#high-stakes examination security

[townpostin]

Modi Govt Saved NTA Skin Before Supreme Court: Dr. Ajoy Kumar

Former MP Criticizes Verdict, Questions Government’s Stance on Paper Leak Responsibility In the wake of the Supreme Court’s decision not to order a re-examination of NEET UG 2024, concerns have been raised about the integrity of the testing process and the impact on aspiring medical students across India. JAMSHEDPUR – Dr. Ajoy Kumar, the former MP from Jamshedpur, has slammed the central…

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Elite Serial Killer (2)

Part 1

Like frightened deer you scatter

In your opinion, you get pretty far

At one point climbing up high to see where the lights of the small town were

You were making great time 

“(Y/n)! Down here!”

The sun was rising and while you were hesitant you did go to meet ‘Piggie’

She seems high-spirited for such a horrible situation

But she shares the berries she’s found that weren’t poisonous

And clues you in on some helpful camping knowledge

So you’re none the wiser when you feel a sharp pain in the back of your head 

 Waking bleary-eyed to the tight hold of a bloody rope around you 

The sun has long since set and all you can gather is that you're tied to a tree 

You hesitate to call for the girl only for somebody’s nails to dig into your scalp

It's her and she looks deranged covered in dirt and blood (it doesn’t look like it's hers)

Being sure to throw rocks and kick at you for emphasis she explains how she already knows the major twist of this hunt

They own the town 

No help would have been given if you had arrived there

Or even to the airport 

So she says she’s going to stand her ground to entrap them the second they come for the bait

And the bait just so happens to be you

When you ask her why it’s because she hates your pity

“At least when they kick me in the dirt they have the decency to know I belong there!”

She sounds demented 

But determined

So much so you’re sure if this was a movie she’d be the 'final girl'

But you’re here so that’s not happening

Hearing sticks snap and bushes shake you’re sure they’re on the way

So you shut your eyes in fear

Saying your final prayers as you feel the heat of another person stalking up to you

“How disappointing I expected you to get farther.”

It sounds like something he’d say before lobbing off your head

So you prepare for the oncoming blow 

Only to hear a shotgun fire off 

‘Piggie’ screams

So you look up to see Wille grinning madly in that direction before turning back to you 

He holds your face gently but firmly

Turning your head as he examines you 

“She really did a number on you.” 

He sighs snapping his fingers 

An unknown masked person cuts through the ropes 

Holding you on their back and securing the back of your knees

“Take them back to my room and patch them up I’ll gladly delight in my prize once I’ve finished.”

Wille takes off in a giddy sprint as he watches another masked servant drive off in a quad bike with you on the back

Now that the only real stake in this hunt is out he can really let loose

He’s been doing this for a long while

Enticing the masses at whatever new college or preparatory school he could 

Providing a plentiful harvest for his family 

And it’s great for a while but unfortunately, he just hasn’t found what’s missing 

His mother and father have each other and their pets respectively

His brother does as well

And then his sister…well she enjoys just hunting

But he was never like her

He took care of his appearance more, grew his hair long, and wasn’t pretending to be an apathetic prick

Though he could see how easy it was to become that way

He hates how forward people are when they want something from him or his family

He does admire the tenacity of the poor

But among the fellow rich? 

Absolutely unforgivable

He can only imagine the terrified faces he stalks being that of those hated elites

And of course, in the midst of a mission to harvest is when he becomes aware of you

It’s not really any one thing you do 

You just happen to exist close enough to his latest harvest grounds

It’s not your college but something of a rival school

And all it takes is one mutual and he’s whipped

Suddenly he’s decided that you're the perfect one for him

The prize  that’s greater than anything he could buy

To be Continued

[formulaphoe]

the brutality and unfairness of formula 1

image source: f1

formula 1 is often hailed as the pinnacle of motorsport—a glamorous world filled with speed, technology, and the elites of racing. yet beneath the polished surface lies a brutal reality that often leaves drivers and teams at the mercy of ruthless decisions and the cold calculus of performance. with the controversies surrounding recent driver sackings and the ever-looming shadow of financial disparity, it's high time to examine why many argue that f1 is not a fair sport.

ruthless reality

image source: williams racing

just recently, valtteri bottas made headlines by bluntly stating that formula 1 is "not a fair sport." this sentiment resonates deeply with fans and insiders alike, especially in light of the way teams handle their drivers. for instance, williams' mid-season decision to replace logan sargeant has raised eyebrows and sparked heated debates. was it a ruthless move? or was it justified based on performance? the circumstances around logan's sacking were especially harsh, underlining the pressure to deliver results in a sport that doesn't tolerate anything below excellence.

these decisions are just business, but they reflect a culture where loyalty and patience often take a backseat to immediate results and instant gratification. a planetf1 analysis of f1 driver sackings reveals a history of brutal firings that underscore the cutthroat nature of the sport. one moment a driver is a team's new big thing, and the next they can find themselves out of a job—often with little explanation and even less sympathy.

money talks

image source: planetf1

one of the most damning realities of formula 1 is the pervasive influence of money. while talent is certainly a necessity for success, it's increasingly clear that without financial backing, even the most skilled drivers can find their careers stymied. talent alone isn't enough—financial resources play a critical role in a driver's future on track.

the narrative is all too familiar: drivers from wealthy backgrounds secure seats, while those without such financial support are often left scrambling for alternatives. the talent pool is vast, but the pathways to success are often barricaded by financial constraints, leaving many deserving drivers in the dust.

pressure cooker environment

image source: f1

the intense pressure in f1 extends beyond just performance; it creates a hostile environment where mental health often takes a back seat. with every race being a high-stakes affair, the neverending pressure to perform can lead to a decline in mental health, resulting in public scrutiny and harsh critiques from fans and pundits alike.

this culture can be devastating, particularly for young drivers like sargeant, who may not yet have developed the thick skin required to withstand the scrutiny that comes with the job. in a sport where every mistake is magnified, the fear of failure looms large, creating a vicious cycle of anxiety and poor performance.

a system rigged against fair play

image source: valtteri bottas

as bottas pointed out, the very structure of f1 seems rigged. with teams prioritising sponsorship over pure driving skill, the sport can sometimes feel more like a corporate machine than a celebration of racing talent. the narrative that emerges is one where drivers are mere cogs in a vast, profit-driven engine—evaluated not just on their ability to race, but on their marketability and financial backing too.

this is a trend that not only alienates talented drivers, but also undermines the essence of competition. when financial clout trumps sheer talent, fans are left wondering if they are witnessing trye sporting excellence or merely a financial showcase.

a call for change

image source: reddit

the brutality and unfairness of formula 1 cannot be ignored. as we witness the rise and fall of drivers like logan sargeant and daniel ricciardo and hear the stark words of valtteri bottas, it's clear that something needs to change. the sport should be a true meritocracy, where talent is the primary determinant of success, rather than the size of a driver's bank account and mental health is valued and supported.

in a world that often glorifies the fast and the furious, it's time to take a step back and consider the humans behind the helmets. the brutal realities of f1 deserve a spotlight, not just for the sake of drivers like logan and daniel, but for the integrity of the sport as a whole. it's high time formula 1 balanced its fierce competitiveness with a sense of fairness, allowing true talent to shine without the heavy hand of financial disparity and mental turmoil looming overhead.

sources

woodhouse, jamie. "valtteri bottas delivers brutal f1 'not a fair sport' verdict after '10 per cent driver' claim." planetf1, 16 aug. 2024, www.planetf1.com/news/valterri-bottas-formula-1-not-a-fair-sport

beevi, zuhrah. "williams replacing logan sargeant mid-season: brutal or deserved?" medium, 28 aug. 2024, www.medium.com/formula-one-forever/williams-replacing-logan-sargeant-mid-season-brutal-or-deserved-b0bd57de94b9

mitchell-malm, scott. "the most damning part of william's ruthless f1 sacking." the race, 28 aug. 2024, www.the-race.com/formula-1/most-damning-part-williams-ruthless-sacking-logan-sargeant/

maher, thomas. "f1 driver sackings: the most brutal firings and bitter disputes in f1 history." planetf1, 17 july 2024, www.planetf1.com/features/brutal-f1-driver-sackings

"the cruel side of formula 1: talent not enough, without money there is no future on the track." scuderia fans, 8 sept. 2024, www.scuderiafans.com/the-cruel-side-of-formula-1-talent-not-enough-without-money-there-is-no-future-on-the-track/

if any errors or typos are noticed, PLS PLS point them out via comment, ask, or dm. if there is a specific topic you would like me to cover, send in an ask and i'll look into it!

[mariacallous]

As U.S. Vice President Kamala Harris was nearing the end of her meeting with German Chancellor Olaf Scholz at the Munich Security Conference in February, she requested all staff leave the room, aside from one aide each, according to a White House official and senior U.S. official familiar with the meeting. 

Amid high-stakes negotiations to secure the release of a number of U.S. citizens wrongfully detained in Russia, including Wall Street Journal reporter Evan Gershkovich and former Marine Paul Whelan, it had become clear that a Russian assassin imprisoned in Germany—Vadim Krasikov—was the key to unlocking a long-sought-after prisoner exchange with Moscow. 

Scholz had been reluctant to release Krasikov, who was convicted of murdering a Georgian citizen in broad daylight in Berlin’s Tiergarten Park and was serving a life sentence. 

Harris raised the matter with the German chancellor during the Munich meeting, echoing a request made by U.S. President Joe Biden earlier that month during Scholz’s visit to the White House.

“It was in the run of high-level engagements and a back-and-forth that the president and the chancellor were having that Vice President Harris was actually able to sit face to face with Chancellor Scholz and talk through the elements of this,” said U.S. National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan in a press briefing on Thursday.

While Thursday’s historic multi-country prisoner exchange, which saw the release of 16 people from Russian prisons, was the result of years of diplomatic efforts across the U.S. government and in collaboration with partners in Europe, Harris’s meetings in Munich helped to move negotiations forward, according to the two officials who spoke to Foreign Policy on condition of anonymity. 

“The VP certainly moved the ball forward in the meeting with Scholz,” said the White House official. 

Harris also tasked her staff with setting up a meeting with Slovenian Prime Minister Robert Golob at Munich upon learning that the country had detained two Russians on suspicion of espionage, which could possibly be used as part of a trade with Moscow. That made Harris the most senior U.S. official to engage with the Slovenian leader on the matter at the time. The two Russians were ultimately released by Slovenia as part of the trade on Thursday, alongside six others from Poland, Norway, Germany, and the United States.

News of the vice president’s role in the negotiations comes as her foreign-policy record is being closely examined as she emerges as the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee following Biden’s announcement last month that he had decided not to seek reelection. 

In remarks on Thursday, Harris said of the prisoner swap, “We never stopped fighting for their release. And today, in spite of all of their suffering, it gives me great comfort to know that their horrible ordeal is finally over.”

[strawberrysunsets]

The Empty World (Ch. 10)

Donald Pierce x fReader

Status: Ongoing

Summary: Pierce and the Reavers are sent to capture a mutant with mysterious abilities. This chapter: The mutant sets out on their first assignment for Transigen, amid mounting tension with the Reavers.

Warnings: Swearing, injuries, mention of cannon death, mention of cannon torture, mention of cannon suicide, manipulation.

Angst, slow burn, enemies to lovers

Author's Note: Hiiiii yes tis I another six months later lol hope you enjoy💓

It was late when you woke the next day. The alarm clock by your bed flashed red digits– 3:00pm – and you only had a moment to float in the thoughtless peace of waking before a knot of anxiety settled in your stomach.  

While last night’s encounter with Pierce was still fresh in your mind – a little thrill of revulsion dancing through you at the thought – it wasn’t the cause for your nerves. Nor was it the constant worry over whether Laura and the other mutants were safe. No; the adrenaline mounting in your system as you stumbled to the bathroom to brush your teeth was solely a result of the fact that after a week of waiting, and briefing, and training your injured shoulder back into shape, the day of your assignment had finally arrived. 

You washed your face, drying it with a hand towel before dressing in the uniform you’d laid out the day before. 

You hadn’t lasted long in high school before taking to the road, but you remembered the feeling of walking into a room to take a test you knew you weren’t prepared for. This was something like that. Except you were surrounded by literal enemies, here – not just the disapproving gazes of teachers – and the stakes of this test were life and death. If you failed this assignment, would Transigen even bother keeping to your deal? Or would they decide you were of more use to them chained to a table in a lab than out in the field?

…and if you succeeded? You’d tried not to think about it. But how many lives might suffer the consequences of Zenith Lab’s scientist falling into Transigen’s hands?

You found yourself gripping the edge of the table by your window, your knuckles turning white as you stared emptily out at the view before you. The empty lot, where last night, you'd confronted Pierce. You turned away, massaging your temples. It was an exercise in futility, trying to predict the possible outcomes of your actions. For now, only one thing was certain: as long as you worked for Transigen, Laura and the others were safe. Or as safe as you could make them. And they'd been through enough. You squeezed your eyes shut against the barrage of horrible images your mind threatened to dredge up from Gabriela's video. You had to focus. 

Your mission was simple. 

The target was Zenith Lab’s complex, a skyscraper in the downtown core of Mexico City with a security system designed specifically to keep intruders like Transigen’s agents out. So, for the Reavers to gain entry to the building, that security system had to be disabled. There was only one issue: the security hub lay on the high rise’s twenty-seventh floor, and no aircraft could deploy an air team to reach it without being detected by the lab’s scanners. Something smaller, though–say, a winged mutant–wouldn’t trip those sensors. There was a reason Clark, the security coordinator, had had you memorizing floor plans for a week. 

It would be up to you to take out the security mainframe, allowing the Reavers access to the building.  

Seeing as I’m carrying this whole damn plan on my shoulders, you thought, sifting through the equipment you’d acquired from the recon manager– you’d think this job would at least come with dental. But no; just the slim promise of freedom for Laura and the other mutants, and an even slimmer paycheck. 

