritation.

“I take it we’re not being attacked?” she asks through a yawn, pushing errant strands of hair out of her face.

Napoleon looks up at them and winces, looking almost sheepish. “Ah, no. I didn’t expect the handle of that pan to be that hot.”

“Hmph,” Gaby huffs, then immediately turns around to return to her room.

“You had to be up anyway!” Napoleon calls after her, but whatever she grumbles back is unintelligible.

Illya steps closer to the sink and sees an angry red welt on Napoleon’s palm. His partner hisses softly as the cool water splashes over the burn, and Illya moves past him to the freezer, which has thankfully been stocked.

“You don’t make a very good alarm clock, Cowboy,” Illya says as he hands him a bag of frozen vegetables.

“So very sorry about that, Peril,” Napoleon bites out sarcastically. He squeezes his eyes shut, mumbling under his breath when he presses the makeshift ice pack to his hand. “God damn cheap pans without properly insulated handles.”

Humming softly at Napoleon’s grumbling, Illya goes to get the medical supplies that typically only come out after a job, thank you very much. There’s some burn cream inside, he knows, and he tosses the whole thing at Napoleon, who just manages to catch it with his uninjured hand.

“Better not have to save your ass today because of that,” Illya mutters at him before he goes to get himself ready. He’s already dressed, because he tends to sleep fully clothed before missions, but he still needs to gather the rest of his tactical gear and weapons. Plus, he really doesn’t want to listen to Napoleon complain, which is currently what he’s doing based on the curses drifting in from the next room.

By the time he reemerges Napoleon is still fumbling with gauze as he tries to bandage the wound one-handed. For a moment Illya considers going over to assist him, but then he seems to have actually gotten it anyway as he rips the medical tape with his teeth and shoves everything else back into the bag.

“Wouldn’t want you to actually help,” Napoleon accuses, glaring at him.

Illya just shrugs. “You seem to have done fine.”

Napoleon narrows his eyes at Illya and huffs, but he’s caught: either he protests this statement and admits that no, he did need Illya’s help, or he accepts the backhanded compliment and tacitly admits that Illya was right. Illya just manages to suppress a smug smirk, but only because he’d actually like to eat some of the omlet that Napoleon put together that morning.

Sure enough, Napoleon grabs the offending pan (with an oven mitt this time, Illya notes) and divides the eggs inside into three portions, then wordlessly pushes one of the plates across the counter toward Illya. They eat in silence, standing at the counter, while Gaby bangs around in the other part of the safehouse. Illya watches out of the corner of his eye as Napoleon flexes his hand experimentally, wincing as he does.

It’s definitely not a good development. Illya considers suggesting that they put the mission off for a few days, or that Napoleon hang behind, but he knows that neither will go over well. Napoleon is as stubborn as anyone Illya has ever known—the way he pushed himself to the limit almost immediately after coming out of Rudy’s chair had driven that home early in their working relationship—and he will certainly dismiss a small burn on his non-dominant hand as trivial.

Besides, he doesn’t need to say anything. When Gaby finally reappears she’s wearing her own tactical gear and a surly frown. “Don’t you think you should probably stay back today?” she asks Napoleon.

“What?” he answers, looking confused, like he’s already forgotten about the injury. She looks pointedly at his bandaged hand, and he waves her off. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. I’ve worked through much worse.”

Gaby looks skeptical, but she, too, knows that it’s not worth arguing with him about. Instead she eats her portion of the eggs, still frowning as Napoleon leaves the kitchen to finalize his own preparations for the mission.

“You’re ok with this?” she asks Illya.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “But he’s not going to listen to me.”

Gaby tilts her head, giving him a shrewd look he doesn’t really understand. “He might.”

“He won’t,” Illya insists. They stare at each other for a moment, and Illya has the uncomfortable feeling that she is evaluating him in some way. “If he says he can work through it, I trust him. I trust him not to endanger the mission or our lives.”

These are words he could not have imagined speaking only a year ago, but spending that much time with someone, and trusting them with your life as many times as he has, certainly changes your perspective.

“What about his own?” Gaby asks, arcing a brow at him quizzically.

Illya doesn’t have an answer to that question

The compound they’re infiltrating is halfway up a mountain with only a single, narrow road leading to it, so they have no choice but to approach overground. The climb takes all day, and Illya would find it all surprisingly pleasant—it’s a beautiful day, and the views are stunning—if it weren’t for the fact that he knows at the end of it they’ll be walking into a highly dangerous situation. Dusk is just beginning to fall when they approach the fencing around the sector they’ve identified as the best access point. Illya’s CO2 laser makes short work of the chain link, and they slip inside without tripping any alarms.

It’s far more deserted than they expected, which should be a good thing but instead just makes a sense of unease settle into Illya’s bones. But there’s no way their targets could know that UNCLE was coming, no way they could have seen the team’s approach. It is more likely that they’re just overly confident in their mountain fortress, such as it were, and not expecting the infiltration.

At least, this is what Illya keeps telling himself as they make their way deeper into the compound, and his feelings of disquiet only grow.

The plan was to split up—the compound is huge, and they have only a vague idea of where the data they are looking for might be kept—and there’s no way to change that now. They pause at the chosen rally point and nod silently to each other, and then Illya’s partners fade into the darkness surrounding them.

Right. Search his sector, back to the rally point in 30 minutes. 

He should have turned around the minute he found a buildng inexplicably sitting where none had been marked on the map. He should have turned around when his nose had been assulted by harsh chemical odors the moment he slipped inside. He should definitely have turned around when his vision started going just a bit fuzzy and his hearing dulled like there was cotton in his ears.

But the building seems empty, and if their targets are working on chemical weapons UNCLE needs to know, and so he does not turn around until he hears a soft tread behind him.

The man standing there regards him curiously, like he’s not alarmed at all to find a giant, heavily armed, Russian spy in his facility. Dimly, Illya thinks he knows why. He can feel his grip loosening on his rifle, can feel himself slowing until it feels unmistakably like he’s moving through some kind of thick porridge.

“Intriguing,” the man says, and his voice sounds like it is coming from a great distance.

Illya wonders how he’s not affected by whatever is hanging in the air, clogging Illya’s lungs and making it increasingly difficult to breathe. He knows he needs to move, to get out of here, to get back to the rally point and try to warn his team, but it is becoming obvious that it’s going to be impossible. At least he can hope that by distracting them here, Napoleon and Gaby can get out.

“Go collect the others,” the man tells someone that seems to be just outside of Illya’s field of view. “We may need them for leverage.”

Someone tugs the rifle out of Illya’s hands, then pulls his wrists together and binds them roughly behind his back. A moment later his legs are kicked savagely from behind and he lands hard on his knees on the concrete floor, but the pain only manages to be a dull throb through the fog in his mind. His vision continues to narrow until all he can see is the man standing in front of him, silhouetted by a blinding white light pouring through an open door. Then the light is blocked in part by more figures coming through it, and oh, no, it cannot be.

Surely they did not get the drop on both of his partners. Surely this is some kind of hallucination.

With one, final burst of strength, Illya struggles futiliy against the bindings and feels the rope dig sharply into his wrists. It’s no good. He bends forward, gasping for breath in air that feels as thick as pea soup, and blacks out.

Next Chapter

[snakeboistan]

‘Cause You Had A Bad Day (You’re Taking One Down)

AKA: A Nagisa-Centric Sick Fic

Pairing: Nagisa x 3-E (platonic)

Today was not Nagisa’s day. Not at all.

It all started when he woke up that morning feeling like he had been hit by a freight train that was coming at him at full speed. Groggily, he blinked open his eyes to find his forehead covered in a glistening sheen of sweat covering his forehead and a giant boulder that he could not see had him pinned down onto his bed. With strenuous effort, he had rolled over, planted his feet onto his bedroom floor and clutched onto his bedside table to help him stand up - and then almost fell over backwards because of how his head spun from the movement. He had dragged his feet towards his bathroom and his reflection in the mirror above the sink would’ve made him gasp if it weren’t for the woodpecker drilling in his cranium and the raw scratchiness of his throat. His normally porcelain white face was flushed pink and his eyes lacked their usual brightness. Oh god, of all days for him to get a fever, it had to be on the day they had an English test. Well, at least it was Friday so he’ll have the whole weekend to sleep it off. He was then overcome by a feeling of dread as he threw himself before his commode, retching and emptying out the contents of his stomach - which already felt unnaturally empty to begin with. Groaning in despair, he fumbled an arm above him to flush the toilet and flip down the lid so that he could rest his head on it’s cooler surface as he breathed deeply.

‘This is the worst,’ he lamented, noticing how his body was currently shivering despite the heat of the early morning sun, ‘completely defeated by a stupid fever. And I’m supposed to be a trained assassin. How the hell am I supposed to kill Koro-Sensei if I can’t even stand up properly or think straight.’ With a hefty sigh, he pushed himself upwards, blinking rapidly as he waved his arms about to steady his shaking legs. ‘I bet Karasuma-Sensei doesn’t let something as small as an illness stop him from doing what he does. That man has like no chinks at all. I can’t afford to skip, not with my grades. If I don’t want to let him and everyone else down, I’ve got to act as normally as possible. I’ll be a liability if my sickness drags me down and the last thing I want is to burden my classmates. An assassin should be able to overcome anything and shouldn’t get in the way so that’s what I’ll do. Hopefully, it’ll get better later.’

Once he had dressed himself in his usual school clothes and tied his hair into his usual pigtails, he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed off to school, choosing to skip breakfast and not pack himself lunch with the hope that the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach would die down if he didn’t eat anything. What followed was what Nagisa would describe as the worst walk to school he had ever undergone in his entire life: his throat was dry, tongue parched, body weak and every noise he heard only amplified the throbbing in his head. His insulating clothing felt suffocating, his black tie practically holding his neck in a choke hold, and he knew the heat he felt radiating off of him wasn’t due to the fact that it was nearing summer. 

“Hey, Nagisa,” Sugino called, somehow materialising out of nothing, “what’s up.”

Nagisa tried not to jump from shock. Normally he would’ve been able to hear his best friend from a mile away, would’ve been able to discern the tell-tale thuds of the taller boy’s favourite sneakers against the concrete and sense his presence before he could’ve said a word. It was common knowledge in their so-called ‘Assassination Classroom’ that sneaking up on Nagisa is about as difficult as getting Fuwa to go twenty-four hours without referencing a manga - his ability to observe his surroundings and everyone in them was one of the few things he was actually good at. To make up for his current lack of observational skills and his tinted complexion he hastily threw on a smile and greeted, “Oh, hey Sugino. Nothing much. How are you.”

Sugino narrowed his eyes at the shorter boy as Nagisa mentally congratulated himself for stringing those words out coherently. With a raised eyebrow, he replied slowly, “I’m fine, thanks. Are - are you okay, dude.”

“Of course I am,” he laughed, somewhat nervously, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look a bit… tired.”

“I am,” he sighed, “I stayed up a bit late to study for that test we have today. I guess I was kind of pushing it with my sleeping hours, huh.”

Sugino looked at him for a second before stating, “sure.”

Sensing that Sugino was going to probe into something that he really didn’t want to discuss right now (or ever), he continued, “hopefully I studied enough. I mean English is my best subject so I’m hoping for at least an eighty-five percent.”

The sceptical look was washed off of his best friend’s face as his features softened into the usual fond smile he wears around the bluenette, “I’m sure you’ll ace it, man. I know how hard you work. You’ve just got to watch out for those spelling errors, right.”

“Right,” Nagisa echoed with a half-authentic grin, whilst in his mind he castigated, ‘you can’t let your guard down like that, idiot. You saw the way Sugino looked at you. You’ve got to get better at hiding this before you inconvenience the entire class and mess up their day. God, mom was right - I really am a burden. Just spend the rest of the day like nothing’s wrong and hopefully this will go down.’

Unfortunately for him, his pain only got worse and every step up the E-Class mountain made him feel like his calf bones were being split open. It was a considerable effort for him to remain upright as he conversed with Sugino, and his sweat-slicken body made his shirt stick to his skin in the most uncomfortable way possible. His muscles were screaming at him, begging him to stop what he was doing and to just collapse into a heap on the forest floor but he continued to trudge along the path towards the classroom at the top. He could do this. He’s used to hiding his emotions. He’s spent years mastering the art of concealing what he truly felt, surely he could last seven hours - even if they were under the watchful eye of a superpowered octopus, a government agent, one of the world’s top assassins and twenty-six assassins in training.

Upon entering the classroom, he gave his usual greetings, whilst narrowly avoiding any direct contact with any of his classmates lest they feel his unnaturally high body temperature, before slumping onto his seat.

“Hiya, Nagisa,” Kayano chirped, as bubbly as always, “how are you doing?”

Nagisa looked up and hoped that the weak smile he gave her did not resemble a grimace at all, “I’m fine, thanks. How are-”

He was interrupted by a smooth voice, “you sure about that, Nagisa? ‘Cause you’re looking a little on the red side.”

He swiveled his head around and immediately regretted that particular action as his migraine worsened. Karma, who was standing next to Kayano on the adjacent side of his desk, had on his signature smirk but the look in his eyes was calculating. He huffed out a laugh, “I’m fine, Karma.”

“Really?” the redhead raised an eyebrow, “because you look like the walking dead.”

“I just didn’t get enough sleep last night, that’s all,” Nagisa argued, tone a tad bit on the defensive side, “I was so caught up in studying for today’s test that I only got like five hours.”

“That’s not good, Nagisa,” Kayano admonished with a gasp, “you need to take better care of yourself, you know. Studying is important but so is your health.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nagisa mumbled with his head down.

Great, it’s only been like two minutes and I’m already making them worry.

“Besides,” Nakamura chimed in with a grin, “you’re great at English. You were one mark away from me in the last test we took so you shouldn’t worry so badly.”

“That’s what I told him,” Sugino said, “but he’s Nagisa. He just has to worry about something.”

They all traded fond looks as Nagisa let out nervous chuckles. It was then that his stomach constricted sharply. He quickly excused himself with a squeak of ‘bathroom’ before fleeing the classroom, unaware of the narrowed golden eyes that followed him.

Once he was locked within the cubicle of the building’s lavatory, he was quick to once again empty out the contents of his stomach, thanking every deity out there that he arrived early so his discordant gagging wouldn’t have been heard by their teacher with his enhanced senses. It was then a lightbulb when off in his head as he mentally slammed a palm against his forehead. Zipping open his schoolbag, he fumbled inside before drawing out a bright red first aid kit. With a sigh of relief, he opened it and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen but then his hope dissipated when he capsized it to find it empty. Oh, right, he gave the last few pills to Okano the other day when she was complaining about her menstrual cramps and he forgot to go to the pharmacy to buy more. ‘Dammit, Shiota. What if someone else needed those. Your classmates could be in pain and you would’ve been useless in helping them.’ Despairing at his fate, he flushed, got up, washed his hands and made his way back to his classroom, wrapping his arms around himself to hide his shivering.

Entering the room again, he was met with concerned looks from his peers. Giving them a comforting smile, he walked as confidently as he could with the little energy he had back to his desk, ignoring the eyes that he felt on him. Luckily for him, before anyone could speak, they all felt a gush of wind whoosh through the classroom and in a blink of an eye, their homeroom teacher stood before them.

“Good morning, students,” he called out cheerfully, “I hope you all are ready for your test today. I know that it’s the last day of the week but I’m sure that each of you will be able to power through. Now, I can see that everyone is present but why don’t I take the register anyways as you boys and girls try to kill me, alright? It will be a perfect warm-up exercise to get you all pumped for the day.”

And with that, their class’ school day began as it always does; with Koro-Sensei holding the register and calling out names whilst dodging bullets at Mach 20. Even in extreme agony and lethargy, Nagisa could only find amusement in that as he aimed and fired, whilst simultaneously doing all he could to not let the abnormally heavy gun slip from his grasp. When roll call was over, he could only tell that his fever was getting worse as he was hunching down to grab the stray anti-sensei bbs that lay littered on the floor. He knew that he should probably tell Koro-Sensei that he wasn’t feeling well, that he could use some medicine that he knew that the octopus could get in less than a nano-second but doing so would draw attention and alert the others and then everyone will know how weak he is, how he can’t handle his own immune system, how he is unfit to be an assassin. Or even worse, they’ll be concerned;  they’ll fret and worry over him and lose focus, make mistakes that could cost them, their billion dollar yen and the fate of the Earth. He could ruin everything. So it’s best to keep quiet. Even when his throbbing head feels like shutting down and his skin is on fire and there's enough sweat covering his body to water the tulips in the E-Class garden.

Fortunately, he was able to complete the test to the best of his ability. It was a comprehension assessment and it wasn’t too challenging for him, which was good because he was able to put more effort in keeping his head up than he planned to. Unfortunately, however, his theory of the fever getting better was horribly horribly wrong. If anything, it became worse, if that was even possible: His stomach twisted sporadically every time he took a breath, the cave of his mouth and the empty vessel of his oesophagus stung like they had been rubbed raw and so every painful swallow only increased their pleas for water (he had finished his bottle and he was not going to be asking to borrow anyone else’s), he could feel the build-up of perspiration along the outline of his shirt under his arms (he was so glad that he wore a dark waistcoat to school) and he could see the way his hands would shake no matter how hard he tried to suppress them. It was already the second period of his five-period school day and so all he had to do was last three more lessons and he can go home and hibernate for the rest of the week. He had no idea how he was going to survive Physical Education with the military training exercises that Karasuma had them doing for the past three days. He hoped and prayed that they wouldn't be sparing because that would require contact and fast moves and there’s no way he’d be able to hide anything then.

He didn’t have to wait that long, however, because he was found out by period three.

After spending their break acting as normal as possible without drawing attention to the way every single cell inside him ached and groaned as well as the fact that he was without his usual breaktime snack, he walked into the classroom, ready for their science lesson. Today they were going to do a practical (something about reactions or something, honestly he couldn’t concentrate at all at this moment because his mind was so hazy and he was currently too busy trying not to cry). He turned to Sugino, his regular partner in science, before Karma swiftly walked in between them.

“Yo, Nagisa,” he said, “wanna be partners.”

Nagisa blinked at him before looking around him to meet Sugino’s eyes. The baseball lover only shrugged and then walked away to pair up with Kanzaki. With the way he and the redhead shared eye contact as he left, Nagisa was sure that the two of them were planning something for once the twisting of his gut was not due to his current affliction.

“Uhh, sure,” Nagisa agreed, half because he has a problem with saying no and half because he was sure that even if he did refuse, Karma would still pair up with him anyway.

“Great,” the taller boy grinned.

As soon as the class had set up the apparatus and began their experiment his conjecture was confirmed as Karma had stated, “so what’s with you?”

Nagisa almost dropped the textbook he was holding, “huh.”

The other boy scoffed, “don’t play dumb, Nagisa. There’s something wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong, Karma.”

“Oh really. Then explain why you didn’t eat anything during break today-”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“-Or why you look like you’re about to keel over any second.”

“I told you. I stayed up too late.”

“- Or what that little trip to the bathroom was for.”

“I had to use the bathroom like any other normal person. I didn’t realise that I had to tell you the purpose of everywhere I go. And what’s with all of the questions?” Nagisa didn’t mean to sound so defensive or snappy, not to one of his best friends who he knows is only looking out for him. He knows that that’s how Karma is; whilst Nagisa approaches problems with caution and care, the redhead goes on with a complete offensive attack - assaulting with blunt words and hard facts to break you down. He doesn’t believe in the roundabout way, he’s always direct and wants things done at the time. His ability to get what he wants is one of the qualities in the other boy that Nagisa admired, but right now it was a pain in the neck. He felt cornered and trapped and something inside him, the viper he could feel curling around in his unconscious, was ready to lash out and bite and that’s the last thing he wanted.

“Hey, no need for that tone,” Karma held up his hands, “I was just asking. There’s no harm in that, right.”

