#i think the biggest problems are that we tend to silence issues to death

[lightdancer1]

And honestly while I'm on it, there's a deeply annoying tendency in fanon to forget two very vital details about Death that should shade everything you see and read about her. One of the lines that really shouldn't age well but gets a pass is 'it always gets me down that they fear me but they enter your realm each night without fear.' Why? Because we have Death's own POV from her own words, and reading that and then looking back at her dialogue shows she's every bit the time bomb Dream is. She's sitting on a depression marked by being stuck doing a job she hates (and Gaiman never really addresses that regardless of intent this is the character he actually wrote) 'because the alternative wasn't very nice.'

She has had all these billions of years to work on this and has it worked? No. This is why I read that issue and the show as her actively trying to communicate to Dream that their duties matter and that family is one of them, that they should connect to others because family is there. Is this entirely valid given what their siblings do with and to each other? No. Is that what she meant, yes. Is that what Dream got from it? Also no.

So when Dream puts her on a pedestal, it is because at some level I think he sees how much his sister is like him and he assumes that the near-worshipful attitude he has for her is that she's solved her problems and A Winter's Tale and all that dialogue very bluntly shows she hasn't. She struggles, she struggles very greatly, and the entire chain of problems she contributes to the family dysfunction stems from that. And as much as she doesn't help Dream she's completely neglectful to Despair. The two are never shown interacting outside of a family gathering. Desire she only speaks to in threats and literally uses as the worst possible comparison to Dream. That indicates they have their own animosities that would be just as relevant as what's there with Dream but the series is from Dream's perspective so it doesn't tend to come up as much.

The second thing is that as heartwarming and kindly as she is, she's still fucking Death, the literal Reaper. If she doesn't like something she ENDS IT. I compare her to Nyarlathotep repeatedly because they have this affable aspect and then at the drop of a hat they become utterly inhuman and can and will casually flex power to end people. Death is a frightening force with a ruthless streak who can disperse the Kindly Ones with a threat and can silence Desire in a way Dream never does. Death at best views the games of Dream, Desire, Despair, and Delirium with condescension and contempt.

It's one thing she shares in common with Destruction.

Death is nice, yes. She's as nice as this setting gets for humans and she's still DEATH and she will still end a bitch if she has to. As Overture shows Dream angsts over a problem, her response is 'just kill it and be done with it.' Death of the Endless has far too much waifu syndrome when the actual character written is nuanced, as toxic as the rest of her kin, and arguably much more interesting than the perfect sibling whose entire life revolves around getting her brother laid with the slave trafficker.

I'm all for people looking at the ways the real character has never been this sweet fluffy adorable cinnamon roll. Delirium isn't either, she straight up Hellraisers a guy because he annoyed her. She gets treated as harmless little sister and she's the most dangerous Endless for a mortal not named Dream or Desire and the one with the biggest sadism streak who may or may not understand what it is she does to the people she affects.

Let the Endless sisters be the dangerous entities they actually are and allow Death to be flawed in the ways she is......because that's the fun part about Sandman. All of the Endless are equally flawed and the setting can work very differently depending on whose POV you do.

It's 2023 and I'm only getting more frustrated with Death of the Endless, who, when her brother did his best to articulate "I am feeling depressed and lonely in the wake of a traumatic experience," responded by throwing bread at his head, calling him stupid, and telling him he shouldn't feel lonely because other people exist, and he shouldn't be sad because she said so.

[fjordfolk]

Sorry if this isn't the sort of question you wanna answer publicly! But if you don't mind, could you tell me how breeders are in Norway? Here in America, they tend to be REALLY snooty and rarely will a breeder give anyone under 25 the time of day. We're pretty good at health testing, not so good at not breeding biters. Oftentimes we'll have NuVet and ~holistic~ thrown around. Minimal vaccination protocol too, if any vaccines at all! Are Norwegian breeders less ridiculous?

Ofc it's hard to speak in broad lines, but culturally I'd say yeah, it's pretty different. But then they’re also just all people and you’ll find good and bad, you know?