You pulled on the bullet proof vest and slotted the taser into its holster at your hip–silently glad they’d only given you nonlethal means of disarming the guards–then examined the final item in your kit. It was an armpiece, meant to be worn like a cuff around your bicep. Upon turning it over, the only identifying information you could find were a barcode and manufacturer’s label, and you scrutinized it for a moment before putting it on. 

A tracker? To make sure you stayed on course? It seemed superfluous, since you weren’t going anywhere with Transigen’s threat looming over Laura and the others. And since Clark had said you’d be out of radio contact until you’d disabled the mainframe to avoid detection, it couldn’t be a transmitter of any sort. What, then? 

You mulled over the question as you made your way through the lab’s stark hallways, even as you mentally reviewed the stages of tonight’s plan. Fly to Zenith Labs. Break in through the roof door, which would be locked but unguarded, then take out whatever skeleton staff were on the nightshift at the security hub. Finally, meet Pierce and his Reavers as they executed the rest of the plan, and get the hell out of dodge. 

Simple, if not exactly easy. 

The rest of the late day passed in the same gray blur as all your days at Transigen, different only because of your mounting anxiety. 

Nightfall found you in the lobby as a Reaver named ‘Kills’ dispersed earpieces to Reavers who waited impatiently by the door or cracked jokes in groups along the walls. There were less than a dozen in total; all the same rough, macho-sadist types who seemed drawn to the Reaver corps like moths to a flame. You stood out amongst them like a sore thumb, even as you tried to make yourself invisible. It would've been hard enough to keep a low profile as the only non leather-wearing, gun-toting one among them, let alone the only woman, mutant, and goddamn avian. As it was, you tried to look as cold and disinterested as possible in order to repulse their attention. Pierce hadn’t yet appeared, and it was with a mixture of dread and anticipation that you thought of running into him tonight.

Finally the Reavers began moving towards the lab’s doors, and you followed them out, the night air quickly snapping everything into hyperfocus. 

It was a warm, humid night, and the sounds of the city felt alien to you after days in the quiet sterility of the lab. It felt like ages since you’d last walked a city’s streets, and been a part of that noise. Some part of you wondered if you ever would again. 

Three black trucks were parked in a line down the lab’s drive, and the Reavers were moving around them and climbing inside. Someone directed you towards one, and you climbed inside, pulling your wings in tight to avoid brushing the doors. 

There were five Reavers already inside the truck, and all glanced up as you entered, save the man typing away on a laptop. Their faces were cold and dispassionate, but beneath that mask, you recognized a plethora of emotions. Disgust. Hatred. Malicious interest. Once again, your instincts told you to run –that this was a tiger’s cage, and you were a fool for stepping into it. 

But these assholes aren’t hunting me anymore, you thought to yourself, forcefully. They already won. I’m here by choice.  

The truck’s door slid shut behind you, and you set your jaw. Go figures the actual mission would be the least of your problems tonight. These men seemed primed for a fight, and you could feel their sights quickly settling on you. 

“You can sit down here, doll,” a man with a thick bullet-proof vest and an abundance of side holsters said, grinning as he nodded to his lap. “C’mon over.”

You glared at him, and lowered yourself into the nearest empty seat. “I’d rather not catch whatever brain-eating disease you have,” you snapped back, “thanks.” 

“Damned if we gotta work with a fucking mutey,” one of the other men muttered, clicking his gun into its holster emphatically.  

“Hey, she’s on our side, now!” Another laughed. He had stubbled cheeks and a purple bandana tied around his neck. “Gonna help us take out her own kind, just like that albino traitor,” he taunted lazily. “Ain’t that right, girl?”

A hot flush of anger overtook you, along with a sudden sense of claustrophobia at the van’s tight quarters. They don’t get to fucking mention Caliban. For a moment there was a loud buzzing in your ears, and a tide of memories and pain threatened to overwhelm you. Then you shoved the thoughts of Caliban back behind their wall , and turned on the Reavers. 

“We’re not hunting mutants tonight, piss-brain,” you shot back at the man with the bandana. “Did you miss the briefing? I know reading comprehension is above your paygrade, but it’s a fucking scientist you’re after.” 

It felt good to see the man’s gaze darken. “Guess that depends if we find any,” he replied, lip curling in a humorless smile. “Who knows what they’re hiding up there?” He leaned towards you conspiratorially, revealing the line of tattoos that stretched down his neck below the bandana. “Me, I'm hope there’s a few mutts,” his smile grew colder, and his eyes raked over your face in search of a reaction. “It’d be nice to have a little target practice.” 

Heat prickled down your spine, and you didn’t break his gaze. You weren’t going to be baited by this asshole. 

One of the other men–the bald one–was smiling, too; the same lazy malice written on his face as he watched you. “It has been a while since we got some hunting in,” he agreed. “Heard those kids gave quite the chase. But I’m sure ol’ Wolvey took the cake.” 

Your skin flushed hotter before you could get a handle on yourself. 

“How many shots did he take before he went down?” The bald man continued, turning to the other quizzically as bandana-man pursed his lips in thought. “Fuck, gotta be two-dozen?” He smiled, turning his gaze back to you as he let out a low whistle. 

The tension in the truck was thick as tar, and finally even the man on the laptop looked up, glancing between you and the Reavers. 

The buzzing in your mind felt like it was growing louder, like a freight train overtaking you; and all at once, the hot, prickling sensation on your skin resolved itself into something familiar. Something like crackling energy, and an awful golden light lurking just beyond your fingertips. 

The blood drained from your face. 

“You know ‘bout that, feathers?” The first man was asking, leaning forward as if in earnest. “Naw, she wasn’t there,” the other Reaver replied. “Missed the whole thing! Gotta tell her about it.”

What would happen if your powers returned, here and now? If your Ether flared inside this truck?

You had no idea, but you doubted there’d be any survivors. 

And would that be so bad? Some dark part of you whispered, lulling you towards the crackling energy. To end this awful game, and go out with a fucking bang? To take some of these assholes with you? 

Some distant, reasonable part of you was shouting for your attention, but far nearer was the forgefire of everything you’d shoved behind a wall in your mind. It was rage, and fear, and months of unprocessed grief–and that dam wasn’t going to hold forever. 

Somewhere outside the truck, there were voices, and engines revving–but they seemed far away compared to the dark, taunting eyes of the men before you. One little slip, one burst of energy–and they’d be gone, and you’d be gone from this place. 

The stillness of the truck was shattered as the front passenger door swung open, and a familiar figure climbed inside, blond hair tousled from the wind. The man with the bandana leaned back in his seat, breaking eye contact, and the bald man smiled sardonically as he shifted away, too. 

“Boys,” Pierce greeted, his gaze roving over the Reavers before settling on you. “Playin’ nicely?” 

The heat was high in your cheeks, and the buzzing in your mind still grappled for your attention as you tried to regain control. Now’s not the time to lose it, you told yourself, trying to shove the energy back behind its wall. Not with so much on the line. You couldn’t be so selfish. 

You could feel Pierce’s gaze on you, and from the corner of your eye you saw when the man on the computer glanced up, briefly locking eyes with Pierce as they seemed to exchange some sort of information. Pierce sat back in his seat, sighed once through his nose, then swung back out of the truck. You barely registered it when he appeared at your side door, sliding it open and taking hold of your arm as he pulled you back out into the night. 

Too surprised to resist, you landed on the sidewalk, and he shoved the door shut behind you, suddenly cutting you off from the scene within. 

“What are you doing?” You asked dumbly, slowly returning to yourself as he shepherded you down the walkway. Pierce only snorted, directing you towards one of the other trucks. “C’mon, baby,” he drawled, opening its door and herding you inside. “We're gonna ride recon.” 

***

The inside of the recon truck was quiet as it rumbled through the city streets, lights and the occasional bright storefront flashing past outside. The radio played a late-night mexican station and the transceiver crackled with brief messages and replies from the convoy, while the man in the passenger seat watched what appeared to be a live feed from outside Zenith Labs. 

They were headed to a drop point, from which you’d get airborn and make your way to the building while the Reavers followed from the ground. 

Pierce was listening to the transceiver's chatter, judging by the tilt of his head, and idly adjusting one of the components of his mechanical arm as the driver wove the truck through the midnight streets. The Reaver Commander wore his usual fatigues, black t-shirt, and leather jacket; but now with the addition of a kevlar vest, and holsters on either side of his hips. He was ready for a fight; but then again, he always looked ready for a fight. 

Finally, Pierce sighed.  

“I spent plenty of time around soldiers,” he said conversationally, shifting back against the truck's netted wall. “After a while, you learn the look of someone who’s about to break.” He met your gaze briefly, knowingly, as he twisted the metal dial that was his forearm in a series of smooth clicks.

You looked away, trying not to think about what had happened with the Reavers in the other truck. How you’d almost lost control. So easily, so quickly–and still, how the energy behind your mind’s wall seemed agitated, like a pot of water on too high heat. 

“Seen it happen,” Pierce continued. “Watched ‘em puke up their guts, or run for home…usually at the first fight, or first kill. First time facing bad odds,” he smiled drily. “And I wouldn’t care a whit about you going haywire on us,” he sighed, “except I seen what you can do when you break.” 

That day on the overpass. A car wreck, and an explosion of swirling golden Ether. 

You winced, and you could feel your usual composure eluding you. You knew that bits of your feelings were getting through; the shame. The anger. Fear. There was no stopping them. You swallowed, taking a deep breath. The least you could do was try to settle your stomach. There was a chance you might lose control and vaporize someone tonight, but you were not going to puke. 

Pierce was unfazed, staring at you as he leaned back. “Thing is, baby-" His mouth curved in an unfeeling smile. “-there’s a whole lot of people riding on tonight’s little operation. So I'll thank you not to blow the whole thing sky-high before we even get started.” 

“I’m not going to jeopardize your precious little kidnapping mission,” you snapped back. “I’m not going to break.” 

There was a beat of silence, and you returned your gaze to the window as you ignored the hollowness of your own words. 

In truth, you were relieved beyond measure that he’d pulled you away from the Reavers in that moment. You didn’t know what might have happened if you’d stayed, and didn’t want to consider it. Stupid, perceptive bastard. As it was, you still felt like your control was balancing on a knife’s edge–and the mission which that afternoon had felt impossible now felt like a death sentence. If you wanted to get through this, you couldn’t delve into your feelings. You had to do –not think. Not feel. 

“I’m not going to break,” you breathed, repeating it more to yourself than anyone else. Pierce sighed through his nose, not bothering to argue the point, then leaned forward and tugged at one of the straps of your vest, unfastening it.

“Hey–” you jerked away in surprise. His lips twitched, and he rolled his eyes. “Let me help you, sugar. You done it up all wrong.” 

Your breathing grew shallow as he leaned forward, his hands working deftly to pull the strap from its loop.

This close, his stature was even more intimidating than usual; your entire world taken up by his tall frame and thick arms. As if sensing your thoughts, Pierce smirked. His face was shadowed in the darkened car, but you could feel it. Asshole. 

"Easy, baby. Can't have your gear on wrong, now, can we?" 

His arms encircled you as he crossed the straps behind your back, and for a moment the warmth of his biceps pressed into your shoulders, and you could smell the musky, cheap scent of his aftershave. You turned your eyes skyward, ignoring the proximity of his neck and jaw, and tried to keep your thoughts from straying inevitably towards last night. Futilely. Your cheeks reddened. 

Then he was before you once more, fastening the straps tightly; his face shadowed, though the flash of the streetlamps illuminated the skull and crossbones inked across his neck. You made a mental note to mention to him how tacky the tattoo was, as soon as you'd regained your focus. Right now, you were too distracted; torn somewhere between the vile, magnetic pull of him, and the unnervingness of his physicality. Even without his robotic arm, he was frighteningly strong-and exactly the wrong kind of person to wield that power.

Still, his proximity calmed a small part of you by some infinitesimal amount. For even after witnessing your near loss of control, Donald Pierce didn’t seem scared of you. And in some way, that helped you feel less scared of yourself. Even if his character tended to counteract that effect. 

He finished with the vest, and you took a breath, nerves zinging as he leaned away. 

“There you go, sweetheart. All good,” he said, half mocking.

You thought his assessment over, but then his gaze fell to your arm. You’d almost forgotten the armband, but Pierce reached forward to grip your bicep, turning it into his view. His hands were firm; clinical in their assessment, but still the smirk remained. 

“No one told you how to put the damn thing on?” He asked, fiddling with something on the armband so that it clicked more firmly into place. 

“I didn’t exactly get workplace training,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady and unbothered by your racing heart.

The truck was beginning to slow, finally, and you examined the sharp lines of his face in the halflight. “What is that thing, anyway?”

Pierce sat back, finally widening the space between you as he took his radio from the wall, slotting it into his belt. 

“Technical,” he replied. “Keeps your gear from emitting frequencies scanners might pick up while you’re on the way in.” 

You processed this information, idly straightening your shirt as the van rolled to a stop. Sometimes it was easy to forget that beyond the gun-obsessed, vaping, muscle-shirt wearing exterior, Pierce was smart. You'd worked as a mechanic, and were a dab hand at fixing basic wiring and the like-but Pierce was on another level. He'd designed his own mechanical arm out of advanced robotics, along with the enhancements on other Reavers-and seemed to have a disturbingly good understanding of things like energy signatures and transmissions. Power, in the worst possible hands. 

You heard other engines cutting off outside, and Pierce leaned forwards, pulling open the truck's side door as the night wind rushed in. You climbed unsteadily out, wings flaring for balance as you found your footing on the rocky ground. 

The place where the trucks had stopped appeared to be a dusty, dead-end road, slightly elevated from the rest of the city by a small hill. It was bordered on one side by a chainlink fence, and on the other by a grassy expanse which led down towards the roofs of some houses. 

“Now, you do what you gotta do to hold up your end of the bargain tonight, sugar,” Pierce said, swinging out of the truck after you. “No room for anything else. We’re gonna be right behind you.” He grinned. “In spirit, if not in the flesh.” 

