#he's been wired with a certain way of thinking both in terms of viewing the lower class badly and trying to be as smart as he can

[theultimatekamehamehavoc]

Random Togami Headcanon 13

TL;DR - Byakuya's bettered himself but he still has a long road of healing. Also, heads up. This one's not happy like most of the others. Gets a bit hopeful at the end but there's still a lot of sad topics here. Viewer discretion is advised. Now that he feels more empathy for others and possesses some capability for putting himself in another's shoes, thoughts he used to have about the lower class make him feel... off. Perhaps guilt or discomfort with himself. It doesn't help though looking at his classmates every school day and being reminded of the mindset he was raised with. It especially doesn't help when he looks at Makoto who helped him. Makoto being the commoner of all commoner's also hurts. He appreciates what Makoto's done to help him but it unintentionally stabs him hard within his chest that he needed someone's help to get to this point and the someone being a commoner he once wrote off. Next, with this empathy, the heir feels better with his life and happiness but fundamentally worse. It's as if he deteriorated though, logically, he knows it's not the case. He knows that the illogical side of his brain covers itself in the hides of reason and rationale. Essentially, Byakuya ends up having a grueling struggle with dealing with these emotions that, for the majority of his life, he buried and repressed. Emotions that both make him feel more fulfilled in life but that tear him apart inside. Bouts where he feels either extremely content with how he's turned out or that dread and despair that he's slipping back into his old ways. In fact, at times, it becomes overwhelming for him to handle which he especially hates. Being overwhelmed is yet another thing he once viewed as a weakness and, to some extent, he still does. Sometimes, to cope, jokes to himself on whether existing itself is something he feels is a weakness. However, though he has a lot of emotions and thoughts that upset him now as a bettered person, one big thing that pains him is that he has the capability and the intelligence to notice all of this. It's the acknowledgment that stings. The heir notices that he has a problem, that he probably needs help, maybe even therapy, but then he spirals more because of that realization. Why should HE need HELP for these problems of his?! He's an independent person! He should logically be able to handle this himself. He's always handled his problems on his own! Why should he now need someone or just a support system of people to aid in his path of healing? He feels gross for that support system being the classmates who he once adamantly despised with such vitriol. With the added empathy, he also feels shame as he doesn't want to hurt any more people in his life now. He has the hindsight to know this now. He questions himself. Is the situation he's in even that big of a deal and should he keep searching for answers on the "why" and "how"? Is it worth it? Comparisons to the peasants he used to once adamantly demonize also do not escape him. He feels worse because, while he's breaking at the seams, countless of other commoners have similar thoughts too. He's not unique and a bit of that stings his lingering superiority. Then, there is the fact that Byakuya feels even worse about this BECAUSE commoners can handle stuff like this and yet, he keeps saying that he can't due to his mental spirals. Either that or the older thoughts of hating commoners bites back by making him feel like he's "acting like one". He knows by this point that he's actively tearing himself down and that he needs to escape this cycle of mental abuse. He feels shame in himself though. He feels humiliated. Pathetic. Overly emotional in ways he's never felt before. He still has that hope though. The hope that he can get through his. The heir's already delt with so much whether canon, non-despair, or an au of some kind. He's continued on despite it all. And, though long ago, he would have pushed some of this hope off for it being too optimistic, he's grown to care less about that sort of thought anymore. Byakuya can do this.

[bigskydreaming]

Last reblog had a lot of fascinating takes on the Batfam’s stances towards killing across the board. I particularly loved the bits about Cassandra’s perfectionism playing into her own stance against killing....the distinction where she’s like ‘I can understand someone else killing in self-defense, but I don’t know how not to hold myself to a standard that insists I could have found another way.’ 

I also really like the bit about juxtaposing Dick’s anti-killing vehemence in NTT versus his more varied approach to it in later years...especially when paired with Tim’s early convictions around killing. 

I think particularly with really old, long-established characters, we have a tendency to pick and choose with a lot of history in terms of being like.....this story contradicts this one which makes this character’s take here OOC or inconsistent with prior characterization....which is often true! BUT if we fall back on that all the time, we run the risk of not letting long-existing characters have room to actually evolve and grow.

And I actually think the link between Dick in NTT versus his views later in life can be perfectly in character, especially using Tim as a comparison point like in that post. Because we tend to overlook the basic fact that Dick was young in NTT comparative to later Nightwing solo runs. His views on killing are inevitably going to be a large part of breaking away from Bruce and defining his own worldviews for himself. Its the difference between parroting learned dogma and learning what does and doesn’t work for yourself.

Personally, I lean towards the take that Dick raises the issue of ‘is killing right or wrong, discuss��� as little as he does in later runs pre-Flashpoint, because I like to interpret that as he’s not inconsistent there so much as he’s figured out by that point that he just flat out doesn’t have the answers there. He’s still working it out for himself. It doesn’t mean that he’s not going to have opinions about it, and even hypocritical ones at times, but that’s also due to the fact that many times this only comes up in highly charged emotional situations where no one’s taking the time to step back a beat and go wait, what do I really THINK about this versus what am I currently FEELING about this.

And as I’ve said many times before, I think the Blockbuster issue AND the Joker one are massively complicated by the fact that one of the bigger ways I think Dick is comparable to Cass and where they overlap and have a lot of untapped potential to bond over or y’know, recognition of the self through the other, lol - is that Dick, like Cass, has never mastered how NOT to hold himself to impossible standards. It would have been totally different if it had been someone else killing the Joker or someone killing Blockbuster for their own reasons unrelated to him....but with he himself being central to all that, he doesn’t know how to separate himself and the expectations instilled in him FOR himself....enough to view those situations through the same lens he views the morality of killing as an ideological question if he’s not part of the equation. (Cass and Dick as regularly described as among the most empathetic characters in the Bat franchise, but both equally unwilling to ever extend that same empathy to THEMSELVES: Discuss!)

And I think its an interesting angle to pursue, that for Bruce a lot of the issue is just hard-wired trauma reactions. I think so much of Bruce’s personal morality crystallized around set moments in time, that he doesn’t even recognize how often his views on certain situations go hand in hand with having knee-jerk reactions to those situations unfolding right in front of him, period. Its always funny to me (not hahaha, just, y’know, funny) how as much as his kids are among the first to criticize Bruce as not being all-knowing or perfect, they’re also among the first to fall into the trap of not realizing when they DO have Bruce on a pedestal in their mind. 

It could definitely be argued that there’s a dissonance involved, where many of his kids push back against certain ideas he instilled in them or things he taught them that they disagree with later in life.....where their innate assumption is that Bruce himself was operating from like....an emotionally objective plateau when he taught them or passed down these ideas in the first place. As opposed to recognizing that some of them aren’t Bruce being hypocritical so much as just being....irrational. Not in a pejorative way, but just in terms of acknowledging how much of an unreliable narrator he can be due to his own trauma, his own rigid and impossible self-expectations for himself, etc.

But of course this overlooks that a basic staple of Bruce’s interactions with others is he over-compensates and covers up his own insecurities or doubts or anywhere he second-guesses himself, by like, doubling down on his convictions or at least the parts he DOES feel sure about. So the very fact that Bruce seemed so unwavering in his stance about something when instilling an idea or take on something in various of his kids.....doesn’t actually guarantee that Bruce WAS as sure about that thing as he seemed at the time, just convinced he was the Adult, the Teacher, the one who was SUPPOSED to have the answers, so he had to present himself as such WHILE passing down this perspective.

And yet....its not going to look that way to his kids, so....enter their own conviction that Bruce could never understand or empathize with them changing their minds about these particular things or having their own doubts....thus leading them to not come to him with their doubts or questions about the rigidity of this particular idea or perspective....at least not UNTIL they’ve already firmly made up their own minds about their new perspective on that thing, at which point Bruce is like wait where is this coming from, when they hit him with a complete 180 about something he THOUGHT they were on the same page about, as far as he knew the last time it came up. 

And thus: conflict.

Idk idk idk, my thoughts are all over the place with all of this and the other kids as well, but the thoughts, they definitely are percolating.

[aces-to-apples]

Your Reputation Precedes You

A response to “On Fandom Racism (and That Conlang People Are Talking About)” because lmao that cowardly bitch just hates getting feedback from people that she can’t then harass into oblivion

i.e. God I Wish I Could Use The Tag Fandom Wank Without The Titty Police Nerfing My Post

-

To be frank, I'm not here because I think you or any of your little cronies are going to change your minds. If the 'name' wasn't a giveaway, your group of ~likeminded individuals~ have quite the reputation for espousing ableist, antisemitic, and, yes, racist views under wafer-thin the veneer of "calling out racism." I think we both know that what you're actually doing is using the relative anonymity of the internet and progressive language to abuse, harass, and bully fans that you personally disagree with. You and your group are toxic, hateful, and utterly pathetic, using many peoples' genuine desire to avoid accidentally causing harm and twisting it into this horrid parade of submissiveness to You, The One And Only Arbiter Of Truth And Justice In Fandom. Never mind that you have derided autistic people as lacking compassion and empathy, that you've used racist colonizer dogwhistles to describe a fictional culture based heavily on real live Maori culture, that you've mocked the idea of characters having PTSD, or that vital mental health services are anything more than "talking about your feelings with friends uwu." Let's just ignore that you have ridiculed the idea of adults in positions of power exerting that power over children in harmful and abusive ways, that creating transformative fan-content that doesn't adhere to the spirit of canon or wishes of the original author garners derision and hatefulness from you, and that you've used classic abuser tactics in order to gaslight people in your orbit into behaving more submissively towards you in order to avoid more verbal abuse.

Let's toss all of that crucial context aside in favor of only what you've written here.

What you've written here is nearly 3,000 entire words based on, at best—though, admittedly, based on your previous behavior, I am actually not willing to extend to you an iota of good faith—fallacious reasoning. You posit that a constructed language, to be used by a fictional religious group located in an entirely different galaxy than our own, is othering, racist in general, and anti-Asian specifically. This appears based in several suppositions, the first being that a language unknown by the reader will, by nature, cause the reader to feel alienated from the characters and therefore less sympathetic, empathetic, and caring towards the characters. That idea is patently ridiculous and, I believe, says far more about your ability to connect to a character speaking an unfamiliar language than any kind of overarching truth about media and the human condition. New things are interesting; new things are fun; the human brain is wired from birth to be fascinated with new things, to want to take them apart, find out how they work, and enjoy both the process and the results.

The second supposition this fallacy is based upon appears to be that to move away from the blatant Orientalism of Star Wars is inherently anti-Asian. While I find it... frankly, a little bit sad that you cling so viciously to the Orientalist, appropriative roots of Star Wars as some form of genuine representation, that's really none of my business. If you feel that a Muslim-coded character bombing a temple and becoming a terrorist and a Sith, a white woman wearing Mongolian wedding garb, a species of decadent slug-like gangsters smoking out of hookahs and keeping attractive young women chained at their feet (as it were), a species of greedy money-grubbers with exaggerated features and offensively stereotypical "Asian" accents, and an indigenous people wearing modesty garb based on the Bedu people and treated by most characters as well as the narrative as mindless animals deserving of murder and genocide are appropriate representation of the many, varied, and beautiful cultures around the world upon which they were "based," then that is very much your business. Until you pull shit like this. Until you accuse other fans, who wish to move away from such offensive coding and stereotypes, of erasing Asian culture from Star Wars. Then it becomes everyone's business, especially when you are targeting a loving and enthusiastic group of fans who are pouring their hearts and souls into creating an inventive and non-appropriative alternative to canon.

Which leads into the third supposition, that a patently racist, misogynistic white man in the 1970s, and then again in the 1990s, intended his universe to be an accurate and respectful portrayal of the various cultures he stole from. I understand that for your group of toxic bullies, the term "Death of the Author" holds no real meaning, but the simple fact of the matter is that George Lucas based his white-centered space adventure on Samurai movies while removing the cultural context that gave them any meaning, because he liked the idea of swords and noble warriors in space. He based the Force and the Jedi Order on belief systems such as Taoism and Buddhism, but only on the surface, without putting any real effort into into portraying them earnestly or accurately. He consistently disrespected both characters of color and characters coded to be a certain race, ethnicity, culture, or religion, and likewise disrespected and stole from the cultures upon which he based them. He was, and continues to be, a racist white man who wrote a racist story. His universe has Orientalism baked into its every facet, and the idea that fans who wish to move away from this and interrogate and transform the text into something better than what it is are racist is not only laughable, but incredibly disingenuous and insidious.

As I said, I am not writing this to change your mind, because I truly believe that you already know that "cOnLaNgS aRe RaCiSt" is a ridiculous statement. The way you've comported yourself in fandom spaces thus far has shown to me that you are nothing more than a bully who knows that the anti-racist movement in fandom can be co-opted for your benefit. If you tout your Asian heritage and use the right language, make the "right" accusations and take advantage of white guilt and white ignorance, you can have dozens of people falling at your feet, begging for forgiveness, for absolution. And I think that gives you a thrill. So, no, none of this will change your mind because none of this is genuinely about racism—it's about power, it's about control, it's about fandom being the only space where you have some.

So I'm writing this for the creators of this wonderful conlang, which has been crafted by multiple people including people of color, who don't deserve this nonsensical vitriol, and for the fans reading this manipulative hate-fest, wondering if they really are Evil Racists because they don't participate in fandom the way you think they should.

Here it is: fandom has a lot of racism, antisemitism, misogyny, queerphobia, ableism, etc. baked into it. Unfortunately, such is the nature of living and growing up in societies and cultures that have the same. The important thing is to independently educate yourself on those issues and think critically about them—not "think critically" as in "to criticize" them, but to analyze, evaluate, pick apart, examine, and reconstruct them again in order to come to a well thought-out conclusion. Read this well-articulated attack on a group of fans who have always welcomed feedback and participation, are open about their backgrounds, their strengths and weaknesses, and wonder who is actually being genuine.

Is it the open and enthusiastic group who ask for the participation of others in this labor of love? Or is it the ringleader of a group of well-known bullies who have manipulated, gaslit, and then subsequently love-bomb people who did not simply roll over at the slightest hint of dominance? The ones who spent hours upon hours tearing apart, mocking, deriding, and falsely accusing authors of fanworks and metatextual works of various bigotries and -isms, knowing that those evaluations were spurious and meant only to cause harm, not genuine examinations of the works themselves or even presumed authorial intent. The ones who made their own, quote-unquote, community so negative and toxic that even after the departure of a large portion of them, including this author in particular, that community still has a reputation for being hateful, toxic, and full of mean-spirited harassers who will never look critically about their own behavior but only ever point fingers at others. The ones who are so very determined to cause misery wherever they go that as soon as their usual victims are no longer immediately available, they will turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness.

This entire piece of (fan)work is misinformed at the most generous, disingenuous at the most objective, and downright spiteful when we get right into it. The creators of Dai Bendu, along with various other works, series, and fan events that these people personally dislike, have been targeted because it is so much easier to harass, bully, and use progressive language as a weapon against them, than it is to put any effort into making fandom spaces more informed, more positive, more respectful.

As someone rather eloquently put it, community is not a fucking spectator sport. You want a better community, you gotta work at it. And conversely, what you put into your community is what you'll get out of it. This author and their friends have put a lot of hate into their communities, and now they're toxic cesspools that people stay well away from, for fear of contracting some terrible form of harassment poisoning.

Congrats, Ri, you've gotten just what you wanted: adoring crowds listening to you spout your absolutely heinous personal views purely to live out some kind of power fantasy, and the rest of us staying well away, because fuck knows nothing kind, helpful, or in good faith has ever come from Virdant or her echo-chamber of petty, spiteful assholes.

No love, bad night.