Nagisa let out a sigh, “you’re right. I’m sorry for snapping. It’s just that I really just want to get on with this.”

“I still think you’re hiding something.”

“Karma, I’m trying to read the instructions. You’re kind of distracting me.” (it’s not like he was able to read the words anyway, they all seemed to blur into one big smudge of dancing black on the page)

“Why can’t you just say what’s wrong. What’s the big deal.”

“Karma.”

“Just go ahead and say it, Nagisa. What are you so afraid of.”

“I - I,” he sighed wearily, dropping his shoulders, “I should get another test tube. We’re missing one for the experiment.”

“Nagisa,” he could hear Karma calling him but he ignored it as he speed walked to the front desk to grab another piece of apparatus. It was on his way back that he could feel his stomach give a lurch. His heart was racing as the pain in his head had reached a new intensity. His stomach dropped and he felt apprehension crash over him.

‘Oh no,’ he thought as his hands began to shake.

His surroundings started to lose focus. The floor was swaying under his feet.

No, no. Not now. Not in front of everyone. 

His head felt light. So so very light.

‘Come on Nagisa, one more step,’ he urged before his eyes rolled. He could faintly hear the sound of glass breaking and horrified shouts of his name before the world went dark.

…..

The first thing Nagisa noticed when he came to was that this was not his bedroom. His eyes opened after steady blinks, and the first thing he found himself facing was a blur of different colours that he was sure didn’t belong in his house. Once his eyes adjusted themselves and focused properly, he recognised it as a notice board with lots of paper pinned onto the multicoloured backdrop. Then he realised that his forehead was covered with cold water, probably from the ice pack that he found lying on the floor next to him. It was when he heard the soft clicks of a computer’s keyboard that he registered that he was in the teachers’ lounge. With a gasp, he sat up on the row of chairs that had been pushed together to form a makeshift bed, the softness under his palms made him realise that a pile of blankets were thrown on to make him more comfortable. Karasuma, who was the one that was using the computer, turned around on his chair to face him.

“Nagisa, you’re up. How are you doing,” he asked as he stood up and walked towards him with a bottle of water, “we were all very worried.”

“Uhh,” was his coherent reply.

“Here, this will make you feel better,” the man said, holding out the bottle as well as a small white tablet. When Nagisa reached out to grab them, he found that his right hand was wrapped around in a bandage. He blinked at it in shock, “when you fainted, your hand landed on some glass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll inform your classmates and the target that you’re up and I’ll be right back.”

Nagisa watched as Karasuma left, and continued to observe the door for a few seconds before looking down at the uncapped bottle. He threw his head back and downed it hurriedly, yearning to relieve the pain in his throat. It didn’t do much since he still felt like just begging god to just finish the job and get it over and done with but he appreciated it regardless.

“OH NAGISA, I WAS SO WORRIED!” Koro-Sensei wailed as he appeared before him with medicine boxes, books on fevers, and five bottles of water, “WHAT A TERRIBLE SENSEI I AM TO BE UNAWARE OF MY STUDENT’S SUFFERING. THE SHAME. AH, I HOPE YOU CAN FORGIVE ME FOR BEING SO CARELESS.”

“Koro-Sensei, please,” Nagisa said, “it’s not your fault. I was hiding it because I didn't want anyone to know.”

“Bu-but why,” his teacher asked, sniffling, “as your teacher, it’s important for me to be aware if you’re not feeling well. OR AM I NOT APPROACHABLE ENOUGH FOR YOU TO UNLOAD YOUR WORRIES?”

“No, no,” he replied quickly, “I just - I just don’t like people knowing when I’m not feeling well, that’s all.”

The octopus paused. Slowly he said, “why’s that Nagisa? Do you think that your classmates will treat you any differently if they knew?”

Nagisa looked down and mumbled, “it’s - it’s just that. Well, we’re supposed to be assassins, Sir. I don’t think trained killers let themselves fall back just because they’re not well.”

“Nagisa,” Koro-Sensei’s voice was stern but still held his kind and gentle tone, “you are a valuable member of this class. Every single one of your peers consider you an asset, an ally and a friend. We all look after each other here. We are all striving towards the same goal. Together. As students and as assassins, an important aspect of life is to be able to work as a team. To carry on through your strongest and lift each other up at your weakest. I see you looking out for others. Why won’t you let others look out for you?”

“I just didn’t want to be a burden, “ Nagisa whispered, “I thought I could deal with it.”

“Nagisa, you are not a burden. You have a burden. A burden that you have no need to carry on our own. I know this may seem difficult to you, but please: next time you find yourself in a situation where you can ask for help, don’t be afraid to.”

Nagisa looked up and despite the wide smile on his teacher’s face, he knew that the octopus was serious. He nodded.

“Wonderful,” Koro-Sensei beamed and clapped his hands, “now, I’m sure that the others would want to see you so I’m not going to keep them waiting any longer.”

“About time,” Karma said as he walked in.

“Were you there the whole time?” Nagisa asked as Koro-Sensei gasped theatrically.

“Karma, I thought I told you to wait in the classroom.”

“I know,” Karma smirked, pulling up a chair and sitting on it, “but the thing is that I didn’t want to.”

“WHY DO YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!?”

“Uhh, Sir?” Nakamura popped her head in, “are you going to leave or not because the rest of us are waiting.”

With a cry of despair, the teacher left the room. Nagisa turned to face Karma.

“I-,” 

“You okay,” Karma asked, cutting through the apology that Nagisa had at his throat, “and don’t you dare lie.”

“I’ve been better.”

“God, Nagisa. Why did you try to hide this? You scared the c**p out of everyone. It would've been funny to see Terasaka lose his s*** if it weren’t for the fact that you were lying on the floor, bleeding and not responding to anyone. Did you know that you had a temperature of 40°C?”

“I’m sorry, Karma. I didn’t want everyone to freak out, I swear, that’s kind of the reason why I didn’t tell you guys anything. I just -” he was cut off as his migraine increased and his stomach flipped. His wince and groan of agony made Karma’s eyebrows furrow.

“You good? Do you want to rest more?”

“I - yeah. I think that might be best.”

“Alright then,” Karma pulled out his phone and began scrolling through it, “rest all you want. I’ll make sure no one comes to bother you.”

…

The rest of the day continued with his classmates coming to check on him, even after school was over: Sugaya had made an A3 sized get well soon card and the entire class had signed it, Fuwa decided to help him go to sleep by reading a manga to him like a bedtime story, Sugino and Kayano berated him for hiding his illness before hugging him, Hara offered him some soup to help him feel better, Hazama offered to use a spell to ‘expel the sickness and other evil entities’ from his body (he was quick to decline that), most of the girls were fussing and doting over their ‘kind of little brother’ and were quick to do whatever he wanted to help him get better (especially Yada, who actually had experience with looking after her sick younger brother) whilst the boys tried to cheer him up with funny anecdotes. When it was time to return home, Karma and Sugino took turns in carrying him down the mountain and to his apartment (ignoring his protests and reminders that they would get sick), even going as far as to tuck him in and place a bottle of ibuprofen on the bedside table. They left with promises of returning the next day to make sure that he was taking care of himself and as they did, Nagisa couldn’t help but be glad that he had such loving classmates.

[letsbenditlikebennett]

Big Sad Wolf || Grace & Ariana

TIMING: October 7th PARTIES: @silveraccent & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: Ariana tries to sneakily drop some food off for Grace without being noticed. She is in fact noticed and wholesome times are had. 

Even if it had been of her own free will, Ariana found confining herself to be alone in her apartment made her restless. While her energy seemed to waver, she did crave the company she was so used to having and found the self induced loneliness only made her grief more unbearable. As much as deserved. It was her fault Sammy was dead after all. It still felt strange knowing his real name, especially having found it out so cruelly from Lydia, but this was her cross to bear. Still, she felt the need to do something. Everything in her apartment felt impossibly still, so she’d found herself cooking entirely too much food. Food she wasn’t even hungry to eat. Her mind drifted to Grace who was still in the hospital. Maybe she could sneakily drop some food off and then race back home before Grace ever knew she was there. She didn’t deserve the comfort that Grace’s company would provide she’d simply drop it off and remain out of sight. Hospital food sucked and Grace should have a proper meal. That’s what she kept telling herself on the drive to the hospital anyway. Once she finally arrived, she felt her palms grow sweaty and her heart racing in her chest. She could do this. Sneak in quietly, leave the insulated lunch pack filled with homemade stirfry by her door, and quickly run off. She repeated the plan in her head over and over, even as she sheepishly checked in with security at the front of the hospital. Her steps had been quiet when she walked in the room, but she happened to set the food down just as Grace looked her way. “I uh,” she said as she looked down at the food, unable to look anyone in the eye just yet, “I was just dropping off some proper food. I can-- you know. You need rest, I’m sure.” 

Considering everything that had happened, Grace was terrified to be alone. It was odd, she thought. The hospital of all places-- one of the worst places for somebody like her to be trapped in. It brought more comfort than discomfort, and maybe it was because she didn’t have to think, didn’t have to sit alone with her thoughts. There was the constant chatter of the nurses just outside of her room, the doctors in and out that often examined her wounds. The television that was mounted on the wall, finally turned to a channel that Grace recognized. Out of all of the places that Grace typically hated to be, she was finding it to be particularly homelike. At the hospital, it meant Dr Kavanagh couldn’t show up-- she wouldn’t show her face, would she? Wasn’t she considered a missing person by the newspaper? Grace had gotten lost in her thoughts plenty of times, and it wasn’t until she noticed somebody out of the corner of her eye that she turned to look. She was surprised to see Ariana standing in the doorway, food in her hands. She had pushed Cece out, had tried to unsuccessfully push Kaden out. Though, Ari’s devastation and guilt hit Grace like a freight train. About what, she thought? Grace forced the discomfort of company and forced a smile before she spoke, maybe a little too loudly, she couldn’t be sure at this point, “No, you’re fine, come in.” Grace knew better than to ask if she were okay, she could feel that there was nothing remotely okay with her new friend. Grace smoothed her tongue over the healing bite mark she had left on the inside of her cheek before she spoke again, “Everyone loves to cook suddenly, don’t they?” She offered the girl a reassuring smile. 

Panic crept over her as Grace invited her into the room. Ariana was sure there was no way she could pretend to be okay for any extended length of time and she couldn’t rightfully dump her emotions on her friend who was currently in the hospital. This was all on her anyway. Yet, she still cautiously entered and took the seat by Grace’s bed. If she wanted a visitor, she’d be a pretty shitty friend to just leave her here alone though it’d be on brand. At least there was no way this choice could lead to Grace’s death next, right? “If you’re sure,” she said softly as she opted to set the food down on the stand near Grace instead. She did her best to make a laugh that didn’t come off as entirely forced, but she wasn’t sure she was the most convincing. “I’ve always liked cooking, I made too much anyway and I know hospital food sucks,” she explained with a shrug. What would normally be an easy conversation felt difficult and she suddenly missed the floor of her apartment where she could just wrap herself in a blanket and sink into her grief. She felt too defeated for this and yet, here she was, trying to figure out how to pretend she hadn’t just gotten someone she loved killed. She swallowed back the thick feeling in her throat and asked, “So, how are you recovering? That whole thing sounded pretty freaky. Are you doing okay?” 

Grace observed Ariana as she made the rest of her way into the room. There was something different about her. Her usual fiery nature was hidden by something dark, something that seemed as though it were only a stone’s throw away from dragging her down. She knew that feeling all too well, she was currently experiencing it. “Hospital food isn’t that bad if the nurses like you,” Grace flicked her gaze to the door, then back to Ariana. “But I appreciate it. The food.” Grace had found it hard to speak lately, as she hadn’t been doing it much at all. Her world was now off of its axis, and she had a hard time restabilizing herself when it came to understanding either how loud or quiet she was. The doctors had explained it to her plenty of times, but she was still having a hard time wrapping her head around it. “I’m…” Grace looked at Ariana, concern written across her features. “I think I’m doing as good as you are right now,” she admitted. Grace didn’t know what it was that Ariana was currently going through, but the emotions that rolled off of her, they were familiar. Grief, anger, a decrepit sadness. “Life is shit right now, right?” Grace asked. The laugh that parted between her lips was genuine, not forced. 

It came as no surprise to Ariana that the nurses liked Grace. How could anyone not like Grace? The connection she’d felt with Grace had been pretty immediate and she enjoyed getting to bug her and Blanche on a regular basis. Maybe not now so much as she had been avoiding everyone, but she had the feeling Grace would have been right there alongside Blanche breaking into her apartment. “I’m glad they’re hooking you up with good food,'' she said with a smile that she did her best to make look genuine. She’d never actually stayed in a hospital, so she really had no idea what the food was like. “Of course. It’s a sesame chicken stir fry, it’s something I recently learned to make, so I hope its good,” she explained and did her best not to fidget with her hands in her lap. A frown did reach her face as she realized she perhaps hadn’t done a great job at hiding just how shitty was feeling. It wasn’t great to hear she was feeling just as bad. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling great. I didn’t mean to… well, further bring the mood down I guess. I was going to try and sneak in and out. I can-- I know I’m not easy to be around right now.” Maybe she was being too harsh on herself. That’s what she would have told Rio, Winston, or Blanche if they said something similar, “Life is pretty shit right now, yeah.” She could see the way Grace struggled with speaking and wondered if it was emotion or simple the physical aspects of it. It was likely her hearing was affected, “We’ll get through it though.” Was she speaking more toward Grace’s situation or her own, it was hard to be sure. “They got anything good on cable here,” she asked. 

“Me too,” Grace admitted. When she had first gotten to the hospital, she didn’t have much of an appetite, but one of her nurses had encouraged her with only the best offerings that the hospital had, and how could she turn that down? Grace didn’t take her eyes off of Ariana. The pain that her friend was experiencing, it felt as if it were Grace’s pain, too. She cleared her throat to dislodge the feeling, to push it away. “I’m sure it’ll be great, and it means a lot that you brought it by.” Already, her interaction with Ariana was miles beyond what it had been with either Kaden or Cece. She had no reason to be angry with Ariana, especially not with how the girl was currently feeling. “You don’t need to apologize, it’s not like any of this is your fault.” Grace offered another smile. It hurt, to try and be positive, but she had to do it. She pushed her own emotions aside, Ariana’s, too. Kaden’s words echoed in her head. It does matter. “I’m not going to ask you what’s going on,” Grace said after a moment, her smile downturned, “but if you need-- if you need anything, I can try and help?” She glanced towards the television at Ariana’s question, “not really, it’s all reruns, but since my computer is here I’m usually watching Netflix.” She jabbed her elbow in its direction. “Everyone has been looking for you, by the way. Did they find you?” Grace asked with concern. 

Right now, they really were kind of peas in a pod. A very sad pod, but still a pod. Ariana did her best to put on a happy face and said, “Good, I hoped it would.” Somehow, she still felt so small sitting here beside Grace. There was no shaking the feeling that she kept ruining things and Grace was good. Grace got to live outside of this fucked up supernatural side of town that Ariana used to so badly want to be a part of. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. What happened still sucks, but I guess things are just like that sometimes.” She settled into the seat as she realized she’d be staying for a bit and tried to keep her breathing even. Something about being around people right now made her feel like she was crawling out of her own skin. She’d never had to keep a secret this big, this dangerous, and it wasn’t even her choice. Well, with Grace it would be, but everything in her was screaming to run to Athena. To let her kill Lydia like she probably would have if Ariana had just let her help from the get go. “Thanks,” she said, forcing her voice above a whisper. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t tell her. “I can’t really talk about it, so I appreciate that. I don’t know though, maybe we could watch something funny?” Her stomach dropped at the mention of people looking for her. The number of messages in her inbox overwhelmed her to the point of not being able to stand looking at her phone. “I’ve-- I’ve seen Blanche and Kaden. I haven’t really had it in me to message everyone back yet. I think I legit had over 20 messages in my inbox, which is nice people care. That’s just a lot to try and respond to right now. I hope I didn’t worry you, too.” 

It’d be hard to miss, even for somebody who didn’t have Grace’s gift, she thought. There was no denying that Ariana was in an extremely dark place. It was beginning to eat Grace up inside. She wanted to reach over, to take a hold of her new friend’s hand, but she refrained from doing so. She knew that she hated being touched when she was upset, who was to say that Ariana didn’t feel the same way? It was easier, Grace thought. To focus on Ariana, than on Dr Kavanagh. She had held so much hatred over these past days that she hadn’t remembered what it felt like to care. It felt good. “I respect that,” Grace offered her a smile, a little more genuine and real than the ones before. She reached over for her laptop and propped it open and began to login. “If you need time for yourself, they should respect that, but it’s also…” Grace bit the inside of her cheek, “important to let people know you’re okay, especially with everything going on.” She began clicking through the number of comedies displayed on the screen. She turned her head slightly so that she could fully hear Ariana, the gauze still making it hard to hear her even with her good ear. Everything still sounded fuzzy, felt fuzzy. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Ariana.” Grace observed her for a moment before she twisted her laptop in Ariana’s direction. “Do you want to pick? I’m not really familiar with comedies, so I don’t know what’s actually funny and what’s just… bad.” Grace admitted with a laugh. 

There was a certain calm understanding energy Grace had that Ariana thoroughly appreciated. Even if she could explain everything that happened, she wasn’t sure she had the energy. Thinking about it, let alone saying it outloud, made her chest feel as if it could simply burst open at any second. Apparently everyone she’d ever spoken to in town was in her inbox now which was completely overwhelming. Why it had turned into such a big thing was beyond her. She’d literally been laying on her apartment floor for a good chunk of that time. She sighed and said, “Yeah, I get that. I just don’t think a post needed to be made on the internet versus you know… knocking on my door. Now I have way more people in my inbox than normal and I don’t really have the energy to talk to them all, you know?” It also meant more people knew something was wrong and it was more people she’d have to skirt around the truth with. It was far more frustrating than she cared to admit. Grace was decidedly a good friend and she responded, “I’m glad you’re okay, too.” Whatever happened at the morgue sounded scary and she wished she could have done something to help. She took the laptop from Grace and began looking through titles. None of them were too familiar to her, but she opted to go with The Office. Everyone always went on about that show and she’d never actually seen it. “So, full disclosure, I’ve never seen this. No idea if it’s good or not, but hey we can always change if it isn’t, right? The joys of streaming.” She smiled and this time it felt more genuine. “Is there anything you normally prefer to watch?” 

“It’s fine to take time for yourself and not to give energy to others, but people care about you.” Grace didn’t want to make Ariana feel bad for not answering other people’s questions, but she knew that if Ariana hadn’t come in to see her, she’d be one of the people in her inbox. It was easy to worry in this town, especially with everything going on. It was hard to gage whether or not somebody simply didn’t want to talk, or if they were actually hurt with the absence of replies. Grace leaned into the bed. The ear that hadn’t been as badly damaged was beginning to heal, and she was set to leave the hospital any time in the following week. She was scared to leave, scared to be alone in the silence. She nodded in response to Ariana’s words, “If it’s not good, we can change it, sure.” She smiled at her friend and nudged the screen slightly so that she could see the show as it began to play. “Hm.. Bob’s Burgers, but it’s background noise usually.” Grace didn’t watch television much, she preferred reading or sitting in silence while drawing, but Louise Belcher had hit a soft spot for her. “This is fine though, I’ve seen a few episodes-- I think Dwight really is onto something with the fire drill,” she laughed as the cold open began. 