The truck stopped across from you was the one from before, and as you watched, the Reavers from within climbed out to lean against the doors or hang from the windows. Purple bandana leaned against its side, while the bald man watched from the open door. His gaze was gloating, but you ignored it. Still, you couldn't shake the feeling that they were all watching you-sizing you up; as if waiting for something.

Pierce leaned against the recon truck, his tall frame impossible to ignore at your back; and you realized what they were all waiting for. 

You. Of course they were going to watch you take off; for you were a freak, and they had front row seats to the show.

A pang of anxiety shot through you at the thought. You'd always known how much the Reavers hated you; hated all mutants-but it was a different beast to feel it. This was truly what you were to them. An aberration; some strange, depraved mistake that nature made, and on which they had the chance to profit. You didn't feel confidant under their scrutiny, but you sure as hell weren't going to show them how much it rattled you.

Might as well make it worth their while, you thought, jaw clenching. You took a few anticipatory breaths, and bounced on the balls of your feet as you worked up your courage.

Just do. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Take the damn sociopath's advice, and do what you have to do to get through the night. 

“Catch you on the other side,” Pierce grinned, wolflike in the darkness. 

Without waiting to reply, you took a running start towards the grassy slope. The air was cool on your hot cheeks as you sprinted, leaving all thought behind. The chainlink fence and red roofs of the houses at the bottom of the slope grew nearer, and then your feet left the ground, and the sudden sensation of weightlessness hit you like a wall as your wings fanned out on either side. 

They’d chosen a good take-off point. The natural updraft of the hill caught you almost immediately, carrying you effortlessly up and away from the shrinking roofs. 

Your newly-healed muscles ached at the exertion, but the ache was dull, dampened by the sudden thrill of flight. It felt like leaving it all behind; like escaping the tethers of your mind, and throwing fear to the wind. 

How long had it been, since you really flew ? But you couldn’t think about that now; only the task ahead. 

Far below, truck doors slammed as Reavers climbed back inside and the black vans pulled away from the drop point. And high above, you wheeled towards the city; focus honed to a single point of intent as you worked to pick out the dark shape of one specific skyscraper among the rest.

Taglist:

@humongousgalaxycoffee @drowningnikki @mischiefmanaged71 @lostcause514 @capvengrs @forever-nerd @pancakesandlolliepops @kingredking @gremlinfuck @marvel-at-my-obsession @padawansubscription @rebeccaofrivia @toobsock @darkengene

[woodsfae]

B5 S03e15 Interludes and Examinations  previous episode - table of contents 

I don't think we've heard from Ivanova's personal diary before....it's totally possible that I'm forgetting one, but still! Exciting! Hearing a personal entry isn't common on B5 iirc. I will never turn down a peek into Susan Ivanova's head. 

And it's factual, bad news. The shadows have been attacking openly for ten days, randomly, all over the place. And there's an older guy looking suspicious on B5! The younger guy he's talking to I thought was Morden The Asshole at first, but that was just my moderate faceblindness tricking me, I think. 

Ooooo I am excited for the return of Adira! I'm tired, very very tired, of sad genocide Londo. Let's get some character arc in here, and I liked Adira. 

Wait no it is Mordan! Ah! That asshole! 

There's a new alien species reaching out for aid that Sheridan isn't giving much inspiration or help to. Well, I typed too soon: he has contacts and negotiations in his toolkit of resources. 

"I'm not questioning you, I'm saying you're flat wrong!"

is a great line. 

Dr Franklin is definitely still on the sims, but Garibaldi should have been yelled at. The security chief has no place tyring to talk to the emergency room doctors trying to save a patient's life. Get out of there Michael Garibaldi. No room for cops in the operating room, scoot. 

Morden: make your government start more wars or else Londo: I have stared death in the face and said "meh"

Elsewhere...

Garibaldi: I think you should do less legal speed and sleep more. Dr Franklin: I'm going to do more legal speed and sleep less, actually. 

Delenn and Sheridan's interaction made me laugh. And perhaps it foretells of the return of Kosh to the main storyline? 

This Garibaldi/Sheridan foreplay is getting intense. Garibaldi is staging a full-on intervention on the legal level. The hamfisted AA commerical is a little dull for me but could be way more annoying, as far as a storyline goes. 

Morden the asshole is continuing to be an asshole, charming the caterer slash personal shopped Vir was meeting with on Londo's behalf. 

lmao dr franklin. staring into the cold abyss of realizing you really really like coke. 

So Sheridan slash humans see an angelic, glowing figure when they see Kosh. Which doesn't explain why the original doctor from the pilot movie was so affected by a glimpse. Me, I'd be more "huh, glowing kinda looks like an angel...the universe is weird. Stitch him up!"

"You said you wanted to teach me to fight legends? Well you're a legend too." 

LEGENDARY. So legendary that's Sheridan's going to have to fight himself. 

"You do not understand. But you will."

Yeah I wouldn't like to hear that after making a bargain with an inexplicable and incomprehensible higher being. 

I'm too high to follow this space battle at all so it's great to hear Ivanova report that the Vorlons engaged the Shadows and were winning. 

o.O they brought back Adira just long enough to have her killed before she arrived! Morden, you asshole. 

Well, Lord whatshisface of Centaur who Londo half-poisoned. But Morden, ultimately, I'm sure. 

Bye Adira, sorry you got fridged. 

Sheridan's bargain with Kosh paid off, and now he will be alone and without Kosh's help when he goes to die on Z'ha'dum. 

Which is almost as ominous as Sheridan's dream vision. Seeing Kosh, Shadows appearing and disappearing, and then his father-bit-actually-Kosh apologizing for not believing him and ...dying? Seems like if Kosh could see this coming, then he could also arrange for some like, shielding, or some other Vorlon tech for protection. But it is about time for the stakes to be raised and the mentor figure to be killed off in this hero's quest, I suppose! 

The Vorlons think it's a bad idea to announce that Kosh slash a Vorlon? has died. So they're going to send a new Vorlon to replace him?? new character alert! I look forward to meeting Kosh-notKosh-Kosh. 

Londo still buying Morden's shit! Londo's revenge arc is, I glumly foresee, going to include more war crimes, and continue to be sad.  

Hmmm. I didn't expect Dr Franklin to resign! I'll be interested in finding out what he gets up to while he tries to do less speed. 

But not in the next!

[rahilask]

Casino Big Wins: Triumphs and Tales of Fortunes Won

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Knowing When to Stop: Setting Limits While the allure of big wins can be irresistible, responsible gambling entails knowing when to step away from the table. We'll discuss the importance of setting limits, recognizing signs of problem gambling, and seeking help when needed.

Seeking Support: Resources for Problem Gambling For those struggling with compulsive gambling behaviors, support is available. We'll provide a comprehensive list of resources, including helplines, support groups, and counseling services, to assist individuals in overcoming gambling addiction and reclaiming control of their lives.

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Technological Advancements and Their Impact As technology continues to advance, the landscape of casino gaming is undergoing rapid transformation. We'll explore emerging trends such as virtual reality casinos, blockchain-powered gaming platforms, and AI-driven predictive analytics, offering a glimpse into the future of Casino Big Wins.

Evolving Trends: What's Next in Casino Big Wins? From the rise of skill-based gaming to the integration of cryptocurrency payments, the casino industry is evolving to meet the changing preferences of players. We'll forecast upcoming trends and innovations that are poised to shape the future of Casino Big Wins.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Casino Big Wins embody the essence of excitement, anticipation, and triumph that define the allure of casino gaming. Whether through strategic gameplay, sheer luck, or sheer determination, these monumental moments capture the imagination and inspire players worldwide. As we navigate the ever-changing landscape of the casino industry, one thing remains certain: the thrill of chasing that elusive big win will continue to captivate hearts and minds for generations to come.

[13atoms]

Blackberry Rum (Count Orlo x F!Reader)

Summary: After impersonating her father to continue running her beloved home region, a young woman finds herself with court summons, and on the wrong side of the most influential bureaucrat in Empress Catherine's new Russia.

Contains: Falling fast, politics talk, and a meddling, pregnant Catherine. Sort-of enemies to lovers, mainly Netflix Christmas Rom-Com level cheese. 

Tw: alcohol and food mentions | AO3 Link | Word Count: 10.7k

🖂 🖂 🖂 🖂 🖂 

You awoke with a groan, staring out at the sun as it fought weakly past the heavy drapes of your palace room.

Despite sleeping in a proper bed for the first time in several days, your spine felt no better, protesting at any movement after so long spent in a carriage. Your home in Dryansk felt very far away. It was one of the most impressive houses in your region, and paled in comparison to a simple bedroom here in St Petersburg.

It was cosier than the palace. Warmer, too. Quieter.

The palace was a place you had heard about your whole life, firstly as a place of great progress and knowledge, and lately as the seat of the greatest parties and anarchy seen in all of Russia. You had never had the pleasure of meeting Peter the Great, and it had been your intention to avoid any interaction with his son. The new Empress was an unknown force all together – young and German, supposedly volatile and emotional. Though you supposed that was how most great ladies were described by their adversaries.

And Catherine had plenty of those. They were usually squirrelled away, occupying manor house and villages across your small region, gossiping in unheard discussions over private dinner tables. You paid it very little mind – all that changed was the finances provided to the regions. Your own included.

Unfortunately, one especially stingy bureaucrat had forced your hand, driving you to the palace to negotiate in person. His latest correspondence had regrettably lodged itself permanently into your memory, recited even as you rolled from the oversized bed to the breakfast table. These were your quarters, but they were unfamiliar to you. You had never had any reason to visit them, until now.

The food was good. You scowled as you watched mist rising over the sea of pine forest surrounding you. A beautiful sight, which reminded you how far from home you truly were.

Catching sight of the paperwork littering the table, you recalled your summons.

I am rather concerned that this sum of money is so excessive, and wonder if it is intended for the supply of education at all. I will be conducting an audit of all funding requests to the region, in addition to examining the taxes returned. Following this, I would advise you travel to the Palace in person to review the outcomes.

As I understand it, it has been several years since your presence, and in that time you have missed the coronation of two leaders of Russia. I am sure you would like to meet the Empress, and she would be interested to understand what is happening in Dryansk.

Yours Sincerely,

Count Vassily Abramovich Orlo

In capacity as Royal Treasurer and Advisory for Her Royal Highness Empress Catherine of Russia

It was a stupid title. Men like him always had them. You could hear your tutor now, scoffing as he read the letter for the first time: “Something about them has to be long.”  

You sighed. Looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. Begrudgingly admitted that the jam on your toast was the best you had ever had.

Pushed down the growing sense of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Ten o’clock.

You had been told on arrival that was the time you were due to meet with the Empress’ treasurer. Regrettably, the treasurer also seemed to be her right-hand man, making your plans to appeal to her better nature seem rather inadequate.

If they were as close the conspiratorial messenger had implied then showing your hand, and admitting you were extracting additional money from the treasury to educate girls and the poor, would only secure your head on a stake.

You had forty-five minutes.

Half of the remaining time was spent bathing and dressing, quickened by the aid of mute serfs, who offered you nothing but nods and quiet smiles if you addressed them directly. It was a far cry from the cheek and banter of those back home.

It was a veritable stack of books which you gathered for your meeting with the treasurer. Historical accounts, written records of achievements of your region, and folders containing all correspondence for the last two decades with the palace. It was all ordered, and noted. Your private notebook contained a list of arguments for the funding, written in the carriage in fear that your mind might go blank at the confrontation.

Arguing and standing your own ground was not a skill developed in the quiet offices and libraries of your home.

You had left enough time to become lost in the twisting corridors, eventually relenting and asking a guard for direction as your arms began to ache from the paperwork. Some passing gave you strange looks, though you supposed it could as easily be a consequence of your unfamiliarity or your clothes, as of the documents you were carrying.

Finally, a deep breath, and knock on the door, and a sinking feeling stuck you. After a fortnight of worry, suddenly everything was happening rather quickly.

The bureaucrat hardly looked up from his writing as you were escorted in, leaving you to cross the room in silence before he laid his pen down, and looked up at you.

“I confess, I was anticipating your father,” he drawled.

You concealed a scowl. He did not extend a hand to shake yours, nor did he stand. It was a rudeness you were scarcely prepared for.

His desk was elevated above your seat just slightly, enough that what he was writing was concealed unless you craned your neck to its fullest. From the sharpness of his stare, you imagined it was an intentional decision. He was not an intimidating man in himself, so perhaps he felt these tricks helped.

You had to confess to feeling intimidated, as if being told off by an unimpressed tutor after failing to complete homework.

The books sad heavily in your lap, forcing you backwards, and the guard who had guided you in quickly fetched a side table. It was a considerate gesture, one you thanked him for, and received a small smile in return. Once the paperwork was moved aside, you looked back up at the Count. The ghost of a smile left on your face was quickly wiped away at his dour expression.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

He sighed, barely concealing his frustration.

“Your father.”

“Oh! He sends his apologies, it was in his return letter, I believe. He is indisposed. I have been sent in lieu.”

His chin rested on his intertwined hands, head tilted up ever so lightly. You found the gesture pretentious. With heavy exhale, he closed the notes in front of him, letting the cover make a sound as it fell.

“And who are you?”

“His daughter. Oldest daughter. I act as a secretary. I believe we have exchanged some letters, on his behalf.”

Orlo raised an eyebrow.

“And on the Empresses’ behalf, for you, I imagine. Perhaps it would be easier if everyone wrote to one another directly!”

Your nervous laughter failed before it left your mouth. His head tilted slightly in thought as he fixed you with a stare, as if he was considering whether you were worth speaking to at all.

“The Empress is a rather busy running Russia, and I have been in this role for over a decade. Under three rulers,” he responded bluntly.

“Of course, sorry.”

“I wonder what your father’s excuse is for failing to respond to court summons.”

Looking towards your knees, you were horrified as you realised you were fighting back the heat of tears. Your voice was thick as you spoke.