P.S. Everyone actually in the Dai Bendu server knows your ass got kicked because you didn’t say shit for a full thirty days and ignored the announcement that inactive members would be culled. You ain’t cute pretending like it’s because you were ~*~Silenced~*~ after ~*~Valiantly~*~ attempting to call out racism. We see you.

[echodrops]

I know this must be a weird ask but who do you think Yato likes (or loves) more between Hiyori and Yukine ?

Just as a basic starting answer to this, I don’t ship Yato and Yukine, so if you were asking this from a shipping standpoint, I’m sorry that I won’t be answering it that way! Just in terms of my personal read of the story, I view Yato and Hiyori as romantic and Yato and Yukine as familial, with Yato considering himself, to a certain extent, a replacement for Yukine’s father, so my answer to this comes from that perspective.

Ultimately, I don’t think it’s really a question of loving someone more than someone else. When it comes to family, I don’t really think most people consciously sort their relationships into “I love my mom more than I love my brother” or “I love my spouse more than I love my children.” (Not saying that there definitely aren’t people who do that, but I wouldn’t think those types of families are super functional...)

I think it’s totally possible to love people in different ways and yet still have that love be “equal” in your heart/mind. I would say that Yato loves Hiyori and Yukine equally but differently.

Yato’s love for Hiyori is based on the affection that she has offered him, the kindness and care that she shows, and the faith and support that she shows in all their interactions. Hiyori opened her home to Yato, built him a shrine, saved his life, and stood up his father in a way that Yato himself wasn’t able to do. She’s a powerful symbol of determination and constantly validates Yato’s desire to change himself and grow. She’s a fantastic and faithful friend to him, and he’s literally never had anyone in his life like Hiyori. Yato’s love for Hiyori is a little selfish--he knows they’re from two totally different worlds, but he cares for her regardless of that difference, and a huge factor in his determination to stand up to his father is to change his situation so that he can continue to safely be near her and part of her life. 

With Yukine, Yato is on a more level playing field; Yukine is childish and has important life lessons still left to learn in just the same way that Yato does. They learn and grow together throughout the story, and its through his failings with Yukine that Yato reflects on himself and realizes just how much he still needs to grow up and change. Seeing the cruelty of Yukine’s father helps Yato to understand the cruelty of his own father and leads to Yato wanting to be a better person for Yukine’s sake. Yato sees a lot of himself in Yukine, and that leads him to take better care not only of Yukine but also himself. With Yukine’s support and guidance--sometimes explicitly and sometimes much more internally--Yato has become a better god and person. Yato’s love for Yukine seems to have developed almost without Yato’s intention, as he deliberately held himself aloof from Yukine at first because he’d been burned by so many other shinki in the past. 

Both Yukine and Hiyori are priceless to Yato and I think that he treasures them both immensely. If asked to “pick one” I am sure that Yato would not do so--they are both equally important to him.

If asked to save one instead of the other in a life or death situation... I think that Yato would pick Hiyori, not because she means more to him but because she is still alive. Both Yato and Yukine are already denizens of the Far Shore and Yukine has technically had his “chance” at life--it was cut cruelly short, but he is already dead. Hiyori, meanwhile, is still alive and still has the option to retun to the living world and live a life totally separate from Yato and Yukine. I think if it really came down to choosing just one person to save, Yato would save Hiyori with her future in mind.

That said, I think Hiyori herself would choose Yukine and demand that Yato save Yukine, even if it puts Hiyori at risk--even if it might cost her life. Hiyori is a self-sacrificing person like that, and I think she would prefer Yato choose someone other than her if it came down to the wire.

I... hope that was kind of the answer you were looking for? @_@

[ckneal]

So, I’ve had this idea kicking around in my head for a little while now, based on this premise: What if, due to some wire crossing that Chuck never anticipated, because he never anticipated Jack, or his powers, or that Jack might use his powers to tear open a portal to one of his cast off-worlds, allowing a scrapped draft of Michael to waltz over into the main canon universe, the OG Michael experiences some side effects? Such as, perhaps, his grace syncing up with the AU’s, causing his appearance to change for seemingly no reason, unaware that it’s corresponding with the other Michael changing vessels?

And as this is going on, Michael and Adam are at different stages in processing how they view one another. Adam’s just at the tail end of digesting the fact that he might be bisexual. Sure, there might be times when he and Michael are talking, and Michael says something, or—god forbid—laughs, and Adam feels this warm rush of affection, but that could just be something that happens when you’re part of a friendship that’s gotten this close. And, so what if he occasionally thinks about what might happen if they kissed, doesn’t everyone have that thought from time to time? That’s probably normal. And anyway, Michael looks just like him. Maybe he’s just getting vain.

But then, right in the middle of a conversation one day, Michael’s grace suddenly goes haywire. There’s this blinding flash, and Michael’s human form changes to that of the AU Michael’s apocalypse vessel. Dark hair, long coat, delicious beard, and neither of them have any idea why.

And this change is jarring for Adam. But it’s even more so for Michael, because, firstly, why did this happen? But also because, when he separated himself from Adam in the cage, for the sake of “privacy,” which Adam had made a big to-do about, Michael might have glossed over the fact that he couldn’t actually separate their minds completely. And, to a certain degree, a large part of maintaining their agreement, unbeknownst to Adam, involves Michael pretending that he doesn’t hear the odd fragment of a thought trickle over from Adam’s head. So, when Michael looks down at himself, at his hands and his new clothes, and then asks Adam what he looks like, he hears:

Holy shit—gorgeous—fucking hell—take me now. . .

“. . .Different.”

And with time moving more slowly in Hell than it does on earth, even though AU Michael only briefly wore this vessel after he crossed over, this new look sticks around for a little while for OG Michael and Adam. Which initially changes their dynamic a bit. Michael begins to wonder if he should tell Adam that his thoughts are not as infallibly private as Adam had been led to believe. However, there’s only so much entertainment in the cage, and there is something unspeakably gratifying about the fact that now, when he and Adam get into a debate, and Adam has a really solid argument going, Michael can stretch his neck like he’s trying to work out a kink, and hear Adam’s train of thought come to a screeching halt as he helplessly imagines what it would feel like to nuzzle into the expose skin. The thought generally only lasts a second or so, but inevitably costs Adam his footing the conversation every time, as it’s usually followed by Adam chastising himself for upwards of twenty minutes.

On one occasion, while discussing something called Kohlberg’s stages of morality, Michael evidently said Adam’s name in such a way that made him excuse himself to the far side of the cage, where Michael knew for a fact Adam spent the entire time scowling at the ceiling and thinking:

Creep—Stop staring at him—Not his fault he looks—sexy—gorgeous—fucking get it together. . .

Michael is aware that he has no business finding the whole situation as amusing as he does. After all, if Adam were to ever act on his errant thoughts, Michael would have to tell him that, as an angel of the Lord, entertaining any kind of relationship with a human would be utterly inappropriate. Angels simply didn’t do that sort of thing. . .

That said, a week or so later, Michael can hear Adam telling himself not to look at the dip in the V created by Michael’s new button-down shirt (it had arrived with the top two buttons undone, and Michael had refrained from altering it). Michael is getting ready to throw Adam off his game, again, when his grace flares. When the light subsides, Michael looks down at himself and sees that his human form has changed again. He looks up at Adam to ask what he looks like now, and Adam says. . .

Like an asshole.

“You look like Dean now. What happened?”

“I don’t know. . .”

Sadly, this change lasts significantly longer than the last one, and the awkward shift it causes in their dynamic is a lot less fun (for Michael). The second Michael’s face changes, Adam’s inner turmoil shifts from untoward appreciation, to a running loop of reminders that he’s looking at his brother’s face, which does not have nice eyes, and even if it did have nice eyes, the person looking out of them is a divine being with no interest in—in anything, and that the whole train of thought was sick, and redundant, and Michael didn’t mean to listen in, but he was already in the habit by this point.

Nor could Michael contradict Adam’s inner monologue, because of course Adam was right. Michael certainly wasn’t interested in—well, if anything, Michael was relieved that temptation had been taken out of Adam’s path. If Michael excused himself at one point to quietly explore the possibility of snapping himself back to the mysterious form from before, it was purely out of curiosity about the strange glitch in his powers, not for any other reason.

And, finding that, having never possessed or even seen the body in question, his attempts to revert to past vessels only brought up John Winchester’s form, Michael certainly didn’t feel disappointed. Nor did he spend the better part of an hour contemplating whether Adam’s father’s face would be an improvement over his brother’s, before remembering that he is not supposed to know or care about whether Adam is repulsed by his appearance.

Their rapport recovers, but nonetheless, they are both secretly relieved when Michael’s grace flares of its own volition once again. This time Michael is standing when the change happens, and the first thing he notices after is his height. This vessel was taller than Adam, or so it initially seemed, until Michael realized it was equipped with footwear that bolstered its natural height by a few inches. It was wearing fewer layers, and accessories securing its hair and dangling from its ears. Michael studied them with his hands.

“You look great,” Adam says before Michael has a chance to ask.

Obviously, Michael doesn’t care. By this point, Adam’s rush of lustful imaginings has become a relatively distant memory. Which made it all the more surprising when Michael was teaching Adam to speak Enochian sometime after the newest change. Michael was leaning forward, speaking slowly to show Adam precisely how he moved his lips and tongue around the syllables, but Adam’s accent was abysmal and distorted one word so badly that it threw off the entire sentence he was trying to say, and Michael briefly forgot himself to the point of actually laughing out loud—at which point, he heard the word Beautiful resonate through Adam’s mind.

Adam seemed to like this face. Words like “regal” and “stunning” crossed over from time to time, but, more significantly, Michael feels a surge of warmth come from him whenever Michael smiles—sometimes so intensely that the affection takes up residence in Adam’s eyes while they’re talking, and Michael can’t seem to look away.

After experiencing that, feeling his grace billow out of his control once again filled him with dread. Michael struggles to resist the change this time, but the flash of light comes nonetheless. Running his hands over his jaw afterward, and noting the familiar set of his legs, Michael knows before Adam says anything that he has changed into Dean Winchester again.

Adam chuckled when he saw Michael’s face. “You almost look disappointed.”

“Of course I’m not. I. . .I just wish I knew what was causing this.”

Once again, Dean’s face stays longer than it had any right to. To himself, Michael carefully thinks back over what he had been doing at the time of each change, wondering if he could possibly trigger another randomization. He had been talking each time—could it have been a key word or phrase, perhaps even a gesture or. . .thought?

Adam humors every experiment that Michael suggests, always with the same amused expression on his face. After the fourth or fifth failure, he says, gently, “You know, Dean’s face kind of suits you. Is it that bad?”

Michael retorts that this was not about vanity.

After all, Dean’s face is a reminder of their abandonment in the cage, and precisely what turn of events had led to Adam’s residency in particular. Michael would not force Adam to live with it peaceably when he should be capable of less offputting alternatives.

He’s overjoyed when the the now familiar surge of power finally courses through him again, and Adam has to bite his lip to stop his grin when Michael immediately begins running his hands over his new face. This vessel is the shortest to date; even with heels, Michael only stands as tall as Adam’s shoulder. This one also came with the most elaborate accessories. One of Michael’s new rings catches in the pins restraining his hair, necessitating the removal of both, and releasing a mane of shining red curls.

Adam helps him with the hair pins. And promptly grins when Michael’s thanks comes out in the cadence of a lilting Scottish accent.

Adam’s reaction to this one is easily the loudest since the first change. However, the words that Michael overhears run the gambit of Spitfire, Adorable, and Spritely—words that Michael is not accustomed to hearing in relation to himself, and not certain if he approves. He finally takes offense at the term pixie, and in the midst of a conversation about Purgatory, detours into a tangent about how angels and pixies are in no way similar to one another, regardless of humanity’s affinity for portraying the two specifies as humanoid beings with wings.

During this spiel, Michael fails to notice Adam raising an eyebrow at the abrupt segeway. He spends a minute, leaning against the side of the cage, half listening to Michael, while also trying to deduce how pixies came into the conversation. Then suddenly realization hits, and the fact that he is able to keep his face completely neutral is nothing short of a miracle.

Adam’s rather proud of the fact that he’s managed to get himself under control since coming to terms with his attraction toward Michael. Being around Michael after the first body swap had been difficult, and then confusing, after the second change put Michael in the shape of a blood relative, and not exactly a fondly remembered one at that. Self-control had become a matter of sanity for Adam, and, once he’d acknowledged his feelings to himself, vital for maintaining their friendship as it was. He hadn’t imagined making out with Michael against the side of the cage in ages. But now, with Michael’s tangent, with his fussing after each vessel change in mind, he had a hypothesis to test.

Michael was still talking when Adam’s fantasy hit him: Adam pushing away from the wall, three steps to close the distance between them, and then tilting Michael’s pixie-esque face upward to kiss him breathless. It was. . .very vivid. Michael could almost feel Adam’s arm slip around his waist, and the ghost-like caress of his tongue along his lips, requesting admittance. The fantasy cut short before request could be answered.

Adam bit back a grin watching Michael trip over his consonants. Even before he walked over, he could see the blush spreading out on Michael’s face. Michael doesn’t move back as Adam approaches him, coming in closer than he would normal go. Instead, Michael seems to lean into the closeness, tilting his own head back as his lips parted, eyes on Adam’s face. Adam’s tempted to run a hand along Michael’s jaw. 

Then. . .

“.. .I’m sorry, I got distracted thinking about something. Can you repeat that last part?”

“W—Yes, of course.” Michael practically flies three steps back. “As I was saying—”

“Wait, Michael. . .”

“Yes?” When Michael, flustered, finally looks at Adam again, Adam is giving him a look that normally means a joke has gone over his head—though what the joke could be is beyond him. Michael tries to listen into Adam’s mind, but all he can detect is vague confusion.

Meanwhile, Adam is not sure whether he’s being rejected, or if Michael had honestly just missed the part where Adam caught him listening in on his thoughts red handed, and maybe caught him in something else too. Judging by the look on Michael’s face though, Adam was going to have to ask the question outright. . .

“You know, I think we got off topic. Let’s take it back to Purgatory.”

. . .But he cops out.

Shortly after the pixie incident, Michael experiences the opposite of the power surge that marks the onset of a change. His grace seems to short circuit for a moment, and when the riotous flickering subsides, he’s reverted to Adam’s form. What this means, neither of them know. They carry on, neither of them saying it, but both secretly braced for the next change. Instead, the next time Michael senses an unexplainable rush of power, the cage door swings open, and the two of them sit there gaping at their freedom for an embarrassingly long amount of time before either moves to step outside.

When they do, Michael is wary. He doesn’t know of many beings that could simply open the cage, and he can’t dismiss the thought that this might be a trap of some sort. He pulls the two of them back into one being and ventures out cautiously. He knows where the doorway to earth is, and can get there as easily on foot as by wing. . .but then they happen to pass by the new queen of Hell, seemingly out on some kind of procession. Which is unusual enough for Hell, since festivities are not typically done there, but more importantly, Michael gets caught on the queen’s appearance.

“Michael? Why are we stopping?”

“That woman.”

“Yes?”

“Doesn’t she look familiar?”

“Um. . .I don’t know? Why, is she some important bible-y character?”

“First, we are not characters, Adam, but also—” Michael struggles to articulate his thoughts. He’d seen that woman in Adam’s fantasy! She was attired differently, in red and gold, with her hair arranged in waves woven through with braids, but it was her. He knew for a fact that Adam had once gazed at her in amazement that he could find anyone so unreservedly endearing while they were in a “mood,” as Adam had put it, yet now he hardly seemed to notice her. To think that Adam could be so offhanded with his affections was disconcerting.

Michael sets it aside, but the thought cycles back when he and Adam are at the diner later.