TLDR; You’re pretty likely to get a dog from whichever breeder you want. Most breeders follow the rules, but the rules are outdated. Some people are just assholes.

I can only speak to sheltie/farmdog/spitz breeders etc because those are the ones I mostly interact with, and breeders of high-drive dogs are (rightfully) pickier and have different ways of doing things, but I'd say there's no inherent problem for anyone to buy a dog from a breeder in Norway. I know several people who got their dogs around 18, I was 21 without any kind of experience or ambition and right out of school when I got Sparta, and I've never been met with hesitation from a breeder. Imo most aren’t snooty, but some are pretty set in their ways.

I think part of the difference is that *most* breeds in Norway have no pet/preformance split. There's no difference in price or contract depending on how "hopeful" a puppy is. There's no "pet quality" and "show quality" or limited registration or anything like that. Sparta, with no champion parents, cost the same and came with the same contract as a puppy of a 3x world champion. Legally, all dogs sold on a standard NKK contract are pets. Dogs are usually expensive, too -  many breeds these days standard at roughly $2000.

Breeders of companion-type dogs are expected to raise their puppies more or less in the living room, the idea being that if you're breeding family members, you should be raising family members. Not all do, of course, but kennel buildings seem more frowned upon now than a few years ago. For this reason, I tend to look for breeders with younger kids or grandkids, since I feel they're the most likely to understand the importance of stability in a dog that's "just a pet."Vaccinations are routine and must be done by a vet - twice or thrice by the time they're 3 months old and then usually annually. At this point, vacc coverage in Norway is good enough that Parvo incidents are news stories.

Imo in "my" breeds, we have a handful of great breeders that check most or all marks, heaps and heaps of "okay" breeders that could certainly be doing more but isn't actively fucking up the breed, and a handful of really shit breeders you couldn't pay me to take a puppy from. You have about the same chance of getting a puppy from any of them, though, and it’s pretty high.

Norwegian breeders as a whole are shit at health testing though. There are good ones, for sure, but in shelties we're still having arguments about whether screening for HD is "looking for problems" and I see plenty and enough dams whose only health documentation is "eye screened clear as a puppy." Shelties are also one of the breeds with a lot of politics, the community seems super clique-y, with main divides running along topics like health testing and UK vs US lines. It's here, with the ones still arguing about things that happened in the 70s, that you'll get into the breeders that won't sell you a puppy. Not because you're too young or lack experience or aren't a good enough handler, but probably because your cousin once bought their puppy from someone they don't like.

I read a post a while back about someone talking to a judge of Elkhounds. Elkhounds used to be remarkably bad-tempered, it was thought that in order to risk their life going up against a half-tonne horned beast, a dog had to be mean. The jugde said something like "we've come far in eliminating poor temperament in our dogs now. I wish I could say the same about the owners."

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xiii

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xiii: that unwanted animal

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.7k 

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop. It’s CLOSE y’all, CLOSE, but not yet.

Warnings: some steaminess--nothing VERY explicit, but it begins, a little--and might be considered "dubious" if you squint your eyes (but it isn't). Gore, character death, just general Pain and Suffering occurs pretty much nonstop. Par for the course at this point.

Notes: Okay so truth time, I actually wrote this entire chapter like a fucking maniac in a single day--the day after I put out chapter 12, in fact--and so I had like, a bit of a crisis where I thought it might actually be garbage because that's insane. So I sat on it for a few days and had three pairs of eyeballs on it and HERE IT IS. I hope you all enjoy.

Thank you to @baeogorath​ & @lilwritingraven​ for putting your eyeballs on this and making sure I wasn't writing, like, a crack fic come chapter 13 (it WAS debatable for a moment)!!! And of course thank you to @starcrier​, my lover my life my shawty my wife; thank you for enabling me always to write the most self-indulgent things and then polish them up to be actually GOOD.

And thank YOU, of course; every kudos/comment is like the highlight of my day every single time so tysm!

“She was going to try and kill me.”