“I can only apologise, sir,” his silence made you continue, hoping that with enough words he might begin to believe you, “I know only that he sent me in his stead. In truth, I fear he is more ill than he lets on.”

“Indeed.”

The room remained quiet for a moment, as you tried to calm your racing heart. Your palms were sweaty, and you tried to be subtle as you wiped them on your skirts, praying your nervousness would not further undermine you in the diplomat’s eyes.

“Shall we begin?”

You nodded mutely, reaching for the folder of correspondence if only to have something to do with your hands.

“You are here, on your father’s behalf,” his eyes flicked to you again, “in order to justify the financial requests you have made of the Palace. These requests have increased gradually across the last decade, to be far in excess of the requests made by similarly sized regions. In your last correspondence, you requested a ten-percent increase in financial support to ‘build schools’.”

He was reading from his notes as he spoke, sincere and far more serious than you had feared. This was not the light-hearted, cash-splashing government that your father had interacted with.

You gulped. He was clearly done, staring at you and waiting for your response.

Your voice shook, and you chose to stare at your own notebook to avoid the deep brown of his stare.

"The region suffers disproportionately to others, due to a lack of natural resources, meaning many do not earn enough to feed their families. Much of the land is unfarmable, and transport is made difficult by steep hills and valleys. I have looked at increasing the output of the region by building more roads, and in turn creating more jobs – ”

“You have?” The Count interrupted, and you struggled to get the words out in response.

“My family, sir, apologies,” You looked up briefly, checking he was content with your answer before continuing. He offered a small nod.

“We have begun construction of more roads, but the mining of materials is hard in the colder weather, and the workers must return home during the coldest months.”

You floundered, checking your notes for the points you had sought to make. You knew those notes would be a good idea.

“In building more schools, the Dryansk region can educate more of our young people, enabling them to compete with the likes of other great countries in Europe to earn with their minds. More doctors and educated folks will be a great asset to Russia, and – and, overcome the geographical limitations of our small region.”

He had raised his eyebrows, halfway through your small speech, making fear blossom in your chest that he doubted you.

“Did your father write that?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“What you just said. Did your father write it?”

“The ideas, of course, um,” you turned your notebook to show him, as if your father’s writing would be there, sure he could not read from such a distance.

“Well argued. Incorrect, though.”

Your heart sank.

“Incorrect?” You baulked at the suggestion, before quickly closing your mouth, adding a reluctant (and quieter) address. “Sir?”

“The principles make sense. In fact, I would encourage such activity, however the funding you have requested is not proportional to the changes you’re trying to make.”

You reached for your financial records, sliding the book from the pile beside you, but the Count kept speaking.

“It is the responsibility of the head of the province to provide public education, should they deem it to be an appropriate use of funds. The palace does not usually provide direct funding for such a thing, though exceptions have been made in the past. The money you are requesting is far in excess of what you need.”

“We have run the numbers, sir, and it seems that what I have requested is the minimum amount which will be required.”

You stood your ground, fear growing in your chest. If he questioned it again, perhaps you would abandon the whole stupid idea.

“There are fewer young men in your region than most. The war saw to that.”

You nodded, treading carefully as you spoke.

“The Emperor’s war with Sweden required a great many of our men, and they fought valiantly for Russia,” more quietly, you tacked on, “there are a great many women widowed and unmarried. Their own sacrifice for the war effort, I suppose.”

Orlo nodded sombrely. He didn’t meet your eye, focussing again on the papers in front of him.

“And yet, you feel the Empress should provide three times the funding one would expect for the education of ten-thousand boys?”

Ah. Plan over.

“My father felt that, perhaps, it could be beneficial to allow some girls to receive a limited education too.”

He fixed you with a curious look, genuine surprise crossing his face, and you fought not to sink back into your chair from the shame of it.

“I do not suppose that is true.”

His words were light, but he leant forwards, eyes flickering to your notebook before returning to your face.

“Excuse me?”

He leant back.

“I met your father. Lovely man. Not progressive in politics, though would always give food to the needy. I found that interesting. His home life was very private, too. I was not aware he had a daughter.”

The accusation was blatant. You couldn’t help laughing, gaining confidence as you moved to the front of your seat, closing the gap to argue.

“I assure you, I am certainly his daughter. How dare you –”

“I don’t doubt it. I checked your seals, they looked right. The signatures, too. So a talented forger, or someone who is in the household. Perhaps both.”

“You invited me here to accuse me of forgery, sir?” You didn’t hide your scowl, forgetting yourself as he laughed frustratingly.

“I invited you here to accuse you of theft, a charge I am not certain you are innocent of – though I am interested very much by the absence of your father.”

“More interested in his absence than what I have to say while present, it would seem.”

He laughed again.

“My apologies, I thought you were acting on his behalf?”

You stood, suddenly noticing the guard from earlier cross the room. He didn’t meet your eye, nor did he intercept you in any way. But he was close enough that the Count’s protection was clear.

“I am.”

He fixed you with a stare, and a knowing smile which made you nervous.

“From beyond the grave?”

You froze. Unbeknownst to you, the guard’s jaw dropped. He quickly righted it.

A wave of the Count’s hand sent him from the room.

Count Orlo stood, the barely-hidden grin on his face a clear indicator that he was damn proud of figuring it out. Feeling scolded, you sat, resisting the urge to pull your knees to your chest. Instead, you hugged your journal to your chest, staring up at him.

“Am I right?”

“Yes.” You choked out

You couldn’t meet his eye. Staring at the floor, the blood pounding in your ears made it hard to focus. Years of getting away with it, of progress, were tumbling down. Were you going to be sick?

“How long ago?”

“Three years.”

Orlo went still, leant forwards over his desk. Then he sank into his chair. All was silent, though the room sounded raucous in your panic.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

You didn’t acknowledge his words, too busy focusing on the ramifications of this. On whether you would ever leave the palace again. You ought to have risked ignoring his summons.

“It must be hard. I lost… my own father.”

He cleared his throat, seemingly surprised by the confession which fell from his lips.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. It was a long time ago now.”

You nodded.

Orlo shuffled his papers.

“Did you… know that? Before I walked in?” You asked quietly, refusing to watch the bureaucrat. You feared most of all that he would be smug. He had caught you in a lie, after all.

“You were his only heir.” He stated, no hint of joy in his voice.

He was working something out. You could see cogs turning, a well-educated mind at work.

“There is no one else. There would have been an endless power struggle, and the workers would suffer… my father always planned to find an heir, though he trained me for the interim. I think he hoped it might never come to that. And then, the pox–”

Orlo raised a hand, and you were grateful that he needed no further information.

“You never informed the palace that he died?”

“No. It seemed… fine. I replied to the first letter, and it was accepted.”

“By me, I believe,” Orlo grimaced, pen poised to make notes as he listened.

You tried your best to look apologetic, though the risk of somehow startling the bureaucrat kept you from making any great movements.

“Yes, I believe it was. Apologies.”

He looked to you for more explanation. You rifled through the ordered correspondence, trying to explain what had happened.

“I had no intention of deceiving anyone. In truth, it is something of a mystery to me. My tutor, he is a brilliant man, very well read, and firmly believed I was in the best position to run the region. I really love it, despite the hardships, I know it is not the richest, and that we do not pay as much in tax as others our size, but the people… they would give everything to help another. I couldn’t fail them.”

Orlo set his pen down.

“So your tutor lied for you?”

Curiosity had surpassed all else, and the Count was so receptive to your story you could not stop yourself from telling it. It was a relief, in some ways, to lay your cards on the table before him.

“They all did. The whole household. A select few others. On my instruction, of course. None of them ought to be punished for this–” your words fell faster as panic caught your tongue, alarmed at the realisation those you loved most could face repercussions, but the Count waved those worries away.

“They will be fine.”

If he was lying, it seemed convincing.

“I did not mean for it to go on so long, I just… looked out and saw no better option.”

The stack of letters Count Orlo reached for were familiar, sealed and addressed in your own hand. He did not reread any, merely pressed a hand to the top of the stack as a remark on their quantity.

“Why did you want the extra money?”

It was a sobering question, and always seemed to be the bottom line for this man. He was a treasurer, so perhaps that was natural.

“Schools. I did not lie.”

“Schools for girls, as well as boys?”

“Yes. And the poor.”

“Your father’s idea?”

“My own, though he did express some support for the idea shortly before his passing, in his own way.”

Count Orlo nodded, peering at an open book on his desk.

“There are other requests. Some for your road construction?”

“Yes.”

“Some for the provision of new guard uniforms? Which must have been… very expensive?”

You winced.

“Forgive me, our guards are certainly not that well-dressed. There was… a famine. And I know the palace sent aid! However, people were starving. We could trade with regions to the south, but it was expensive –”

“Peter wouldn’t pay their prices,” he recalled, a faraway look in his expression.

“I was only aware that our promised food would not come.”

He thought for a moment, a judge considering a case, the closing of his book a gavel against the desk.

“I would have made the same choice, for my own region.”

You let out the breath you had been holding.

There was a calmness to it, the unravelling of your lie. He had more questions, you had incomplete answers. Eventually he was satisfied. You loathed to ask it, but the question remained:

“What now?”

“Hm?”

“Do you… do you have someone in mind to appoint to Dryansk? I will not protest. I’m sorry, I had never intended to lie, or commit any trespass against the crown –”

“I don’t see why your father would be uprooted from his position? Unless he should retire and assign you successor, though there would be some undesirable pushback from some, I would imagine. I am satisfied with the accounts, and congratulate him on the work he is doing.”

“Oh.”

You were floored. Count Orlo sank back in his chair, distractedly glancing out of the window as a flock of birds rose from the forest. Gunshots rang out, though none of the creatures seemed to have been struck.

“Your father will remain in place, with you as his proxy, then?”

“Yes! Thank you, sir. It… I cannot thank you enough.”

“Orlo, please. I assure you, no one here calls me ‘sir’,” the light laugh he gave was a little dark, and you wondered at the reason for it.

“Thank you, Orlo.”

You were ready to leave, stacking books back beside you, head aching from the meeting. Across the desk, the Count’s voice grabbed your attention.

“You are an excellent politician.”

You laughed.

“I am not sure whether to accept that as a compliment.”

A smirk escaped his stony expression, though it was quickly smothered by a stony face and a sincere tone.

“I intend it as one. You have a rare talent. And I think, a good heart. That is why I would never seek to displace you.”  

You looked at him properly, as the man behind the title and the piles of official documents. There was a humanity to him which escaped the formal tone of his letters. A kindness.

It confused you, and perhaps he could sense as such when he answered your stare with a statement. His eyes sought the doors for a moment, before meeting yours. He leant forward as though telling you a secret.

“I was… integral to the new Empress’ position. She’s a progressive, I think not unlike yourself. Educated. Believes that all women ought to be. She would like you, I think, and if a woman can be Empress, I do not see why you should not lead the region you were born to inherit. As any son of your father’s would have done.”

You swallowed. His words bore more weight than you could ever admit, belief beyond even your own in your right to lead.

“That is… an unusual stance. But one I share. Thank you.”

“I hope it is a belief that is growing more popular. I suppose our brains cannot be so drastically different, when each of your letters was so cleverly and concisely constructed to persuade me of your decisions.”

“You believed them to be from my father…”

“In intention, perhaps. But not verbatim. I could tell it was not him. Your father had appalling spelling.”

You laughed, making the Count laugh too, feeling a lightness in your heart which was rare since your father had died.

“And changing my mind is not an easy feat. I’m not sure your father ever achieved it, if you don’t mind me saying.”

You did not mind at all. It was nice to talk about him.

“You knew him well?”

“In later life, only through letters,” he sounded regretful, oddly sweet in how he answered you, “though we had met a handful of times when Peter the Great ruled. When I was barely past puberty, in fact. I believe he used to carry a hip flask of sweet spirits I was quite keen on, he would sneak it to me. It was… a simpler time. In many ways.”

He was wistful for it, and you wished you had been there. No doubt you had been at home, in a mud and jam stained dress, surrounded only by your tutor and the staff. You imaged yourself on the study floor, reading everything you could get your hands on and longing to travel to the palace with your father.

“Blackberry rum,” you recalled.

“That’s it!”

The smell of it would hang in the air for hours after it was made, delicious and warming.

“I could never stand it,” you admitted, “too sweet!”

“I’m not sure I could drink it now,” he conceded, smiling at the memory, “however I liked it far more than vodka, back then. Did he make it himself? I have never seen it since.”

“Our chef made it. Still does, I think.”

“I shall have to try it again, see if I still like it!”

You gave a polite laugh, watching his posture settle to a more slumped ease, and wondering how this became so casual.

“I’ll bring some,” you promised, “if I’m needed at the palace again.”  

Orlo smiled indulgently.

“I shall have to invent some excuse for your return, then.”

He went quiet for a moment, perhaps hesitating after an overstep. You looked at your hands, folded in your lap. When he spoke again, it was softer. He suited a gentle tone far better than the formality he had begun with.

“Catherine would like you. Come to dinner, tonight. I’ll ensure you are sat by her, and introduce you. She always loves to meet new people, especially women with minds – I suspect – to rival hers.”

“Oh! Thank you, that’s kind. I am sure I will be a poor comparison to the Empress, but if she would allow me to meet her, it would be an honour.”

You sought to hide your fear and nervousness, though perhaps Count Orlo saw through that anyway.

“She is nice. I promise. Nicer than myself, by some margin.”

As you fumbled for the words to contradict him – regardless of whether he deserved to be contradicted – he stood, clearly signalling the end of the meeting.

“She is ambitious, but kind. I’ll arrange it.”

You thanked him and left, overwhelmed and flustered as you wandered the halls for twice as long as you needed to in search of your room.

When you returned, the clock on your mantlepiece told you three hours had passed since you had left. You were stumped. It had felt like a moment and an eternity all at once.

The call of your bed was strong, your overwhelmed brain prepared for nothing else, and the soft sheets lured you in. Mind full of the conversation that morning, books spread out across the chaise lounge, you sank into the covers for a nap.