“You really didn’t recognize that redhead?”

“Jeez, Michael, did you?” Adam shoots him a look as he takes a bite of his pizza. It’s the one that usually meant there was something humorous going on that Michael didn’t see.

One thing that had slipped Michael’s mind when he bound Adam and himself back together in Hell, was that their proximity would make Adam’s thoughts significantly easier to overhear. As Adam chews, Michael distinctly hears:

Go on, say it—You’re not going to say it—Say it, I dare you. . .

“What’s with the frown?” Adam says after swallowing and wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

“I’m still figuring that out.”

Adam chuckles as he picks a french fry off the plate of his first entrée. . . .Yeah, you’ll get there. . .

[wrestlingisfake]

Slammiversary preview

This is Impact's 19th anniversary show, although they didn't start using this name until the 3rd anniversary, and now they always hold it a month after the actual anniversary date. For the first time since March 2020, Impact will have fans at the show, but on a limited basis. So I would expect maybe 50-100 people spaced pretty far apart.

The show airs live tonight on Fite.tv. The pre-show is free and begins at 7pm EDT; the main show is $39.99 and starts at 8pm EDT.

Kenny Omega vs. Sami Callihan - Callihan is challenging for the Impact men's world title, which is represented by two of the four belts that Omega currently holds. The other two, the AEW and AAA men's world titles, are not at stake. This is billed as "no DQ match" which ought to mean that the winner gets to go to Dairy Queen but probably means can't be disqualified.

Omega and his henchmen interfered in a Callihan vs. Moose match on June 3, causing Callihan to win by disqualification. Since Moose was the #1 contender at the time, officials considered adding Sami to the Omega vs. Moose match on June 12, but ultimately they decided to book the winner to face Callihan here. The storyline is that Omega's manager Don Callis keeps arguing that Callihan is too reckless and unprofessional to be in a world title match, but we all know he's really just worried that Sami could hurt Omega real bad and win the title.

If it was me, I'd have done Omega-Callihan last month to set up Omega-Moose here. (Moose's contract negotiations may have made that impractical.) I don't buy Sami as the big destination for one of the biggest Impact shows of the year. I want to be interested in Omega trying to figure out how to deal with a misfit deathmatch guy. But Sami comes across more like a guy playing a misfit deathmatch guy. I mean, I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley, but I'd rather do that than listen to his corny supervillain speeches or look at his Roman Reigns cosplay.

At this point I'm seriously wondering where they're going with Omega invading Impact, so I'm willing to believe they could wrap it up any day now and get the title off of him. Omega has to drop the belt to somebody, and I can see Impact picking Callihan, even if I'd pick somebody else. Even so, I still want to think there's a long-term plan in place, and that the blowoff won't come until at least the October pay-per-view. So I'm expecting this match will just come down to another wave of run-ins and shenanigans so Omega can retain.

Ultimate X match - This is a six-way match for Josh Alexander's Impact X division championship. The ring will be set up with four columns at each corner, which support either cables or scaffolding that cross overhead like a giant "X." The title belt will be hung from the center, and the first participant to pull it down will be the winner and champion. So it's like a ladder match, but there are no ladders.

Impact introduced this as one of their signature match types back in 2003, and they've always been rather proud of it. Personally I have trouble getting into it, since all the spots revolve around falling off of things, and all the "near-falls" involve slowly inching across a high-wire or a scaffold.

The six participants are: Josh Alexander, Petey Williams, Trey Miguel, Ace Austin, Rohit Raju, and Chris Bey. The storyline is that Austin and Raju have formed an alliance, and since no one can be disqualified they plan to gang up on the competition with their respective henchmen (Madman Fulton and Shera). Alexander, Williams, and Miguel are trying to stick together to oppose this, and Bey has reluctantly sided with them.

Alexander recently won a sixty-minute iron man match to add to his credentials as a dominant champion, so in theory this match is meant to secure his legacy as an all-time great in the division. Problem is, if he wins he's effectively cleaned out the division, and if he loses it's yet another situation where the champion didn't get pinned to lose the X title, setting up yet another multi-man X title match. Nevertheless, I'd much, much rather keep the belt on Alexander and have him move on to new business (maybe against a recent WWE castoff), so I guess I'm rooting for him to win.

Deonna Purrazzo vs. ? - Purrazzo is scheduled to defend the women's title against a mystery opponent who won't be revealed until right before the match starts. The storyline is that Purrazzo has cleaned out the division (a trope that's getting worn very thin in pro wrestling these days), so she's gotten overconfident, and Gail Kim set this up to truly put her to the test. They haven't said the opponent can't be Kim herself, although Kim strongly suggested that it won't be.

WWE has released a number of women over the past few months, and any of them could potentially be the challenger. Impact is probably counting on fans to jump to that conclusion. By not naming the challenger, Impact encourages fans to infer that she's currently under a WWE non-compete clause that won't expire until right before the show. Of course, none of us can be certain about those non-compete clauses, or which wrestlers have negotiated to waive them. We also can't be assured that the mystery opponent must be a WWE name; it could easily just be someone like ODB coming in for a cup of coffee.

Matches like this tend to be trouble for long-running champions. The most famous example would be when the Ultimate Warrior shocked the Honky Tonk Man in 1989. It won't help Purrazzo that she's cut ties with her cronies, Kimber Lee and Susan, so she won't have them ready to interfere if she gets in trouble. However, Purrazzo is already booked to defend the title in a champion vs. champion match on August 14, so it's hard to believe she'll drop the belt ahead of that.

Four-way tag team match - This is for the Impact men's tag team title, currently held by Violent By Design. Typically in a match like this, members of two teams start in the ring, while everyone else stands in their assigned corner. The legal wrestlers in the ring can tag in anyone in any corner, whether it's their own partner or an opponent. The first wrestler to score a fall on any opponent wins the match and the championship for his team.

The championship is currently held by Violent By Design: Rhino, Joe Doering, Deaner, and Eric Young. In the tradition of the "Freebird Rule," you get booked to wrestle the team, not any specific individuals, so then the team gets to choose which members will actually be in the match. Young has been sidelined with a knee injury so I'm pretty sure VBD's options are limited to Rhino, Doering, and Deaner. But they could always bring in a new member.

There will be three other teams in the match, but only two have been confirmed: Rich Swann & Willie Mack and Doc Gallows & Karl Anderson. When the match was first announced, the team of TJP & Fallah Baah was supposed to be in it. However, we found out yesterday that TJP is unable to do the match for some reason. Impact said the match will still involve four teams, but didn't say that Baah will get another partner. So it's possible Baah has also been pulled from the match, and both guys in the fourth team could be a surprise.

The build for this match felt like a clusterfuck. VBD and Gallows/Anderson are the top teams, but they're all heels, so some babyface teams had to get thrown together, and then all of it is dumped into one match until an actual story direction emerges. The only cool outcome I see is if Fallah Baah really does step aside and a whole new team debuts. But they could just as easily stick Johnny Swinger and Hernandez in there, so I shouldn't get my hopes up. The safe bet is the champs retain.

Moose vs. Chris Sabin - Moose has been a top heel for a while, but he kind of went babyface a little in his program with Kenny Omega. With that out of the way, he threw a tantrum about losing to Omega to remind us he's still a heel, until Sabin chased him off. Without Alex Shelley or James Storm to team with, Sabin hasn't had much to do, so now he's in a match that could re-establish him as a singles guy.

I assume the winner of this match get into the hunt for the world title, perhaps at whatever big show they do in August. That sort of favors Sabin, although I can't totally count out Moose. Moose feels like he's headed for bigger things in Impact, and a convincing win over a former Impact world champion here would get him off to a good start. I guess I've talked myself into picking Moose to win.

Eddie Edwards vs. W. Morrissey - Morrissey (formerly Big Cass in WWE) is on a roll as the latest Mean Guy to beat everybody up in Impact. Edwards, a former world champion in Impact and ROH, is his toughest competition since he got here. I don't see Edwards winning unless they have big plans for him. And I suppose they might have big plans for Eddie, but big plans are clearly in progress for Morrissey. I'm certain this is just a glorified squash match to put Morrissey over.

Matt Cardona & ? vs. Tenille Dashwood & Brian Myers - Cardona and Myers were the team of Zack Ryder & Curt Hawkins in WWE, but they've been feuding since they got to Impact. I'd actually forgotten that Dashwood and Cardona were dating about five or six years ago, which would maybe explain why she helped Myers beat down Cardona recently. So now we've got this mixed tag team match. Cardona has to find a woman to be his partner, but we don't know who it will be.

The minute they announced this match, they started teasing the mystery woman would be Cardona's fiancée, Chelsea Green. I suspect that tease was taped before Green showed up at the ROH pay-per-view saying she wasn't medically cleared in Maryland and that she would wrestle for ROH this summer. Of course, none of that necessarily means she can't wrestle for Impact with a wrist injury in Tennessee. But I think the tease is a deliberate misdirection. Dashwood has been trying to drive a wedge between Rachael Ellering and Jordynne Grace, so either of them might make sense in this spot.

If the mystery partner is any good, I think she has to get the win here. But even if Impact has picked up some hot free agents, I don't expect many of them to actually wrestle on this show. So it could be a deal where they reveal Green is in the company, Green swerves us by introducing (for example) Alisha Edwards as the partner, and the babyfaces just lose.

Kiera Hogan & Tasha Steelz vs. Rosemary & Havok - This is booked for the pre-show. Fire 'N' Flava (Hogan & Steelz) are defending the Impact women's tag team championship. As I recall, Rosemary and Taya Valkyrie feuded with Havok and Neveah a few months back over some spooky shit involving Rosemary and Havok. Anyway, Valkyrie and Neveah left the company, so I guess the spooky sides of those teams have put aside their differences. You could do some fun things with Rosemary and Havok as champs, but I don't know why you'd book the title change on a pre-show. So I think Hogan and Steelz retain, and this storyline will continue for a while longer.

[thequirkdetective]

Investigation 6 (10/7/2020): Hardening – Eijiro Kirishima

This time, we’re going to be tackling a quirk I have been thinking about for a while now; Hardening. This allows Kirishima to “make his entire body [as] hard as a rock”[1]. The quirk is mainly used for defence but does also make Kirishima’s body rough and sharp, which causes his attacks to be more dangerous to opponents. We’ll look at the exact composition of Kirishima’s hardened body, as well as the systems that allow the body parts to both harden and soften.

Firstly, we need to know what Kirishima’s hardened skin is made of, and to do this we need to know how much force it can withstand.

The largest easily measurable force Kirishima withstands is when he is crushed underneath a few robots in the sports festival [1]. It is difficult to tell how many robots of which type(s) he is caught under, but we can do the maths on both types, and see how they compare, starting with the largest robots. These are in fact the same model as the one Deku punched in the entrance exam due to it nearly crushing and killing Uraraka[2] (I’m not sure how UA spun that one in the risk assessment to allow them to make a reappearance). In any case, whatever fate would have befallen Uraraka instead turns its gaze to Kirishima in season 2, but rather than being steamrolled Kirishima instead undergoes the more abrupt and deadly force of a robot in freefall. He survives (unsurprisingly, or this investigation wouldn’t have much data to work with), due to his quirk.

The whole scene plays out with the contestants of the obstacle course race coming across a group of the aforementioned giant robots. Todoroki (no doubt fuelled by chronic daddy issues) freezes the robots and gets through, but makes the decision to freeze them in such positions as to cause them to fall over. Ignoring the rather worrying possibility of Todoroki deliberately killing the entire student body of UA (get mad in the notes), only two people are caught underneath the ensuing pile: Kirishima and Tetsutetsu. The actual moment of impact isn’t shown, but a few seconds afterwards, an unnamed student declares that they see someone trapped in the rubble, and Kirishima bursts upwards in a shower of metal and testosterone, followed closely by Tetsutetsu.

This shows, in the most basic interpretation, that quirked-up Kirishima is harder than a UA robot, since if he were less hard he would be immediately crushed. Sadly, material science is a little more nuanced than that. The exact definition of ‘hardness’ is difficult to pin down, and the stresses would not be equal across Kirishima’s whole body. This blog doesn’t have access to laboratory grade material simulation software (yet), so we can’t see the exact forces involved in a student-robot collision. We can, however, estimate the rough pressures Kirishima’s body withstood after being mercilessly crushed by Todoroki.

There are no viable references for discerning the height of the robots in season 2, so let’s go back to their first appearance in the entrance exam [2]. The scene where Deku punches on of the robots in the face gives us a nice tall building in the background, which we know from earlier is about 15 storeys high (50m or 164ft). Deku jumps upwards until he is level with the robot, and gives the robot a good whack. It topples backwards, his bones shatter, and he is accepted into UA, all due to his incredible feat of self-sacrifice for his love interest. However, in the many, many different shots between the jump and the impact, the height of both the boy and the robot’s head varies from level with the roof to well above any of the surrounding buildings. This is in part due to camera angles and fisheye effects, but whatever the reason it is difficult to say for certain how tall the robot is. Let’s approximate between the two extremes, and say it’s around 55m tall (180ft). The area of the base of the robot is, you guessed it, difficult to get a proper estimate of. This is mostly due to it being framed close-up or surrounded by clouds of ice and dust. Taking this into account, along with the fact that I have strayed way too deep down this rabbit hole, allows us to approximate the robot’s base size as the same as the surrounding buildings’, since it is shown in front of one and nearly blocks it from view. This means the robot is around 15m x 15m x 55m (49ft x 49ft x 180ft). Piling on another wild guesstimate of average density gives us a robot with a mass of ~4000 tonnes (~4400 tons). Now, we can use a bit of physics to figure out the force the robot exerts on Kirishima.

We now need to use what is fast becoming the most useful equation in these investigations: F = ma. We now know m, but we have yet to find a. Fortunately, it has an equation: ΔV/t, or the change in velocity over time. Unfortunately, since the robot topples sideways, we cannot use simple acceleration due to gravity. We have to get velocity in a slightly more roundabout way.

The velocity can be found with two equations, using the principle of conservation of energy (we’re ignoring air resistance, as is traditional in physics). In the process of falling, the robot’s gravitational potential energy gets converted into kinetic energy, and so if we know the amount of energy converted, we can find out the resultant speed. Gravitational potential energy is given by , or mass x gravitational field strength x change in height, all relative to the centre of mass. Pairing this with the kinetic energy equation ( ½mv2, or ½ x mass x velocity squared), and using conservation of energy, we see , so . Rearrange, and voilà: sqrt(2gΔh) (a very nice equation that serendipitously does not contain mass). The robot has a large, heavy base, so lets say the centre of mass starts 20m (66ft) up. Then, the robot falls and the centre of mass ends ~5m (16ft) from the ground. Now we know is 15m (49ft), and is, at least around sea level, 9.8m/s2. Therefore, if a 0-point robot toppled over, it would hit the ground with an average speed of 17m/s (38mph).

Now we can work out , if we approximate the distance it took for the robot to stop. It fell onto soil and kicked up quite a dust cloud, so lets say it embedded 1m down. Assuming uniform deceleration across the 1m of distance, comes to 144.5m/s2, and is a whopping 5.78×108 N, spread over ~750m2 (8073ft2), giving 770667 Pa (112 PSI), or 7.5x atmospheric pressure.

The smaller robots seem to be no more than 10m tall, so the force of their fall is only 10m/s (22mph). This means the force is a measly 50N, and the pressure 0.5Pa (7×10−5 PSI). Now, finally, we can find out what these numbers mean in terms of Kirishima’s quirk.