 “Yeah, I know. I guess I need some sort of default away message or something. Like hey, White Crest is being White Crest, I need to recharge for a few days,” Ariana said, mostly joking, but began seriously considering the idea. Morgan had suggested it and it wasn’t the worst idea. She really could understand why people would worry though she was still annoyed an online post was made rather than checking on her. That was hardly Grace’s fault. “I still haven’t felt super up to talking to people, but I could let a few know I’m okay. I do get the worrying. I worry, too. It’s hard not to when people keep--” She cut herself off realizing she almost said too much. That was a lot to lay on Grace who was currently in the hospital and went through something traumatic. She wasn’t being a good friend and the thought made her shift uncomfortably in the seat. “Oh, Bob’s Burgers actually sounds good,” she said a bit too enthusiastically, “I’ve never seen it but I love burgers more than I love offices.” The talk of a fire drill confused her and she said, “Huh, sounds like this Dwight guy might be a little intense.” 

“White Crest is being White Crest,” Grace mused, a small chuckle leaving her. She hadn’t had much to laugh about-- had been too angry to laugh, too distraught to find the humor in her situation. Now, with Ariana by her side, she found it came easily. Maybe it was due to her friend’s current emotional toll, Grace felt as though she needed to lighten it up, no matter how hard it was for her to do so. No matter how badly Grace didn’t want to care, or worry, she did so anyways. She watched Ariana with interest, eyebrows pulling together in disappointment as her friend cut off. She wanted to know what the rest of her sentence would’ve formed out to be, but she chose to move on-- neither of them were in the right space for deep conversation, that much had been made abundantly clear. “One year for Halloween, I was Louise Belcher.” Grace smiled at the memory, Renee by her side as Eugene. “If you watch it, I think it’ll make sense-- I think you’ll like Louise, too.” Grace shifted in the bed, tenderly dropping one foot onto the other so that the blanket piqued upwards from her toes. “He is intense, yeah, but I think most people are, even when they’re trying hard not to be.” She blinked at the screen, “Kelly is funny, too. A little vapid, but entertaining.” 

It was good to see they could laugh about things, even if it was just a little bit. Ariana had felt such an intense amount of darkness the past few days that it had been to imagine she’d ever feel like laughing again. She could tell Grace had been having a time of things too, so it made her feel a bit warmer knowing they could make things a little better for each other. Maybe there wasn’t a good way to talk about these things just yet, but one day they’d figure it out. She wondered if maybe Grace was realizing this town wasn’t quite normal. That had to be hard to come to terms with as a human. Even with being a wolf her whole life, White Crest still seemed to be good at throwing her for a loop. “You’ll have to point her out. I’m sure your costume was awesome,” she said with a small smile as the opening credits started rolling. It seemed upbeat enough to distract from the constant feeling of stones in her chest weighing her down. “Huh, I guess you’re right. I can be pretty intense, too. Guess we’re all intense about different things.” She leaned back into her chair and let herself get drawn up in the silliness of the show. It seemed they both needed this and even if they were both hurting, she was glad they could be hurting together.

[usafricahf]

Solving the Housing Crisis in Africa

Ameet Dhillon

Marketing and Business Development Executive

The continent of Africa has about 1.3 billion people today and many demographers believe it will nearly double to 2.5 billion by 2050. Africa also has the youngest average population with a median age in 2012 of 19.7--the worldwide median age was 30.4. This unparalleled level of growth, coupled with youth, presents many problems such as housing: The African Development Bank estimates there is a deficit of 50.5 million housing units in Sub-Saharan Africa. Every government in Africa recognizes residential housing as a key problem, yet it is hardly being addressed. The problem seems almost intractable, particularly in the so-called “social housing” segment which is often defined as a residence that costs less than $25,000 USD. So what is the problem and is there any way to solve it?

Let’s briefly discuss the various issues that are compounding the housing crisis and then we will get to an innovative approach to solve, or at least lessen this problem. The issues with housing in Africa are numerous, but there are at least four main problems that must be overcome. The first is inconsistent or poor-quality construction due to a lack of international-class training for construction trades such as concrete mixing, roof installation, and final finish. The second is limited economies of scale because house construction is often project managed by the owner or his/her representative. As a result, cost overruns are common, and construction can take years to complete. The third is a lack of trust in real estate developers which is often what leads to the aforementioned second problem. Finally, the fourth and perhaps the biggest problem is financing. Without some sort of reasonable financing, a housing industry simply cannot exist. Imagine for a moment trying to buy your current residence in the US, Europe or indeed anywhere in the world by paying cash at the time of purchase. Would you be able to buy your house under those circumstances? For most people, the answer is no, yet that is the environment that the majority of African homebuyers face today. 

These problems seem almost insurmountable; how do we even begin to address them? Rather than walk the reader through some theoretical exercise on what could be done, I will describe what two innovative companies (full disclosure: I am Managing Director of one of them) are successfully doing right now to prove these problems can be overcome. I don’t claim these companies have fully solved the problem, but they have laid out a clear blueprint in parts of West Africa that anyone else is free to emulate anywhere on the continent. In fact, the principals of both companies are willing to share their formula for success with anyone; just for the asking; no strings attached. Email ameet@usafricahf.com to begin a discussion. 

American Homebuilders of West Africa (AHWA) and US-Africa Housing Finance (USAHF) are both US-registered LLCs that symbiotically work together to build, sell and finance houses in West Africa. The following diagram illustrates the relationship between the two companies.

AHWA markets, builds, and sells houses in West Africa and USAHF provides the financing by purchasing loans originated by AHWA. Private investors provide the capital to USAHF (earning an annual 9%, us-dollar return over the last three years) which begins the virtuous cycle that propels this relationship forward. 

One thing you will notice is the total lack of government help or any kind of philanthropy in this model to date. Both businesses are for-profit (and currently profitable) and have thus far relied 100% on private capital raised in the United States. Having said that, there is an appropriate place for governments, foundations or other quasi-government institutions to get involved to provide much needed catalytic capital to move the respective businesses forward more quickly and efficiently. Since the business model for both companies has been proven; now is the time for large institutions to step up and provide support.

So how did these companies overcome the four problems laid out earlier where others have failed? The first problem of poor construction quality is not conceptually hard to solve given that construction techniques are well understood in the US, Europe, and other developed markets. However, to do it in an environment that is used to accepting poor quality as a "fact of life" requires investing in the local team's development and a great deal of diligence and desire to produce a quality product. Fortunately, the co-founders of AHWA all have that desire and thus construct houses that anyone can be proud to live in. Part of this diligence can be traced back to their experience as peace corps volunteers in Cote d’Ivoire in the 1990s. As an example of their dedication, one of the co-founders of AHWA, Jonathan Halloran, personally trained the local African team in how to build a safer ladder (see photo below), use power tools effectively and organize a logistics depot.

Jonathan's theory is you teach one group how to do it in an international-class way and they will eagerly pass on that knowledge to anyone who will listen. Fortunately, most Africans are eager to listen and learn as they genuinely want to see their country and indeed their continent progress. 

The second problem--limited economies of scale--, and the third--lack of trust in developers--go hand in hand. If there is trust in housing developers, then there is no need for individuals to build their own house and suffer the associated pain and heartache. Ask any member of the African diaspora and they will relate either a personal story or one of some close friends or relatives that involves getting “scammed” while trying to build a house back in Africa. AHWA has gotten over the trust problem the old-fashioned way: They provide a quality product to their customers and “word of mouth” over time has done the rest. AHWA is now a trusted brand in Guinea, West Africa and beginning to develop in neighboring countries such as Sierra Leone, Cote d’Ivoire and Senegal with many more to come.    

The final problem is financing and this is perhaps the most vexing of all. Providing a home loan to a borrower is more complicated than it might seem at first glance. There is the obvious issue of raising the capital to fund the loans (this itself is hard enough when the target market is Africa), but perhaps more difficult is the underwriting process. The lender cannot just provide a loan to anyone; the borrower must be properly vetted via some systematic and repeatable process. This requires getting to know a prospective borrower and assessing the associated risk. To ease this daunting task, initially, USAHF only plans to offer loans to the African diaspora living in OECD countries such as the US, France, Canada, UK, etc. In addition, a 30% down payment is required along with customary verification of income, debt and the like.

One unique aspect of the joint AHWA/USAHF underwriting model is that they allow borrowers to pay monthly into what is effectively an "escrow account" for up to 24 months in order to reach the 30% down payment level. This is not only helpful for the borrower but also provides invaluable data and confidence about the borrower’s ability to pay. If someone has the financial discipline to make a monthly payment for a year or more without even having a house, the likelihood of them defaulting once they actually have the house is very low. In other words, they are an excellent credit risk.

The final piece of the financing puzzle is a well-developed process to handle the inevitable loan default. No matter how good an underwriting process you have, some number of defaults are expected. In fact, many bankers will tell you that if you don’t have any defaults that means you are too strict in your underwriting and should loosen the requirements. Both AHWA and USAHF have an agreed process in place for default and have successfully navigated the process multiple times with minimal impact on either business as well as the borrower. Because of the high demand for AHWA houses, resale has been relatively smooth and as expected prices are rising and this insulates the defaulting borrower from large losses.

In conclusion, both AHWA and USAHF believe they have a profitable, sustainable and replicable model that over time can solve the housing crisis in Africa. However, governments, DFIs, foundations and other similar types of institutions will need to step up and provide catalytic capital to make this promise a reality. To learn more please click on this presentation or email ameet@usafricahf.com or check out the website at www.usafricahf.com. 

Disclaimer: This article is for information purposes only and does not constitute an offer to sell or a solicitation of an offer to buy securities. Any such offer is made only pursuant to a private placement memorandum.

[wren-luv]

My BNHA OC

Hi guys! I made a BNHA oc because I felt like it. I used https://charat.me/en/genesis/ to make it because I can’t draw 😅. Sadly, CHARAT GENESIS doesn’t do boys (at least I don’t think it does). EDIT: CHARAT GENESIS doesn’t do boys but CHARAT BIGBANG does! (https://charat.me/boys/create/) I’ve done her in her hero costume, casual clothes, training/sport clothes, winter clothes, pajamas, and swimsuit. If anyone has any OC recommendations, feedback for me, or wants to see her in another outfit, let me know! Anyway, enjoy!

Hino Kitsunezaki (狐崎　火乃, きつねざき　ひの）

Birthday: 17th September

Age: 16

Height: 163cm

Affiliation: Heroes

School: U.A. High School

Class: 1-A

Hero name: The Fox Hero: Vixen (ヴィクセン)

Favourite colour: Green

Appearance: Hino has long hair that fades from orange into white. She has green fox-like eyes, a slim figure, and fairly pale skin. She has orange fox ears on top of her head and and orange fox tail with a white tip.

Family: Hino has a mother, a father, and two younger twin brothers. She is on good terms with her parents, but they run a company together and are often away on business trips. As such, she is very close to her younger brothers, who look up to her and really want her to become a hero. They both inherited her mother’s Quirk, which allows them to speed up the growth of plants somewhat. Hino would sometimes ask to be excused from school and do extra credit to make up for it in order to attend school concerts, parent days, showcases, and other events where parents and guardians are encouraged to attend.

Personality: Hino is usually quiet and reserved, but opens up more with people she is familiar and comfortable with. She is responsible and studious and rarely breaks rules, but decided not to run for class representative so she could focus on her training and studies. Hino has strong morals and only condones harmful or ‘bad’ actions if they are absolutely necessary. However, she will rarely speak up about it due to her reservedness and will only confront someone about it if she feels very strongly about it. Despite this, she is unafraid to back down from a fight if it is to defend others or if it is a fight such as the ones held at the U.A. sports festival. It can be difficult to approach her at first, but if you are kind to her and others and do not go against her morals, she quickly warms up to you.

Hobbies: Reading, learning other languages, piano, clarinet, photography, and ancient history.

Random facts: Hino has an extremely good poker face and is able to constantly maintain it almost 24/7. She originally wanted to be a veterinarian but animals reacted badly to her because of her fox ears and tail, so she gave up.

Why she wants to be a hero: Hino wants to protect others and do the right thing, as well as become a great role model for her younger brothers, who admire and look up to her. She also wants to make the world as kind and bright for her younger brothers as possible.

Relationship status: No current romantic interests - she prefers to focus on her studies and training to become a hero and make the best use of her Quirk

Quirk: Fox

Hino has a fox-like tail and ears, as well as orange hair. She can generate small amounts of fire and lightning and throw them at her opponents, though if she makes too much it quickly drains her energy. Her Quirk also sharpens her senses, especially her hearing. Similarly to being able to generate fire and lightning, she can briefly turn invisible, create shallow, two-dimensional illusions, and possess someone, but only for around 10 seconds. Though not confirmed, it is thought that her quirk may also extend her lifespan as she has many powers similar to that of kitsune spirits. Her powers develop as she gets older, and are currently developing at a rate so rapid that her body is unable to keep up, meaning that after using her powers she feels fatigued. Hino is currently training harder than before to close the gap between her body’s upper limits and the upper limits of her Quirk. To make up for the fact that the parts of her Quirk useful in combat drain her energy, she has learnt a variety of martial arts over the years.

Hino wanted to make her hero costume fairly traditional, but as kimonos were difficult to move in, she opted for a Chinese dress with tights underneath. The costume also has long sleeves that are not connected to the dress so that they can be discarded in extreme heat and inhibit her movements as little as possible. She has high, flexible boots that are suitable for any terrain and do not have heels to make running easier. They extend up her legs a long way to limit the amount of skin showing. Her costume is orange and white to suit the theme of ‘fox’, and she kept in mind when designing her costume that it would have to be something that could increase or add to her popularity as a pro hero and suited her theme and aesthetic while also not revealing much skin, as she is not comfortable with that.

Hino usually wears her long hair in a high ponytail to keep it off her neck. Her clothes are light and comfortable above all else, though she makes sure not to wear anything that she feels reveals too much skin. Usually there is some kind of red or orange incorporated into her outfit. She also wears two bracelets that her late grandmother, a jeweller, made for her for her 13th birthday. She rarely wears heels and usually wears ballet flats, and occasionally joggers (sneakers/trainers).

Her training gear is light, comfortable, and allows plenty of ventilation. She ties her hair up in a bun to keep it from getting too messy and knotted. Her shoes are designed to reduce impact from running on concrete or hard surfaces, though she does have another pair that she wears when she wants to train to run on concrete without feeling much pain.

Hino’s winter clothes are entirely designed for comfort and warmth. She wears a long-sleeved shirt under her coat and has a hoodie to wear inside. Her hat is insulated to keep her ears warm, but she found it was uncomfortable for her ears to be squashed and cut holes in the top for ears. Her gloves are also insulated and she usually wraps her scarf around the bottom of her face to keep it warmer. Her boots have wool inside them and she also wears thick socks. Her pants are warm as well. She wears her out to keep the back of her neck warmer.

Her pajamas are comfortable and light, though she wears warmer ones in winter (though they are a similar style). She also often wears toeless socks because she likes the feel of the fabrics on her feet and legs but does not like the fact that it squishes her toes together. She wears her hair in a plait to keep it from getting messy.

Hino’s swimsuit is modest and comfortable, with a name tag on the side in the unlikely situation that she loses it. She opted for a one-piece because it decreases the area that could get sunburnt in comparison to a bikini. Her swimsuit is also practical and has no ruffles to weigh her down or make her swimsuit less streamlined. Hino swims as part of her training and occasionally wears easily detachable (for safety) weights to make it more difficult.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed my OC creation! I hope it wasn’t too long-winded. If you have any suggestions for Hino, want me to write something about her, have feedback, or want me to make a new OC, I would be happy to do so! 

[didanawisgi]

CAN WE PULL BACK FROM THE BRINK?

Sam Harris, June 18, 2020

In this episode of the podcast, Sam discusses the recent social protests and civil unrest, in light of what we know about racism and police violence in America.

This is a transcript of a recorded podcast.

“OK…. Well, I’ve been trying to gather my thoughts for this podcast for more than a week—and have been unsure about whether to record it at all, frankly.

Conversation is the only tool we have for making progress, I firmly believe that. But many of the things we most need to talk about, seem impossible to talk about.

I think social media is a huge part of the problem. I’ve been saying for a few years now that, with social media, we’ve all been enrolled in a psychological experiment for which no one gave consent, and it’s not at all clear how it will turn out. And it’s still not clear how it will turn out, but it’s not looking good. It’s fairly disorienting out there. All information is becoming weaponized. All communication is becoming performative. And on the most important topics, it now seems to be fury and sanctimony and bad faith almost all the time.

We appear to be driving ourselves crazy. Actually, crazy. As in, incapable of coming into contact with reality, unable to distinguish fact from fiction—and then becoming totally destabilized by our own powers of imagination, and confirmation bias, and then lashing out at one other on that basis.

So I’d like to talk about the current moment and the current social unrest, and its possible political implications, and other cultural developments, and suggest what it might take to pull back from the brink here. I’m going to circle in on the topics of police violence and the problem of racism, because that really is at the center of this. There is so much to talk about here, and it’s so difficult to talk about. And there is so much we don’t know. And yet, most people are behaving as though every important question was answered a long time ago.

I’ve been watching our country seem to tear itself apart for weeks now, and perhaps lay the ground for much worse to come. And I’ve been resisting the temptation to say anything of substance—not because I don’t have anything to say, but because of my perception of the danger, frankly. And if that’s the way I feel, given the pains that I’ve taken to insulate myself from those concerns, I know that almost everyone with a public platform is terrified. Journalists, and editors, and executives, and celebrities are terrified that they might take one wrong step here, and never recover.

And this is really unhealthy—not just for individuals, but for society. Because, again, all we have between us and the total breakdown of civilization is a series of successful conversations. If we can’t reason with one another, there is no path forward, other than violence. Conversation or violence.

So, I’d like to talk about some of the things that concern me about the current state of our communication. Unfortunately, many things are compounding our problems at the moment. We have a global pandemic which is still very much with us. And it remains to be seen how much our half-hearted lockdown, and our ineptitude in testing, and our uncoordinated reopening, and now our plunge into social protest and civil unrest will cause the Covid-19 caseload to spike. We will definitely see. As many have pointed out, the virus doesn’t care about economics or politics. It only cares that we keep breathing down each other’s necks. And we’ve certainly been doing enough of that.

Of course, almost no one can think about Covid-19 right now. But I’d just like to point out that many of the costs of this pandemic and the knock-on effects in the economy, and now this protest movement, many of these costs are hidden from us. In addition to killing more than 100,000 people in the US, the pandemic has been a massive opportunity cost. The ongoing implosion of the economy is imposing tangible costs, yes, but it is also a massive opportunity cost. And now this civil unrest is compounding those problems—whatever the merits of these protests may be or will be, the opportunity costs of this moment are staggering. In addition to all the tangible effects of what’s happening—the injury and death, the lost businesses, the burned buildings, the neighborhoods that won’t recover for years in many cities, the educations put on hold, and the breakdown in public trust of almost every institution—just think about all the good and important things we cannot do—cannot even think of doing now—and perhaps won’t contemplate doing for many years to come, because we’ll be struggling to get back to that distant paradise we once called “normal life.”

Of course, normal life for many millions of Americans was nothing like a paradise. The disparities in wealth and health and opportunity that we have gotten used to in this country, and that so much of our politics and ways of doing business seem to take for granted, are just unconscionable. There is no excuse for this kind of inequality in the richest country on earth. What we’re seeing now is a response to that. But it’s a confused and confusing response. Worse, it’s a response that is systematically silencing honest conversation. And this makes it dangerous.

This isn’t just politics and human suffering on display. It’s philosophy. It’s ideas about truth—about what it means to say that something is “true.” What we’re witnessing in our streets and online and in the impossible conversations we’re attempting to have in our private lives is a breakdown in epistemology. How does anyone figure out what’s going on in the world? What is real? If we can’t agree about what is real, or likely to be real, we will never agree about how we should live together. And the problem is, we’re stuck with one other.

So, what’s happening here?

Well, again, it’s hard to say. What is happening when a police officer or a mayor takes a knee in front of a crowd of young people who have been berating him for being a cog in the machinery of systemic racism? Is this a profound moment of human bonding that transcends politics, or is it the precursor to the breakdown of society? Or is it both? It’s not entirely clear.