*

The warmth of the afternoon sun streaming into your quarters offered a far more pleasant awakening than your anxious morning. After you awoke, you tried to recall the meeting for your notes.

Recalling the meeting was almost as confusing as being in it, and you gave up in favour of reading, before suddenly recalling some detail and returning to your pen.

Months of stress, years, really, had dissolved in a single meeting. You weren’t sure what you thought of the man, but you had to admit you owed a great debt to Count Orlo.

The memories of laughing with your tutor in the office inherited from your father suddenly left a sour taste in your mouth. You had been mocking a blurry image of a stuffy bureaucrat, a man you had easily tricked and assumed to be stupid and uncaring. Now that you had an image of Count Orlo, your joy at tricking him felt wrong. Guilty.

He was no unfeeling yes-man. He had his own responsibilities, cared truly about his job and more about the people he served. His rudeness seemed forgivable, under the circumstances.

Yet you were reminded of your summons. The fear you had felt. The nausea of watching your home disappear in the rear window of the carriage and wondering if it would be the last time you saw it. No man with a sensible grip on the reality of everyday Russia would send such a cruel accusation by letter.

And yet, he remembered your father’s blackberry rum.

He forgave your lies to get food and encouraged your bid for more education.

Protected you, where he could have replaced you with someone more compliant.

As you watched the nobles walking by below the window, you craned your neck to see if each of them resembled Count Orlo.

You wanted to meet him again. Understand him. Discover whether his true character was that of a sharp-witted bureaucrat or the chatty, friendly man who remembered your father’s struggles with spelling.

He was an enigma. Split in two in your mind.

It was hard to forget that smirk which he quickly banished from his features, afraid to be caught enjoying your company.

Even as your thoughts were consumed by him, hours passed before you thought to send the Count a thanks for his handling of the meeting. You drafted the note half a dozen times, each rambling in a different tangent to the last, before finally sending the latest draft.

Dear Count Orlo,

I can only apologise for the hostility with which I approached our first meeting yesterday. It does not excuse my actions, but please know I was acting only in defence of myself and of those in my care.

Although it is insufficient to thank you for the kindness and openness of mind you have shown myself and Dryansk, I enclose a book which I think – from the reading material I observed in your office – you might enjoy. It is a favourite of mine.

I hope you do not mind that it has already been read, books are scarce in my region, and when one arrives the whole household must read it! I hope you enjoy it nonetheless, and that it is not a duplicate for one you already own.

Yours with the warmest regard,

You signed the note, and then looked at your own flourishing signature and opted to write your name beneath it, lest Orlo fail to remember who might have sent it.

*

A knock at your door startled you from the accounts you had been calculating.

It had scarcely been twenty minutes since the serf bearing your paper-wrapped gift disappeared to deliver it. Yet there he was.

Bouncing on his heels and refusing to push past your guard. He had removed his jacket, as the day gained its warmth. There was a faint ink stain on one of his white sleeves, the muddy colour of his waistcoat intercepted by faint golden embroidery.

You blinked, taking a moment to process the intrusion.

A letter and two books were clutched in the Count’s hands, and he peered past the guard at you, wincing as you made eye contact.

Curious.

“Count Orlo to see you, my Lady?”

“Thank you! Yes, let him in.”

You stood to greet him, though found yourself at a loss once he had crossed the room. A handshake seemed inappropriate. A kissing a proffered hand far too prestigious for a man of his status. He gave you an odd head-nod, and you returned it with a closed smile.

“Orlo,” you greeted, extending a hand to offer him a seat.

Perhaps he missed the gesture, as he continued to bounce on his heels. You remained standing with him, your accounts drying on your desk. He cast a quick glance over them, eyebrows furrowing for a mere second as he read, before remembering himself.

“I hope you don’t mind me presuming to visit,” he offered, “but it seemed faster than writing. I fear you may outwit me on paper.”

You grimaced at the implication, but he ploughed onwards.

“You owe me no apology, though I appreciate it all the same. I do, however, owe you one. It was not… I reread my own copy of the letter I sent, and realised how alarming it must have been. Summons like that, when you had never made the trip before.”

He looked to you for some approval, confirmation of what he said. You offered only a nod, reluctant to admit how upsetting you had found the experience.

“You were merely doing your job. A good job of it, in fact, to spot the discrepancies. I ought to be apologising to you,” you gestured vaguely to the book, feeling embarrassed to see its well-thumbed cover in his hand.

“Thank you.”  

The words were heavier than you’d anticipated, and when you met his gaze you were surprised to see complete sincerity in his warm brown eyes.

You had to look away.

“You’re welcome. I mean it.”

“I… I am sorry we met on such poor terms. I think… allies are difficult to find, and you may be a valuable ally to us.”

Political. Of course.

Get a grip, you chided yourself. You thought of your tutor, the pride he would feel at the end of this visit. This was politics.

“Of course. Anything I can do to help improve Russia, I would gladly be of service to the Empress’ wishes.”

“Right.”

He looked away, taking in your quarters, before returning his attention to you. He seemed to flounder for a moment, mouth opening before looking down at the book in his hand. He tapped the cover affectionately with a free hand.

“This is a valuable gift, I look forward to reading it. Thank you.”

You smiled, head tilted in embarrassment at the smallness of your gift.  

“Not much in a place like this, I’m sure,” you admitted, “but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless.”

He regarded the novel for a moment. The book beneath it was more expensive, leather bound and gold embossed next to the fabric covering you had given him. He seemed oddly touched by it, in a way you had not anticipated.

“Something about reading a book that you know others have experienced too, I find it so magical. There aren’t a lot of people here with a penchant for literature, and knowing someone else has read the same words… dreamed the same worlds… it makes you feel so connected, you know? Less like a lonely visitor to those worlds…”

Glancing up at you, his eyes darted away again, shame creeping into his features.

“Shit, sorry – that was…”

“No, I understand. There’s nothing like sharing a book with a friend, discussing it, it’s lovely.”

“I hope you won’t mind me giving you something more boring… but this has helped me a lot. It’s Locke, have you read his work before?”

“No, not at all, in fact.”

“Oh! John Locke… he had some interesting ideas about the function of government… if you’d be interested, it’s yours.”

The books was in your hands before you had the chance to answer, clutched to your bodice as Orlo clutched his novel to his own chest. You couldn’t stop smiling at him.

“Thank you. This is an incredible gift.”

He was pleased at your acceptance of the book, tucking a rogue lock of hair behind his ear sheepishly, before noticing the clock behind you.

“Oh! Sorry, I was en route… I should go to Catherine.” He was beginning to rush, casting an apologetic glance behind him. “I only meant to drop by, it’s amazing how time flies! I’ll see you later. Catherine will be so excited to meet you!”

He was a whirlwind, in some ways. You watched as he left, striding past the guards and taking a moment to orient himself before rushing down the corridor, past your doors.

Curious.

You remind holding the book, flicking through the first few pages, as a serf crept into the room with tea. It was set for two, although Orlo had already vanished. You thanked them nonetheless, sinking into an armchair to think.

As the young woman serving you began to leave, a thought struck you.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“What’s… do you know that man?”

“Count Orlo?”

You nodded, watching confusion colour her face.

“I… do. In his capacity as advisor to the Empress, of course.”

“Do you know… his relationship with her?”

She thought for a moment, before turning to fully face you. You could sense the careful diplomacy in her response.

“There are many rumours floating around here, but that is certainly not one I’ve heard before. They are close, but not… close in the way you are imaging, I suspect.”

You watched her for a moment, until she looked away, and guilt panged in your chest for making her uncomfortable. It seemed unlikely she was telling you anything less than what she knew to be true, you your gut told you there must be more to the relationship between Empress and advisor.

“Thank you,” you dismissed her, and she left eagerly.

Wandering to the scant few pieces in your small, travelling wardrobe, you pondered the woman’s nervous movements at the question. You were unable to consider the dresses in front of you as you wondered at the new government forming in the palace. It felt like getting away with something, to be invited to one of their dinners as a guest.

The book Orlo had given you was still in your hands, you realised. Perhaps you should begin to read it, in case he asked.

Finding a dress could wait.

*

When Orlo rounded the corner into the throne room he knew he was late, and flustered, and clutching a worn linen-bound novel to his chest where his notebook ought to be.

He didn’t know he was smiling from ear to ear, bouncing on his heels as he came to a stop in front of a patiently waiting Velementov, and a rather less patient Empress.

The General gave him no time to catch his breath, greeting him with a curt nod and a gruff comment.

“What’s got you so giddy?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I am fine.”

Catherine groaned as she rose from her chair, hands splayed across her swollen stomach. The Empress seemed to be approaching the end of her pregnancy, though she loathed to discuss it, growing more uncomfortable with each passing day.

Orlo’s plight, however, seemed to have distracted her as she crossed to Velementov’s side.

“You do look awfully cheery, I wonder what has caught your amusement?”

“A good meeting, that is all.”

“One which made you late?” she straightened her back, assuming authority, though Orlo took little notice of it.

“Apologies, yes. However, it has made me reconsider some policy–”

Catherine followed him across the room as he reached a desk, craning her neck to see over his shoulder.

“Who was the meeting with?”

“A representative from the Dryansk region.”

Velementov took heavy footsteps, loud even from the other side of the room, flask in-hand.

“Took your fancy, hm?” he grunted.

“Just… she’s nice. Clever. We had an interesting conversation about girls’ education, Catherine – which I felt we should revisit in our own policies. Push it to the regions–”

His attempted at a diversion did little to prevent Catherine from grinning and clapping, excitement colouring her pale features.

“She?”

Orlo glanced to her, trying to feign irritation, knowing the young Empress saw through him in that with the keenness that she always did. She was still smiling, all official business forgotten.

“Sounds like she’s taken your fancy, lad.” Velementov contributed.

He went largely ignored by both of them, as Orlo murmured, almost afraid of being heard.

“I think you’d really like her, Catherine. I invited her to join us, at dinner tonight, she’s well read, and clever, and… I think her heart is in the right place. She wants revolution. A better Russia for all.”

“I do like the sound of her. I’ll have her seated between us!”

The acceptance was quickly overshadowed by Catherine’s excitement, and Orlo’s realisation he had shown his hand far too readily.

“Perhaps… perhaps you could meet her afterwards? As everyone dances?”

He was not a fan of Catherine meeting this new friend one-on-one. Not with Orlo’s embarrassment at his attachment for her announced so plainly to the Empress. She had that look about her which preceded meddling.

“Nonsense! That way I may meet her, and you may… enjoy more time with her! Is that not what you were looking for?”

His stammering protests fell on deaf ears, drowned out by boyish laughter from Velementov, at his expense. With a few shrill words to a serf, it was done, and Catherine would entertain the conversation no longer.

“Onto business!” she announced.

Orlo took a deep breath, and tried not to watch the cogs turning in Catherine’s head as she plotted.

*

Your mounting sense of being incredibly underdressed only grew as you closed in on the banquet hall, silks and furs and cottons of every colour under the sun crowding around you. Although you’d had the sense to bring your finest evening dresses, the style and craftmanship you had access to in your region’s rural towns was no competition for the glamour, outrage and opulence of the palace.

Perhaps the fine palace shielded its residents from the risk of damaging their clothes, or perhaps they were simply wealthy enough not to care. Nonetheless, you tried to hold your head high.

The doors were swung open ahead of you, the warmth of the hall inviting you in. A horseshoe of tables greeted you, almost already filled, with guests both standing and sitting in conversation. Wine was flowing, though food was not yet served, and gleeful conversations were punctuated by the occasional roar of laughter, or harshness of bickering.

Despite yourself, and the fear you might seem strange, you found yourself smiling.

Nobles streamed in behind you, making you stumble further into the room to avoid them, and you looked around a little more frantically at the scene before you.

The Empress’ seat was obvious, ornate and tall, at the centre of the top table, but the woman herself was absent. Similarly, your new friend was nowhere to be seen, and you craned your neck to try and spot him.

“You must be new here,” came the sickly words of a noblewoman, adorned herself with feathers and fur, lining a beautiful garment.

She was pretty, with round cheeks and a pronounced jaw, in possession of all the grace you supposed a lady of the court ought to have. Although you detected a sense of mocking behind the words, you smiled, offering her an emphatic nod.

“Yes! And I must say, you all look wonderful! I must get the name of your seamstress, if you would be so kind as to share it?”

“Oh!” You could see her expression softening to a genuine smile, and you couldn’t help matching it, “how kind! Of course, I will have someone pass it on to you.”

“Thank you!”

She extended a hand, and you took it politely, introducing yourself.

“Georgina.”

There was a lull, and you could see her taking in your dress – it was well made, pretty, in its own way, but certainly not of the style.

“I wonder, do you know where I might be sitting?”

She tilted her head curiously, eyes glancing at the occupied tables behind you.

“Not a clue, sorry.”

Georgina mouthed something to someone behind you, and you stepped back, not wanting to interrupt her evening.

“I’ll let you get on,” you smiled tightly, “lovely to meet you.”

She paused, returning from the distraction to look at you, with a curious regard.

“Lovely to meet you too, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again soon.”

You blinked after her as she left, bewildered by the whole exchange. Then he was there. Orlo. In the place she’d been, watching with some unknowable thought hidden behind his wide eyes, the gentlest smile you’d ever seen spreading across his face as he saw you. It was timid, afraid to bare his teeth, less commanding than he’d been in his own quarters.

Guests skirted around him as they arrived, none greeting him, but all keenly avoiding interrupting the moment.

“Hello,” you offered, voice quieter than you’d intended in the busy room.

“Hello,” he returned.

His hands were intertwined in front of him, the smile still firmly on his lips, a slight rock to the way he stood. You glanced behind you to Georgina, and saw an entire row of guests watching you. You cleared your throat, and Orlo seemed to remember himself.

“Right! Sorry, how are you?”

You smiled.

“I am well, thank you. Though I’m afraid I can’t recall where you said I was sitting.”