The pressure would be spread over ~1m2 of Kirishima, meaning the force on him is anywhere from 0.5N to 770667N depending on the type of the robot. The issue with this calculation is that it assumes the fall of both robots is distributed evenly between the ground and Kirishima, so the forces would actually be more in the range of 50N-770667N, the equivalent of balancing a weight on your head with a mass of 5-80000kg (11-176370lbs). A force of 770667N is about the force a house exerts on its foundations, but the shock needs to be taken into account. It’s the difference between having a house resting on concrete, and dropping half the house from 10m onto the same concrete. From this example it becomes rather clear which one does more damage.

Due to this, as well as the sheer magnitude of the resultant forces, we can rule out Kirishima being crushed by the largest robots. Such a robot would flatten almost anything in its path, including Kirishima, no matter what his quirk made his body into. This also explains his quick escape; he was underneath a small robot and only had to dig through a metre (3ft) or so of robot wiring and metal panels.

Kirishima’s quirk is continually compared to rock [1], which to me says silicates. Silicates are the predominant compounds in the earth’s crust, and are mostly responsible for giving rocks their hardness (sorry geologists and material scientists, but I do have to end this somewhere). The question now, as with many other investigations, is where the silicates originate. Many health food such as spinach, soy, and bananas contain high amounts of silicon dioxide, also known as silica or quartz. However, a much more efficient way to increase silica intake is sand. Sand is mostly silicon dioxide, and is also fairly easy to ingest, making it very useful for such purposes as turning into rock at will. We’ll figure out which one Kirishima employs later on.

In the Shie Hassaikai raid, Kirishima’s quirk is shown to deflect a quirk-destroying bullet[3]. These bullets are hollow, and do not cause nearly as much damage as a standard metal bullet so it may not be the case that Kirishima is fully bulletproof. This does make sense; granite shatters easily upon contact with a bullet and the quirk-destroying bullets did not give Mirio an injury comparable to a bullet wound. The ‘bullets’ instead act more like flying syringes. However, Kirishima does also defend against a rapid succession of punches from Kendo Rappa[4] using his quirk. This is again feasible, since it is akin to Rappa successively punching a brick or granite wall. Therefore, Kirishima’s hardened body is made of some silicate, most likely akin to quartz – the primary compound in both granite and sand, with trace amounts present in food.

This means that Kirishima’s body can in some way store silica, and then reconstruct it onto or into the surface of the skin. Silica is notoriously insoluble, only trace amounts dissolving in water or acids, and the main viable solvents for dissolving it being hydrofluoric acid or hot alkaline solutions. It’s the same story  for pure silicon. However, if Kirishima’s body were to absorb silicon as an ion (a common way to absorb minerals) then the compound could be made soluble in some interesting ways.

Detergents are used to make oil and grease soluble in water, by having a hydrophobic end that binds to dirt, and a hydrophilic end that is attracted to water. The detergent molecules then surround dirt particles and make them hydrophilic, forcing them into suspension (not technically solution). A similar mechanism could be used to lift silicate ions into suspension in Kirishima’s bloodstream. These would collect in Kirishima’s cells. Then, all it takes is the degradation of the ‘detergent’ molecules to force the silicates out of suspension, where they then crystallise. This essentially turns the inside of Kirishima’s cells into rock, if given a few tweaks.

The first main problem is that the silicate ions would not necessarily create silica unless they were introduced to oxygen ions. This can be fixed by the other chemical required – one to denature the detergent molecules. The whole process involves ionised molecules that bind to silicon ions and bring them into suspension in Kirishima’s blood. They travel to his cells, and collect there. The activation of the quirk is in fact the release of a specialised chemical which breaks down the ionised molecules, releasing the silicon ions. This chemical could then also contains oxygen ions which bond to the silicon, creating silica within Kirishima’s skin cells. Then, when the quirk is deactivated, the silica is broken down and more ionised molecules are released to bring the silicon back into suspension.

The only remaining problem with this system is movement. Turning all of Kirishima’s skin into rock would lock up his joints and prevent him from moving his limbs. The solution to this is leaving some of the skin cells at points of motion un-hardened, allowing certain areas of skin to stretch and flex whilst still gaining some defensive advantages. This does leave Kirishima with a few relative weak points at his shoulders, elbows, knees, and hands, but overall, this mechanism fulfils the brief almost to the letter: turning his body into rock. It also means that it simply strengthens his skin, and does not create a new layer of rock. This has the added benefit of transferring any damage to his hardened form onto his normal body, for example a large chunk of rock being blasted off would leave a large chunk of his flesh missing once the quirk was deactivated.

Finally, we need to establish the source of the silicate ions. It is most likely diet, but is eating silicon-rich foods enough to provide the amount of silicate required? 

Kirishima’s quirk manifested when he was quite young [4] , let’s say 3 years old since he can’t remember the event very clearly. At this point just his hand and arm could harden. The amount of silicate required can be calculated by the surface area of the affected area multiplied by the thickness of Kirishima’s skin.

The average surface area of a man’s hand is ~0.1m2 (1sq. ft). Kirishima is a toddler at this point, so a 0.1m2 area would cover his upper arm too, as shown. Skin is around 1mm thick on average, so the volume of silicate required for the first manifestation of his quirk is ~0.26g (0.009oz) of silica, the same amount as present in 40 bananas. This is a very feasible amount of silica to have ingested in three years, and if Kirishima made a habit of eating silica rich foods he could have enough silicon ions to harden his whole body in 10-15 years, depending on the thickness of the hardened skin. This matches with the anime, because his quirk was not very strong and could not activate across his entire body when he was in middle school [4] . In fact, the quirk could even manifest throughout most of Kirishima’s cells, leaving a few un-hardened for movement, and the amount of silica needed would still be plausible to intake over such a time period provided his body’s ability to absorb it.

Another fun effect that corroborates with the source material is silicon-rich foods like spinach being prone to wearing teeth down, possibly leading to the strange, sharp teeth Kirishima possesses. Most likely he has them filed due to their continual wearing.

In summary, Kirishima’s body can absorb silicon ions, using detergent-like ionised molecules to force the ions into suspension. Then, the silicon is carried through the bloodstream to Kirishima’s cells. When his quirk is activated, a molecule, most likely some kind of enzyme, is released that destroys the ions responsible for keeping the silicon atoms in suspension. This causes them to react with the oxygen ions present in the cells and enzyme, creating silicate crystals within Kirishima’s cells. Some muscle cells are left without crystals in order to preserve movement, and some skin cells are kept softened for the same purposes. When the quirk is deactivated, more ionic molecules are released which bring the silicate back into suspension, softening the cells again.

[1] Season 2 Episode 16: In Their Own Quirky Ways

[2] Season 1 Episode 4: Start Line

[3] Season 4 Episode 68: Let’s Go, Gutsy Red Riot

[4] Season 4 Episode 72: Red Riot

 If you liked this investigation and want to have a say in the next one, then make sure to send a recommendation for which quirk I should investigate!

[giannimaldonado]

Album Of The Day: Satan Is Watching

When most people born after a certain period of time think of the genre that is “country”, and what it has morphed into in the context of this day and age, a lot of unpleasant images spring to mind. Pretty boy, clean cut, poser rednecks who’ve never seen a farm outside of their music videos, trying to pretend to be another “honest Joe” when they couldn’t be any further from such a thing, making trashy, twangy glam rock mixed with watered down trap music/EDM for white southerners who might have interesting views on those of different races, rolling around in million dollar sports cars while adopting the moniker of “working class”...is probably what your mind immediately begins to conjure up in that brain of yours.

I honestly can’t say that I blame you. Country, or, at least, MAINSTREAM country, has lost its way completely. Luke Bryan, Brad Paisley, Tim McGraw, and Blake Shelton polluted this once proud, grassroots, amazing genre with pandering, trite garbage aimed at making money off of dumb hicks in the bodies of frat boys whose trucks cost more than your own damn house.  Gone are the days when country music was filled to the brim talent, creativity, passion, and heart. Now, this “jock country” has taken its place, having thoroughly fucked country up the ass a few too many times that it has lost its way. For good, perhaps.

Underground country’s usually no better. There’s some exceptions (we’ll get to those soon), but for the most part, it, too, has gone off the rails and destroyed itself completely. It’s often just indie folk or what have you with even more acoustic guitars, though perhaps with more twang, whiny vocals that are trying (and failing) to recreate a stereotypical southern accent, a reliance on cheap gimmicks, sarcasm, and irony to carry their trash because the excrement can’t do that itself, and a musical quality that tries SO hard to imitate the great Mr. Cash, but is little more than a cheap, pale imitation that folks who wear WAY too much flannel and wire rimmed glasses will eat up like it’s the second coming of Joy Division.

No matter how you look at it, country has been thoroughly gentrified for the most part, just like many genres that were previously for a much different variety of people. Like trap music, or blues, or hardcore punk, or black metal. All of the original meaning is gone, driven out by money hungry label executives, clueless and ignorant listeners, and musicians hellbent on half-assing their way to fame and fortune.

It’s a crying shame, it really is.

But fret not, dear reader! There is still a soft, seedy underbelly of the country genre that has taken the long dead (yet forever revered and loved) sound of “outlaw shit”, as Mr. Jennings would put it so eloquently, to its most logical extreme. One that would make Nelson, Cash, Haggard, Coe, and others that might’ve been at the top of their “underground”, “anti-mainstream” game seem rather...accessible. These aforementioned artists and their peers are still greats who, in their primes, were powerhouses that made some of the greatest works the genre would ever produce. But when compared to this particular sound...they just don’t hold up as well. The rawness, the grassroots nature, the down-to-Earth (and sometimes below the Earth) attitude, the simplicity, the honesty, the bluntness, the intimacy, the melancholy...all of it gets turned way up to eleven. It’s dark, it’s mischievous, it’s harsh, it’s gritty, it’s angry, it’s bitter, it’s darkly humorous, it’s lonesome, it’s ornery, and it’s damn sure pretty fucking mean.

Call it whatever you want. “Southern gothic”, “dark country”, “death country”, “gothic country”. It doesn’t matter what name you apply to it. All that matters is that it’s country. Real fucking country. Country meant for the guttersnipes, punks, street urchins, hobos, peasants, and forlorn drifters. This ain’t pretty boy music. This isn’t nice, Christian contemporary that you can play at your local uptight establishment. These aren’t harmless tunes your the posers can get drunk and go mudding to. This is country as it was meant to be. The eptiome of the term “outlaw shit”.

There’s a plethora of wonderful bands in this scene. Sons Of Perdition, Sixteen Horsepower, whatever project Jay Munly’s got going on this time around, The Dead South, the early days of The Devil Makes Three, The Builders And The Butchers, Wovenhand, Ghoultown, Coffinshakers, The Pine Box Boys, and, of course, everyone’s favorite descendant of the Williams family tree. The third one, that is.

But all of those fall short of that truly, truly, TRULY horrific honky-tonk, old-time, folksy, backwoods atmosphere that this duo produces. One that hails from the isolated, empty thickets that lie out in rural Wisconsin. A mentally disturbed pair of “prophets of the country doom”, as they have decided to label themselves. A fine example of those who have gone completely mad, completely sad, and doing so makes them feel very glad. They revel in their craziness, and while no album sounds the same, each one is marred by a couple of recurring themes: humanity is worthy of being sent straight to the fiery depths, these boys are depressed beyond your wildest comprehension, a rebellion against both God and Satan, and a desire to document the lifestyle of society’s forgotten ones, hated ones, and feared ones.

Let me introduce you to Those Poor Bastards.

Fitting name for a couple of enigmatic, largely unknown, extremely obscure pair of men known simply as Lonesome Wyatt (impassioned orations and guitar-based melodies) and The Minister (everything else).

The Minister is completely anonymous, with no one having even seen his face, while all that’s known about Lonesome Wyatt is that he’s from Wisconsin, (probably) lives alone, and is likely of an unsound state of mind.

Why is that all important? Well, go listen to their albums, and then you’ll find out why these little intricacies are vital to the dynamic duo’s imagery, music, and cult status.

While all of their material is quite good in my opinion, today we’re going to look at my favorite album from them, and possibly my favorite album from any country artists EVER! Everyone, please proceed to throw on “Satan Is Watching.”

What you’ll first be met with Lonesome Wyatt letting out a loud, wild, manic screech that almost doesn’t sound...human. It’s not even a word. Just an unhinged howl like Lonesome Wyatt’s been possessed by some sort of demon from the pits of Hell, having taken over the “doomsday preacher boy” to spread the wicked gospel. A hell of a start to an album of any kind, let alone a country album. It’s bold, but it lets you know right off the bat that they aren’t fucking around. This is going to be a rough ride from start to finish, and you’ll be left quaking in your seat once Those Poor Bastards has pierced your mind, heart, and soul with their fiendishly unholy sound. A truly nihilistic piece of art about how this world is foul and wretched, and deserves to burn to a cinder.

But that’s just the first song.

Things only manage to get worse from there. Everything from songs about how Lonesome Wyatt’s a degenerate who revels in just how much filth and squalor he lives in, to songs (well, more like suspiciously suicidal rants) about how life is fucked and there’s just no point in living it anymore, to various “take that!” pieces towards lovers who have wronged him in times that have long since passed, presumably. Typical topics for country artists, but contorted and warped to the point where they sound like miniature horror stories being yelled and hollered by a crazy, top-hat wearing yokel than the struggles and strife that are endured by the common man/downtrodden fellow. Hell, there’s even a Johnny Cash cover! A twisted, perverted, scummy, bone-chilling, haunting, eerie take on the previously wholesome, innocent love song The Man In Black made for June. I can’t exactly look at it the same way, what with these mysterious hooligans having thoroughly butchered it.

Instrumentation is minimalist and simple. Nothing too fancy or technical here. It’s quite self-explanatory. Despite how evil it is, the rhythms are still toe-tappingly catchy. The drums, being pounded upon by the fiery hands of The Minister, provide anything from a nice, plodding beat you can stomp your feet to, all the way to a rowdy raucous of a banger that’ll have you doing some sort of line dance with the living dead. Lonesome Wyatt beats upon his acoustic guitar like it owes him money. Not even really playing it. Just smashing the strings until weird, disgruntled, odd noises come out of it. He also seems to thoroughly shatter his ability to talk without a sore throat, pushing his voice to its very limits. The bass compliments everything very well, providing a creepy, fuzzy, dirge-like texture in the background to keep the menacing tone alive and well.

All in all, while this may not “experimental”, “avant-garde”, or even “progressive”, this is certainly an album that’ll give you the heebie-jeebies, and for a country album, it is most certainly “out there”. It takes the usual country tropes, and either turns them into something out of a David Lynch movie, or subverts/plays with them to fuck with the audience and make them contort their face with confusion...and excitement. A spooky bit of acoustic noise that’ll restore your faith in country music, and remind you that there is still a small resemblance of a spark left within the dying genre.

Please, I highly recommend you check this out.

This has been another installment of “Esoteric Warfare”, and remember...

NOISE, NOT MUSIC!

[cruzrogue]

F’M Smoak

#Fictober19 @fictober-event

————————————————————————

for fanfiction:

Prompt number: 5  “I might just kiss you.”

Fandom (AU if applicable): #arrow fanfiction #olicity #Flommy

Thomas Merlyn/ Felicity Smoak

Rating:G

Warnings/Tags: Fluff (friendship)

F’M Smoak

Summary:

Goth Felicity can sing and it brings unwanted attention from a lacrosse player. In the midst of this she meets a charming college guy who she easily befriends.

As her sweetest song she’s singing right now has that quite different sound from the array of beats of the rest of her lyrical music. She loves this one as it is of a sweet innocence and it is gushy and a real love song but she plays it with such heartfelt gusto saying the chorus again and again as the song comes to an end.    

“I might just kiss you.”