In the most concrete terms, we are experiencing widespread social unrest in response to what is widely believed to be an epidemic of lethal police violence directed at the black community by racist cops and racist policies. And this unrest has drawn a counter-response from law enforcement—much of which, ironically, is guaranteed to exacerbate the problem of police violence, both real and perceived. And many of the videos we’ve seen of the police cracking down on peaceful protesters are hideous. Some of this footage has been unbelievable. And this is one of many vicious circles that we must find some way to interrupt.

Again, there is so much to be confused about here. We’ve now seen endless video of police inflicting senseless violence on truly peaceful protesters, and yet we have also seen video of the police standing idly by while looters completely destroy businesses. What explains this? Is there a policy that led to this bizarre inversion of priorities? Are the police angry at the protesters for vilifying them, and simultaneously trying to teach society a lesson by letting crime and mayhem spread elsewhere in the city? Or is it just less risky to collide with peaceful protesters? Or is the whole spectacle itself a lie? How representative are these videos of what’s actually going on? Is there much less chaos actually occurring than is being advertised to us?

Again, it’s very hard to know.

What’s easy to know is that civil discourse has broken down. It seems to me that we’ve long been in a situation where the craziest voices on both ends of the political spectrum have been amplifying one another and threatening to produce something truly dangerous. And now I think they have. The amount of misinformation in the air—the degree to which even serious people seem to be ruled by false assumptions and non sequiturs—is just astonishing.

And it’s important to keep in mind that, with the presidential election coming in November, the stakes are really high. As most of you know, I consider four more years of Trump to be an existential threat to our democracy. And I believe that the last two weeks have been very good for him, politically, even when everything else seemed to go very badly for him. I know the polls don’t say this. A large majority of people disapprove of his handling this crisis so far. But I think we all know now to take polls with a grain of salt. There is the very real problem of preference falsification—especially in an environment of intense social pressure. People will often say what they think is socially acceptable, and then think, or say, or do something very different in private—like when they’re alone in a voting booth.

Trump has presided over the complete dismantling of American influence in the world and the destruction of our economy. I know the stock market has looked good, but the stock market has become totally uncoupled from the economy. According to the stock market, the future is just as bright now as it was in January of this year, before most of us had even heard of a novel coronavirus. That doesn’t make a lot of sense. And a lot can happen in the next few months. The last two weeks feel like a decade. And my concern is that if Trump now gets to be the law-and-order President, that may be his path to re-election, if such a path exists. Of course, this crisis has revealed, yet again, how unfit he is to be President. The man couldn’t strike a credible note of reconciliation if the fate of the country depended on it—and the fate of the country has depended on it. I also think it’s possible that these protests wouldn’t be happening, but for the fact that Trump is President. Whether or not the problem of racism has gotten worse in our society, having Trump as President surely makes it seem like it has. It has been such a repudiation of the Obama presidency that, for many people, it has made it seem that white supremacy is now ascendant. So, all the more reason to get rid of Trump in November.

But before this social unrest, our focus was on how incompetent Trump was in the face of the Covid-19 pandemic. And now he has been given a very different battle to fight. A battle against leftwing orthodoxy, which is growing more stifling by the minute, and civil unrest. If our social order frays sufficiently, restoring it will be the only thing that most people care about in November. Just think of what an act of domestic terrorism would do politically now. Things can change very, very quickly. And to all a concern for basic law and order “racist”, isn’t going to wash.

Trust in institutions has totally broken down. We’ve been under a very precarious quarantine for more than 3 months, which almost the entire medical profession has insisted is necessary. Doctors and public health officials have castigated people on the political Right for protesting this lockdown. People have been unable to be with their loved ones in their last hours of life. They’ve been unable to hold funerals for them. But now we have doctors and public officials by the thousands, signing open letters, making public statements, saying it’s fine to stand shoulder to shoulder with others in the largest protests our nation has ever seen. The degree to which this has undermined confidence in public health messaging is hard to exaggerate. Whatever your politics, this has been just a mortifying piece of hypocrisy. Especially so, because the pandemic has been hitting the African American community hardest of all. How many people will die because of these protests? It’s a totally rational question to ask, but the question itself is taboo now.

So, it seems to me that almost everything appears upside down at the moment.

Before I get into details on police violence, first let me try to close the door to a few misunderstandings.

Let’s start with the proximate cause of all this: The killing of George Floyd by the Minneapolis police. I’ll have more to say about this in a minute, but nothing I say should detract from the following observation: That video was absolutely sickening, and it revealed a degree of police negligence and incompetence and callousness that everyone was right to be horrified by. In particular, the actions of Derek Chauvin, the cop who kept his knee on Floyd’s neck for nearly 9 minutes, his actions were so reckless and so likely to cause harm that there’s no question he should be prosecuted. And he is being prosecuted. He’s been indicted for 2nd degree murder and manslaughter, and I suspect he will spend many, many years in prison. And, this is not to say “the system is working.” It certainly seems likely that without the cell phone video, and the public outrage, Chauvin might have gotten away with it—to say nothing of the other cops with him, who are also now being prosecuted. If this is true, we clearly need a better mechanism with which to police the police.

So, as I said, I’ll return to this topic, because I think most people are drawing the wrong conclusions from this video, and from videos like it, but let me just echo everyone’s outrage over what happened. This is precisely the kind of police behavior that everyone should find abhorrent.

On the general topic of racism in America, I want to make a few similarly clear, preemptive statements:

Racism is still a problem in American society. No question. And slavery—which was racism’s most evil expression—was this country’s founding sin. We should also add the near-total eradication of the Native Americans to that ledger of evil. Any morally sane person who learns the details of these historical injustices finds them shocking, whatever their race. And the legacy of these crimes—crimes that were perpetrated for centuries—remains a cause for serious moral concern today. I have no doubt about this. And nothing I’m about to say, should suggest otherwise.

And I don’t think it’s an accident that the two groups I just mentioned, African Americans and Native Americans, suffer the worst from inequality in America today. How could the history of racial discrimination in this country not have had lasting effects, given the nature of that history? And if anything good comes out of the current crisis, it will be that we manage to find a new commitment to reducing inequality in all its dimensions. The real debate to have is about how to do this, economically and politically. But the status quo that many of us take for granted to is a betrayal of our values, whether we realize it or not. If it’s not a betrayal or your values now, it will be a betrayal of your values when you become a better person. And if you don’t manage that, it will be a betrayal of your kid’s values when they’re old enough to understand the world they are living in. The difference between being very lucky in our society, and very unlucky, should not be as enormous as it is.

However, the question that interests me, given what has been true of the past and is now true of the present, is what should we do next? What should we do to build a healthier society?

What should we do next?  Tomorrow… next week…. Obviously, I don’t have the answers. But I am very worried that many of the things we’re doing now, and seem poised to do, will only make our problems worse. And I’m especially worried that it has become so difficult to talk about this. I’m just trying to have conversations. I’m just trying to figure these things out in real time, with other people. And there is no question that conversation itself has become dangerous.

Think about the politics of this. Endless imagery of people burning and looting independent businesses that were struggling to survive, and seeing the owners of these businesses beaten by mobs, cannot be good for the cause of social justice. Looting and burning businesses, and assaulting their owners, isn’t social justice, or even social protest. It’s crime. And having imagery of these crimes that highlight black involvement circulate endlessly on Fox News and on social media cannot be good for the black community. But it might yet be good for Trump.

And it could well kick open the door to a level of authoritarianism that many of us who have been very worried about Trump barely considered possible. It’s always seemed somewhat paranoid to me to wonder whether we’re living in Weimar Germany. I’ve had many conversations about this. I had Timothy Snyder on the podcast, who’s been worrying about the prospect of tyranny in the US for several years now. I’ve known, in the abstract, that democracies can destroy themselves. But the idea that it could happen here still seemed totally outlandish to me. It doesn’t anymore.

Of course, what we’ve been seeing in the streets isn’t just one thing. Some people are protesting for reasons that I fully defend. They’re outraged by specific instances of police violence, like the killing of George Floyd, and they’re worried about creeping authoritarianism—which we really should be worried about now. And they’re convinced that our politics is broken, because it is broken, and they are deeply concerned that our response to the pandemic and the implosion of our economy will do nothing to address the widening inequality in our society. And they recognize that we have a President who is an incompetent, divisive, conman and a crackpot at a time when we actually need wise leadership.

All of that is hard to put on a sign, but it’s all worth protesting.

However, it seems to me that most protesters are seeing this moment exclusively through the lens of identity politics—and racial politics in particular. And some of them are even celebrating the breakdown of law and order, or at least remaining nonjudgmental about it. And you could see, in the early days of this protest, news anchors take that line, on CNN, for instance. Talking about the history of social protest, “Sometimes it has to be violent, right? What, do you think all of these protests need to be nonviolent?” Those words came out of Chris Cuomo’s mouth, and Don Lemon’s mouth. Many people have been circulating a half quote from Martin Luther King Jr. about riots being “the language of the unheard.” They’re leaving out the part where he made it clear that he believed riots harmed the cause of the black community and helped the cause of racists.

There are now calls to defund and even to abolish the police. This may be psychologically understandable when you’ve spent half your day on Twitter watching videos of cops beating peaceful protesters. Those videos are infuriating. And I’ll have a lot more to say about police violence in a minute. But if you think a society without cops is a society you would want to live in, you have lost your mind. Giving a monopoly on violence to the state is just about the best thing we have ever done as a species. It ranks right up there with keeping our shit out of our food. Having a police force that can deter crime, and solve crimes when they occur, and deliver violent criminals to a functioning justice system, is the necessary precondition for almost anything else of value in society.

We need police reform, of course. There are serious questions to ask about the culture of policing—its hiring practices, training, the militarization of so many police forces, outside oversight, how police departments deal with corruption, the way the police unions keep bad cops on the job, and yes, the problem of racist cops. But the idea that any serious person thinks we can do without the police—or that less trained and less vetted cops will magically be better than more trained and more vetted ones—this just reveals that our conversation on these topics has run completely off the rails. Yes, we should give more resources to community services. We should have psychologists or social workers make first contact with the homeless or the mentally ill. Perhaps we’re giving cops jobs they shouldn’t be doing. All of that makes sense to rethink. But the idea that what we’re witnessing now is a matter of the cops being over-resourced—that we’ve given them too much training, that we’ve made the job too attractive—so that the people we’re recruiting are of too high a quality. That doesn’t make any sense.

What’s been alarming here is that we’re seeing prominent people—in government, in media, in Hollywood, in sports—speak and act as though the breakdown of civil society, and of society itself, is a form of progress and any desire for law enforcement is itself a form of racist oppression. At one point the woman who’s running the City Council in Minneapolis, which just decided to abolish the police force, was asked by a journalist, I believe on CNN, “What do I do if someone’s breaking into my house in the middle of the night? Who do I call?” And her first response to that question was, “You need to recognize what a statement of privilege that question is.” She’s since had to walk that back, because it’s one of the most galling and embarrassing things a public official has ever said, but this is how close the Democratic Party is to sounding completely insane. You cannot say that if someone is breaking into your house, and you’re terrified, and you want a police force that can respond, that fear is a symptom of “white privilege.” This is where Democratic politics goes to die.

Again, what is alarming about this is that this woke analysis of the breakdown of law and order will only encourage an increasingly authoritarian response, as well as the acceptance of that response by many millions of Americans.

If you step back, you will notice that there is a kind of ecstasy of ideological conformity in the air. And it’s destroying institutions. It’s destroying the very institutions we rely on to get our information—universities, the press. The New York Times in recent days, seems to be preparing for a self-immolation in recent days. No one wants to say or even think anything that makes anyone uncomfortable—certainly not anyone who has more wokeness points than they do. It’s just become too dangerous. There are people being fired for tweeting “All Lives Matter.” #AllLivesMatter, in the current environment, is being read as a naked declaration of white supremacy. That is how weird this moment is. A soccer player on the LA Galaxy was fired for something his wife tweeted…

Of course, there are real problems of inequality and despair at the bottom of these protests. People who have never found a secure or satisfying place in the world—or young people who fear they never will—people who have seen their economic prospects simply vanish, and people who have had painful encounters with racism and racist cops—people by the millions are now surrendering themselves to a kind of religious awakening. But like most religious awakenings, this movement is not showing itself eager to make honest contact with reality.

On top of that, we find extraordinarily privileged people, whatever the color of their skin—people who have been living wonderful lives in their gated communities or 5th avenue apartments—and who feel damn guilty about it—they are supporting this movement uncritically, for many reasons. Of course, they care about other people—I’m sure most of them have the same concerns about inequality that I do—but they are also supporting this movement because it promises a perfect expiation of their sins. If you have millions of dollars, and shoot botox into your face, and vacation on St. Bart’s, and you’re liberal—the easiest way to sleep at night is to be as woke as AOC and like every one of her tweets.

The problem isn’t just with the looting, and the arson, and the violence. There are problems with these peaceful protests themselves.

Of course, I’m not questioning anyone’s right to protest. Even our deranged president can pay lip service to that right—which he did as the DC police were violently dispersing a peaceful protest so that he could get his picture taken in front of that church, awkwardly holding a bible, as though he had never held a book in life.

The problem with the protests is that they are animated, to a remarkable degree, by confusion and misinformation. And I’ll explain why I think that’s the case. And, of course, this will be controversial. Needless to say, many people will consider the color of my skin to be disqualifying here. I could have invited any number of great, black intellectuals onto the podcast to make these points for me. But that struck me as a form of cowardice. Glenn Loury, John McWhorter, Thomas Chatterton Williams, Coleman Hughes, Kmele Foster, these guys might not agree with everything I’m about to say, but any one of them could walk the tightrope I’m now stepping out on far more credibly than I can.

But, you see, that’s part of the problem. The perception that the color of a person’s skin, or even his life experience, matters for this discussion is a pernicious illusion. For the discussion we really need to have, the color of a person’s skin, and even his life experience, simply does not matter. It cannot matter. We have to break this spell that the politics of identity has cast over everything.

Ok…

As I’ve already acknowledged, there is a legacy of racism in the United States that we’re still struggling to outgrow. That is obvious. There are real racists out there. And there are ways in which racism became institutionalized long ago. Many of you will remember that during the crack epidemic the penalties for crack and powder cocaine were quite different. And this led black drug offenders to be locked up for much longer than white ones. Now, whether the motivation for that policy was consciously racist or not, I don’t know, but it was effectively racist. Nothing I’m about to say entails a denial of these sorts of facts. There just seems to be no question that boys who grow up with their fathers in prison start life with a significant strike against them. So criminal justice reform is absolutely essential.

And I’m not denying that many black people, perhaps most, have interactions with cops, and others in positions of power, or even random strangers, that seem unambiguously racist. Sometimes this is because they are actually in the presence of racism, and perhaps sometimes it only seems that way. I’ve had unpleasant encounters with cops, and customs officers, and TSA screeners, and bureaucrats of every kind, and even with people working in stores or restaurants. People aren’t always nice or ethical. But being white, and living in a majority white society, I’ve never had to worry about whether any of these collisions were the result of racism. And I can well imagine that in some of these situations, had I been black, I would have come away feeling that I had encountered yet another racist in the wild. So I consider myself very lucky to have gone through life not having to think about any of that. Surely that’s one form of white privilege.

So, nothing I’m going to say denies that we should condemn racism—whether interpersonal or institutional—and we should condemn it wherever we find it. But as a society, we simply can’t afford to find and condemn racism where it doesn’t exist. And we should be increasingly aware of the costs of doing that. The more progress we make on issues of race, the less racism there will be to find, and the more likely we’ll find ourselves chasing after its ghost.

The truth is, we have made considerable progress on the problem of racism in America. This isn’t 1920, and it isn’t 1960. We had a two-term black president. We have black congressmen and women. We have black mayors and black chiefs of police. There are major cities, like Detroit and Atlanta, going on their fifth or sixth consecutive black mayor. Having more and more black people in positions of real power, in what is still a majority white society, is progress on the problem of racism. And the truth is, it might not even solve the problem we’re talking about. When Freddy Gray was killed in Baltimore, virtually everyone who could have been held accountable for his death was black. The problem of police misconduct and reform is complicated, as we’re about to see. But obviously, there is more work to do on the problem of racism. And, more important, there is much more work to do to remedy the inequalities in our society that are so correlated with race, and will still be correlated with race, even after the last racist has been driven from our shores.

The question of how much of today’s inequality is due to existing racism—whether racist people or racist policies—is a genuinely difficult question to answer. And to answer it, we need to distinguish the past from the present.

Take wealth inequality, for example: The median white family has a net worth of around $170,000—these data are a couple of years old, but they’re probably pretty close to what’s true now. The median black family has a net worth of around $17,000. So we have a tenfold difference in median wealth. (That’s the median, not the mean: Half of white families are below 170,000 and half above; half of black families are below 17,000 and half above. And we’re talking about wealth here, not income.)

This disparity in wealth persists even for people whose incomes are in the top 10 percent of the income distribution. For whites in the top 10 percent for income, the median net worth is $1.8 million; for blacks it’s around $350,000. There are probably many things that account for this disparity in wealth. It seems that black families that make it to the top of the income distribution fall out of it more easily than white families do. But it’s also undeniable that black families have less intergenerational wealth accumulated through inheritance.

How much of this is inequality due to the legacy of slavery? And how much of it is due to an ensuing century of racist policies? I’m prepared to believe quite a lot. And it strikes me as totally legitimate to think about paying reparations as a possible remedy here. Of course, one will then need to talk about reparations for the Native Americans. And then one wonders where this all ends. And what about blacks who aren’t descended from slaves, but who still suffered the consequences of racism in the US? In listening to people like John McWhorter and Coleman Hughes discuss this topic, I’m inclined to think that reparations is probably unworkable as a policy. But the truth is that I’m genuinely unsure about this.

Whatever we decide about the specific burdens of the past, we have to ask, how much of current wealth inequality is due to existing racism and to existing policies that make it harder for black families to build wealth? And the only way to get answers to those questions is to have a dispassionate discussion about facts.

The problem with the social activism we are now seeing—what John McWhorter has called “the new religion of anti-Racism”—is that it finds racism nearly everywhere, even where it manifestly does not exist. And this is incredibly damaging to the cause of achieving real equality in our society. It’s almost impossible to exaggerate the evil and injustice of slavery and its aftermath. But it is possible to exaggerate how much racism currently exists at an Ivy League university, or in Silicon Valley, or at the Oscars. And those exaggerations are toxic—and, perversely, they may produce more real racism. It seems to me that false claims of victimhood can diminish the social stature of any group, even a group that has a long history of real victimization.

The imprecision here—the bad-faith arguments, the double standards, the goal-post shifting, the idiotic opinion pieces in the New York Times, the defenestrations on social media, the general hysteria that the cult of wokeness has produced—I think this is all extremely harmful to civil society, and to effective liberal politics, and to the welfare of African Americans.

So, with that as preamble, let’s return to the tragic death of George Floyd.

As I said, I believe that any sane person who watches that video will feel that they have witnessed a totally unjustified killing. So, people of any race, are right to be horrified by what happened there. But now I want to ask a few questions, and I want us to try to consider them dispassionately. And I really want you to watch your mind while you do this. There are very likely to be few tripwires installed there, and I’m about to hit them. So just do your best to remain calm.

Does the killing of George Floyd prove that we have a problem of racism in the United States?

Does it even suggest that we have a problem of racism in the United States?

In other words, do we have reason to believe that, had Floyd been white, he wouldn’t have died in a similar way?

Do the dozen or so other videos that have emerged in recent years, of black men being killed by cops, do they prove, or even suggest, that there is an epidemic of lethal police violence directed especially at black men and that this violence is motivated by racism?

Most people seem to think that the answers to these questions are so obvious that to even pose them as I just did is obscene. The answer is YES, and it’s a yes that now needs to be shouted in the streets.