His eyebrows raised in realisation.

“Of course! Apologies, I had meant to meet you, we… the meeting ran over.”

You told him not to worry, but your reassurances did nothing to stop him apologising again as he lead you to the head table.

The Empress had taken her seat, adorned in a gold dress which accentuated her baby bump, blonde curls braided in an intricate crown on her head, watching unapologetically as Orlo led you towards her.

“Are you certain? I am not sure the Empress needs to endure my company as she is trying to enjoy her dinner...”

“Nonesense! I am sure you will get along wonderfully.”

You didn’t argue, approaching the Empress’ earshot.

Truthfully, you were not sure you wanted to try and keep up with her for the evening. You were experienced in diplomatic events, but nothing on this scale. With each step, the reality that she was the Empress made your stomach drop.

Introductions were quick, though you felt immediately scolded as she insisted against being called Empress.

“Call me Catherine. Any friend of Orlo’s is a friend of mine.”

“Of course.” You refrained from calling her Catherine.

“I hear your father is keen to expand state education to include girls?”

As you shot Orlo a glance, he just nodded for you to continue.

*

Once the conversation lulled, you dared to glance around the room. Several eyes were still glued to you, and you stared into the cleared plate of your starter.

Catherine was nice. You liked her. A dreamer, a bit dramatic, capable of talking for all of Russia, but fundamentally, she seemed supportive. You didn’t miss the quick glances she and Orlo shared, the microexpressions which seemed designed to pass you by.

You weren’t sure what they meant, but you were relieved to realise you felt as though you were sat between bickering siblings – not lovers.

Plates were cleared, larger plates delivered, the room filled with chatter and expressions of delight at the food and glasses of vodka which poured endlessly from side doors. Orlo hadn’t spoken much, aside from to extend upon what you or Catherine said, and you wondered at his quietness.

“So, you have travelled here alone?”

The Empress caught your attention with the question, and you turned back to see her appearing sincerely interested, head tilted towards you, her champagne flute in one hand.

“I did! My father could not visit,” you winced at the thought of Orlo hearing your misdirection, “but sends his kindest regards. He will be so thrilled to hear of your support for our ideals. Or rather – that I believe our ideals line up so well.”

Catherine hesitated, taking a sip which made you worry you had misspoken. Finally, she responded.

“I am also glad to hear that. It would be a pleasure to meet him one day. I am surprised, that he would send you alone.”

You had no time to reply, as she looked out to the room and continued to speak.

“I was sent here alone, though it was to meet my husband. But to a foreign land, I suppose. Though, I wonder if perhaps this does feel like a foreign land? It is such a strange place, after all.”

She pondered for only a second on her digression, before continuing.

“Are you married?”

“No, Empress.”

Sandwiched between perhaps the two most powerful people in Russia, this was the first question which had flustered you.

“If you seek an alliance, I am sure our dear Orlo could find you something suitable! Though I understand marrying for love has a draw for some.”

One palm laid across her stomach as she spoke, dazed for a moment before snapping herself out of her thoughts.

“I am not sure, I am so busy working for my father –”

“Come now, it hardly takes much time! Certainly not in my experience.”

You bit your lip as she amused herself with some private joke, and noted that Orlo had gone very still beside you.

“Are you married, Empress? If it is not improper to ask?”

Catherine laughed hollowly, gesturing to the bump of her stomach.

“I am. Though I suppose a coup makes a marriage rather more complicated. I will not bore you with it.”

A stark note not to speak of the matter, which was clear to you. You tried desperately to think of a distracting topic, before Catherine suddenly gasped.

“Apologies,” she rose from her chair, two guards mobilising to flank her, “it seems this baby is at constant war with my bladder.”

You stammered that it was no bother at all, though it fell on deaf ears as Catherine dashed for a door.

For a moment, the room seemed silence, the noise of other guests rushing silently past your unhearing ears.

“She can be a little intense,” Orlo muttered apologetically beside you, the first words to permeate the rushing of blood in your ears.

“Not at all, it is a pleasure to meet her.”

You lowered your voice a touch, leaning towards Orlo.

“Thank you again, for your discretion regarding my father. I owe you a great debt.”

A dismissive, awkward wave of his hand accompanied a flustered glance to his plate, and you were struck with how endearing you found his modesty in Catherine’s company.

“Not at all.” He replied, “You are doing your region a great service in his stead.”

“That is kind. Each day,” you sighed, “I worry I am not doing enough.”

“I know the feeling. It never ceases, though I suspect that the presence of such a fear is the only way to know that you do care – and that you are doing enough.”

He had not eaten much of his main course, and left it completely now that the conversation was in full swing. To encourage him to eat would be an overstep, and yet compounded with the dark circles beneath his eyes you feared he perhaps needed someone to nag him. To look after him.

Catherine’s words were heavy in your memory, and you swallowed heavily against the question.

“I am afraid I did not have the time to read any of your book. I brought it to my meetings, but we ran over. There is quite a lot going on at the moment, trying to establish a new government–”

You stifled a dry laugh, and Orlo turned to fix you with a curious glance.

“You are busy forming a new Russia, please, do not worry about reading a silly story.”

“I had hoped to discuss it with you over dinner,” he admitted quietly, and you felt your chest tighten at the words.

“Whenever you find the time, I am sure I will delight in discussing it,” you promised, “I am sure we can find plenty else to discuss in the meantime.”

He didn’t reply, and as you watched him, the room melted away around you. Sound failed to reach your ears, the flickering candles only existed to warm the soft brown planes of Orlo’s face. There was nothing else you needed to see. His eyes were wide, bewildered as he stared, eyebrows drawing together in a concerned swoop.

“I have not been in a relationship before.”

You blinked, taking in the words.

“I tell you this only because… I think I would like that, with you,” he explained, nonchalant and yet his words accelerating in panic, “and I have no idea how to go about it.”

He was laughing at himself, and you couldn’t help smiling.

“I think you are going about it rather well,” you smiled.

In your peripheral vision you could see the movement of the crowd, feel the table move as Catherine returned to her seat, and yet in such a tender moment you could not imagine looking anywhere but Orlo’s timid smile.

“Am I?”

“Well, I have no idea how to go about such a thing myself. So, I suppose we ought to make a good pair.”

You offered a languid smile, hoping it might conceal the way your heart was pounding against your ribs, and how your palms grew sweaty against the tablecloth.

Catherine cleared her throat behind you, bored, and you watched the subtle roll of Orlo’s eyes before you returned your attention to the Empress.

“You did not tell me,” she asked, her attention truly trained on her advisor as she looked past you, “whether you your heart belonged to anyone.”

“I am not married, Empress,” you offered delicately, refusing to look at Orlo.

“One must not be married to have a loyalty, a love, or another. Plenty here can tell you that.”

You laughed politely, though suspected the Empress was not making the comment in any jest.

“I believe I am exploring my options.”

“So there are options?” she raised an eyebrow, peering around you at the Count.

“One option,” you muttered, hoping to be lost in the din of the banquet hall.

“Well, I suspect it may be a very good option. Perhaps a little wracked by worries, and bookish, but with many excellent qualities. And you ought to pursue it.”  

Like a cracking glass, realisation hit you. She was fondly teasing Orlo, the man fidgeting beside you as the dessert was served.

It took several moments for the Empress’ attention to falter, diverted by her flan as she ate for two.

You looked kindly back to Orlo, noting the slight hunching of his shoulders as he returned your attention.

“I hope this mystery man does not have a more eclectic taste in books.”

“He doesn’t. Nor clearer vision for the future of his country.”

“Oh?”

“We have not known each other long, but I suspect we will get along very well.”  

“I hope so.”

The moment passed, your attention turning to the room, absorbing the opulence and the joy of the courtiers and nobles as they shovelled through their desserts and teased one another across the grand room.

“What do you think of the court, since it is your first visit?”

“It is a lot to take in. A significant difference from home,” you admitted, “though the food is wonderful. And it has some rather charming inhabitants.”

He beamed at the compliment, concealing the movement as he dipped his face from you.

“I saw you held you own with George, earlier, that is no mean feat.”

You glanced across at the woman as he mentioned her, hardly recalling the conversation.

“She seemed perfectly fine, though I did not speak to her for long.”

“She is Peter’s mistress,” he muttered, and your face did not hide your surprise.

“Emperor Peter?”  

“The ex-Emperor,” Orlo gently corrected, “but yes.”

You had not been aware he had survived the coup, though hid that revelation given your proximity to the Empress. Catherine’s words started to carry rather more meaning.

“I wonder at the point of marriage at all,” you murmured nervously, hoping only Orlo might be the only one to hear you.

And that he would not find your comment naïve. Such a thing was not common in your region, certainly not something to be made a public piece of knowledge. Perhaps the palace took a more relaxed view.

“I wonder the same myself,” Orlo confided, voice barely above a whisper, “I had started to believe I was alone in that notion.”

“You are not,” you offered pointedly.

He looked at you fully, expression sincere.

“I am glad to hear we agree on that matter. Were I… to find someone I am not sure I would be interested much in sharing.”

“Nor I.”

Orlo’s response was instant, and sincere.

“Good.”

The moment was broken by bristling beside you, you suspected Catherine was eavesdropping yet again. Orlo smiled fondly, though a little embarrassed.

“It is getting rather late,” she declared, though the sun had barely set and the dinner had only just finished. “Perhaps you ought to walk our guest to her room?”

The Count frowned at Catherine.

“I thought she might enjoy the dancing–”

“Would you?” the Empress asked, voice insistent in a way which implied a correct answer.

“I am not… the most adept at dancing. Though I may watch, or try–”

“Watching dancing is no fun, and you never get a moment of peace. Allow Orlo to walk you back to your quarters.”

And so it was done. A few eyes were drawn as you left with the Count, no one else had yet risen, and Catherine watched approvingly as he led you to a side door.

The entire palace was occupied by the banquet, and so the halls were empty, and you couldn’t help but ask Orlo what the Empress had been offended by as you ventured further from the main rooms of a palace.

He chuckled at some private thought.

“I believe she is… a romantic. But not a patient woman.”

There was something he was holding back, but you opted not to ask. Instead, you veered off path to stare out at the starry night sky.

A few paces later, Orlo realised your diversion and joined you at the window, the wall sconces offering light which danced beside your reflections in the glass panes.

“I am surprised it looks the same,” you admitted suddenly. “The distance felt to great, that I was sure the stars would appear different.”

You could see Orlo in the reflection, hands planted on the window sill, eyes flickering between the sky and your reflection in the glass.

“I confess, I have always found it comforting. However far I have roamed, the sky never seems to look different.”

Bypassing his reflection to look at his true form, you could see the soft soul he hid well in front of Catherine.

“I was lost, once,” he began, “I thought I was going to die. Carriage turned over, and… far from home. I did things I am not proud of, to survive”

His eyes flickered to yours and back to the sky.

“But when all was said and done, and I found myself a changed man, the stars… they stayed the same. The moon was still there, repeating its cycle, and the night sky remained the same.”

“When my father died… I was the same. I would walk until night fell and I was not even sure if I could return… or wanted to. And I would look up at the stars and somehow always make it home. They were uncaring, and yet always there.”

He did not reply, and you felt something heavy crushing your chest, embarrassment making your dinner sit heavy in your stomach.

“I’m sorry. You did not ask to hear that –”

“I want to.”

He turned to you suddenly, and you were surprised to see the shine of welling tears in his eyes. He turned away to wipe harshly at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You laid a hand on his upper arm, trying to offer what little comfort you could without overstepping.

“Orlo…”

“How are you finding court?”

You indulged his non sequitur.

“I’m not sure how well I’m doing at it, as I said, but it is beautiful. As much as it is overwhelming,” you laughed nervously.

“You are doing fine. I wondered more… if you would ever consider spending more time here.”

Returning to the stars, you pondered the question. Orlo’s fingers drummed across the windowsill as he stood beside you.

“I’m not sure. I would like to try it, though,” you took a deep breath, “I believe I may have business here in future.”

Sneaking him a smile, your heart fluttered as he returned it.

“We shall have to make it that way,” Orlo stage-whispered, as though conspiring.

“I suppose plenty work for their regions while living here,” you mused.

“Plenty,” Orlo confirmed, “in fact, I would advise it is best.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” You teased, and the Count faltered in his flirting.

“I would go to you,” he began, “but my role here is important, and I fear I cannot leave–”

“Orlo,” you laughed, “of course I would not expect you to move to Dryansk. Though if you ever want to visit, you would of course be so welcome.”

“I would love to see it.”

“It is beautiful,” you admitted.

“I hear very progressive in its policies, too.”

“We do our best.”

The sound of voices leaked into the corridor as the first guests began to leave the banquet, meandering to their rooms or to the dance halls. You suddenly found you had no desire to speak to anyone except for the man beside you.

“I wonder if you might walk me to my rooms? I am not sure I can recall their location.”

“Oh?”

“I believe your Empress advised it,” you reminded him.

The Count laughed.

“Demanded it, I believe.”

“Then we ought to acquiesce.”

“It would be treason not to,” he teased.

He offered you his elbow, and you took it, looping your arm through his.

As his free hand settled on yours, warm skin on warm skin, you fought back a shudder. It was difficult to recall that you had met just that morning. Despite your best intentions to take things slow, the words fell from your mouth.

“Perhaps I ought to commission some new clothes, if I am to be visiting court a lot?”

There sudden was a bounce in Orlo’s step, you felt it through your interconnected arms.

“You look lovely, but since you will have to visit for fittings, I fully endorse that idea.”

With one final turn, you could see the doors which led to your apartments. Your grip on Orlo’s elbow grew tighter, his thumb moving to brush over your hand.

Your steps grew slower until finally stopping, grinding to a halt outside your doors with a final sigh.

“How much longer do you plan on staying?” he asked, words hushed as though it might stop your answer from being real.

“I am not sure,” you confessed, “I had planned to leave tomorrow if our meeting went poorly, though now I am not sure.”