The crowd cheering loudly for a favorite that seems to appear every so often with a local college band that play instruments for her to sing a few original songs. She’s taking in the audience. In the last few months it seems she been gathering a few followers. It’s cool and all but sometimes these fans kind of come on way to strong and she it takes her from her comfort zone. She’s glad the owner of at least this establishment keeps an eye on the rowdiness. Sometimes things escalate quickly and Felicity feels so out of her element trying to deal with overeager men.

Tonight, is no exception as she’s occupied on her last song of the night that she doesn’t see the lacrosse player she’s had to repeatedly decline slip back stage. The guy doesn’t take no very well. Last time he was extremely drunk and thought she’d do for some fun that night. Kicking him in the gonads wasn’t enough to get the point across that she truly isn’t interested in some guy who creeps her out. Its not like she didn’t express that she was underage and doesn’t even drink. Not that the bar would serve her anyhow. Thank goodness the bouncer threw the lacrosse player out before she’d have to call the police.

That night may be one night of many. So, her enthusiasm to keep rocking hasn’t been spoiled by a few bad apples. She likes to sing these darker songs that fit her young being alone temperament. She’s still a teenager and basically is all by herself in this world if she doesn’t count her mom who is thousands of miles away in Las Vegas. Being a kid and really having to rely on herself is got to be the biggest mood.

When she needed cash for a small project that has become a go to happy hobby of hers. She’s finds old computers and put them back together to create a library of computer power. It costs a lot of dough to refit with new components. Technology is not cheap.

Her roommate seriously told her to try stripping. That got Felicity to raise her eyebrows at the girl. First, she was underage and that didn’t seem to faze her roommate at all it only made Felicity become more withdrawn in that friendship. She isn’t going to become a stripper, she just wasn’t. Soon after she met a few guys at karaoke that had a falling out with their main singer and well after a few conversations they tried it out. She just wants to play short term while they find a new front for the group. She doubts this is what she’ll want long term anyhow.

Her edgy voice bringing the crowd to erupt to a chorus she humming out. It seems they love this particular song. She wrote it weeks ago when a college frat boy broke her heart. He didn’t literal break it with any misdeeds he broke it by telling her she wasn’t his type. His loss because he gave her a song that connected with loads of people. Raising her arm at the end and enjoying the audience clapping she just follows the guys downstairs where this cute college looking guy tells her how great the performance was.

“That was truly awesome.”

“Thanks. My bandmates really did amazing up there.”

“Yea, but your voice. It holds this melody that I really liked.”

She just smiles. Her bandmates already moving out of view. “Thanks again. I’m just going to go back there. I’m super parched.”

“I can get you a drink?”

“Sorry. No thanks. That nice of you…” Felicity gives him another sweet smile before adding, “and all.”

“Tommy. That’s my name.”

“Okay, thanks Tommy. I don’t want to keep you from your friends.” She looking at a few guys holding their thumbs up at him. It makes him sigh.

“Sorry, they are… were with me. Don’t let them get to you. They can be jerks.”

“Well then. You should than probably make better friends.” She winks and starts to leave but then turns to him. “Care to join me in a refreshing bottle of water?”

“Water huh? You’re to young to be alcoholic?” He then adds, “Or just too young?”

“I’m too young to drink.” She laughs as she goes to grab a drink that is left there for her when a hand grabs her wrist.

“Hey, baby miss me?”

“You? What are you doing here?” Felicity trying to wrestle her wrist away with no luck.

“Your voice is so angelic and how can I keep away when all I want is to take care of you babes?” He pushes her closer and her other arm shoots out helping her to keep her distance.

“How did you get backstage?”

Tommy taking in the quick happening scene when his mind took that this guy wasn’t someone she wanted to talk to.

“Hey, I don’t think the lady is interested.”

“Fuck off frat boy. I got this.”

That makes Tommy come closer. Felicity doesn’t want the new stranger to get involved any deeper. “Tommy, its okay. I can handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have to. If this creep is bothering you.” His voice a little higher that it gets the guys that are putting their instruments away off on the other side take notice. They are now on alarm and start to head to Felicity’s defense.

“Hey F’M do you know these guys?”

Felicity pulls her wrist again from the obvious stalker of a few weeks but his grip is tighter.

Tommy speaks out, “I just met her. Though this guy is physically not letting her go.”

“Hey man, let her go!” The four guys from the band are now just poised and looking at the jerk.

“This bitch wants me. We’ve gotten to know each other for awhile now. We are going. Right babe?” He gives her a very dark stare as if she doesn’t cooperate there will be hell to pay.

Felicity gazes at the player and for a split second thinks it be good to listen and no escalation of violence will take place if she just does as he asks. It when she turns her eyes towards Tommy and sees something. A way out. He there and his stance is of someone who will help and not cower but he is waiting on her decision. She nods to him. That nod only makes him rigid. His words now controlled as his deep voice leaves no room of doubt, “She isn’t leaving with you.”

Just before the lacrosse player can say a word the owner has made his appearance with a bouncer and he notices as he gives a look to the player and then looks him dead in the eyes. “I thought I told you to never come back? Get out!”

Felicity pulls hard and her wrist is free. Tommy takes a risk as he places his body between the jerk and the singer he really enjoyed tonight.

Years later…

Felicity walks as silently as she can towards where the door down to the foundry at Verdant. She stops when she hears a voice.

“You know, I knew I know your face from some place.”

Felicity whips around to look at Tommy Merlyn behind a bar. They haven’t really talked since that incident. It was so many years ago. So much has changed. Even the color of her hair is a different. No more Goth and she quite literally is the flipped coin of her youth.

“Hi Tommy. I didn’t see you there?”

“Another late night down stairs working on wiring issues?”

“Um… well.”

“Hmm Hm. You are a busy IT girl. Got to say Oliver really is working you overtime.”

“Well he asked nicely and…”

“I bet he did. I’m more interested in the whole transformation?”

“Transformation? You must be thinking of someone else?”

He laughs. “I could be. Though I think we both know you are the spitting image of F’M Smoak.” He sees she doesn’t say a word waiting on what he is going to say next. “Felicity Smoak what does M stand for?”

“My middle name Megan.”

“You gave up singing?”

She shrugs. “It brought out some weirdos and my passion is with technology.”

“You were good?”

“I think you are just being nice.”

He pulls a shirt from under the bar. Letting her see the name across the smoke’s emblem of her name. “I’ve held on to this shirt since seeing you for a third time. It was hard to go backstage because of the bouncers. Heard you were getting way too many eager fans.”

“Yea, side effect. It all died down after I took a work study program working with my main love.”

“Good for you. Though it be a shame if that voice never makes a debut again.”

“Tommy, let us keep this little story to ourselves. No one needs to know.”

“Fine, if that is what you really want. Verdant could use the talent.”

“Well Merlyn, maybe I could play a set on Halloween because that is the only time, I’ll wear a mask and even be something I’m not anymore.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“And I am deeply sorry that you got a black eye over me.”

“Oh yes, that dude threw a mean one.”

“He was a total ass and let’s just say that he’s still on the government watch list to this day.”

Tommy smiles. “Okay Smoak, guess you should go do whatever you’re supposed to be doing.” He winks at her as he turns around. “He is most likely downstairs being moody while wondering where you are.”

She shakes her head, “It isn’t like that.”

He doesn’t turn to look at her again, “Sure! If you say so. Goodnight.” He knows she still there as he lets out the last melody of a certain song, “I might just kiss you.”

He hears her whimsical laughter as she calls out “Night Tommy!”

When he hears the downstairs lock click, he turns to watch her go. Mumbling low, “Damn fool downstairs has no idea what a lucky prick he is.”

[blooddrop-palace]

Open Doors [1/2]

[Alternate tagline: Sera, that’s probably not a safe idea, but you did it anyway.]

Here’s another set of snippets of things bouncing in my head all day while I was at work. Except when things involve Vergil, it looks like I can’t keep it simple. This became longer than I thought. Guess this is part 1 of 2.

—

“I don’t care if you just like to do charity demon-slaying or whatever it is you’re here for, but it’s rude to leave in the middle of someone talking to you! And we need to talk!”

He knew he could easily out-maneuver the human woman, but it was at risk of her witnessing the clearly inhuman skills he possessed. However, the plan wouldn’t change from the last two times: he needs to run just far enough out of sight, find a safe target zone, and teleport away.

But really, the situation would have been better if that blasted female knight was never in the vincinity to witness him dispatch a small hoard of stalking demons to begin with.

—

“You have me very vexed, good sir.”

“And you, I. What will it take for you to leave me in peace?” He ground out in response, clearly irked at the knight who had climbed three stories up to the balcony that he thought was safely out of her reach and out of her view. She somehow knew other ways up here that he didn’t immediately see at first.

“You want me to leave you in peace? Did you know that word has gotten around about a foreigner in the city limits who has a peculiar demeanor about him? Doesn’t look or act like a tourist. Asks about history as if he’s hunting for something. And...” She paused to pull herself over the railing, catching her breath briefly. He noticed clever wire spools and snap hooks at her belt, no doubt tools that helped her climb. “And he doesn’t blend in by being overly concealed, and there is no record of someone matching his description having checked in to any of the few existing inns in this isolated island-city... leaving up to all sorts of imagination and gossip of where he could be camping out at—”

“It sounds like you have more pressing matters to tend to, then. I’ll leave you to that...”

“Oh, no you don’t! You’re not going to play the fool with me!” She cut him off, and then cut to the chase with a frustrated sigh: “Ugh, look, sir, this isn’t what you think. I’m hoping to not have to chase you down because the Order asked for your arrest or something. In fact, this wasn’t my original intention. By this point, it’s the fact that you have evaded me the first time, and then yet again a second time, when I had wanted to thank you properly for both occasions of...” She waved her hand in a nonchalant gesture in the air, “saving me the trouble of having to call for backup against demon ambushes in backroads that clearly needed more patrols—”

That wasn’t the case; the roads probably had enough patrols in the past. It was his presence that drew the demons to break their usual patterns. But she didn’t need to know that so he wasn’t going to tell.

The knight’s words dissolved into grumbling as she buried her face into her hands, trying to wrap up her explanation.

He was hoping if she got whatever damn idea of gratitude out of her head, she’d leave him alone from then on. So he lingered while mentally vowing to double check for anyone else’s presence from now on, before “accidentally” helping anyone fight off demons, again.

“This got more complicated than it needed to be.” She finally looked up from her hands and scrutinized what she could observe of him under his cloak. Not that the coverage mattered anymore. He knew she saw him without it in a fight already. “I got carried away; upset, even... because how did you manage to scale up places like this better than I could? I used to make sport of evading the knights by scaling the walls and such before I managed into the Order myself. And now someone is going to beat me at my own game?” She huffed, adjusted her stance to be more relaxed, and raised a brow at him.

“...Get to the point, so that we can leave each other be.” He was not going to show amusement at her sense of competition. What was human competition going to matter for him?

The knight took a deep breath, palms pressed together and fingertips at her lips as she carefully thought about what she was going to say next: “You either need to leave the island soon before the day comes that the entire Order tries to force you out, or you be a little less mysterious and stop allowing all these restless rumors about you float around. So give me as simple of an answer as you wish, so long as it’s an answer. What are you here for?”

“Why would what the masses think about a stranger matter to you?”

“Personal history and boredom.” She immediately answered with deadpan seriousness. “And the answer for my question?”

He thought briefly before slowly responding: “Research.”

“Okay. Nothing you need to hurt anyone for, would you?”

“I’m not going to stand here and be interrogated.” He turned to leave.

“Humor me. I’ll tell you right now that the worst case scenario is me leaving you alone with no more questions and no more games of tag. But depending on your answers, I might be willing help you stop being the hottest gossip topic of the entire city.”

He hated having to weigh his options on what was clearly a bargaining attempt from a human being. But this island that might contain answers to his quest for power was proving inconvenient with how xenophobic they were. With the slow rate his research was going, it would be...more than just mildly inconvenient if the city became too restless at his presence.

“Very well. I’ll... humor you. And to answer your second question, it would be counterproductive to cause a scene by means of assault.” He wasn’t making promises, though.

Thankfully, she didn’t ask for one on that.

“Let’s get down from this balcony first, before someone spots us.”

—

“Demon Hunter?”

“When I need the money.”

“On the road a lot?”

“...I don’t plan to stay longer than I need to, if that answers your question.”

“Name?”

“At the moment, we will remain as strangers.”

A sigh.

“Okay. I’ll accept that. Last question. Need a place to stay?”

Pause.

—

“I have questions for you.”

“I admit it’s only fair.”

“Why the offer?”

“I have extra night patrols because of your presence. People don’t like things that go bump in the night, which, to many, includes strangers.”

...?

“Wouldn’t your problem be solved by reporting my presence as non-threatening? That would seem like an easier solution to me.”

“I know protocol. Protocol would demand suspicious foreigners that apparently sleep in unknown places of the city be brought in. Stop holding the rest of your cloak so close to you. That fancy getup you have underneath isn’t as much of a problem as you think. You’re too cagey, and that’s what’s making you stand out. Just keep the hood on and relax. If someone’s asks about that sword, I have working answers.”

“Hmm. Protocol, you say? Is this place to stay going to be a jail cell, then?”

Yet, at the moment, they stood in front of an apartment door, and she was inserting a key.

“You? In a jail cell? I watched you slay demons like they were made of paper. Not only would a jail cell not contain you, but I’d have to get you into one, first. You tell me if that’s going to happen.”

As she opened the door to her apartment, he graced her with a brief chuckle.

“No. But I have more to ask. What deal are you meaning to strike up from this? I’d be a fool to think you are offering me help without ulterior motive.”

“Motive? I love my home city but I don’t love its hostile attitude towards strangers. My father wasn’t from this place. Causes me some grief. But I know you don’t care about that and I don’t need to share.”

“...I don’t need your charity.”

“Not charity. Gratitude and mutual benefit. Here’s the deal: I have a lot of thoughts on how foreigners at least deserve respect. You respect me, and I respect you. Sound acceptable?”

“I understand you mean to say that if I slight you, then there is no deal.”

“...and the opposite holds true, smartass. I’m not trying to lord anything over you. But if you want to get your research thing done and leave the city on your own terms, you’re going to need to get as much of Fortuna’s distrust off your back as possible. I’m not asking you to sign a contract. Just mutual agreements.”

“That’s a lot of trouble just to get yourself out of night patrols.”

—

“Good morning. The couch wasn’t too terrible, was it?”

“I’ve slept in worst places.”

“...I should have surmised. You’ve been up reading for a while?”

“Not too long. I believe I’ll be heading out soon to continue my research.”

“All right. I’m sure you’ve seen where the main library is. Tell them you’re Seraphina Valkyrie’s guest, and if there are problems, they can contact me. My story is going to be plain and simple. You’re a friend from mainland whom I came in contact with while I tried to solve the mystery of where my late amnesiac father may have come from. No headway there, by the way. The rest is, as they should know, no one else’s business but mine. Breakfast?”

“Acceptable reasons, and breakfast would be agreeable.”

“Assistance in breakfast would also be agreeable.”

—

“Am I correct in assuming you wish to barter help from me in solving the mystery about your father in return?”

“I actually don’t care. Family’s been dead since I was twelve. That was long enough ago. I got over it.”

“My condolences.”

The topic wasn’t pursued that day. It wouldn’t have been a good dinner table conversation anyway.

—

Five days later, he’s found some leads both into research and into reconnaissance about the Order’s goals.

He’s also found that, by “rules of being a respectable guest,” he somehow allowed himself to be roped into certain chores. Namely with assistance in the kitchen.

She also allowed him the guest bedroom after the first night’s stay.