The problem, however, is that if you take even 5 minutes to look at the data on crime and police violence, the answer appears to be “no,” in every case, albeit with one important caveat. I’m not talking about how the police behaved in 1970 or even 1990. But in the last 25 years, violent crime has come down significantly in the US, and so has the police use of deadly force. And as you’re about to see, the police used more deadly force against white people—both in absolute numbers, and in terms of their contribution to crime and violence in our society. But the public perception is, of course, completely different.

In a city like Los Angeles, 2019 was a 30-year low for police shootings. Think about that…. Do the people who were protesting in Los Angeles, peacefully and violently, do the people who were ransacking and burning businesses by the hundreds—in many cases, businesses that will not return to their neighborhoods—do the people who caused so much damage to the city, that certain neighborhoods, ironically the neighborhoods that are disproportionately black, will take years, probably decades to recover, do the celebrities who supported them, and even bailed them out of jail—do any of these people know that 2019 was the 30-year low for police shootings in Los Angeles?

Before I step out further over the abyss here, let me reiterate: Many of you are going to feel a visceral negative reaction to what I’m about to say. You’re not going to like the way it sounds. You’re especially not going to like the way it sounds coming from a white guy. This feeling of not liking, this feeling of outrage, this feeling of disgust—this feeling of “Sam, what the fuck is wrong with you, why are you even touching this topic?”—this feeling isn’t an argument. It isn’t, or shouldn’t be, the basis for your believing anything to be true or false about the world.

Your capacity to be offended isn’t something that I or anyone else needs to respect. Your capacity to be offended isn’t something that you should respect. In fact, it is something that you should be on your guard for. Perhaps more than any other property of your mind, this feeling can mislead you.

If you care about justice—and you absolutely should—you should care about facts and the ability to discuss them openly. Justice requires contact with reality. It simply isn’t the case—it cannot be the case—that the most pressing claims on our sense of justice need come from those who claim to be the most offended by conversation itself.

So, I’m going to speak the language of facts right now, in so far as we know them, all the while knowing that these facts run very much counter to most people’s assumptions. Many of the things you think you know about crime and violence in our society are almost certainly wrong. And that should matter to you.

So just take a moment and think this through with me.

How many people are killed each year in America by cops? If you don’t know, guess. See if you have any intuitions for these numbers. Because your intuitions are determining how you interpret horrific videos of the sort we saw coming out of Minneapolis.

The answer for many years running is about 1000. One thousand people are killed by cops in America each year. There are about 50 to 60 million encounters between civilians and cops each year, and about 10 million arrests. That’s down from a high of over 14 million arrests annually throughout the 1990’s. So, of the 10 million occasions where a person attracts the attention of the police, and the police decide to make an arrest, about 1000 of those people die as a result. (I’m sure a few people get killed even when no arrest was attempted, but that has to be a truly tiny number.) So, without knowing anything else about the situation, if the cops decide to arrest you, it would be reasonable to think that your chance of dying is around 1/10,000. Of course, in the United States, it’s higher than it is in other countries. So I’m not saying that this number is acceptable. But it is what it is for a reason, as we’re about to see.

Now, there are a few generic things I’d like to point here before we get further into the data. They should be uncontroversial.

First, it’s almost certainly the case that of these 1000 officer-caused deaths each year, some are entirely justified—it may even be true that most are entirely justified—and some are entirely unjustified, and some are much harder to judge. And that will be true next year. And the year after that.

Of the unjustified killings, there are vast differences between them. Many have nothing in common but for the fact that a cop killed someone unnecessarily. It might have been a terrible misunderstanding, or incompetence, or just bad luck, and in certain cases it could be a cop who decides to murder someone because he’s become enraged, or he’s just a psychopath. And it is certainly possible that racial bias accounts for some number of these unjustified killings.

Another point that should be uncontroversial—but may sound a little tone-deaf in the current environment, where we’ve inundated with videos of police violence in response to these protests. But this has to be acknowledged whenever we’re discussing this topic: Cops have a very hard job. In fact, in the current environment, they have an almost impossible job.

If you’re making 10 million arrests every year, some number of people will decide not to cooperate. There can be many reasons for this. A person could be mentally ill, or drunk, or on drugs. Of course, rather often the person is an actual criminal who doesn’t want to be arrested.

Among innocent people, and perhaps this getting more common these days, a person might feel that resisting arrest is the right thing to do, ethically or politically or as a matter of affirming his identity. After all, put yourself in his shoes, he did nothing wrong. Why are the cops arresting him? I don’t know if we have data on the numbers of people who resist arrest by race. But I can well imagine that if it’s common for African Americans to believe that the only reason they have been singled out for arrest is due to racism on the part of the police, that could lead to greater levels of non-compliance. Which seems very likely to lead to more unnecessary injury and death. This is certainly one reason why it is wise to have the racial composition of a police force mirror that of the community it’s policing. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence that this will reduce lethal violence from the side of the police. In fact, the evidence we have suggests that black and Hispanic cops are more likely to shoot black and Hispanic suspects than white cops are. But it would surely change the perception of the community that racism is a likely explanation for police behavior, which itself might reduce conflict.

When a cop goes hands on a person in an attempt to control his movements or make an arrest, that person’s resistance poses a problem that most people don’t understand. If you haven’t studied this topic. If you don’t know what it physically takes to restrain and immobilize a non-compliant person who may be bigger and stronger than you are, and if you haven’t thought through the implications of having a gun on your belt while attempting to do that—a gun that can be grabbed and used against you, or against a member of the public—then your intuitions about what makes sense here, tactically and ethically, are very likely to be bad.

If you haven’t trained with firearms under stress. If you don’t know how suddenly situations can change. If you haven’t experienced how quickly another person can close the distance on you, and how little time you have to decide to draw your weapon. If you don’t know how hard it is to shoot a moving target, or even a stationary one, when your heart is beating out of your chest. You very likely have totally unreasonable ideas about what we can expect from cops in situations like these. [VIDEO, VIDEO, VIDEO]

And there is another fact that looms over all this like the angel of Death, literally: Most cops do not get the training they need. They don’t get the hand-to-hand training they need—they don’t have good skills to subdue people without harming them. All you need to do is watch YouTube videos of botched arrests to see this. The martial arts community stands in perpetual astonishment at the kinds of things cops do and fail to do once they start fighting with suspects. Cops also don’t get the firearms training they need. Of course, there are elite units in many police departments, but most cops do not have the training they need to do the job they’re being asked to do.

It is also true, no doubt, that some cops are racist bullies. And there are corrupt police departments that cover for these guys, and cover up police misconduct generally, whether it was borne of racism or not.

But the truth is that even if we got rid of all bad cops, which we absolutely should do, and there were only good people left, and we got all these good people the best possible training, and we gave them the best culture in which to think about their role in society, and we gave them the best methods for de-escalating potentially violent situations—which we absolutely must do—and we scrubbed all the dumb laws from our books, so that when cops were required to enforce the law, they were only risking their lives and the lives of civilians for reasons that we deem necessary and just—so the war on drugs is obviously over—even under these conditions of perfect progress, we are still guaranteed to have some number of cases each year where a cop kills a civilian in a way that is totally unjustified, and therefore tragic. Every year, there will be some number of families who will be able to say that the cops killed their son or daughter, or father or mother, or brother or sister. And videos of these killings will occasionally surface, and they will be horrific. This seems guaranteed to happen.

So, while we need to make all these improvements, we still need to understand that there are very likely always to going to be videos of cops doing something inexplicable, or inexplicably stupid, that results in an innocent person’s death, or a not-so-innocent person’s death. And sometimes the cop will be white and the victim will be black. We have 10 million arrests each year. And we now live in a panopticon where practically everything is videotaped.

I’m about to get further into the details of what we know about police violence, but I want to just put it to you now: If we’re going to let the health of race relations in this country, or the relationship between the community and the police, depend on whether we ever see a terrible video of police misconduct again, the project of healing these wounds in our society is doomed.

About a week into these protests I heard Van Jones on CNN say, “If we see one more video of a cop brutalizing a black man, this country could go over the edge.” He said this, not as indication of how dangerously inflamed people have become. He seemed to be saying it as an ultimatum to the police. With 10 million arrests a year, arrests that have to take place in the most highly armed society in the developed world, I hope you understand how unreasonable that ultimatum is.

We have to put these videos into context. And we have to acknowledge how different they are from one another. Some of them are easy to interpret. But some are quite obviously being interpreted incorrectly by most people—especially by activists. And there are a range of cases—some have video associated with them and some don’t—that are now part of a litany of anti-racist outrage, and the names of the dead are intoned as though they were all evidence of the same injustice. And yet, they are not.

Walter Scott was stopped for a broken taillight and got out of his car and tried to flee. There might have been a brief struggle over the officer’s taser, that part of the video isn’t clear. But what is clear is that he was shot in the back multiple times as he was running away. That was insane. There was zero reason for the officer to feel that his life was under threat at the point he opened fire. And for that unjustified shooting, he was sentenced to 20 years in prison. I’m not sure that’s long enough. That seemed like straight-up murder.

The George Floyd video, while even more disturbing to watch, is harder to interpret. I don’t know anything about Derek Chauvin, the cop who knelt on his neck. It’s quite possible that he’s a terrible person who should have never been a cop. He seems to have a significant number of complaints against him—though, as far as I know, the details of those complaints haven’t been released. And he might be a racist on top of being a bad cop. Or he might be a guy who was totally in over his head and thought you could restrain someone indefinitely by keeping a knee on their neck indefinitely. I don’t know. I’m sure more facts will come out. But whoever he is, I find it very unlikely that he was intending to kill George Floyd. Think about it. He was surrounded by irate witnesses and being filmed. Unless he was aspiring to become the most notorious murderer in human history, it seems very unlikely that he was intending to commit murder in that moment. It’s possible, of course. But it doesn’t seem the likeliest explanation for his behavior.

What I believe we saw on that video was the result of a tragic level of negligence and poor training on the part of those cops. Or terrible recruitment—it’s possible that none of these guys should have ever been cops. I think for one of them, it was only his fourth day on the job. Just imagine that. Just imagine all things you don’t know as a new cop.  It could also be a function of bad luck in terms of Floyd’s underlying health. It’s been reported that he was complaining of being unable to breath before Chauvin pinned him with his knee. The knee on his neck might not have been the only thing that caused his death. It could have also been the weight of the other officer pinning him down.

This is almost certainly what happened in the cast of Eric Garner. Half the people on earth believe they witnessed a cop choke Eric Garner to death in that video. That does not appear to be what happened. When Eric Garner is saying “I can’t breathe” he’s not being choked. He’s being held down on the pavement by several officers. Being forced down on your stomach under the weight of several people can kill a person, especially someone with lung or heart disease. In the case of Eric Garner, it is absolutely clear that the cop who briefly attempted to choke him was no longer choking him. If you doubt that, watch the video again.

And if you are recoiling now from my interpretation of these videos, you really should watch the killing of Tony Timpa. It’s also terribly disturbing, but it removes the variable of race and it removes any implication of intent to harm on the part of the cops about as clearly as you could ask. It really is worth watching as a corrective to our natural interpretation of these other videos.

Tony Timpa was a white man in Dallas, who was suffering some mental health emergency and cocaine intoxication. And he actually called 911 himself. What we see is the bodycam footage from the police, which shows that he was already in handcuffs when they arrived—a security guard had cuffed him. And then the cops take over, and they restrain Timpa on the ground, by rolling him onto a stomach and putting their weight on him, very much like in the case of Eric Garner. And they keep their weight on him—one cop has a knee on his upper back, which is definitely much less aggressive than a knee on the neck—but they crush the life out of him all the same, over the course of 13 minutes. He’s not being choked. The cops are not being rough. There’s no animus between them and Timpa. It was not a hostile arrest. They clearly believe that they’re responding to a mental health emergency. But they keep him down on his belly, under their weight, and they’re cracking jokes as he loses consciousness. Now, your knowledge that he’s going to be dead by the end of this video, make their jokes seem pretty callous. But this was about as benign an imposition of force by cops as you’re going to see. The crucial insight you will have watching this video, is that the officers not only had no intent to kill Tony Timpa, they don’t take his pleading seriously because they have no doubt that what they’re doing is perfectly safe—perfectly within protocol. They’ve probably done this hundreds of times before.

If you watch that video—and, again, fair warning, it is disturbing—but imagine how disturbing it would have been to our society if Tony Timpa had been black. If the only thing you changed about the video was the color of Timpa’s skin, then that video would have detonated like a nuclear bomb in our society, exactly as the George Floyd video did. In fact, in one way it is worse, or would have been perceived to be worse. I mean, just imagine white cops telling jokes as they crushed the life out of a black Tony Timpa… Given the nature of our conversation about violence, given the way we perceive videos of this kind, there is no way that people would have seen that as anything other than a lynching. And yet, it would not have been a lynching.

Now, I obviously have no idea what was in the minds of cops in Minneapolis. And perhaps we’ll learn at trial. Perhaps a tape of Chauvin using the N-word in another context will surface, bringing in a credible allegation of racism. It seems to me that Chauvin is going to have a very hard time making sense of his actions. But most people who saw that video believe they have seen, with their own eyes, beyond any possibility of doubt, a racist cop intentionally murder an innocent man. That’s not what the video necessarily shows.

As I said, these videos can be hard to interpret, even while seeming very easy to interpret. And these cases, whether we have associated video or not, are very different. Michael Brown is reported to have punched a cop in the face and attempted to get his gun. As far as I know, there’s no video of that encounter. But, if true, that is an entirely different situation. If you’re attacking a cop, trying to get his gun, that is a life and death struggle that almost by definition for the cop, and it most cases justifies the use of lethal force. And honestly, it seems that no one within a thousand miles of Black Lives Matter is willing to make these distinctions. An attitude of anti-racist moral outrage is not the best lens through which to interpret evidence of police misconduct.

I’ve seen many videos of people getting arrested. And I’ve seen the outraged public reaction to what appears to be inappropriate use of force by the cops. One overwhelming fact that comes through is that people, whatever the color of their skin, don’t understand how to behave around cops so as to keep themselves safe. People have to stop resisting arrest. This may seem obvious, but judging from most of these videos, and from the public reaction to them, this must be a totally arcane piece of information. When a cop wants to take you into custody, you don’t get to decide whether or not you should be arrested. When a cop wants to take you into custody, for whatever reason, it’s not a negotiation. And if you turn it into a wrestling match, you’re very likely to get injured or killed.

This is a point I once belabored in a podcast with Glenn Loury, and it became essentially a public service announcement. And I’ve gone back and listened to those comments, and I want to repeat them here. This is something that everyone really needs to understand. And it’s something that Black Lives Matter should be teaching explicitly: If you put your hands on a cop—if you start wrestling with a cop, or grabbing him because he’s arresting your friend, or pushing him, or striking him, or using your hands in way that can possibly be interpreted as your reaching for a gun—you are likely to get shot in the United States, whatever the color of your skin.

As I said, when you’re with a cop, there is always a gun out in the open. And any physical struggle has to be perceived by him as a fight for the gun. A cop doesn’t know what you’re going to do if you overpower him, so he has to assume the worst. Most cops are not confident in their ability to physically control a person without shooting him—for good reason, because they’re not well trained to do that, and they’re continually confronting people who are bigger, or younger, or more athletic, or more aggressive than they are. Cops are not superheroes. They’re ordinary people with insufficient training, and once things turn physical they cannot afford to give a person who is now assaulting a police officer the benefit of the doubt.

This is something that most people seem totally confused about. If they see a video of somebody trying to punch a cop in the face and the person’s unarmed, many people think the cop should just punch back, and any use of deadly force would be totally disproportionate. But that’s not how violence works. It’s not the cop’s job to be the best bare-knuckled boxer on Earth so he doesn’t have to use his gun. A cop can’t risk getting repeatedly hit in the face and knocked out, because there’s always a gun in play. This is the cop’s perception of the world, and it’s a justifiable one, given the dynamics of human violence.

You might think cops shouldn’t carry guns. Why can’t we just be like England? That’s a point that can be debated. But it requires considerable thought in a country where there are over 300 million guns on the street. The United States is not England.

Again, really focus on what is happening when a cop is attempting to arrest a person. It’s not up to you to decide whether or not you should be arrested. Does it matter that you know you didn’t do anything wrong? No. And how could that fact be effectively communicated in the moment by your not following police commands? I’m going to ask that again: How could the fact that you’re innocent, that you’re not a threat to cop, that you’re not about to suddenly attack him or produce a weapon of your own, how could those things be effectively communicated at the moment he’s attempting to arrest you by your resisting arrest?

Unless you called the cops yourself, you never know what situation you’re in. If I’m walking down the street, I don’t know if the cop who is approaching me didn’t get a call that some guy who looks like Ben Stiller just committed an armed robbery. I know I didn’t do anything, but I don’t know what’s in the cop’s head. The time to find out what’s going on—the time to complain about racist cops, the time to yell at them and tell them they’re all going to get fired for their stupidity and misconduct—is after cooperating, at the police station, in the presence of a lawyer, preferably. But to not comply in the heat of the moment, when a guy with the gun is issuing commands—this raises your risk astronomically, and it’s something that most people, it seems, just do not intuitively understand, even when they’re not in the heat of the moment themselves, but just watching video of other people getting arrested.

Ok. End of public-service announcement.

The main problem with using individual cases, where black men and women have been killed by cops, to conclude that there is an epidemic of racist police violence in our society, is that you can find nearly identical cases of white suspects being killed by cops, and there are actually more of them.

In 2016, John McWhorter wrote a piece in Time Magazine about this.

Here’s a snippet of what he wrote:

“The heart of the indignation over these murders is a conviction that racist bias plays a decisive part in these encounters. That has seemed plausible to me, and I have recently challenged those who disagree to present a list of white people killed within the past few years under circumstances similar to those that so enrage us in cases such as what happened to Tamir Rice, John Crawford, Walter Scott, Sam Debose, and others.”

So, McWhorter issued that challenge, as he said, and he was presented with the cases [VIDEO, VIDEO, VIDEO]. But there’s no song about these people, admonishing us to say their names. And the list of white names is longer, and I don’t know any of them, other than Tony Timpa. I know the black names. In addition to the ones I just read from McWhorter’s article, I know the names of Eric Garner, and Michael Brown, and Alton Sterling, and Philando Castile, and now, of course, I know the name of George Floyd. And I’m aware of many of the details of these cases where black men and women have been killed by cops. I know the name of Breonna Taylor. I can’t name a single white person killed by cops in circumstances like these—other than Timpa—and I just read McWhorter’s article where he lists many of them.

So, this is also a distortion in the media. The media is not showing us videos of white people being killed by cops; activists are not demanding that they do this. I’m sure white supremacists talk about this stuff a lot, who knows? But in terms of the story we’re telling ourselves in the mainstream, we are not actually talking about the data on lethal police violence.

So back to the data: Again, cops kill around 1000 people every year in the United States. About 25 percent are black. About 50 percent are white. The data on police homicide are all over the place. The federal government does not have a single repository for data of this kind. But they have been pretty carefully tracked by outside sources, like the Washington Post, for the last 5 years. These ratios appear stable over time. Again, many of these killings are justifiable, we’re talking about career criminals who are often armed and, in many cases, trying to kill the cops. Those aren’t the cases we’re worried about. We’re worried about the unjustifiable homicides.

Now, some people will think that these numbers still represent an outrageous injustice. Afterall, African Americans are only 13 percent of the population. So, at most, they should be 13 percent of the victims of police violence, not 25 percent. Any departure from the baseline population must be due to racism.

Ok. Well, that sounds plausible, but consider a few more facts:

Blacks are 13 percent of the population, but they commit at least 50 percent of the murders and other violent crimes.