“If our meeting went poorly?” Orlo asked, bemusement colouring his tone.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I mean how long I might stay.”

“At least until tomorrow night, I insist. A quieter dinner, in my apartments. With blackberry rum, in your father’s honour.”

You had released his arm, but kept a hold on his hand, fingers laced loosely together. The thought made you smile.

“Only if you can find it made as well as my father’s.”

“I can make no promises,” he smiled, “but I will do my best.”

“That sounds perfect, Orlo. I will look forward to it.”

He beamed, and you found yourself matching his giddy smile in the warm lighting of the corridor. Orlo bounced up onto his heels, and you wondered if it was a regular habit, or something he did around you.

“I cannot wait.”    

You both stood for a moment longer, unwilling to part, and undisturbed by the occasional drunken voice of a wandering noble. You found your mind temporarily unable to find concern for anything beyond this corridor.

“If it is not too soon, perhaps we could do breakfast, too?” He offered, “I realise you do not know anyone else here, yet.”

“I would love that.”

“Good.”

For a few more moments, he rocked on his heels in place, and you found yourself unable to part from his company.

“It is not too late, if you would like company –” he began, but the words broke you from your thoughts.

You laughed, finally reaching for the door handle.

“I will see you tomorrow,” you placated, “that is not too long.”

“It seems such a long time.”

Sap.

“Tomorrow,” you found yourself laughing at his forlorn expression, “you have some required reading before breakfast.”

Finally, his expression broke, and Orlo laughed.

“I will see you tomorrow, then. I will come and get you at eight?”

“Nine!” you groaned, but Orlo just smiled.

“Half-past eight.”

“Half-past eight,” you conceded, already knowing that despite the early hour you would be awake with excitement and waiting for him.

“It’s a date,” he declared, words awkward as they fell from his lips.

“It is.”

“Perfect.”

Finally entering your rooms, you leant back against the door, head falling to rest on the door.

With a giddy smile to the gaudy drapes, you heard him walk away, the sound of his quick steps and bark of giddy laughter finding their way back to you.

[imaginesforfandom]

Close Call

summary: after a high-stakes mission, the reader becomes angry at Root for not taking better care of herself when they discovers Root has been injured. To calm the reader's anger, Root surprises them with a passionate kiss, conveying both her apology for not being careful and her gratitude for the reader's concern. The kiss brings the reader's anger to a halt and strengthens their bond, with Root promising to be more cautious in the future and assuring the reader that she'll always come back to them.

Close Call

You had been partners with Root for a while now, working on high-stakes missions and trying to keep up with the enigmatic hacker's unpredictable nature. Tonight's mission was particularly intense, involving a dangerous group that could compromise national security. The two of you had just narrowly escaped a close call, and you were both panting, trying to catch your breaths in the dimly lit alley.

Root had been her usual confident and fearless self throughout the operation, but something about tonight had been different. Maybe it was the way her eyes seemed more focused, her movements slightly less fluid than usual. It gnawed at the back of your mind, but you pushed it aside, too wrapped up in the mission to dwell on it.

However, as you both retreated to a safer location to regroup, you finally noticed it. A gash on Root's arm, oozing blood. You rushed over, your concern immediately taking over.

"Root, you're hurt!" you exclaimed, carefully examining the wound.

"It's just a scratch," Root brushed it off, but the pain in her eyes was undeniable.

"Just a scratch?" Your voice was laced with anger and fear. "You could have been seriously hurt! Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you take better care of yourself?"

Root met your gaze, her own eyes softening as she realized the gravity of the situation and your genuine worry for her. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss for words. Instead, she did something unexpected. She leaned in and pressed her lips to yours, silencing your concerns with a passionate kiss.

The kiss was a mixture of relief and frustration, a silent apology for not being more careful and an expression of gratitude for your unwavering concern. As the seconds passed, you melted into the kiss, your anger dissipating as quickly as it had come. Root pulled away, her eyes locked onto yours.

"I promise to be more careful next time," Root whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of your racing heart.

You nodded, your anger replaced with a newfound closeness. "Good," you replied, "because I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

Root smiled, her thumb gently caressing your cheek. "I'll always come back to you," she vowed, sealing her promise with another tender kiss, a promise that made your heart skip a beat.

[legallawsandrulesnyc]

The Role of a Lawyer in an Accident Case in NYC: Navigating Legal Challenges and Seeking Justice

Accidents, whether they involve cars, trucks, motorcycles, or pedestrians, can have life-altering consequences. In New York City, the complexities of personal injury law, combined with the intricacies of local regulations and the high stakes involved, make it essential to seek the expertise of a skilled lawyer. This blog explores the crucial role of accident Lawyers in NYC, highlighting how they can help victims navigate legal challenges and seek justice.

Understanding the Role of a Lawyer in an Accident Case

Initial Consultation and Case Evaluation

The journey typically begins with an initial consultation, where the lawyer assesses the details of the accident. During this phase, the lawyer will:

Review the Incident: Examine the circumstances surrounding the accident, including how it happened, who was involved, and any contributing factors.

Evaluate Claims: Determine the viability of a personal injury claim based on the evidence, potential liability, and the extent of damages suffered by the victim.

Gathering and Analyzing Evidence

A lawyer plays a pivotal role in collecting and analyzing evidence to build a strong case. This involves:

Collecting Documentation: Gathering police reports, medical records, witness statements, and accident scene photographs.

Expert Consultations: Consulting with experts, such as accident reconstruction specialists or medical professionals, to provide detailed insights and strengthen the case.

Negotiating with Insurance Companies

Dealing with insurance companies can be challenging, especially when trying to secure fair compensation. A lawyer will:

Handle Negotiations: Manage negotiations with insurance adjusters to ensure that the victim's rights are protected and that they receive fair compensation for their injuries and losses.

Evaluate Settlement Offers: Assess settlement offers to determine if they adequately cover the victim’s damages or if further negotiations or legal action is necessary.

Filing Legal Claims and Representing the Client

When negotiations with insurance companies fail to yield a satisfactory result, a lawyer may:

File a Lawsuit: Prepare and file a personal injury lawsuit in the appropriate court. This involves drafting legal documents, outlining the claims, and specifying the damages sought.

Represent the Client: Advocate on behalf of the client throughout the legal process, including representing them in court, presenting evidence, and arguing their case before a judge or jury.

Guiding Through Legal Procedures

Navigating the legal system can be complex and overwhelming. A lawyer provides crucial guidance by:

Explaining Legal Rights: Informing the client of their legal rights and options throughout the process.

Managing Deadlines: Ensuring that all legal deadlines are met and that necessary paperwork is filed promptly to avoid delays or dismissals.

Securing Fair Compensation

The ultimate goal of a lawyer in an accident case is to secure fair compensation for the victim. This includes:

Calculating Damages: Accurately assessing and calculating various types of damages, including medical expenses, lost wages, pain and suffering, and property damage.

Advocating for Full Compensation: Pursuing the maximum compensation possible to cover both current and future expenses related to the accident.

Providing Emotional Support

Accidents can be emotionally and psychologically taxing. A lawyer can offer:

Support and Reassurance: Providing emotional support and reassurance throughout the legal process, helping clients feel more confident and less stressed.

Why Hiring a Lawyer is Crucial in NYC Accident Cases

New York City’s unique legal environment and high population density can add layers of complexity to accident cases. Here’s why hiring a lawyer is particularly important:

Complexity of Local Laws: NYC has specific laws and regulations that can affect accident claims, including comparative negligence rules and complex insurance requirements.

High Stakes: The potential for significant damages and compensation means that having a skilled lawyer is essential to navigating the legal intricacies and achieving a favorable outcome.

Insurance Challenges: Insurance companies often aim to minimize payouts, making it crucial to have an experienced lawyer who can effectively negotiate and advocate on the client’s behalf.

Conclusion

In the aftermath of an accident in NYC, a lawyer plays a vital role in navigating the legal complexities and advocating for justice. From initial consultations and evidence gathering to negotiating with insurance companies and representing clients in court, a skilled lawyer ensures that victims receive the compensation they deserve and that their legal rights are protected. By providing expert guidance, handling intricate legal procedures, and offering emotional support, a lawyer helps accident victims manage their cases effectively and work towards a just resolution.

[dertaglichedan]

An effort by Donald Trump to secure a review of a Georgia judge’s order declining to disqualify Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis was scheduled on Monday for an oral argument in October, cementing the likelihood of no trial until after the election.

Fulton County Superior Court Judge Scott McAfee declined to remove Willis from the case earlier this year after Trump and several of his co-defendants alleged there was a conflict of interest following revelations of a secret relationship between Willis and her hired special prosecutor, Nathan Wade. Now an appeals court will weigh the same question later this year on Oct. 4, just one month and a day before the high-stakes presidential election in November

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite2023 - Day 27: Sole

He approached his prey with slow, deliberate steps through the snow. Then he was a blur of motion. With a precise, powerful slash of his scythe, the otherworldly monstrosity in front of him collapsed to the ground—he had carved it cleanly in twain. It fizzled for a moment before dissipating entirely in a puff of curling black smoke. Well. Not quite smoke, and not quite aether—whatever this gaseous substance was, all of these creatures reverted to it in their dying moments. A curious phenomenon, but ultimately little more than set dressing.

He examined his weapon. Nothing remained on the blade to even require cleaning it off. He was not sure whether he was glad to be spared of the tedium of doing so, or annoyed at being deprived of something to occupy his time. ‘Tis not as if these hunts were proving any more interesting than polishing the weapon would have been. It probably could not hurt to give it another pass with a whetstone, however.

Zenos viator Galvus was patient, and he could bide his time. But he was frustrated. 

He did not miss his empire. Not as such. It had meant nothing to him in its own right. What point was there in all the political maneuvering, all the wealth, all the laws and yes, even wars, when all it did was set him on a more elevated wheel of futility than the ones everyone else also spun in?

And he certainly did not miss the theatrical Ascian who had latched onto him like a remora. Better to be left to his own thoughts and his own purposes. There was no one left to appease, no more being harangued to uphold his end of the bargain. There was nothing left standing between him and the one, singular battle he craved.

But neither did he have anything left to make it happen.

That was proving to be a conundrum.

All Fandaniel had promised him was a means to secure the attention of his friend. And Zenos did not now wish he had driven a harder bargain. Indeed, the entire destruction of Garlemald, the journey to the moon, the ushering in of these so-called “Final Days”—if they paved the way to the one thing he had ever found any meaning, any reality in, then so be it. The price was not too high.

And the Ascian had been true to his word, at least up to a point. His friend had sought him out for battle in a way she had not since their final duel in Ala Mhigo. He certainly did have her attention.

Everything seemed to be going to plan. Zenos knew he had stoked her anger via their little experiment in Garlemald. And no stakes could be higher than the one he offered to her, threatening to consume and gain the power of the god of darkness Himself. And sure enough, she had come running—ready to fight him, desperate to stop him. It was just what he had been hoping for.

He had known that this “Zodiark” held world-ending power, but he had not really been curious about it, largely taking the Ascian’s word that it was true. Even if he had understood it more fully, it probably would not have prepared him for how Fandaniel would flip the tables at the very last moment.

Zenos only mildly begrudged Fandaniel depriving him of a fight with the eldest of primals. Rather, what he resented was how that moment had spectacularly backfired with his friend.

He could still see it in his memory: the way she stared past him at the pit of swirling red aether. She did not even flinch as he drew his scythe on her, the darkness of the void radiating around him. He was sure he saw hatred in her eyes when at last she did deign to look at him, and so he could not help but feel that they were almost there… So why had nothing come of it?

There they stood, the world doomed to its fate. Surely even in her misguided insistence of finding meaning in that star, there was no point left in returning to save it. They had the whole moon to themselves. They could have their glorious battle. She could discard this whole pretense of heroism and duty and give in to that all-consuming flame that surely even she could not deny had burned when they clashed. 

And yet as he stood ready to challenge her, he saw it in her face and heard it in her silence. She simply did not care. So distracted was she by the beasts at her door that she saw him as the distraction. Even at the end of the world—even after he had brought her this far, and liberated her from her obligations—she still somehow thought she had better things to do. Still she would not simply admit to her baser desires, to allow herself what he knew they both must want.

It was profoundly disappointing.

All that work. All that preparation. All those moons of tolerating the grating presence of that man in the tattered robes. All for nothing, in the end. Now she was out there, somewhere on the star, stuck in her own pointless struggles, wasting time fighting a battle she must surely be doomed to fail.

And he had no cards left to play.

He must needs consider a new strategy. But try as he may, none were forthcoming. But he could not—he would not rest until he at long last secured what he lived for.

So in the meanwhile, he would hone his blade. And he would wait.

[bettsfic]

craft essay a day #7

i was just talking with @volturialice about comedy writing, so it's something that's been on my mind, and i've never really written about it. so consider this an early draft of a future essay that's far more coherent.

"Funny Is the New Deep: An Exploration of the Comic Impulse" by Steve Almond, The Writer's Notebook II: Craft Essays from Tin House

beginner | intermediate | advanced | masterclass 

filed under: comedy, meaning making

key terms: comic impulse (his), comic intention (mine)

summary

i was hesitant to read this essay because comedy is very important to me. i can handle bad craft essays but i'm not sure i can handle bad craft essays on comedy. but, i thought, if you're writing a craft essay on comedy, you're probably pretty funny. that's the thing about comedy: it's not usually inspected by the unfunny.

Almond opens with Aristotle's four modes of literature: the tragic, the epic, the lyric, and the comic. he disagrees with the common belief that tragedy and comedy are working in opposition to one another.

"In fact, the comic impulse almost always arises directly from our efforts to contend with tragedy. It is the safest and most reliable way to acknowledge our circumstances without being crushed by them."

he talks about how Aristophanes is the father of comedy, and goes on to discuss the history of comedy in literature, focusing mainly on Vonnegut who tried to write about the bombing of Dresden seriously before eventually, twenty years later, succumbing to his comic instinct and writing the very darkly comedic Slaughterhouse Five.