—

Day seven. He still refused to tell her his name. She took it upon herself to call him something, taking an idea from the re-bound leather cover of his prized possession: the book of William Blake’s poetry collection.

He never corrected her, and now she called him “V”.

[obscurehistoricalinterests]

P.J. Ransone on finding himself through Generation Kill

Twenty-seven is a strange age in the most Joseph Campbell sense of the number, especially for the male persuasion. It is the time when you realize you’re not 20 anymore, that whatever clever antics you may have done at a younger age now make you cringe. You’re also coming up hard on 30 and I think you start to evaluate the path that you’re on. Twenty-seven is the age when rock stars die and become legends, but to me it marked the death of my youth, when my past caught up with me and punched me in the head.

 I weighed 115 pounds, was about 30 grand in debt and had developed a pretty healthy heroin habit. I had a few accomplishments under my belt as far as my career was concerned: I had been in some successful movies and television shows, and a few almost-successful rock bands. I was “cool” (in my mind at least) to a handful of downtown Manhattan degenerates. Things got so out of control in my head, that at one point I remember being offended when my agency would send me scripts for roles as “the junkie.” Looking back, I was far from the person I wanted to be. I was quickly on my way to being a 30-year-old adolescent. Twenty-seven changed that.

I was involved in a five-year relationship with a wonderful woman who I loved very much. It had run its course. Or to put it more succinctly: she got fed up with my bullshit and finally decided to leave. Let’s face it — junkies don’t tend to make the best boyfriends.

This set off a chain of events that led me to sober up and step up to the table as far as being a man was concerned. There were a lot of things going on inside me that I hadn’t faced, or at the very least, refused to acknowledge for a long time. There were a lot of hard corners in me that needed to be softened. I had no idea what the results were going to be as far as taking some responsibility for my past, but the outcome has been pretty remarkable.

It’s funny what happens to you when you decide — or are forced to decide — to make positive changes for yourself, because in my experience it starts a nuclear chain reaction. Change is painful no matter what form it takes. I’ve learned that the only constant in this weird life is, in fact, change.  If I’m not going through it, something is wrong.

I feel like I evolved into the human being I had hoped to become while living in Africa working on a miniseries for HBO called Generation Kill, based on the book by the same name written by Evan Wright about his time embedded with a battalion of reconnaissance Marines during the initial six weeks of the invasion of Iraq. The book is basically an apolitical, true-life account of what it’s like to be on the ground as an enlisted serviceman in modern warfare. Ostensibly, it’s a road-trip story. Writers David Simon and Ed Burns adapted the screenplays with Wright, and I had worked with the pair previously on HBO’s The Wire. When I arrived in Namibia — where I was to live for seven months while filming the show — I had no idea what to expect. I had landed the part of Cpl. Ray Person, the sped-up Marine who drove the point Humvee in Iraq in March of 2003. The role itself was much bigger than I had anticipated. The amount of work cut out for me had yet to sink in.

The day I turned 28, I was participating in a simulated night mission that marked the end of a boot camp that all the actors were required to participate in before we began filming. It was kind of unreal how much had changed in a year.     Part of the catalyst for growth was the job itself, but much of the credit can go to the people with whom I got to share the experience. During this time, I became acquainted with two guys who changed my life.

Eric Kocher and Jeff Carizales are two Marines who fought together in OIF1 (Operation Iraqi Freedom). They had been brought to Africa to be military accuracy advisers during production, and their input was instrumental to the credibility of the show. Not only are they Marines, but they are two of the actual guys about whom Evan Wright wrote in his book. So here are these two dudes, reliving the drama of their lives, watching actors interpret their stories so that they are portrayed as accurately as possible. I think the word “trippy” comes to mind. I had no idea that I was going to end up loving these guys as much as I do.

Eric Kocher is imposing in the most terrifying sense. Imagine a shorter version of the Incredible Hulk with Tom Selleck’s face and a brain filled with an encyclopedic knowledge of military history and modern warfare tactics. By age 28, he had served in the Marine Corps for close to 10 years and done more than five combat tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. While on a combat mission in Iraq, his Humvee was hit by a rocket- propelled grenade that nearly blew his arm off. Another member of his team, who was in the back of the truck, lost both of his hands in this same attack. Later, he would tell me that he himself pulled out the pins that had been surgically implanted in his hands so that he could get back to combat sooner. When people ask about the insane scar on his right arm he usually tells them it’s from an old “skateboardin’ accident.” He is one of the funniest people I know. For as intense as his appearance is, he’s one of the most loyal and kind-hearted human beings I have ever met.

The other Marine I befriended was Jeff Carizales. He drove the same Humvee that Eric was in during the invasion in of Iraq. He is 100 percent Texan, through and through. He is the type of person who will insult you within seconds of making your acquaintance, only to test your resolve. It’s hard to sum up Jeff in anything short of an epic poem. When I first met him in a bar in Africa, I wanted to punch him in the face within about three minutes. He insulted my clothes, the city I lived in and my general way of life. We only started to bond after we opened up about the demise of both our long-term relationships and our mutual disdain for most actors. Certain anecdotes can paint a better picture. For example, while traveling in Europe recently, he would meet other international backpackers and tell these elaborate stories about what he does for a living. He liked to regale these people by telling them that he was a small-arms dealer training guerilla forces in northern Africa so they could overthrow their governments. The truth is, he is an engineering student at Texas A&M. When he flew home from Europe, he thought it would be funny to dress up in Chechnyan mujahedeen garb, thereby convincing airport security that he was a terrorist. Yes, this is the man I spent seven months with.

These guys introduced me to a side of life with which I had been unfamiliar. In some way, they reconnected me to myself. As a shit-bag junkie who lived in New York, I rarely came across servicemen unless they were sailors visiting the city during Fleet Week, in which case they were usually just in the way on my way to the bar. My father is a Vietnam vet, and my natural inclination towards people who would volunteer for that life could politely be described as “resistant.” I just never understood why someone would knowingly sign up for something that seemed so conformist, in my opinion. I was way off base in this assumption.

Let’s start first by saying that I don’t support this war or the reasons why we are over there. I am of the school of thought that we should clean up our own yard before we start to clean up someone else’s. Having said that, the people I have met who are in the armed forces are doing a uniquely un- American thing. It’s unique in the sense that we grew up in a country of excess, to the extent that in this post-industrial, post-sexual-revolution age in America, my generation gets to live off the fat of the land without developing a work ethic that generations before ours seemed to have had. In the age of short attention spans and reality television, Marines are a group of people that actually strive to go against that excess. As Wright points out in his book, “they have chosen asceticism and assimilation over the idea of being an individual” who can dream big and be the next American Idol winner. Out of this, it seems, comes maturity.

There is a school of thought that seems to imply that as Westerners, we have lost a certain amount of our identity because the rites of passage into adulthood are viewed as archaic. There is no tradition for sending boys out into the wild, not to return home until they came back men. To a large extent, the Marines seem to have experienced these rites, and for a short amount of time, I did as well. While living in Africa, Eric and Jeff forced me to grow up,to look at things differently.

We forged this bond by taking long road trips while filming the series. The production itself was grueling. We had six-day work weeks, but anytime that we would have more than 24 hours off, we would plan these insane adventures and take off on a whim with little more than half a tank of gas and a change of underwear. Most weekends we would drive 10 hours to Cape Town to blow off steam. On longer breaks we would look on a giant map of the continent, pick a spot and point our car towards it. We would have made Hemingway proud.

I can’t tell you how many times Eric and Jeff got me nearly killed, whether it was while we were breaking into Botswana, nearly drowning in the Zambezi river, or avoiding getting trampled by elephants. Our road trips got to be so infamous that the producers would send out memos specifically targeted at our little tribe, letting us know that we were an insurance risk. It’s generally considered a bad thing if one of your actors dies during production — from a business perspective, anyway. In fact, Eric and Jeff always wanted to know the location of the closest U.S. Embassy in case I did die so they could fly back to the states and not get sued by HBO.

During these trips, I really felt alive. My brother (who was with us on some of these adventures) pointed out that it was because these guys have truly lived. They have been around more death and destruction than I could possibly imagine or cope with, yet their vitality is undeniable. I don’t remember a time that my stomach didn’t hurt from laughing. I dealt with more insults and put-downs from them than anyone could imagine, but after a while I came to realize that they were forcing me to examine my shortcomings and actually do something about them. They have a fraternal bond that I envy. For a little while, I got to experience it. They treated me as a brother and tenderized me like a piece of steak, because, at the end of the day, they wanted me at my strongest.

Living in Africa with Eric and Jeff was the best experience of my life so far. The art that imitated life was imitated by life again on our road trips. The irony was that after a breakup forced me to re-examine myself, some of the most romantic moments I have had in my life were with these psycho jarheads — but not in a “gay” way.

It’s been a year since we started production on Generation Kill. I recently turned 29, and by the time this article comes out, the show will be airing. I talk to Jeff and Eric regularly. I miss them and that time in my life. Regardless of whether the show is popular or not, I am a stronger human being because of the experiences I had with them and what they taught me. I will have that for the rest of my life. This August, I plan on taking a motorcycle trip in Mexico with them. There is part of me that hopes not to return, knowing that it wouldn’t be any fun if those two weren’t trying to get me killed somehow every day we’re on the road. I think I can honestly say that while I do not support this war, I do support our troops.

- Source

[soyosauce]

On Using Culture As Language In Last Tango In Cyberspace

“THIS REVOLUTION IS FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES ONLY.”

Last Tango in Cyberspace makes culture a character to be explored in equal measure as the main character. Lion, an empathy-tracker, or em-tracker for short—uses his unique talent to consume curated content provided by clients and extrapolate a future; not at an individual level, mind you, rather as a glimpse at the cultural significance regarding the content in the future. It’s an amalgamation of genetic drifts which hardwires an em-trackers’ pattern recognition. Hacking their intuition to do a sort of cultural prognostication.

“A small robot standing on a busy city street corner, looking around. I SEE HUMANS BUT NO HUMANITY.”

Em-trackers methods vary with the person and there are very few known trackers, at least in so far as ones operating in the same capacity of Lion, doing this very niche work for a living. A very good living at that.

Lion, in particular, is rigged to make these deductions from words and logos, though it’s gestured that each tracker would be completely different. He processes the content he’s given, reacts, and tells the client if he sees a future or not. It’s usually a binary answer; a “yes” or a “no.”

“His journalism days are behind him. No longer does he get paid for the plot. Now, he’s paid for saying yes or no—the sum total of his contractual obligations. His work in the world reduced to one-word responses. When, he wonders, did his life get so small?”

Superficially, this book is about Lion being contracted by a major corporate entity to take a look at a crime scene and apply his talents… but this is a very unorthodox application of his gifts and one which ends up taking him down a rabbit hole. Ostensibly it’s a murder mystery wrapped up in noir trappings, something people might expect from cyberpunk. This is where the clear iterations from the sub-culture come into play, however. Within the tropes of a pleasurable whodunit, there’s much more to be consumed.

“You can’t scrub everything,” says Lorenzo. “Information gets what it wants, and it wants to be free.”

A specific trope that follows noir elements in cyberpunk, the investigator in over their head, is a unique vernacular used. There is typically a colloquial dialect that is foreign to the reader and makes them feel a fish out of water. The reader interprets what these cultural elements are in the future with the remix of certain words or the use of completely fictional words, from time to time. Interestingly, the dialect used in this novel is pop culture itself. Not in the very limited sense of Ready Player One, where games, gamers, and gaming is the language—but in landmark moments in cinema and literature that is reasonably absorbed into the general intellect of society. The most common being the novel Dune. Lion carries it with him all the time and is the cornerstone for the explanation of Lion’s gifts and poly-tribalism, a central component to the way Lion looks at culture in the story. People are intersectional beings with complex identities. Tracing the identity back to its origin is possible with technology these days. Appealing to particular facets of the identity can be a predictor for if something is to be successful and thrive or be consumed by another identity that dominates it.

'“Shifting culture requires a confluence of inciting incidents. Something directional that leads to a tribal fracturing and reknitting. Often shows up in language first. In music. Fashion. It can feel a little like hope.” He points at the images. “This doesn’t feel like hope.”

I think this approach both hinders and helps Last Tango in Cyberspace. For one, it’s an interesting use of the trope which proved satisfying to read for me, personally. I had never read Dune but it is explained as needed. I never felt lost. However, I could see some people who had read the book and disagree with the cultural impacts asserted in the text having a problem with most of the book, as it draws from it heavily at a personal level for Lion, as well as a fundamental shorthand for what is happening in the plot; ingrained in the theme and a permanent fixture.

“Words are just bits of information, but language is the full code. It’s wired into every stage of meaning-making, from basic emotions all the way up to abstract thought. Once you can speak a language, you can feel in that language. It’s automatic. It creates empathy.”

The frenetic pacing that accompanies cyberpunk literature is replaced with a sort of artificial acceleration with the structure of the book. Lots of very short chapters, in other words. This allows for expounding on the cultural aspects that are conveyed during the text. You notice what Lion notices. These details becoming foundational to the extrapolations he draws on later. What this means though, is the pacing is somewhat sacrificed in order to get the reader to do the same types of pattern recognition Lion does during the book. It’s clever, but a slow burn.

”Hybridization, he figures, is destined to become one of the ways this generation out-rebels the last generation. How we went from long-haired hippie freaks to pierced punk rockers to transsexual teenagers taking hormones.”

For me, the slower pace made it feel reminiscent of Takeshi Kovach in Altered Carbon. Envoys in that novel “soak up” culture in order to fit in and navigate foreign cultures. Lion’s talent feels like it takes that idea and explores it more thoroughly, engaging with it more, and this method allows you to soak up the information as well. If it were frenetic some of the details would be lost, I feel.

“Lion glances back at the pigeons. Sees a flicker he didn’t notice before. Remembers that the de-extinction program was a failed effort, realizes he’s looking at a light-vert. An AR projection of an almost. The bad dreams of a society disguised as a good time.”

A concept continually being reiterated in the novel is “living the questions.” Something that also subverts first wave cyberpunk, the characters of which are generally on the spectrum somewhere, unlikeable and/or anti-social, and live on the fringes of society in a sub-culture of some kind.

Lion, however, is an embodiment of empathy. He is in stark contrast to those protagonists, relating to most everyone and so can assume their point of view. To the extent, in fact, he resolves to not use his talents on other people.

“We ache for this feeling, but it’s everywhere. Booze, drugs, sex, sport, art, prayer, music, meditation, virtual reality. Kids, hyperventilating, spinning in circles, feel oneness. Why William James called it the basic lesson of expanded consciousness—just tweak a few knobs and levers in the brain and bam. So the drop, the comedown, it’s not that we miss oneness once it’s gone; it’s that we suddenly can’t feel what we actually know is there. Phantom limb syndrome for the soul.”

Last Tango in Cyberspace feels like a love letter to cyberpunk while updating it. In Neuromancer, for example, Gibson’s Rastafarians were a source of major critique. They are also featured in this novel but the author instead traces the cultural aspects and importance of Rastafarian influences on western mainstream culture. It felt as though it was making a point to correct the caricature found in the original source material. Whether or not it succeeds I leave up to someone who’s more educated on that and can speak to it—but the intent is clear.

“the failure of language.” “It’s a creative destruction. Out of that failure comes culture. Out of culture comes desire. Out of desire come products.”

This led me to the only thing I didn’t like about the novel and a personal pet peeve of mine: authors phonetically using foreign language in dialogue. It’s usually done as a form of cultural appreciation and authenticity, I’m sure… but it results in the author needing to clarify what is being said regardless and it just feels uncomfortable. It’s pretty much always from a Western perspective on a minority culture and usually is the default assumption of what the culture sounds like. Lion is able to converse with them for plausible reasons, often not the case when this is encountered, but it’s always left me feeling squeamish. Just tell me they have an accent, placing them in whatever area if that is relevant.