If you have 13 percent of the population responsible for 50 percent of the murders—and in some cities committing 2/3rds of all violent crime—what percent of police attention should it attract? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it’s not just 13 percent. Given that the overwhelming majority of their victims are black, I’m pretty sure that most black people wouldn’t set the dial at 13 percent either.

And here we arrive at the core of the problem. The story of crime in America is overwhelmingly the story of black-on-black crime. It is also, in part, a story of black-on-white crime. For more than a generation, crime in America really hasn’t been a story of much white-on-black crime. [Some listeners mistook my meaning here. I’m not denying that most violent crime is intraracial. So, it’s true that most white homicide victims are killed by white offenders. Per capita, however, the white crime rate is much lower than the black crime rate. And there is more black-on-white crime than white-on-black crime.—SH]

The murder rate has come down steadily since the early 1990’s, with only minor upticks. But, nationwide, blacks are still 6 times more likely to get murdered than whites, and in some cities their risk is double that. And around 95 percent of the murders are committed by members of the African American community. [While reported in 2015, these data were more than a decade old. Looking at more recent data from the FBI’s Uniform Crime Report, the number appears to be closer to 90 percent.—SH]

The weekend these protests and riots were kicking off nationwide—when our entire country seemed to be tearing itself apart over a perceived epidemic of racist police violence against the black community, 92 people were shot, and 27 killed, in Chicago alone—one city. This is almost entirely a story of black men killing members of their own community. And this is far more representative of the kind of violence that the black community needs to worry about. And, ironically, it’s clear that one remedy for this violence is, or would be, effective policing.

These are simply the facts of crime in our society as we best understand them. And the police have to figure out how to respond to these facts, professionally and ethically. The question is, are they doing that? And, obviously, there’s considerable doubt that they’re doing that, professionally and ethically.

Roland Fryer, the Harvard economist who’s work I discussed on the podcast with Glenn Loury, studied police encounters involving black and white suspects and the use of force.

His paper is titled, this from 2016, “An Empirical Analysis of Racial Differences in Police Use of Force.”

Fryer is black, and he went into this research with the expectation that the data would confirm that there’s an epidemic of lethal police violence directed at black men. But he didn’t find that. However, he did find support for the suspicion that black people suffer more nonlethal violence at the hands of cops than whites do.

So let’s look at this.

The study examined data from 10 major police departments, in Texas, Florida and California. Generally, Fryer found that there is 25 percent greater likelihood that the police would go hands on black suspects than white ones—cuffing them, or forcing them to ground, or using other non-lethal force.

Specifically, in New York City, in encounters where white and black citizens were matched for other characteristics, they found that:

Cops were…

17 percent more likely to go hands on black suspects

18 percent more likely to push them into a wall

16 percent more likely to put them in handcuffs (in a situation in which they aren’t arrested)

18 percent more likely to push them to the ground

25 percent more likely to use pepper spray or a baton

19 percent more likely to draw their guns

24 percent more likely to point a gun at them.

This is more or less the full continuum of violence short of using lethal force. And it seems, from the data we have, that blacks receive more of it than whites. What accounts for this disparity? Racism? Maybe. However, as I said, it’s inconvenient to note that other data suggest that black cops and Hispanic cops are more likely to shoot black and Hispanic suspects than white cops are. I’m not sure how an ambient level of racism explains that.

Are there other explanations? Well, again, could it be that blacks are less cooperative with the police. If so, that’s worth understanding. A culture of resisting arrest would be a very bad thing to cultivate, given that the only response to such resistance is for the police to increase their use of force.

Whatever is true here is something we should want to understand. And it’s all too easy to see how an increased number of encounters with cops, due to their policing in the highest crime neighborhoods, which are disproportionately black, and an increased number of traffic stops in those neighborhoods, and an increased propensity for cops to go hands-on these suspects, with or without an arrest, for whatever reason—it’s easy to see how all of this could be the basis for a perception of racism, whether or not racism is the underlying motivation.

It is totally humiliating to be arrested or manhandled by a cop. And, given the level of crime in the black community, a disproportionate number of innocent black men seem guaranteed to have this experience. It’s totally understandable that this would make them bitter and mistrustful of the police. This is another vicious circle that we must find some way to interrupt.

But Fryer also found that black suspects are around 25 percent less likely to be shot than white suspects are. And in the most egregious situations, where officers were not first attacked, but nevertheless fired their weapons at a suspect, they were more likely to do this when the suspect was white.

Again, the data are incomplete. This doesn’t not cover every city in the country. And a larger study tomorrow might paint a different picture. But, as far as I know, the best data we have suggest that for, whatever reason, whites are more likely to be killed by cops once an arrest is attempted. And a more recent study in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences  by David Johnson and colleagues found similar results. And it is simply undeniable that more whites are killed by cops each year, both in absolute numbers and in proportion to their contributions to crime and violence in our society.

Can you hear how these facts should be grinding in that well-oiled machine of woke outrage? Our society is in serious trouble now. We are being crushed under the weight of a global pandemic and our response to it has been totally inept. On top of that, we’re being squeezed by the growing pressure of what might become a full-on economic depression. And the streets are now filled with people who imagine, on the basis of seeing some horrific videos, that there is an epidemic of racist cops murdering African Americans. Look at what this belief is doing to our politics. And these videos will keep coming. And the truth is they could probably be matched 2 for 1 with videos of white people being killed by cops. What percentage of people protesting understand that the disparity runs this way? In light of the belief that the disparity must run the other way, people are now quite happy to risk getting beaten and arrested by cops themselves, and to even loot and burn businesses. And most people and institutions are supporting this civil unrest from the sidelines, because they too imagine that cops are killing black people in extraordinary numbers. And all of this is calling forth an authoritarian response from Trump—and leading to more examples of police violence caught on video.

As I hope I’ve made clear, we need police reform—there’s no question about this. And some of the recent footage of the police attacking peaceful protests is outrageous. Nothing I just said should signify that I’m unaware of that. From what I’ve seen—and by the time I release this podcast, the character of all this might have changed—but, from what I’ve seen, the police were dangerously passive in the face of looting and real crime, at least in the beginning. In many cities, they just stood and watched society unravel. And then they were far too aggressive in the face of genuinely peaceful protests. This is a terrible combination. It is the worst combination. There’s no better way to increase cynicism and anger and fear, on all sides.

But racializing how we speak about the problem of police violence, where race isn’t actually the relevant variable—again, think of Tony Timpa— this has highly negative effects. First, it keeps us from talking about the real problems with police tactics. For instance, we had the recent case of Breonna Taylor who was killed in a so-called “no knock” raid of her home. As occasionally happens, in this carnival of moral error we call “the war on drugs,” the police had the wrong address, and they kicked in the wrong door. And they wound up killing a totally innocent woman. But this had nothing to do with race. The problem is not, as some commentators have alleged, that it’s not safe to be “sleeping while black.” The problem is that these no-knock raids are an obscenely dangerous way of enforcing despicably stupid laws. White people die under precisely these same circumstances, and very likely in greater numbers (I don’t have data specifically on no-knock raids, but we can assume that the ratio is probably conserved here).

Think about how crazy this policy is in a nation where gun ownership is so widespread. If someone kicks in your door in the middle of the night, and you’re a gun owner, of course you’re going to reach for your gun. That’s why you have a gun in the first place. The fact that people bearing down on you and your family out of the darkness might have yelled “police” (or might have not yelled “police”; it’s alleged in some of these cases that they don’t yell anything)—the fact that someone yells “police” isn’t necessarily convincing. Anyone can yell “police.” And, again, think of the psychology of this: If the police have the wrong house, and you know there is no reason on earth that real cops would take an interest in you, especially in the middle of the night, because you haven’t done anything (you’re not the guy running a meth lab)—and now you’re reaching for your gun in the dark—of course, someone is likely to get killed. This is not a racial issue. It’s a terrible policy.

Unfortunately, the process of police reform isn’t straightforward—and it is made massively more complicated by what’s happening now. Yes, we will be urging police reform in a very big way now, that much seems clear. But Roland Fryer has also shown that investigations of the cops, in a climate where viral videos and racial politics are operating, have dramatic effects, many of which are negative.

He studied the aftermath of the investigations into police misconduct that followed the killings Freddie Gray, Michael Brown, and Lequan McDonald, and found that, for reasons that seem pretty easy to intuit, proactive police contact with civilians decreases drastically, sometimes by as much 100 percent, once these investigations get started. This is now called “The Ferguson Effect.” The police still answer 911 calls, but they don’t investigate suspicious activity in the same way. They don’t want to wind up on YouTube. And when they alter their behavior like this, homicides go up. Fryer estimates that the effects of these few investigations translated into 1000 extra homicides, and almost 40,000 more felonies, over the next 24 months in the US. And, of course, most of the victims of those crimes were black. One shudders to imagine the size of the Ferguson effect we’re about to see nationwide… I’m sure the morale among cops has never been lower. I think it’s almost guaranteed that cops by the thousands will be leaving the force. And it will be much more difficult to recruit good people.

Who is going to want to be a cop now? Who could be idealist about occupying that role in society? It seems to me that the population of people who will become cops now will be more or less indistinguishable from the population of people who become prison guards. I’m pretty sure there’s a difference there, and I think we’re likely to see that difference expressed in the future. It’s a grim picture, unless we do something very creative here.

So there’s a real question about how we can reform police departments, and get rid of bad cops, without negatively impacting the performance of good cops? That’s a riddle we have to solve—or at least we have to understand what the trade-offs are here.

Why is all of this happening now? Police killings of civilians have gone way down. And they are rare events. They are 1/10,000 level events, if measured by arrests. 1/50-60,000 level events if measured by police encounters. And the number of unarmed people who are killed is smaller still. Around 50 last year, again, more were white than black. And not all unarmed victims are innocent. Some get killed in the act of attacking the cops.  [EXAMPLE, EXAMPLE, EXAMPLE]

Again, the data don’t tell a clean story, or the whole story. I see no reason to doubt that blacks get more attention from the cops—though, honestly, given the distribution of crime in our society, I don’t know what the alternative to that would be. And once the cops get involved, blacks are more likely to get roughed up, which is bad. But, again, it simply isn’t clear that racism is the cause. And contrary to everyone’s expectations, whites seem more likely to get killed by cops. Actually, one factor seems to be that whites are 7 times more likely to commit “suicide by cop” (and 3 times more likely to commit suicide generally). What’s going on there? Who knows?

There’s a lot we don’t understand about these data. But ask yourself, would our society seem less racist if the disparity ran the other way? Is less physical contact, but a greater likelihood of getting shot and killed a form of white privilege? Is a higher level of suicide by cop, and suicide generally, a form of white privilege? We have a problem here that, read either way, you can tell a starkly racist narrative.

We need ethical, professional policing, of course. But the places with the highest crime in our society need the most of it. Is there any doubt about that? In a city like Milwaukee, blacks are 12 times more likely to get murdered than whites [Not sure where I came by this number, probably a lecture or podcast. It appears the rate is closer to 20 times more likely and 22 times more likely in Wisconsin as a whole—SH], again, they are being killed by other African Americans, nearly 100 percent of the time. I think the lowest figure I’ve seen is 93 percent of the time. [As noted above, more recent data suggest that it’s closer to 90 percent]. What should the police do about this? And what are they likely to do now that our entire country has been convulsed over one horrific case of police misconduct?

We need to lower the temperature on this conversation, and many other conversations, and understand what is actually happening in our society.

But instead of doing this, we now have a whole generation of social activists who seem eager to play a game of chicken with the forces of chaos. Everything I said about the problem of inequality and the need for reform stands. But I think that what we are witnessing in our streets, and on social media, and even in the mainstream press, is a version of mass hysteria. And the next horrific video of a black person being killed by cops won’t be evidence to the contrary. And there will be another video. There are 10 million arrests every year. There will always be another video.

And the media has turned these videos into a form of political pornography. And this has deranged us. We’re now unable to speak or even think about facts. The media has been poisoned by bad incentives, in this regard, and social media doubly so.

In the mainstream of this protest movement, it’s very common to hear that the only problem with what is happening in our streets, apart from what the cops are doing, is that some criminal behavior at the margins—a little bit of looting, a little bit of violence—has distracted us from an otherwise necessary and inspiring response to an epidemic of racism. Most people in the media have taken exactly this line. People like Anderson Cooper on CNN or the editorial page of the New York Times or public figures like President Obama or Vice President Biden. The most prominent liberal voices believe that the protests themselves make perfect moral and political sense, and that movements like Black Lives Matter are guaranteed to be on the right side of history. How could anyone who is concerned about inequality and injustice in our society see things any other way? How could anyone who isn’t himself racist not support Black Lives Matter?

But, of course, there’s a difference between slogans and reality. There’s a difference between the branding of a movement and its actual aims. And this can be genuinely confusing. That’s why propaganda works. For instance, many people assume there’s nothing wrong with ANTIFA, because this group of total maniacs has branded itself as “anti-fascist.” What could be wrong with being anti-fascist? Are you pro fascism?

There’s a similar problem with Black Lives Matter—though, happily, unlike ANTIFA, Black Lives Matter actually seems committed to peaceful protest, which is hugely important. So the problem I’m discussing is more ideological, and it’s much bigger than Black Lives Matter—though BLM is its most visible symbol of this movement. The wider issue is that we are in the midst of a public hysteria and moral panic. And it has been made possible by a near total unwillingness, particularly on the Left, among people who value their careers and their livelihoods and their reputations, and fear being hounded into oblivion online—this is nearly everyone left-of-center politically. People are simply refusing to speak honestly about the problem of race and racism in America.

We are making ourselves sick. We are damaging our society. And by protesting the wrong thing, even the slightly wrong thing, and unleashing an explosion of cynical criminality in the process—looting that doesn’t even have the pretense of protest—the Left is empowering Trump, whatever the polls currently show. And if we are worried about Trump’s authoritarian ambitions, as I think we really should be, this is important to understand. He recently had what looked like paramilitary troops guarding the White House. I don’t know if we found out who those guys actually were, but that was genuinely alarming. But how are Democrats calls to “abolish the police” going to play to half the country that just watched so many cities get looted? We have to vote Trump out of office and restore the integrity of our institutions. And we have to make the political case for major reforms to deal with the problem of inequality—a problem which affects the black community most of all.

We need police reform; we need criminal justice reform; we need tax reform; we need health care reform; we need environmental reform—we need all of these things and more. And to be just, these policies will need to reduce the inequality in our society. If we did this, African Americans would benefit, perhaps more than any other group. But it’s not at all clear that progress along these dimensions primarily entails us finding and eradicating more racism in our society.

Just ask yourself, what would real progress on the problem of racism look like? What would utter progress look like?

Here’s what I think it would look like: More and more people (and ultimately all people) would care less and less (and ultimately not at all) about race. As I’ve said before in various places, skin color would become like hair color in its political and moral significance—which is to say that it would have none.

Now, maybe you don’t agree with that aspiration. Maybe you think that tribalism based on skin color can’t be outgrown or shouldn’t be outgrown. Well, if you think that, I’m afraid I don’t know what to say to you. It’s not that there’s nothing to say, it’s just there is so much we disagree about, morally and politically, that I don’t know where to begin. So that debate, if it can even be had, will have to be left for another time.

For the purposes of this conversation, I have to assume that you agree with me about the goal here, which is to say that you share the hope that there will come a time where the color of a person’s skin really doesn’t matter. What would that be like?

Well, how many blondes got into Harvard this year? Does anyone know? What percentage of the police in San Diego are brunette? Do we have enough red heads in senior management in our Fortune 500 companies? No one is asking these questions, and there is a reason for that. No one cares. And we are right not to care.

Imagine a world in which people cared about hair color to the degree that we currently care—or seem to care, or imagine that others care, or allege that they secretly care—about skin color. Imagine a world in which discrimination by hair color was a thing, and it took centuries to overcome, and it remains a persistent source of private pain and public grievance throughout society, even where it no longer exists. What an insane misuse of human energy that would be. What an absolute catastrophe.

The analogy isn’t perfect, for a variety of reasons, but it’s good enough for us to understand what life would be like if the spell of racism and anti-racism were truly broken. The future we want is not one in which we have all become passionate anti-racists. It’s not a future in which we are forever on our guard against the slightest insult—the bad joke, the awkward compliment, the tweet that didn’t age well. We want to get to a world in which skin color and other superficial characteristics of a person become morally and politically irrelevant. And if you don’t agree with that, what did you think Martin Luther King Jr was talking about?

And, finally, if you’re on the Left and don’t agree with this vision of a post-racial future, please observe that the people who agree with you, the people who believe that there is no overcoming race, and that racial identity is indissoluble, and that skin color really matters and will always matter—these people are white supremacists and neo-Nazis and other total assholes. And these are also people I can’t figure out how to talk to, much less persuade.

So the question for the rest of us—those of us who want to build a world populated by human beings, merely—the question is, how do we get there? How does racial difference become uninteresting? Can it become uninteresting by more and more people taking a greater interest in it? Can it become uninteresting by becoming a permanent political identity? Can it become uninteresting by our having thousands of institutions whose funding (and, therefore, very survival) depends on it remaining interesting until the end of the world?

Can it become less significant by being granted more and more significance? By becoming a fetish, a sacred object, ringed on all sides by taboos? Can race become less significant if you can lose your reputation and even your livelihood, at any moment, by saying one wrong word about it?

I think these questions answer themselves. To outgrow our obsession with racial difference, we have outgrow our obsession with race. And you don’t do that by maintaining your obsession with it.

Now, you might agree with me about the goal and about how a post-racial society would seem, but you might disagree about the path to get there—the question of what to do next. In fact, one podcast listener wrote to me recently to say that while he accepted my notion of a post-racial future, he thinks it’s just far too soon to talk about putting racial politics behind us. He asked me to imagine just how absurd it would have been to tell Martin Luther King Jr, at the dawn of the civil rights movement, that the path beyond racism requires that he become less and less obsessed with race.

That seems like a fair point, but Coleman Hughes has drawn my attention to a string of MLK quotes that seem to be just as transcendent of racial identity politics as I’m hoping to be here. You can see these quotations on his Twitter feed. None of those statements by King would make sense coming out of Black Lives Matter at the moment.

In any case, as I said, I think we are living in a very different time than Martin Luther King was. And what I see all around me is evidence of the fact that we were paying an intolerable price for confusion about racism, and social justice generally—and the importance of identity, generally—and this is happening in an environment where the path to success and power for historically disadvantaged groups isn’t generally barred by white racists who won’t vote for them, or hire them, or celebrate their achievements, or buy their products, and it isn’t generally barred by laws and policies and norms that are unfair. There is surely still some of that. But there must be less of it now than there ever was.

The real burden on the black community is the continued legacy of inequality—with respect to wealth, and education, and health, and social order—levels of crime, in particular, and resulting levels of incarceration, and single-parent families—and it seems very unlikely that these disparities, whatever their origin in the past, can be solved by focusing on problem of lingering racism, especially where it doesn’t exist. And the current problem of police violence seems a perfect case in point.

And yet now we’re inundated with messages from every well-intentioned company and organization singing from the same book of hymns. Black Lives Matter is everywhere. Of course, black lives matter. But the messaging of this movement about the reality of police violence is wrong, and it’s creating a public hysteria.

I just got a message from the American Association for the Advancement of Science talking about fear of the other. The quote from the email: “Left unchecked, racism, sexism, homophobia, and fear of the other can enter any organization or community – and destroy the foundations upon which we must build our future.” Ok, fine. But is that really the concern in the scientific community right now, “unchecked racism, sexism, and homophobia.” Is that really what ails science in the year 2020? I don’t think so.