"...comedy is produced by determined confrontation with a set of feeling states that are essentially tragic in nature: grief, shame, disappointment, physical discomfort, anxiety, moral outrage. It is not about pleasing the reader. It's about purging the writer...Another way of saying this would be that the best comedy is rooted in the capacity to face unbearable emotions and to offer, by means of laughter, a dividend of forgiveness."

Almond asserts that humor is the result of being able to look at understand the wider picture, and that's why comedy can be so rooted in politics and current events. he acknowledges that what's funny is not objective, and concludes by saying,

"The real question isn't whether you can or should try to be funny in your work, but whether you're going to get yourself and your characters into enough danger to invoke the comic impulse. Literary artists don't write funny to produce laughter...but to apprehend and endure the astonishing sorrow of the examined life."

my thoughts are centered around the practicality of comedy writing, by which i mean to answer the question, but how do you be funny? and talk about what i'm calling "comic intention." (note, i came up with it just now and so i'm still Thinking on it, and my thoughts may be half-baked.)

my thoughts

this essay put me through all five stages of grief. i feel very personally called out in a paragraph about how, in a story when the stakes get too high, or as Almond says, "reaches a point of unbearable heaviness" the comic impulse is to make it funny. and i do that. and i'm so delighted by how clever and hilarious i am (sarcasm. see? he's right), and i value comedy so highly, that i'm always hesitant (or i even straight-out refuse) to change it. and he's right also, ultimately, that the impulse comes from a place of trauma, of habitually defusing. once, i was dating a guy who pulled a knife on me, and i said, "if you get my blood everywhere you're not going to get our security deposit back."

i read a certain sentiment by comedic literary authors over and over again: early in their careers, they stifled their own comic impulse in an effort to be taken seriously. they were inspired by hemingway and wanted to write dry prose of the very sober, somber variety. Almond admits this in the essay, and says the same of Vonnegut, and once i went to a lecture by George Saunders who said literally the same thing. and i'm like, what is wrong with you people? why in god's name would you ever take yourselves seriously enough to want to be taken seriously?

for me it was the inverse. it took me years to even want to take my work seriously, to think of it as anything other than fucking around and finding out. and i also take umbrage a little at the idea that comedy writing is fundamentally unserious. but then again, i revere comedy. to me being funny is the highest ideal. i believe if you can do comedy and do it well, you can do anything. comedic actors can almost always do drama, but not all dramatic actors can do comedy. one of the reasons breaking bad and better call saul are so successful is that they play on the charisma, wit, and insanely funny talent of two comic actors (Cranston and Odenkirk). they're the most serious shows you could ever watch, but they're still funny.

there's a difference i think between being serious and taking yourself seriously. the gravest creative sin, to me, is taking a story too seriously. if it's apparent the writer can't see the inherent potential humor of all things, even if that humor isn't played upon, even if no one's laughing, i am immediately ejected from a story. comedy is a wider breadth of understanding than the material offers. Almond makes this point too, and uses conservatives as an example, saying that Republicans aren't funny and that's a sign that they don't understand jackshit about anything.

i don't believe everything should be funny. but everything should acknowledge its own potential for humor.

okay so here's my big thought:

my reaction to this essay is a huge "yes, but..." i agree with Almond on nearly everything he says, except there are the nuts and bolts of joke-making to consider. and that happens in only two possible places: on the line level, the setup and the punchline; or the situational level, the concept of a story. a sitcom is a situational comedy, which means that the premise of the story itself must in some way be comedic. when writing comedy, these are the only two tools you've got. sentence and concept. that's it.

the show Barry (HBO) is, to me, the greatest example of comedy writing i've ever seen. situationally, it's hilarious: a hitman wants to be a famous actor. and on a smaller level, what it does exceptionally well is acknowledge that every character no matter how frightening or serious or tragic can be the comedic relief. this blew my mind and changed my entire understanding of character. and with that understanding, my work has become a lot funnier. my characters (i like to think) are more interesting and complicated, because any of them at any point can do either the setup or the punchline. when you have serious characters and a comedic relief, the serious characters can only do the setup, and the comedic relief does the punchline. and i believed that for a long time. i would look at the cast of characters in a given story and think, who's the funny one? and now, they're all given the power of comedic relief.

i guess if i had to define my "yes, but" response to this essay, i would say that yes, there's comic instinct, but there's also comic intention. it's having the guts to be outside the joke looking in, to consciously and at the risk of ruining the joke for yourself, engineer the funny thing. i would say comic intention begins with instinct. you have to understand the rhythm and cadence of a setup, the right timing and pacing of the punchline. in your first draft you have to see where your setups have naturally been built and in your second draft you nail the punchline.

when i edit comedic stories, that's all i do. i pay attention to the rhythm of the piece and i find where the setups are or could be, and i make a little margin note that says "punchline here."

comedy writing, to me, is basically math. and that's the least funny thing there is. but if i don't acknowledge it, if i don't approach it with intention, i never get to the punchline. and intention itself is delicate--people expect comedy to seem effortless, so if you look like you're trying to be funny, you're not funny.

all comedy is about expectation. the basic setup of a joke is setting an expectation, and the punchline is doing something with that expectation. if you want to get funnier, start thinking about the unexpected. start thinking of details in pairs. your character is standing in an elderly woman's kitchen. situationally, this might be funny. maybe your character is a deadly assassin, and the elderly woman has invited him in for a coffee. or, at the line level, what's the most unexpected thing to be in that kitchen, based on the collective knowledge of what an elderly woman's kitchen looks like? your character opens the cutlery drawer and finds a glock. or a dildo. or a human molar. what's important is acknowledging that the elderly woman's kitchen is the setup of a potential punchline. the task is pivoting the punchline against the expectations of her kitchen.

even if you don't do this comedically, the practice of finding these pockets of potential will improve your writing, because what's in that woman's cutlery drawer can help us understand who she is as a character. what does it say about her if her junk drawer is a mess versus if it's meticulously organized? if she has thirteen owl-themed clocks? a wall of harley-davidson paraphernalia? what will your evil assassin character do if her dentures are in a cup and the cat is about to paw the cup off the table?

for those who also want to become better editors, one of the greatest skills you can learn is to read something and see what's not there, instead of just what is.

overall, i really admire Almond for writing earnestly on this topic, when sincerity can often threaten comedy. he acknowledges that insecurity is at the heart of every joke (the drive and the need to make someone laugh) and so the greatest fear of a funny person is to ruin the joke.

craft essay a day tag | cross-posted on AO3 | ask me something

[melrosing]

With the thing about removing Cersei's children from the succession though, their claim to the the throne was thru their supposed father, Robert. Without him being their dad they have no claim. The Velaryon boys claims came primarily through Rhaenyra as she was the heir to the throne and intended future monarch. I honestly agree with you but the situation doesn't completely line up. The lannister kids being bastards isn't what would have taken them out of succession, the fact that they weren't the kings children was.

Sorry if I'm not being clear, because like I said I think it's actually a really interesting point and comparison and I agree Ned should have handled it WAY different. It WAS shitty of him to put them in danger like that. But even if the Velaryons are bastards, their mother is still the intended future queen of the seven kingdoms. Cersei's kids are the children of a High Lord's house.

That’s true, I agree with you they differ on that point! I guess it’s more like, is enforcing the ‘correct’ succession a principle worth children’s lives? Should a woman be forced to have children by the correct man in order to ensure theirs and her own safety and security? The decision seems an extremely cold one, and is pertinent in both cases. It’s one enforced by Westerosi society, yes, but we as readers should be able to observe that it’s a twisted principle when enacted by both Ned and Alicent.

What Ned might consider instead is, does Joffrey’s inadequacy to rule really derive from his lack of Robert’s genes? Ned should know enough to say no, his friend was his own kind of monster, who was nonetheless a parent to Joffrey with his own input in his upbringing, and Joffrey’s genes are quite simply not a good enough reason to effectively sentence he and his family to death. Lannister genes are not ‘tainted’, and whilst it’s up for debate whether Joffrey could ever change, it’s not really for Ned to say that he can’t. But Ned isn’t actually going so far as to make that judgement - it’s just ‘wrong dad, run for your lives’.

Alicent’s judgement is really no better or worse imo - like Ned, she’s not examining the ethics or complexities of what she’s claiming, she is simply following the rules to a T. Alicent, like Ned, isn’t really measuring the importance of the rules by the severity of the outcome - just by whether or not they’ve been met.

Once again for the record, I love Ned and Alicent is my HOTD fave - their decisions are a lot more complex than this, with personal stakes and grievances factoring in. But I think both are equally wrong - they’re following the same restrictive set of rules to the same supposed grisly end.

[ireadyabooks]

The Kill Factor: Read an Excerpt

A brand-new game show that offers young criminals the chance at freedom has been greenlit. Little do they know, winning is their only chance at survival. A captivating examination of the dark truths around the criminal justice system, Ben Oliver, critically acclaimed author of The Loop trilogy, delivers an action-packed thrill ride with deadly high stakes.

Fifty contestants. Five mental and physical challenges. One winner.

In a near-future where a virtual currency of digital content fuels a fame-hungry society, a brand-new experiment that combines social media and reality TV has been greenlit.

Voted on, and contestants are sent to a maximum-security reform camp on an island where they can have no contact with the outside world. To lose means prison. But to win is to be free. The most popular young offender with the most upvotes by the end is given both a second chance in society and a cash prize.

This kind of money could mean everything to Emerson and her family who live in the Burrows, one of the subterranean villages where the government have buried affordable housing. It's more than freedom. It could mean the chance to change her family’s circumstance and finally find a place in the society they’ve never been allowed into.

But what Emerson doesn’t know, what the viewers don’t know, is that the prison on the island is empty. Those who lose, those who are voted off aren’t incarcerated. Each challenge will leave more and more contestants to die. And the only choice they have is to win over viewers before it’s too late.

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The Daughters of Izdihar, by Hadeer Elsbai

⭐⭐ 1/2

In Alamaxa, a fantasy analogue of Egypt, women are considered the property of first their fathers and then their husbands. The Daughters of Izdihar, a feminist organization led by the mysterious Malak Mamdouh, is determined to change that by securing the right for women to vote, but progress is slow. When Nehal is forced to marry Nico, a man of high social status whom she cares nothing for, she spots an opportunity when she discovers he's in love with Giorgina, a working class woman involved with the Daughters. According to her plan, in exchange for permission to keep Giorgina as a concubine, he would grant permission for Nehal to study magic at the Weaving Academy. But with her reputation at stake, Giorgina rejects the plan, though not before Nehal becomes involved with the Daughters' activism. As the stakes rise, can these two women from wildly different walks of life work together to achieve the Daughters' goals?

I try to be generous with books, particular when they're first in a series(in this case, The Alamaxa Duology). Sometimes themes aren't developed until later books, and judging characters before they fully develop feels a bit like bullying a child who's still trying to find their place in the world. But all of that said, there were some things I have serious issues with in this book, things that I doubt are going to get better in the second part. Even though there were other aspects that I really liked, I find it incredibly difficult to look past the things that I thought were horrible.

I'll start with what I liked. The setting was gorgeous, and I loved how familiar locations(the map is basically northern Africa and the Mediterranean rotated 90 degrees counterclockwise) and cultures were re-imagined into this fantasy world. This is the second fantasy version of Egypt I've read about recently(the first being P. Djèlí Clark's A Master of Djinn), and of the two it's my favorite setting. I did have to read with google up on my phone to check terminology frequently, but it wasn't any more bother than flipping back to a glossary, which is a familiar exercise for any fantasy reader. I also loved the examination of how social standing grants privilege, particularly in regard to putting yourself and others at risk in the context of protest and activism.

I liked the magic system — divided by element into Earthweaving, Waterweaving, Airweaving, and Fireweaving — well enough, but as a long-time fan of Avatar: The Last Airbender I couldn't help but notice that Weaving was almost exactly Bending. Seriously. You could do a find-replace, that's how close it is. So no wonder I thought it was cool, because I really like A:TLA's magic system. I did appreciate how in Daughters of Izdihar the type of powers weren't determined by character origin, so you weren't constrained to weaving a certain element just because of who your parents were.

Moving on to what I was less fond of, right off the bat I felt that the writing style was a bit odd. I felt like things were moving along at a fast clip, but like I was being told about them rather than getting a chance to truly appreciate them alongside the characters. I noticed this strongly for the first several chapters, but I can't tell if this dropped off as the story got into full swing or if I just got used to it. I also felt that some of the dialogue was anachronistic. The story had a period fantasy feel to it, not medieval but not modern either, but every so often a character would swear like they were in the 21st century. It knocked me out of my immersion every time that happened.

And now we get to the thing I really didn't like. I love a good shades of gray story, where the morals aren't clear and sometimes the ends have to justify the means, but in order to pull this off the shades of gray have to be explored in the story. In this book, the protagonists would do questionable things in the pursuit of good over and over again, and essentially shrug off any criticism. It seemed as if the audience was meant to nod along with them as the objecting characters were dismissed. Particularly inexcusable was the treatment of Nico. After how Nehal treated him in the first half of the book, particularly her dismissal of his obvious distress, I found it next to impossible to like her as a character. And then he just got over it, like it had never happened, and the story didn't bother to examine this at all or act like it was anything less than entirely appropriate.

I grew up around a particularly toxic type of feminism that, frankly, treated it as amusing when women hurt men, like it was some kind of karmic payback. It took me longer than I care to admit to realize how horrible this was, and to distance myself from it. The feminism elements of this story remind me very strongly of something I would've thought was cool back when I still thought that was positive empowerment for women. As I said at the beginning of this(long, sorry) review, it's entirely possible that the author is aware of all these things and intends to wrap them up in the second book. But all I have in front of me is the first book, and given the lack of any kind of reflection on or complex consideration of these themes(in contrast to the themes of class and privilege, which were handled very well), I'm not holding out much hope that they'll be treated any better in the second half of the story.