“…what is genuine emotion and what is business strategy. The modern condition.”

As Lion navigates the mystery and ping-pongs about the globe consuming the clues surrounding the mysterious death the reader, too, is engaging in this meta-language. Both in terms of how it subverts or remixes cyberpunk tropes, as well as the cultural context and information Lion imparts as his process. All of which is given weight. Hooking the plot into these details down the line as it comes together.

Most interestingly of all perhaps, the author goes out of their way to state that all of the technology exists in the world today, or is in a lab somewhere being worked on, at the very least.

“The car sees emotions. Signals have been pre-programmed, down to the basement level, below Ekman’s micro-expressions, getting to the core biophysical: heart rate variability, blood oxygen levels. And all from pointing a laser at a tiny vein in the human forehead. The car sees emotions, yet feels nothing. So morality too has to be pre-scripted into the code. Aim for garbage cans and not pedestrians; aim for solitary pedestrians rather than large groups. Empathy programmer, he’s heard it called, someone’s job now.”

This makes the future we are presented with prescient in the same way Neuromancer did with the advent of the Internet and the rise of technology in the ’90s. But where technophobia is firmly rooted in first wave cyberpunk. Last Tango in Cyberspace is making a virtue of humanities peculiarities, some of which we barely grasp. While the Internet is not something we may understand, so too are we learning the same of our own minds. Empathy, after all, is not something we gained from modernity.

“Rilke knew what was up. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will gradually, without noticing it, one distant day, live right into the answer. What’s truer than that?”

And empathy seems to be the thing we desperately need right now, rather than the consensual hallucination that allows us to connect to others while, at the same time, enabling us to dehumanize each other.

“Last tango in cyberspace…the end of something radically new. Copy that.”

“Pitch black again. Like someone extinguished an angel.”

[blinder-secrets]

So what should be done if the only real problem with the writing is lack of dramatic flare? I assume using different words to replace “boring” ones but idk.

This is actually a tricky one, because I don’t know whether my idea of dramatic flare would be the same as yours. Or if anyone’s is the same as anyone else’s. People could read the most detailed, imaginative story, and still come away thinking ‘god that was dull’. 

Honestly, my gut reaction to this is that, there doesn’t need to be any dramatic flare. A lot of my writing is quite plain in terms of language and set-up. I really love writing short stories where nothing really happens, and nothing is really out of the ordinary. Chekov made a hell of a literary impact from doing just that. So, honestly, you can just write your boring story about boring things, and if it’s crafted well enough, people will enjoy it. 

But, in terms of boring words, I don’t think there are any. If it feels boring, it’s probably just a case of it being the wrong word for the moment, or you’re simply thinking about it too much. In story telling, there will always have to be plain… boring, shit. Trying to make every word, and every description, jazzy or original will just end up back-firing. For example, if a character needs to cross a room, sometimes you do just have to write, “they walked across the room”. If you tried embellishing it, it’d just sound odd like, “they paraded across the enclosed space.” Actively trying to make boring things sound interesting, for the most part, will just draw too much attention to something that doesn’t need it. Which will just make your prose sound strange.

By letting boring things stay boring, it’ll make the more creative, flamboyant use of words much more effective.

It’s less about making use of fancy, unusual, words, and more about making sure you’re using them only when they need to be used - and that’s done by recognising the effect you want to generate. SO, if the character you’re describing is pretty plain, and you want people to think that, let the description be plain. i.e.

“The girl had brown hair to her elbows.”

It does the job, the reader knows exactly what to picture, and the story can continue. If she’s very prim and proper, you could put in some clues of that.

“The girl’s hair was long, curled and set in place with a gold-clip.” 

Neither of those examples were adventurous in their use of language, but both were written and constructed with the intention of creating a specific impression, which is where your flare will come in. The base of what’s being said is “the girl had hair” which obviously is a fucking waste of a sentence, and no-one would write that. Unless you were some sort of deconstructionist. So, from the get-go, your descriptions will always have a certain level of juicyness. You just gotta learn how to shape it. 

For some examples, let’s imagine you’ve got a character who’s just meeting a circus performer with huge stilts. There are a variety of ways you could approach it, to suggest various different things, and it all lies in a combination of structure and word choice. So:

“He was tall, though not naturally. Attached to his knees were stilts three times the length his original legs would’ve been. They were constructed of leather, wooden planks, and wire-sprung hinges. It was ingenious.” (suggests someone with a practical, perhaps scientific mind, who’s impressed by what they see.)

“He had stilts on, wooden and curving. I doubt they were made in this century so, when I passed him, I kept as far away as the ring would let me.” (A more cynical view - not overly fussed about the height of the man, or the stilts, more concerned by his own safety.)

“I looked up at the stilted-man; I couldn’t see his face past the leathered knee-straps and gnarled wood, but I assume he was smiling down at me.” (a more humourous - though dry - view, only including details that’ll help emphasise the positioning of the narrator and therefore the joke of it.)

“He was wearing stilts. Tall ones. Taller than the ones I’d had at my own show.” (bitter, short sentences and lack of details show he’s pissed off about it and reluctant to give them his attention.)

None of them are particularly dramatic; none of them stand out as ground-breaking literature. Some of them will be liked, and some of them wont. The important thing is that I’ve thought about what I want from the description, and then I’ve tried to craft it in a way that’ll reflect that. That’s how you keep your writing engaging. Don’t write anything just because it sounds good (with a few exceptions, cause we all love a bit of indulgent poetic imagery here and there). 

Overall, I wouldn’t try and focus on making sure your writing is special. It doesn’t need to stand out, or sound smart, or read like you personally created the oxford dictionary. It just needs to do what you want it to do. If you want to make your narrator sound like a dick, make sure you describe things like a dickhead would. If you’re story is set in a hyper-immersive fantasy world, make sure you include details on the way the creatures talk, or how the sky looks, or what the politics are like. If it’s an everyday exploration into the relationship of two characters, don’t stress over your words being simple, focus on what creates tension, what makes the room feel small, what makes it seem like they hate each other. 

It’s all about recognising which words add something, which words aid something, and then getting rid of the stuff that does nothing at all. If you’ve got that down, you won’t need to worry about making sure your piece has flare. It’ll naturally be engaging and immersive - have faith!

[lopithecusfanfiction]

A Life So Changed: Chapter Sixty-Two

Author: Lopithecus Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2875 Alternate: AO3, fanfiction.net Author's Note: I had fun writing this chapter. Ooh, I’m finally at the part of the story in which I can get excited to write for this fic again. Please enjoy!!

Bruce feels someone shaking him and he tries to open his eyes but the pain in his head, between his eyes, is too great. He reaches out blindly, the ringing in his ears deafening everything around him, and grips tightly onto the sleeve that is holding onto his shoulder. Bruce moves his mouth, tries to form words, but he can’t hear what he is saying and doesn’t know if he does anything more than groan in pain.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, seconds probably, but soon he hears a muffled cry, someone telling some one else to call 911. Bruce forms the words no and this time it gets out correctly. A hand comes to touch his hair, hold his head steady so he doesn’t knock it against the floor. “Bruce!” Clark’s voice finally breaks through the veil of the loud sound. “Bruce, we have to!”

“No,” he groans, the ringing starting to subside but the pain only intensifies. He feels his muscles tense, spasm, and then rest, the pain in his head radiating throughout his entire face. “Leslie.”

“What?” Clark asks, holding him steady.

“Bring me-” he trembles again, “to Leslie.”

“She’s all the way back in Gotham, Bruce! I’m not flying you all the way there when you’re like-” Bruce doesn’t let the Kryptonian finish his sentence.

“Damn it, Clark!” He squints open his eyes, peers up at Clark and then quickly closes his eyes again. The light hurts them. “Just do it!”

He hears ruffling, as if Clark is looking at his parents for guidance, before Bruce is gathered up in strong, warm arms. When Clark takes off, he feels weightless. He passes out again halfway there.

*~~~*

Bruce wakes in a dark room on top of a hospital bed. The place is run down, cracks going up the walls, and paint chipping in areas. He knows immediately he’s at Leslie’s practice in Crime Alley. He sits up slowly, the pain in his head completely gone. He looks over at the window, sees the slight shine of light, and determines it’s morning. He’s hooked up to an IV drip, fluids pumping into him. He has wires connecting to his stomach, travelling over to a monitor. Over in a corner, sitting in a chair with his head bowed and mouth open, is a sleeping Clark. Drool is dripping down his chin.

The door opens quietly and Leslie walks in. “You’re awake.”

Bruce nods, pressing a button to have the head of the bed move up, the hard mattress meeting his back softly. “I am.” He studies Leslie as the older woman walks up to him, clipboard in hand. She checks his fluid and vitals, one for him and one for Lara. She jots things down on the papers she had brought with her. As he observes this, he clears his throat. “What’s going on Lesie?”

Her lips thin and shoulders become tense. Leslie looks from him to the still sleeping Clark and then back to him, avoiding eye contact as she continues to write. “I’ll explain when Clark wakes up.”

“Leslie?” Leslie hesitates, probably hearing the concern in his voice. She finally looks up, through her eyelashes and glasses. “Is it serious?”

She blinks at him then gives him a small smile. Leslie reaches out, places a comforting hand on his knee. “We’ll talk more soon, Bruce. For now you rest.”

Leslie turns to leave and she makes it to the door before Bruce asks her something else, the worry building in his chest. “What did you give me for the pain?”

Leslie doesn’t turn back to answer, keeps her back to him. “Morphine.” Bruce’s heart spikes in alarm but before he can protest, Leslie continues. “Don’t worry, it shouldn’t hurt the baby if given the right amount.” She then walks out, leaving Bruce to stew in his anxiety.

Clark wakes up about twenty minutes later with a start, looking around wildly as if forgetting where he is, before his eyes land on Bruce. The Kryptonian is out of his seat in an instant and by Bruce’s side. “Bruce!” He takes Bruce’s hand, kisses the knuckles, and then leans forward to kiss Bruce’s forehead. “I was so worried. I didn’t know what to do. Ma and Pa have been texting me non-stop trying to get answers. They are really worried too, Bruce, believe it or not. I haven’t told the boys yet though, but Alfred knows. I don’t know if he told the boys. I’m not sure if he wants to worry them about it, especially if it turns out to be nothing. But what if it isn’t nothing, Bruce, what if it is-” Bruce holds up a hand to stop Clark from word vomiting any more.

He remembers the stricken look on Leslie’s face. “I’m sure everything will be fine.” Clark is frowning at him, worry lines between his eyes. “It was probably just some stupid migraine. I could feel it coming on all day.”

Clark is still frowning, leaning close, and still holding Bruce’s hand. He’s practically squishing it, bones protesting with ache. “I’m just glad you finally decided to let me bring you to Leslie.”

Bruce shrugs. “It seemed like the best thing at the time.” He rubs a hand down his face, groaning with exhaustion. “That’s the worst migraine I have ever had.”

Clark gives him a sympathetic smile, placing a hand on his bulging stomach. “Maybe Leslie will be able to give you something for them, something stronger than Tylenol but not bad for Lara.”

Bruce smiles back, placing his hand over Clark’s that is on his baby bump. “Maybe.”

Leslie chooses that moment to walk in, shutting the door behind her quietly. She sees Clark is awake, smiles at him, and then her eyes move to where Clark and Bruce’s hands are resting on Bruce’s stomach. She stops in her tracks, something flashing across her face, before going back to professional neutralism. She approaches the bed, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She pulls up a chair. “Clark, you should sit down as well.”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow but he does as told, pulling the chair he had fell asleep in over to the opposite side of the bed that Leslie is sitting on. “You look worried,” Clark says, sitting down and taking a hold of Bruce’s hand, this time more gently. “Is everything okay?”

“It was just a really bad migraine, right, Leslie?” Bruce asks her, squeezing Clark’s hand in worry.

Leslie isn’t looking at either of them, instead looking absently at  her clipboard. With a deep breath in, she finally looks up at the two. “I’m afraid not.” Bruce feels Clark’s hand tighten around his and Bruce’s chest fills with worry. “When Clark brought you here and I got you stabilized along with checking on the baby, I took some blood from you, Bruce.”

“You’ve already looked at my blood, Leslie,” Bruce begins. “You never called so I figured everything was okay.”

“It was… at the time.” She sighs again. “Your first sample of blood looked fine but I’ve been keeping an eye on it, Bruce, and I’ve been seeing some changes in it that are worrisome.”

“What do you mean?” Clark asks, leaning forward some.

Before Leslie could answer, Bruce asks, “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

Leslie shakes her head. “I didn’t want to unnecessarily worry you, first off, and secondly I wanted to keep studying it to be one-hundred percent certain of my conclusion. I was actually planning on calling you sometime this week to have you come in for me to draw more blood to confirm my suspicions.” She paused, waiting for someone to speak. When no one does, she continues. “Obviously I didn’t get around to calling you soon enough but either way, this new blood sample that I took last night does confirm my thesis.”

“And that is?” Bruce asks.

Leslie’s face turns somber again. “You and your baby are dying, Bruce.”

It’s like the whole world stops spinning and ice water is dumped on him. His heart simultaneously sinks to the bottom of his stomach and jumps to lodge itself in his throat. Time stops, he’s alone in the world, and the air is sucked out of the room. He blinks at Leslie, his brain coming to a confusing halt.

Leslie’s soft voice snaps him out of the shock and Bruce tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. Clark is very quiet. “From what I can tell, your body is trying to reject the baby.”

“Lara,” Clark whispers, sounding like he is in a daze. “Her name is Lara.”

Leslie nods then continues. “My hypothesis stems from the Kryptonian genes that she has. Your body is viewing those genes as defective and is trying to get rid of the baby because of those ‘defective’ genes. That’s why she is dying.” She sighs again and this time it sounds even more dejected. “As to why I think you are dying, Bruce,” Clark’s hand squeezes again, “is also because of those Kryptonian genes. You see, Lara’s Kryptonian gene side of her is fighting back against your body’s protest against her, trying to stay alive. Essentially, you two are killing each other.”

When Leslie stops talking, the room is plummeted into a deafening silence, both Clark and Bruce looking at Leslie with shock filled gazes. Clark is the first one to break it. “What can be done?”

Leslie shakes her head. “I’m afraid nothing unless Bruce wants to end the pregnancy.” Bruce’s heart spikes in anxiety. “Though I feel Bruce has a good probability of making it full term, there’s also a chance he won’t make it.” Clark’s hand slips from his and the Kryptonian rises from his seat, starting to pace. “If he does make it full term, then he will surely die during childbirth. Lara’s chances are a little higher for survival, after all, we all know how strong Kryptonian genes are when under yellow sun radiation, but she, too, has a chance of either being aborted by Bruce’s body, if his body is successful, or dying during or shortly after birth.” Leslie shakes her head in grief. “I’m sorry you two.”

Clark has stopped pacing and is now shaking his head, arms crossed close to his chest. Tears are teetering at the edges of his eyelids. “No. No, there has to be something we can do.”

“There’s not, Clark.” Leslie’s voice is gentle. Bruce stares at his lap. “The only solution I can find is that Bruce terminate the pregnancy. It’s not too late. He would take a pill that will essentially stop the baby’s heart and then a doctor will do the rest.” She turns to Bruce. “You can even be put under anesthesia if wanted.”

Clark is biting the bottom of his lip, breathing hard. “No.” He shakes his head again. “No this can’t be-” his words get choked off and Clark scrambles out of the room, tears streaming down his face. Still, Bruce says nothing.