I’ll tell you the fear of the other that does seem warranted, everywhere, right now. It’s the other who has rendered him or herself incapable of dialogue. It’s the other who will not listen to reason, who has no interest in facts, who can’t join a conversation that converges on the truth, because he knows in advance what the truth must be. We should fear the other who thinks that dogmatism and cognitive bias aren’t something to be corrected for, because they’re the very foundations of his epistemology.  We should fear the other who can’t distinguish activism from journalism or politics from science. Or worse, can make these distinctions, but refuses to. And we’re all capable of becoming this person. If only for minutes or hours at a time. And this is a bug in our operating system, not a feature. We have to continually correct for it.

One of the most shocking things that many of us learned when the Covid-19 pandemic was first landing on our shores, and we were weighing the pros and cons of closing the schools, was that for tens of millions of American kids, going to school represents the only guarantee of a decent meal on any given day. I’m pretty confident that most of the kids we’re talking about here aren’t white. And whatever you think about the opportunities in this country and whatever individual success stories you can call to mind, there is no question that some of us start on third base, or second base. Everyone has a lot to deal with, of course. Life is hard. But not everyone is a single mom, or single grandparent, struggling to raise kids in the inner city, all the while trying to keep them from getting murdered. The disparities in our society are absolutely heartbreaking and unacceptable. And we need to have a rational discussion about their actual causes and solutions.

We have to pull back from the brink here. And all we have with which to do that is conversation. And the only thing that makes conversation possible is an openness to evidence and arguments—a willingness to update one’s view of the world when better reasons are given. And that is an ongoing process, not a place we ever finally arrive.

Ok… Well, perhaps that was more of an exhortation than I intended, but it certainly felt like I needed to say it. I hope it was useful. And the conversations will continue on this podcast.

Stay safe, everyone.”

[stuartha06-blog]

Over the course of numerous owners

Both of Apple's new phones are larger than previous versions and their size was heavily marketed, in part to appeal to customers who liked Samsung's large phones.Now Samsung's S6 phones will have a metal frame like the iPhone. The phones also have a glass back, which Apple abandoned in favour of metal in recent iPhones.Smart devices think you're 'too lazy' to opt out of privacy defaultsAlthough the resolution of the phones' rear camera remains at 16 megapixels nfl jerseys, cameras on both sides will have wider openings to let in more light and make for sharper photos. The phones also promise better focus and colour accuracy achieved in part by using the infrared capabilities on the phones' heart rate sensor to detect lighting conditions.Earlier Sunday, HTC announced a new HTC One smartphone that also sports a better camera, while keeping such previously lauded elements as a metal design and polished finish.

nfl jerseys Find and hire an NHL managerial talent with something to prove, a chip on his shoulder, and the Sabres will prosper immediately. Darcy Regier has proven to be a genius in his own right. Over the course of numerous owners, he has insulated himself from failure by surrounding himself with hires who owe him their livelihoods, and will be forever loyal.  nfl jerseys

Cheap Jerseys free shipping Exceptions to consecutive days are university sanctioned vacation and examination days, and days with inclement weather, restricting the possibility of practice. Only 12 spring practices may permit physical contact https://www.cheapjerseys168.com, none earlier than the third practice session. Tackling is allowed in eight of the twelve contact sessions.  Cheap Jerseys free shipping

Cheap Jerseys free shipping But scout executive John did release a statement which said Bryant does not meet scouting is membership standard on sexual orientation. has graffiti and became an eagle scout in 1975. And finds the boy scouts' policy disappointing he knows Bryant and his family.  

The Romance Suites are the Garden, the Manhattan, and the Oriental suites. The Fantasy Suites are the Natural Cave, Ice Cave, Treasure Island, Pagoda, King Tut, Tree House, Space Odyssey and the Blue Lagoon. The Fantasy, Romance, and Theme Suites each have a king sized bed, cable television, two person Jacuzzi, refrigerator and wet bar.

nfl jerseys GOAL! Chelsea 6 Maribor 0 (Hazard 89) It's the goal of he night from the player of the night Cheap Jerseys free shipping. He pulls a long ball out of the air like he's Shane Long playing for West Brom against Villa. He cuts onto his left before shuffling back on the right and slamming a finish past Handanovic from 12 yards..  nfl jerseys

cheap jerseys Football is one of the most watched sporting games in the world. It is very difficult to explain through mere words the amount of passion, which runs in the veins of the true followers of this game. Fans can vent extreme emotions with every victory or defeat that their favorite team goes through.  cheap jerseys

wholesale nfl jerseys from china You can choose one alternative to the traditional tiered cake or you can serve 'em all. Erin McKenna, owner of Erin McKenna's Bakery in New York City, says she has noticed an uptick in requests for sweets tables covered in miniature doughnuts, brownies, cookies and more. "The wedding experience is transforming into a much less formal affair and more about family," explains McKenna.  wholesale nfl jerseys from china

cheap jerseys Choosing a juice extractor can be a very tough decision, considering https://www.cheapjerseysaleusa.com the amount of products on the market. The information we provide you with here should arm you with enough knowledge to choose a juicer suitable for your individual needs.Firstly, the juicers on our website are selected on the basis of availability in the UK Europe, quality, ease of use and reliability and they are all serviced in the UK. The majority of our juicers eject the pulp (fibres) separately to allow continuous juicing.  cheap jerseys

Cheap Jerseys from china "He's a quality player, really good. I think the things that stand out most about Jared are he has a lot of time on the ball, he's a good defender, his distribution skills are very good and he's got quite a clever kicking game. A lot of those attributes could suit him well at 13.".  Cheap Jerseys from china

Man: HE DOESN DESERVE TO BE HONORED. Elliott: AND THAT WASN ALL. NIKE, ONE OF RICE SPONSORS, TERMINATED ITS CONTRACT WITH HIM WHILE THE RAVENS, AS WELL AS MAJOR SPORTING GOODS CHAINS SUCH AS DICK AND MODELL ANNOUNCED AN EXCHANGE PROGRAM ALLOWING FANS TO RETURN UNWANTED RICE JERSEYS.

wholesale jerseys "I woke up this morning feeling like I had a horrible nightmare, feeling like I'm mourning the death of my closest friend," she wrote. "But to have to accept the fact that it's reality is a nightmare in itself. No one knows the pain that [the] media unwanted options from the public has caused my family.  

nfl jerseys The lawgivers, law enforcement, issue of blacks overcrowding prisons violence, notable trials, and conclusions. This is the extent of bad and the bad off. It would be if yielded 3.09 percent on Wednesday. They do not believe this has or their statement is they do not believe this will have any affect on labor. In their defense collective bargaining is exempt from antitrust scrutiny. But, if the union and management are at loggerheads and there's a lockout by the players and the players https://www.cheapjerseysitems.com decide to decertify their union, then there could be labor implications if they got a broad, sweeping antitrust exemption from the Supreme Court nfl jerseys.

[chrysalispen]

#FFxivWrite2019 - 6. First Steps

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

Yo it’s some Nero/WoL fluff because I will never not be on my bullshit

A single light still burned in the back of the Ironworks well after most folk would have sought their beds for the night, but Aurelia was accustomed to that. She was a fairly early riser herself, but as long as she'd known them most of the Ironworks crew kept odd hours. It was Cid's habit to leave the responsibility of locking up to whomever was last to seek their bed.

Usually that was either himself or Jessie, and so the Warrior of Light shouldered the heavy oak door open fully expecting to see him poking about within the guts of some piece of machinery he'd recently stripped down.

Cid was not there and neither was Jessie. The man currently occupying the workbench next to the lathe didn't acknowledge her entrance, but she could tell by his posture that it was not out of any kind of pique on his part; merely intense concentration on whatever project he had in front of him.

"You're out late, Warrior," he remarked aloud without breaking eye contact with his work, his words curiously muffled.

As she drew closer she could see why. Nero Scaeva wore a pair of goldsmith's spectacles perched on the end of his nose and he was examining something between his thumb and index finger that looked like a very small tomestone, with a penlight clenched between his teeth. A light sheen of sweat dampened the curls on the nape of his neck--heat from the nearby lamps, most likely.

"You're up late."

"So I am."

He didn't seem displeased at her intrusion, though he didn't seem particularly interested either. She shrugged off her coat and draped it over a hanger on the rack which included a small assortment of spare uniforms in varying sizes. Nero, as per usual, did not seem to care a whit for such mundane things as his personal safety and was himself very much dressed down, wearing only a thin linen shirt and loose breeches.

His feet were bare too, she noticed. "Shouldn't you be wearing shoes in here?"

Nero sighed, setting his project carefully on the table and removing the penlight he'd angled in his mouth to look at her.

"Did Miss Jaye send you here to harangue me?" he snorted, though without the ire she'd have expected with a response like that. "I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, I work. Old habit. There's little point in counting sheep or wearing holes in my floor pacing when I could be doing something productive."

"Actually, I was looking for Cid. I don't suppose he's in? I was hoping to have a word before setting out tomorrow."

"Garlond is not in, and as he is not currently in need of it I appropriated his bench. And his tools."

"Doubtless that will irritate him, which I'm sure is half the reason you did it." Nero didn't respond to that, but it did break his focus long enough for him to shoot her a briefly conspiratorial smile. "I like the specs, by the by. Very scholarly."

"I shall be sure to convey your compliments to their owner. The appropriately named 'Biggs,' I think."

Aurelia found herself relaxing by ilms as they spoke. She was surprised not so much at how genuinely glad she was to see him so much as the fact he was here at all. Really, if not for his Omega search she'd half expected he would simply take off on his own again. Their last discussion back in the Reach had been emotionally exhausting, and if she'd learned one thing about Nero through all this, it was that he didn't like dealing with anyone's emotions, least of all his own.

Though she supposed they weren't exactly confronting anything right now. This was little more than stilted banter.

She watched him work in silence for a moment or two, realizing that Cid was unlikely to return any time soon and she'd either have to go out looking for him -- which really just didn't appeal at this hour when she could be curling up in her own nice warm bed -- or simply contact him on linkpearl in the morning.

"Is there somewhere I might be able to sit?"

He finally turned his attention away from the small piece of machinery to spare a somewhat wary frown in her direction, tilting the spectacles down his nose. "There's a spare stool behind that rack, but I thought you said you were here for Garlond."

"It's nothing that can't keep. I can stay for a bit," she ventured, feeling immediately awkward for having suggested it. "...If you're not opposed, that is. If I'll be nothing but a distraction, then I'll leave you to it."

He seemed to consider this, slowly and absentmindedly rubbing the side of his face and leaving a small smudge of oil along his jawline, one he didn't appear to notice. "No. No, I've done far more exacting work than this in much more chaotic spaces, you'll not distract me. It's just..."

Nero trailed off midsentence, staring at her until his scrutiny had become intense enough to make her uncomfortable.

"What?"

"...You really do want to stay?" What drew her attention, lurking beneath the suspicious note in his voice, was the slightly softened gleam she saw in his aquamarine eyes. It was something almost like hope. "To watch me work?"

You’re here for me and not for him? that softness said.

"As well you should know by now, I'm always interested in learning new things. I admit I don't know much about magitek beyond the scope of a basic imperial education, so I've little of use to contribute on my own. But yes, I do. Why does that surprise you?"

"It's rare that anyone takes much of a personal interest in aught of mine," he shrugged. He didn't quite seem embarrassed, but he wasn't quite meeting her gaze either, and her suspicions were confirmed when Nero quickly returned his attention to the parts scattered over the table, poring over each one in turn as though he were utterly uninterested in whatever choice she might make. "Don't feel obligated, by any means. I should hardly expect anyone who knows little of the finer points of my trade to be interested in the process, as it were."

Ah, she knew this game. He was trying to offer her a reason to excuse herself. It was clear Nero assumed anyone would prefer Cid's company to his own by default--and nine times out of ten he was probably correct.

It made her wonder just how many times over the years he had done this song and dance, and ended up alone. Whether Nero realized it or not, he had just afforded her a glimpse of the man that lay beneath that proud, self-serving exterior, without any need for her Echo.

She dragged the stool out from behind the coat rack until it was close to the edge of the big table, and seated herself right next to him.

"So," she continued, "what are you working on?"

"I... erm. Ah. A communications- ... device. A receiver." He was quick enough to recover, clearing his throat to hide his momentary surprise and pin his defenses firmly back in place, but not before she caught that uncharacteristic stammer. His focus had returned, making it impossible to tell if the light flush he wore was from their sudden proximity to each other or simply the ambient heat from the table lamp. "Rather, a modification to same. I was able to retrieve spare parts from the castrum."

"Surely you didn't go all the way to Meridianum for that."

"Of course not. Centri is a far more convenient locale--with far fewer vital components burned and/or catastrophically exploded beyond repair by a certain eikon-slaying someone who shall remain nameless."

Aurelia rolled her eyes and shifted just enough from her perch on the stool to nudge Nero with her hip for that particular bit of cheek. She should have known he wouldn't be able to resist at least one dig at her, friendly or not.

"I thought to improve upon the design. These devices are far from perfect but so long as you have access to a signal tower, say... from a nearby military installation," he tapped on a small husk of lacquered casing with one fingertip, "theoretically speaking, you should be able to use it anywhere you like so long as you're within range. Centri's relays should serve well enough as a testing ground."

"Right, but would that not be even less secure?"

"Perhaps an undertaking of this sort might be difficult for a rank and file architectus," he scoffed. "Simplicity itself. Just some things to tweak here and there, and a small addition of mine own design."

"Is it for your Omega search, or...?"

"In part. There's precious little chance the XIIth's Frumentarium isn't intercepting Resistance linkpearl transmissions. Garlond and I can deal with them if needs must, but it's damned inconvenient to dodge spies and bounty hunters if it isn't necessary."

"Then you're worried the linkpearl isn't secure enough."

"I was listening in on yours for ages, my sweet." He flashed her a toothy, wicked little grin. "Still do, sometimes."

"Fascinating. I'm sure all those round table policy discussions I had in Ishgard were terribly titillating. So what are you planning to do with this other than enable your voyeurism? I see all the small bits and bobs-"

"Components," he said, in a somewhat pained voice. "Warrior, I am a craftsman; pray do not refer to the tools of my trade as 'bits and bobs.' It's demeaning."

"How so?"

"Should I call your reagents 'animal bits and plant bobs' then?"

Aurelia sighed. She didn't want to admit it but Nero had a point, sort of.

"All right, fine, I see all the components. What I'm not seeing is how you get from point A to point B. So show me."

"As it happens, you came in just as I was about to start the first steps on this little endeavour." 

He gestured at something that sat next to his elbow. To her untrained eye it looked like a solid block of metal, wired to something that looked like naught so much as a cross between an inkpot and a heavily insulated screwdriver.

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Soldering iron," he said by way of explanation. "Watch."

She braced her elbows on the table surface and leaned forward for a closer look, just enough to be close without intruding on his personal space. Nero didn't seem to notice as he drew what appeared to be a piece of wire from a heavy wooden spool. He reached for the metal arm he'd attached to the side of the table with a hand-cranked vise and tilted it over his hand, then picked up the strange tool from its perch, running it carefully over a nearby sponge.

She had a moment to note that its tip even looked like an ink nib, before he pressed it carefully to a point on the tiny object and tilted the spooled wire along a point on the board that did not quite touch the tool itself. There was the distinctive smell of hot metal and resin, and a thin tendril of smoke rose from the tip of the iron.

Nero paused, noting her intensely focused gaze. He'd done this so many times over the years that the process had become quite comfortable - mindless muscle memory, really. He’d likely have had a laugh about it were it one of her Scion friends staring at him in such open fascination, but he was far too pleased to find himself the center of her attention to feel like teasing her about it.

"How do you know it's done properly?"

"The shape the metal takes as it cools.” He squinted at it briefly before holding it up for her to have a closer look. "See where it tapers in the center?"

She hummed at that, peering at his work as though it were the most interesting thing she'd ever seen. He set the board on the table along with the other pieces he'd already assembled next to the lacquer casing, and after a moment's thought he added: "Actually, I can teach you how to do this, if you like."

"What? Oh," Aurelia hesitated, "I-I'd be too worried about breaking something..."

"There's naught on this table that's irreplaceable, tools nor components." And he'd already put together the lion's share of what he needed anyway, not that she had to know that. He ran the tip of the iron over the steel sponge, placed it back in its station, and stood. "Come sit over here."

"You're... sure?"

"I would hardly be offering otherwise." Nero gestured at the stool. "Trade with me."

After a curious glance from him to the quietly clicking iron, Aurelia sat down where he'd been before- then nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt his fingers thread through her hair. She felt slightly foolish when she caught movement in the reflection of a piece of metal on the wall and saw that he was pulling her hair away from her face and tying it back in a loose tail with a piece of string.

He reached for the stool where she'd been sitting and positioned himself to sit directly behind her, long legs stretched out along hers with her hips braced between them. She swallowed, feeling suddenly and very strangely self conscious. And warm. The lamps really were ridiculously hot; didn't Cid have some sort of ventilation in here?

Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, Nero leaned forward to reach for something on the other side of the worktable and she caught his scent, something almost like juniper, mingled with the familiar smells of machine oil and wood smoke. She forced herself to concentrate on the work at hand, resolutely staring down at the somewhat larger piece of that odd flat board she'd seen before- which, she realized after a moment's study, looked like the salvaged innards of a tomestone.

"We'll start," he said, reaching for the iron once again, "with this."

[themostcleverandwittyname]

Curiosity Saved the Cat

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10 CH11 CH12 CH13 CH14 CH15 CH16 CH17 CH18 CH19 CH20 CH21 CH22 CH23 CH24 CH25 CH26

(Jumin x MC)(Saeran x MC)

Summary:

MC is fairly happy after Jumin proposes to her, however, her curiosity leads her to contact the hacker that started it all.

Chapter 8: Sitting Duck

Chapter 8 on AO3

Meditation was not something Myung had much time for in the fray of everyday life. She was always putting it off to do finish work or make a phone call. This was the first time in months that she had found time to sit down and breathe and she would have considered it a personal victory if she was not sitting on a cot in a dark, damp dungeon.

All concept of time had been lost in the silence of the night hours and the coolness of early morning. The sleep deprivation weighed heavy on Myungs shoulders and mind like a fog. She was determined not to be a sitting duck and get caught off guard in her sleep so staying up was the only solution. She had felt regret and anger when she had first woken in the cell hours ago, but now she was only feeling hot dread in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't sure if it was because of the trauma her body has gone through, the lack of food, or just the lack of sleep but her hands had began to shake and her concentration on meditating began to waver.

She was as on edge and as uncomfortable as she had ever been in her life and she felt as though the darkness of the prison was plotting against her. The cot was cold and if she had managed to sleep, she would have been cold all through the night due to the lack of blankets. She wondered how long they would keep her in this place. Would she ever see the rest of the building? Would they feed her or let her starve? No, they would most likely hold food over her head as a way to control her. Whoever they are. She didn’t know if the “Savior” herself would come down here and antagonize her or if she’d ever see the blonde again. Her meditation was ruined when her mind drifted to Rika, her fist clenched and her thoughts turned sour. She wanted to get out of this place if just only to tell the others. She knew it would be horrible news but she need to let them know.

Yoosung would no doubt he heartbroken and maybe even in disbelief. Zen, if Myung could correctly assume, would choose to keep neutral and try to calm everyone down. Jumin...she didn’t want to think about it. If Rika was telling the truth about Jihyun, then Jumin would be extremely upset. She felt her heart sink at the thought. She didn’t want to believe that anyone in the RFA was a bad person. Even in the midst of chaos they had been warm hearted to her and welcoming. They had no reason to trust her and yet they had given her the benefit of the doubt. She had believed that if she solved the mystery of the hacker and tried to quench her suspicions, that maybe it would equal the amount of kindness that they had shown her. It wasn’t as if she had to, but she felt like it would help them to know. Now she’s never been so unsure.