Leslie heaves a sigh and turns her attention to Bruce. “Think of it this way. If you live, you can still have another baby with Clark. You can use a sperm bank. The baby won’t be Clark’s biologically, but you of all people should know that doesn’t make one not family.”

Bruce keeps staring at his lap, head bowed slightly. He doesn’t comment on Leslie’s proposal. Instead, he goes straight to the facts. “Statistics.” When Leslie doesn’t answer him, he looks up at her. “What are the percentages of survival, Leslie?”

“Bruce, you don’t want to know-” Bruce cuts her off.

“Tell me them. Now,” he says, making sure to be demanding and show how serious he is.

Leslie frowns at him. “I’ve estimated that the likelihood of you making it full term is eighty percent.” Some of Bruce’s worries lessen, feeling relieved that the percentage is so high. Maybe the others are too and Leslie is worrying for no reason. But she is still frowning and is no longer looking him in the eyes. His worry returns. “Lara’s rate of surviving childbirth is fifty percent.” Bruce’s heart sinks further. “Your rate of survival during childbirth is…” she hesitates, eyes flicking to his and then diverts again, “twenty-five percent. If that.” Bruce sits there in stunned silence. “Bruce,” Leslie starts carefully. “That is why I believe your best option is to terminate the pregnancy and use a human donor instead.”

Her words snap Bruce out of his shock and anger immediately builds in his chest. “I’m not getting rid of Lara, Leslie.”

“Bruce-”

“No!” He yells, not really meaning to raise his voice but his chest hurts with grief and rage. “No, I’m not doing that. I don’t care what the statistics say. Lara is going to survive. We are going to save her.”

She shrugs. “And what about you, Bruce?”

“To hell with me!” He flings the covers to the side and gets up out of the bed, ripping the IV out and the wires off. He locates his shoes by the wall and slips them on, having not been changed out of his clothes. He storms over to the door.

“Bruce, we really should talk about this,” Leslie tries, getting up from her chair.

Bruce turns around, glaring at her. “What’s there to talk about? My baby and I are dying, Leslie, and you’re telling me there is nothing, besides getting rid of her, that will change that even though getting rid of her with kill her too.”

Leslie’s face takes on a sympathetic look to it. “It’s the lesser of two evils, Bruce.”

“I don’t care.” Bruce shakes his head. “I could die a million times over it meant Lara living. I would gladly give my life for her.”

Leslie is watching him closely, staring and analyzing. She eventually nods acceptance, looking back down to her clipboard. “I’m going to prescribe you morphine you can take orally for the headaches. Only take them if the pain gets to be intolerable or other painkillers, like Tylenol, don’t help. Morphine is an opioid so it’s highly addictive, for you and your baby. Be careful when taking it.”

Bruce nods even though he has zero plans of taking such a thing. He won’t risk Lara’s life more than it already is in danger. “Thank you, Leslie.”

He turns to leave but is called back by Leslie. “Bruce.” He turns to her and she is closer now, looking up at him. She pulls him in close, hugging him around the shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Bruce.”

Bruce closes his eyes against her, wraps his arms around her waist, and allows the two tears to fall from his eyes. When he pulls back, he sniffles and wipes them away. “I better go find Clark. Thank you again, Leslie. I’ll keep in touch, promise.”

He leaves then with Leslie watching sorrowfully. He wanders down the rundown hallways, passing rooms with patients and stragglers walking down the hallway themselves, until he comes to the bathroom. Bruce closes his eyes, grounds himself and pushes the heavy weight off his chest for now. Lifting his hand as he opens his eyes, he knocks and waits for an answer. A sniffle comes from inside the bathroom so Bruce calls out. “Clark?”

It takes a few seconds for Bruce to hear the sound of the click the lock makes and then footsteps walking back to the opposite side of the bathroom. Bruce opens the door slowly, peers inside, and sees Clark sitting on the floor, legs curled up close to the alpha’s chest. Clark’s face is red and wet, eyes not doing any better. His nose is running and Clark is giving small hiccupping sounds. Bruce enters the room, shuts the door behind himself, and locks it again. He goes over to Clark and sits down quietly, waiting for Clark to talk first. He’s not really sure what to say.

The two sit like that for several minutes, none making a sound besides Clark’s muffled cries. They don’t touch each other, they don’t look at each other, they don’t do anything. Finally, however, Clark says very quietly, “It’s my fault.”

Bruce’s eyebrows furrow. “You’re fault?” He looks over to the Kryptonian who is looking back.

“I’m the Kryptonian. I’m the one who passed those genes to Lara. I’m the reason those genes are attacking your system.” Clark hiccups throughout his sentences, struggling to form the words. “I’m so sorry, Bruce.”

Bruce shakes his head and immediately pulls Clark in to his side, holding the man close to him. “It’s not your fault, Clark. It’s no one’s fault.” He pulls away and cups both of Clark’s cheeks, making the Kryptonian look at him. “No one could have known this was going to happen.”

“What are we going to do, Bruce?” Clark asks, eyes filling with tears once again. They stream down his cheeks steadily and the man can’t hold them back, sobbing. Bruce pulls him in again, allows Clark to bawl on his shoulder.

His own eyes fill with tears and he buries his face in Clark’s hair “I don’t know, Clark.” He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip to stop hiccupping. “I don’t know.”

A/N: Thanks for reading!!

[chaosbcrne]

      He put on a heavy coat for the occasion, and had to bring along an also inconveniently heavy backpack to get proper readings onsite in case the source wasn’t obvious. With that hindering his movements on top of having to work his way through increasing amounts of snow, it took a while to actually get there.

      He recognized it from a distance, coming in from the same woods as he had all that time ago, recognizing the damaged but high steel walls that used to serve as a defense. The lights were all out, though, and several feet of snow covered everything he could see from his spot just outside the perimeter of the base. There were no footprints beside his own, either. It looked effectively abandoned.

      His communicator beeped. “How’s it looking ?” It was Holly. “We’re starting to lose you on the radar.”

      “No heat signature,” he responded, checking the scan on the small device. “But then again, I doubt anyone out here would be radiating heat.” He’d put on finger-less gloves for this mission so he could still handle delicate electronics despite the numbness inflicted by the chill, but he’d found himself hiding his hands in his pockets as a reflex more often than not.

      “Pay attention,” Holly said, as if she was advising a beginner. “Listen closely.”

      “I can’t hear shit. The wind’s picking up again.” He checked the radio device tucked in one of the backpack pockets, but it was just static. If there was anything emitted from that base, he wouldn’t be picking it up out here. “I’m going in.”

      “Keep me posted.” Holly’s voice turned into static as well.

      He went in through the hole Omega had blown for an entrance a year ago, corroded metal and blasted wires still sticking out here and there. The first few things that came in sight were ravaged and swept over with snow and dirt. The station hadn’t been restored, that much was for sure. There was no way to tell if someone had made off with any equipment that might have been left out here after the seize, but there was definitely some of it left. Whether this catacomb of a base was still a target for greedy criminals was still up in the air. 

      He ventured on carefully, always listening for noise and checking around the corner before turning it. Eggman had submitted the place through the good old self-destruct treatment when it had been under attack, meaning the central portion of the building and its roof had been completely wiped out. It wasn’t very useful in terms of finding whatever tool may have given off that odd reading they’d picked up hours earlier, but it was practical in the sense that a good part of the indoors was littered with snow, making it easier to tell that no one had been around here recently.

      “There’s no one here,” he concluded into his watch, but he received nothing but static as a response. “Holly ?” Still no answer. Huh. They could hear one another just fine just outside these walls. Was the radio reception that bad in here ?

      After another swift look around, he deemed it safe to drop the bag and start setting up a bigger device to get better readings. Everything came out as a straight line. There was absolutely nothing coming in. He tried getting through to headquarters again to deliver the news, without success. The interceptor also stayed still. Wait, what ?

      That’s when it hit him. There was nothing coming in, but there was nothing going out, either. The device he’d set up wasn’t even picking up on his communicator’s waves, and he was standing right next to it. There was nothing natural about that. 

      He turned around to scan his surroundings again, suddenly hit by the unpleasant feeling that he was being watched. He disassembled the receptor quickly and headed back out, repetitively signaling for headquarters to come in until finally his calls made it out and he received a response.

      “Did you find something ?” It was Holly again. 

      “I found nothing. Literally. There’s something here that makes it so radio wavelengths can’t be read. I think someone installed some kind of device somewhere that emulates radio silence,” he explained, sending back to base the short null reading he’d recorded.

      “Couldn’t it be something the doctor set up himself that happens to still be working ?”

      “No, we could communicate just fine when we stormed that base last year. Whatever’s causing this was installed after that.”

      “Why would anyone do that ?”

      “To pillage this place while going under the radar. Either they’re shifty enough to not need radio communications at all, or they were crafty enough to design a special frequency they can read over the nulled one.”

      “You’re saying someone’s still frequenting that place ?”

      He was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t know. It doesn’t look like it, but I have trouble believing anyone would leave a handy item like that behind.”

      “...Alright, come back to headquarters, we’ll send a proper team to investigate-”

      “No,” he interrupted sternly, wanting to roll his eyes at her suggestion of dragging this out for even longer. “I’m gonna look for it now while I’m here. I can use both trackers to see where exactly communications get cut off and set up a perimeter. I’ll get a clear idea of where the source should be.”

      “That’ll take a while.”

      “Not as long as waiting for you to come out here.”

      “You’re gonna freeze to death out there.”

      “I can hope.”

      “That’s not funny.”

      “Not trying to be funny.”

      He got no answer after that, so he figured that was the closest thing to a ‘good luck’ as he’d get. He had his work cut out for him. It was a very slow process, taking one step forward, two steps back, sending signal after signal between his different communication devices to see where exactly the readings were blocked out and draw the line - literally. He had no actual equipment to set a perimeter, so he just traced a line in the snow, doing his best to make it obviously different from his more and more sluggish footsteps. And he had to keep up the pace. With the wind growing stronger every few minutes, his work could be all gone within an hour or two.

      That’s about how long it took, in the end, and he had to freshen up his drawing once he’d come full circle. It would have taken an aerial view to pinpoint the exact location of the source, but he could at least climb up one of the damaged walls to get an approximate idea.

      He was eager to go back inside by then. Even if it was just as cold, the walls provided shelter from the wind and the snow, to an extent - something he’d taken for granted on his first visit. He located what he was looking for rather quickly, thankfully. It was in the corner of an half-blasted room, just outside the circle of completely roof-less and decimated portion of the building. He wouldn’t have noticed it at first, but it was all too obvious now.

      It was built from the remnants of one of Eggman’s robots. It made sense, come to think of it; the doctor knew how to program his creations so they were unhackable through air waves alone. That particular function had just been re-purposed by a third party.

      A third party rather confident as to its success, apparently, as they hadn’t designed any complicated way to put it out of function. If Shadow had been worried he’d have to destroy the engine to get any kind of readings around here, he was quickly proven wrong when he deactivated it with the simple press of a button. Good, he thought, satisfied. This way he could take that back to headquarters too, after the fact.

      He set up the bigger receptor again, and it lit up like a Christmas tree this time. It was nothing he could decipher - probably the encrypted frequency whoever was behind this used to bypass their own technology - but it was something. He recorded it for several minutes, and remembered to plug in an extra memory chip to save a copy for a certain fox. 

      He used the breather to try and warm up a little bit, rubbing his hands together and hiding his nose and mouth into his overgrown chest fur now that he wasn’t active or on high alert. He paced around both electronics as he waited for an undetermined period of time, eventually starting to wonder for how long the radio-canceler device had been sitting here. Then he began taking notice of what else was in the room. Several large fans placarded to the few still-existent walls, all lacking the frosted texture covering everything else in the building. Like they’d been put in recently, or were maintained frequently. Like... someone was regularly trying to erase their footprints...

      The feeling of being watched returned to him at once, along with the realization that he had his back to one of the doorways of the room. He turned around just in time to see a flash of claws slashing at his face, barely missing his eye and scraping right beneath his nose and over his mouth instead. He jumped back in recoil, warm blood seeping out over his lips already, and took in the newcomer who seemed just as shocked to be facing him. 

      She was a snow leopard, and almost twice his height, as far as he could tell. She held some kind of oddly-shaped yellow weapon, but that was as far as his observation got. She pointed it at him, and he didn’t wait to figure out what it was to pivot around her and out of the way. It fired an electrified-looking rope, and he realized - it was a Wispon. The split second it took for her to pull the electric string back in was all he needed to slam into her with built-up momentum, making her lose her balance and fall over. He grabbed the Wispon and jumped back at a safe distance; despite the cold, he could definitely feel the sting those sharp claws had left.

      “This doesn’t belong to you,” he said, tossing the weapon out of both their reach.

      “They gave it to me, didn’t they ?” she replied maliciously as she got back up on her feet, and Shadow immediately decided he didn’t like the sound of that at all. 

      She was quick on her feet for someone her size, but still no match for him, even with his heavy leather coat on and mildly torpid limbs. He strafed around her quickly enough to keep her disoriented, and when she got fed up with watching him dance around and tried to lunge at him, he just dived and knocked her feet from underneath her. She toppled over again, and this time he didn’t wait to jump on top of her and pull her wrists into a pair of handcuffs. “You can thank Chaos I had these in my pockets,” he said, drawing a dark kind of amusement when she struggled to get back on her feet and failed because she couldn’t press her hands to the ground. “The Wispon cord would have been even less comfortable.”

      “Screw you,” she spat, and he could almost hear the roar underlying her voice.

      “You’re welcome,” he shrugged, retreating back to the corner where his devices were still recording readings. And he messaged back headquarters, requesting some assistance to take someone into custody. Holly sounded very alarmed, but his overly confident tone seemed to reassure her. He was good at doing those after completing an assignment.

      He waited for backup sitting next to his immobilized victim and casually toying with the one weapon he’d brought along - his favorite knife - so any of Stellar’s friends, as he eventually learned that was her name, wouldn’t get any ideas about attempting a bold rescue. If she had any associates at all, that is. She wasn’t too keen on talking, and he wasn’t too keen on pulling out his interrogation tactics. Not until proper G.U.N. specialists had had a go at her, anyway.

      He had enough on his mind, with the implication that she used to be a part of the Resistance. Had she gone rogue, and sided with the enemy ? Or was she simply using their technology for selfish, illegal endeavors ? Either way, he wasn’t fond of the idea that a bunch of morally compromised people were now roaming around the globe armed with Tails’ designs. 

      If nothing else, though, the thought reminded him to grab the second memory chip and hide it in his clothes before backup showed up and took hold of both his prisoner and his equipment.

      Holly herself was among the agents present, surprisingly enough. Also surprisingly, she seemed more concerned about the deep scratches on his muzzle and the frost covering his coat than the state of the mission. “I’m supposed to tell you to go back to base and file in your report,” she said after he gave her a proper explanation and she expressed her concerns. “But I’ll cover for you if you want to just go home and do that another day.”

      Shadow just blinked at her for a moment, deciding once and for all that she reminded him of Rouge, in some ways. Her outburst of gratitude - or at least, that’s what he assumed that was - was nearly enough to motivate him to just go file in that report and get it over with. Nearly. But it seemed bad form to refuse such a generous offer, especially now that he’d been out here for several hours and that half of his face was likely covered in frozen blood. He could use some warmth, and some rest.

      “You don’t have to tell me twice,” he agreed with a nod, and began diverting his course towards his little home of an apartment rather than sticking with the rest of the agents walking back to the vehicle that would be returning to headquarters. “Good luck with that,” he added without turning back.

      He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him, what with the strong winds that seemed to reduce by half how close people needed to be to stay within earshot. But he figured she had, because he could have sworn somewhere through the gusty whistling, he heard her say “Thank you.”

[spencerreed0-blog]

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