Footsteps echoed around the chamber and immediately alerted Myung. Was it the hacker here again to taunt her? Or was it the people that she had been warned about? She felt dread immediately and attempted to be prepared in some way by getting to her feet. The large iron doors swung open with a groan and Myung watched as two cloaked figures started down the corridor towards her cell. The one who led the other had their face down so that the faint light wouldn’t reveal their face and they held a set of glimmering keys on a tarnished keyring. The one behind held a leather briefcase and it swayed back and forth menacingly. The dark leather of the case was stark contrast against the white of the cotton robes which only succeeded in make it appear more ominous to the brunette. When the two strangers came to a stop in front of the door of her cell, Myung began to consider the possibility of dashing out and running to freedom. She knew knew it was a long shot and if this was a common thing at this place, the two may expect that kind of retaliation. Nonetheless, she tried to come up with some kind of strategy. She didn’t want to become a sitting duck and allow the worst to come to her without doing anything about it

Before she came up with a proper plan, the two had already unlocked the cell and slammed it shut before she could so much as move. They must have seen it coming. She held her breath as the second one set the case on the cot beside her, the face of its carrier was revealed for a moment in the movement. She was a young lady that looked to be the same age as Myung and her skin was fair. She just had plain black hair cropped short that swayed under the hood as she opened the case. Foam insulated the plethora of syringes, bottles of pills, and showcased one bottle of blue liquid in the center. The lady pulled out one of the pill bottles and turned to Myung, straightening her posture. The person behind her stood and tapped his foot impatiently, grumbling under his breath about something. Only part of it could be made out.

“...shouldn’t have brought the newbie. What was I thinking?” his disapproving grumble had not escaped the girl’s ears and a slight frown shown on her face as she pulled a bottle of water from the roomy pocket in her robe. She gingerly pulled the hood from her head and nodded her bangs into place. The girl took a deep breath and directed her voice towards Myung, who was standing in the corner like a deer caught in headlights.

“You’re new here too so this is going to be difficult for you. I’ll let you choose ‘cause it’s your first time. Would you like to take the pills or would you prefer the elixir?” The girl then pointed at the blue liquid in the case. She was nervous and it could be heard in her voice despite her cheery tone. The man behind her let out a huffy breath and snatched the pills from the girl’s hands.

“Why does it matter? Let’s just get it done already. I can’t believe I’m going to miss the speech because some newbie wants to play nice.” The man growled, clearly upset by the sound of his voice. Myung still couldn’t see his shrouded face. The girl looked away making a face like she had been kicked in the side. The brunette spoke out in a burst of expected panic, not a scream but her tone was elevated.

“What is that? I’m not taking that!” Myung blurted, feeling the eyes of the two strangers snap to her. The man tilted his face up to peer out from underneath the hood. He had salt and pepper hair and a permanent frown of a face. Before the man could say anything, the short haired girl took the floor.

“It’s the medicine of salvation! What do you mean you’re not taking it? You’ll be soooo thankful that you did. Here, take this.” She beamed and tried to hand the water to Myung, who stared in disbelief. The brunette tried to reason with the scenarios that were playing through her head. Take the water and the pill? Refuse it only to be forced to take it and possibly stabbed with a syringe? Take the water and pretend to swallow the pill? Yes, that's it.

Myung hesitantly reached out for the bottle and the girl placed it into her hand. The man groaned to himself and opened the pill bottle, shaking a pair of pills into his palms. The girl grossed her arms and turned to the man with a big grin on her face.

“See? I told you I could get her to take it without forcing her? You just have to be nice.” The girl directed at the man in a matter of factly way. Myung held out her hands for the pills and the man plopped them into her hand without even looking. This is perfect. She can “take” the pills while the two are chatting with each other and spit them out when they leave.

“Most of the time, newcomers don’t just take these because they don’t know. Out there, there’s lots of medicines that can hurt people so they’re usually cautious about salvation here.” He said in a bored tone as if he has said that same sentence a million times. “So you have to force them. You’re being nice enough by just giving it to her.” He stated like fact.

Myung examined the pills, noticing that they didn’t have a smooth casing around them as most pills do. These will dissolve in her mouth so she’ll have to be careful. She nonchalantly popped them into her mouth and quickly pushed them to the sides of her mouth. She opened the bottle of water and downed a big gulp to further sell that she was “taking” the pills. She did her best to hold the two pills steady as she swallowed the water. They were already beginning to dissolve in her cheeks, the incredibly bitter taste seeped onto her tongue. She managed to keep a straight face.

The girl seemed to buy it and began to pack up the briefcase, taking the bottle from the man’s hand. He had tilted his head up to watch Myung, his eyes narrowed.

“Well, that’s it. Thanks for being such a good sport. It’ll take fifteen to twenty minutes before you start to feel the effects of Paradise, so hand tight. We’ll be back this afternoon to give you your second dose.” She beamed and put her hood back on, ready to leave. The man didn’t move, but instead watched Myung intently. He was waiting for her to crack, waiting for her to make a face, to give a sign. The brunette managed to keep her poker face a meet the man’s glower. He smiled for a moment, a bitter smile of knowing.

“So, newcomer? How did those pills taste? Sweet or bitter, hmm?” he asked, his gaze never wavered. Myung gave a shrug as her answer, trying to avoid opening her mouth. He was onto her and he had played this game before. There was a long period of silence and the girl stopped in her tracks, giving a questioning glance over her shoulder at the man’s words

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you answering?” He gave a coy smile before stepping closer to the brunette. Before she could react, he had already grabbed her jaw with a painful grip, his nails dug into her skin. He pried mouth open to reveal the two pills and didn't hesitate to shove his fingers into her mouth and poke the pills down her throat. He didn't do any more than that and let go of her has as quickly as he had grabbed it. He quickly strode off and out of the cell as Myung hacked and coughed at the dry pills that scratched down her throat. Her eyes began to water and she rubbed the soreness from her cheeks.

The short haired girl was shocked and said nothing as she followed the man out of the cell. She gave an apologetic glance at Myung as they both watched the man lock the door.

“I don't have time for this.” He grumbled and strode hastily away, the girl following him close behind. Myung listened as the iron doors closed with a resounding final click, as if sealing her fate.

She tried to take get mind off the bitter taste of the “medicine” as she sat on the uncomfortable cot. She had no choice but to sit and wait for the pills to take effect.

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10 CH11 CH12 CH13 CH14 CH15 CH16 CH17 CH18 CH19 CH20 CH21 CH22 CH23 CH24 CH25 CH26

[goodvibesatpeace]

Researchers Believe That Humans Are Not From Earth – We Originated From Another Planet

Many researchers have come to the conclusion that human beings are not from Earth.

The American ecologist Dr. Ellis Silver has proposed an incredibly intriguing new thesis that suggests that human beings might not be indigenous to the planet Earth. Silver’s arguments which hinge primarily on human physiology suggest that human beings did not evolve with the other life forms on Earth but that they came from another portion of the universe thousands of years ago.

Ecologist suggests that human beings did not evolve on planet Earth

“The Earth approximately meets our needs as a species, but perhaps not as strongly as whoever brought us here initially thought, ” said Silver. He says that the human race’s inability to cope with the planet Earth without developing some form of chronic disease strongly suggests that the species adapted and evolved in a place with a weaker pull of gravity than this Earth. “We are all chronically ill, ” says Silver. “Indeed, if you can find a single person who is 100% fit and healthy and not suffering from some (perhaps hidden or unstated) condition or disorder (there’s an extensive list in the book) I would be extremely surprised – I have not been able to find anyone.” Specifically, Silver points to the prevalence of back pain and disorders in adults and the fact that women find it exceptionally difficult to give birth, which is not a trait shared with any other animal on Earth.

Silver also attributes a great deal of the chronic illness to the inability of human beings to cope with the number of hours in a day. He said; “I believe that many of our problems stem from the simple fact that our internal body clocks have evolved to expect a 25 hour day (this has been proven by sleep researchers), but the Earth’s day is only 24 hours. This is not a modern condition – the same factors can be traced all the way back through mankind’s history on Earth.”

Dr Silver has also claimed that human genetics strongly suggests that human beings are strongly different from the other creatures on Earth. He said that there are 223 extra genes in human beings that are not found in any other species on this planet. This line of thinking has been mirrored in several new pieces of research in recent years which have suggested that the human genetic code has been engineered or manipulated in some way.

Here are the reasons that Silver thinks humans didn't evolve on earth... in more detail:

Bad Backs

If we evolved on this planet, why does just standing up on it hurt us?

Silver argues that the gravity on our home planet must've been stronger, and so we're progressively growing taller and taller with each generation, causing us to have bad backs. 

It is thought, in the wider scientific community, that on planets with stronger gravity, human-like life forms would evolve to be much shorter and stockier to deal with the extra gravity bringing them down. 

When that gravity isn't there, we apparently start to grow like forced rhubarb, ending up so tall and willowy that our own skeletons can't support us very well.

There could also be a counter argument that the gravitational pull on our home planet is, in fact, weaker, and the fact that our bodies will slowly bow to the pressure of Earth's gravity over our lifetimes is proof that we evolved to deal with weaker gravity. 

As we grow older, we hunch over and even shrink, gravity slowly wears us down, starting with a crick in the neck and ending with a hunchback.

Silver also wonders about the possibility that the food on this planet is more nutritious than on our home planet, causing a growth spurt. 

If we spent all our time back home chewing on tough, woody vegetation (yum), then were sudden plunged into a world of strawberries and fillet steak, it's possible that all of those abundant nutrients made us shoot up like a 14-year-old boy who lives on McDonalds and Red Bull.

Childbirth

In further expanding his argument, Silver points to the excessive nutrition on earth and a possible cause for the difficulties of human childbirth.

The fact that humans have to spend hours screaming in pain to bring new life into the world, whereas the rest of the animal kingdom can drop a sprog in their sleep, has long puzzled anthropologists. Why is it such an ordeal for us to have kiddies when it's literally our only biological purpose?

Silver thinks that the high levels of nutrition that we get could cause our babies to grow far bigger in utero than our bodies are designed to cope with. 

Indeed, it is a well-known phenomenon that people with diabetes have much larger than average babies due to the high sugar levels in their blood - this demonstrates that there is, in fact, a clear link between high nutrition and baby size. 

Whether or not that means that diabetics are even more alien-y aliens than us regular aliens, Dr. Silver doesn't specify.

Perhaps this is also a result of our newer, willowy frames (thanks to the lack of gravity, remember?). Perhaps, back on our own planet, there are a load of stocky, troll-like beings happily squeezing babies out of their wide, childbearing hips left, right and centre.

The Sun

Ahh, it's that classic summer scene. The moment there's a little bit of sun, every spare bit of grass, beach or garden is littered with people turning gradually pinker.

But why is that? Why does our own sun do us so much harm?

This is one of Ellis Silver's arguments for our alien origins. Humans will easily burn through sun exposure, whereas many creatures won't.

Humans, in contrast with other species, cannot sunbathe for more than short periods at a time without getting sunburned. This indicates that the human body is not effectively adapted to constant exposure to our sun, which is a funny thing for a species that have no protective layer of fur.  

Our own sun, from which all life on Earth draws its energy in one way or another, will literally give us cancer if we stay out in it too long, other creatures have evolved so that this doesn't happen. A lizard, for example, can sit out all day and not get so much as a tan line and some corals even produce their own SPF to protect themselves. 

Silver thinks that this is because we evolved with a much weaker sun, or perhaps we originated on a planet with lots of cloud cover.

Another thing that he highlights as odd is the fact that humans seem to suffer from seasonal mental disorders such as Seasonal Affective Disorder. Other animals migrate, hibernate or just tough it out when it comes to surviving an Earth winter, but humans just can't seem to hack it.

We can't cope with a lot of sun, we can't cope with a lack of sun - why are we so ill-suited to the comings and goings of the seasons if we've spent millions of years evolving on this planet?

We Look So Different

Right, so what's the deal with this bipedal thing? How come everything else on the planet has remained perfectly happy with a low centre of gravity and sturdy base, whereas we wobble around on two legs?

Perhaps it's just because we're looking at it from the inside, but you have to admit that we tend to stick out a bit. Two legs, extremely fine coat, hair growing out of odd places, opposable thumbs, huge heads, big, flat feet - we look much more like aliens than natives.

Silver points to our lack of body hair as a particularly odd feature of humans. It is necessary for humans to wrap themselves in the furs of other animals, just to stop ourselves freezing to death, even on the hot African plains where we are supposed to have evolved. 

The theory is that perhaps on our home planet, the temperature didn't fluctuate so much between night and day and at different latitudes. Possible reasons for this could be a thicker cloud layer that insulates the planet (a bit like on Venus), a binary star system (so that the sun effectively never sets), or even that the crust of the planet is much thinner, allowing the heat from the molten core to come up through the ground.

As a weird side note: Our relatively high levels of subcutaneous fat and almost total hairlessness, as well as our bipedalism, would actually make us excellent swimmers. Maybe we were some kind of race of semi-aquatic dolphin people on our home planet.

We're Too Advanced

The most conspicuously different feature of the human race, is just how much more advanced we are when compared to the rest of life on Earth.

Why are we so far ahead of every other animal? It sounds like classic human arrogance, but for all our talk about how intelligent dolphins are because they can recognise themselves in a mirror - they didn't invent the bloody mirror, did they? 

Okay, how about if we argue that inventing things like wheels and mirrors and social media executives isn't necessarily an indicator of intelligence? It's still drastically different to what everything else on the planet is doing. 

Why are we such outcasts from the natural world? It could be because it's not our natural world.

If we arrived on a primitive Earth with a head start, it could explain why we appear to be leaps and bounds ahead of every other species. Dr. Silvers also cites that fact that the "missing link" that would connect us with our common ape ancestors is still, er, missing (it's not, but never mind).

We could have come from a planet where a number of species were similarly advanced - perhaps that's even the reason we left, to go and rule elsewhere.

It all seemed to happen at once too. Evolutionarily speaking it took us fricking ages to get the hang of sharpened rocks, then, all of a sudden, we invented agriculture, writing, language, art, electricity, machinery, chemistry, quantum physics and pretty much everything else around us today. What the hell happened?

We Can't Sleep

One of Silver's arguments is that the human circadian rhythm is out of whack with the actual day-night cycle on Earth.

The circadian rhythm is the thing that regulates your sleeping and eating patterns. It means that you're tired at night and awake in the morning and is the reason why you feel jet-lagged after a long haul flight. As the Earth's day and night cycle lasts for around 24 hours (not including leap seconds because come on), it would make sense for our circadian rhythm to also be on a 24 hour cycle, but it's not.

Dr. Silver uses the argument that the human circadian rhythm is on a 25-hour cycle, meaning that it makes more sense that we should have evolved on a planet with 25 hour days. Unfortunately, Silver is wrong with the 25-hour figure, but not about the fact that it doesn't match up.

It used to be thought that our circadian rhythm was a whole hour off, turns out it's actually anything from a quarter to half an hour off. This doesn't seem like much until you realise that (providing you stuck to your natural circadian rhythm) it would only take you a month to potentially be 7 hours out of whack. That's a whole night's sleep for most people.

This means that our home planet could have been slightly bigger than Earth, in order to have longer days (although, again, it's not quite that simple), and so this also feeds into Silver's theory that our home planet had slightly higher gravity.

We Don't Like It Here

Evolution generally means that a species adapts to its environment, but we don't seem to want to play that game.

A big part of the theory comes down to the fact that we have altered the planet to fit us, rather than the other way around; we just can't seem to bear living in the natural world. The fact that we have altered our environment so drastically makes it seem as though we're just not suited to living in earth's natural habitat.

In fact, what we're doing appears not to be evolving, so much as terraforming.

Another of Silver's arguments is that we're seemingly terrible at reading our own planet. Many animals have built-in sensors for natural phenomena such as earthquakes, tsunamis and even just the ability to predict the weather, whereas we have had to intervene with our technology in order to keep up with them. 

It could be that we came from a planet that is not so geologically active, meaning that there would be no benefit for us to be able to predict earthquakes.

Then, we have the fact that we can't eat most of the food on this planet without altering it in some way. Whether it's by cooking it, or through selective breeding, most of the food that we eat is not as nature intended it. 

We're not saying that our home planet had hamburger trees and rivers of lemonade (if it does then book us a one-way ticket to Alpha Centauri), but that fact that most animals, apart from us, are perfectly fine eating grass and raw zebra is a bit weird.

Rapid Overpopulation

Humans are spreading, and they're spreading fast. 

As of 2015, there are over seven billion of us crammed onto this tiny little planet and the number is always going up. Not exactly a balanced eco-system. 

It's almost as though we're an invasive species.

What happens when you introduce a new species into an environment that they did not evolve in? A lot of the time, they take over. 

This is due to the fact that they do not have any natural predators and the local fauna are not equipped to defend themselves against them. This means that the non-native species has free reign to hunt, eat and breed, with the potential to decimate the local environment.

This does sound an awful lot like how we interact with the natural world. We're so far up the food chain, that we don't even feature as the apex predator in it, we actually exist outside of earth's eco-system. It does seem to scream foreign species.

Even with other invasive species, the ecosystem will ofetn find a way to restore istelf back to normality. With "normal" imbalances in nature, that balance can be quickly restored as the food runs out, and the invading species will quickly begin to reduce in number again. This doesn't appear to have happened to humans so far. 

Perhaps, when the resources finally do run out, we'll go the way of many other species and simply become one rogue algea bloom in the long natural history of the planet.

A Prison Planet?

One of Dr. Silver's slightly more esoteric theories is that the Earth may actually be a prison colony for a society of galactic beings.

It is apparently our naturally violent, vengeful, lustful, criminal natures that makes him think this. The fact that you don't often observe this kind of behaviour in the animal kingdom makes Silver think that it could well be because these are traits that come from a completely different race of people.

The theory is that we could have had our memories wiped and been dumped in a primitive backwater by a civilisation of space-faring beings as a sort of "cooling off" period, presumably after becoming too much of a menace to intergalactic society.

Perhaps they hoped that we would integrate with the natural world on a young planet and become a peaceful race of hunter-gatherers, or something. 

But actually what happened is that we almost immediately wiped out the Neanderthals and set about transforming the Earth to suit our anti-social ways, so they left us here.

To be fair, given our earthbound history of shipping criminals off to somewhere out of sight and out of mind, this does sound like exactly the sort of thing we'd do if we ever became a planet-hopping race of pan-galactic beings. The question is, has it already happened?

So if the human species did not originate from this planet, where did they come from and why? Dr. Silver suggests that human beings arrived from another planet between 60,000 and 200,000 years ago. It has been suggested that this mass transport of the species might have been carried out by far superior alien race which wanted to segregate humanity from their population because of humanity’s propensity for violence and destruction.

So Where Did We Come From?

In order to figure out our origins, Dr. Ellis Silvers then takes us through the practicalities of colonising another planet, and he's certainly given it a lot of thought.

So, if we presume that this ancient race of humanoids has developed the technology to travel at near light speed, they would need to originate from somewhere that can be travelled to within a human lifetime. Say, 30-ish light years away.

Silver reckons that these early settlers could well have brought frozen embryos with them to kickstart the whole breeding process, as they would have been elderly by the time they arrived (although this does sort of ruin the whole "Earth is a space prison" thing).

Dr. Silver then goes on to list his top picks for our potential homeworld, including Alpha Centauri A and B (1 lightyear), Epsilon Eridani (10.5), 61 Cygni A and B (17), Epsilon Indi (20) and Tau Ceti (22). Do let us know if one of those names stirs something primordial in you, it could be the proof we need.

The Alpha Centauri binary system eventually claims the top spot due to its proximity and the fact that it's a binary system (remember our earlier discussion about the sun that never sets?). It would mean that, at even a fraction of the speed of light, it would still be reachable within one lifetime.

Although, fair-minded as always, Dr. Silvers also allows for the idea that a race of galactic beings could well have harnessed the use of hyperspace and wormholes in order to reach our humble little Earth from pretty much anywhere in the universe. 

So that doesn't really narrow it down.