It was a problem, John thought—Elliot’s pure and unabridged fury in that moment almost got her killed. She would have gone down swinging, to be sure, but she would have gone down, eventually. A problem, sure, but one that had been mitigated. He’d handled it. Just like he’d handled everything else.

He said, “But she didn’t. Besides, are you really afraid of what she would have done? She’s barely half your size.”

“It’s not about what she’s capable of, little brother,” Jacob bit out, “it’s about the fact that she’s your responsibility to control and you seem wholly incapable—”

“—a process , Jacob, you can’t just slap a saddle on a pony and expect it to ride—”

“—wouldn’t have happened if I was in charge of her—”

“What’s important now,” Joseph interrupted, pausing a moment to wait and make sure neither John nor Jacob was going to talk over him, “is that Deputy Hudson is missing.”

Yes, that was the biggest problem now—sans the mere existence of the Family. As they sat in the chapel, Joseph pacing to the front absently as he mulled over the day’s events and Jacob refusing to sit but rather looming in the corner of John’s vision, he thought there was a chance that they’d say it was a waste of time to find her.

“I think,” Joseph continued, “we could allocate a small number of men—”

“Stop.” Jacob’s voice was hard. “We’re not wasting resources to find Hudson. We should be using resources to find Burke, because if he made it out he’ll have the government coming down on us any minute. Hudson is nothing.”

For a second, his two older brothers stared at each other; Jacob, steely and sharp, and Joseph, eerie in his stillness. They stayed silent for the entire duration, which was probably only a few seconds but in fact felt like an eternity , before Joseph spoke.

“We will allocate a small number of men,” he said, carefully and purposefully articulating each consonant in every word of the sentence which had shifted from a could to a will, “to scout the area. We need information on where the cult is moving. If we happen to find Hudson in the meantime, then we’ll have done the deputy a favor.”

There was another long pause. Then: “ Fine.”

John came to a stand. It was decided, which meant that he wasn’t about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, despite how uncomfortable it made him to have Jacob and Joseph in their weird little stand-off right in front of him. It was impossible, always, to tell which one was going to come out the winner, even though the end result always seemed to swing in Joseph’s favor—and that was just the way it tended to be, with them. Jacob was always the most resilient of them, but he had never been able to outlast Joseph.

“Jacob, you’ll pick the men to go,” Joseph continued amicably, and then as though to give his brother a tiny slip of victory he added, “as I trust your judgment.”

Jacob didn’t seem very pleased. “Fine,” he said again, turning and heading for the door. “But I’m not taking John’s wild animal.”

“Of course.”

That won’t bode well, John thought absently, but there wasn’t a lot of time to dwell on it. He hadn’t promised Elliot Eden’s Gate would look for Joey, so already he figured this would be considered above-and-beyond. And when they inevitably found Joey—because there was no way they wouldn’t—Elliot would remember that Eden’s Gate did this for her. That he did this for her.

“John,” Joseph began quietly, when Jacob had closed the door behind him and gone outside, “I’m trusting you.”

John turned his gaze to his brother. The words felt... Different. Off. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, “What do you mean?”

Joseph was pensive as he watched the murky dusk light filter through the cross at the head of the church. “It can be easy to lose your way,” he replied, no hint of hostility or frustration in the timbre of his voice. “To get distracted. Lured off the path. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

John’s throat felt tight. “It won’t.”

“Are you positive?” Joseph finally tilted his head, casting a glance at John over his shoulder, a look that didn’t quite lock their gazes but that John felt seen all the same. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I’m—of course I’m sure. You’re my family. I’d—”

You don’t owe him your blood and guts all the time.

“I’d do anything for you,” he finished, Elliot’s voice ringing in his head despite his better attempts to stuff down somewhere else. “You, and Jacob, and Faith.”

The older man nodded after a moment, apparently satisfied with this answer. “Then I don’t have anything to worry about.” He took in a small breath, as though to compose himself, and then turned around to face John completely, one hand gripping his shoulder with a firm squeeze. “You’ll tell me if you run into trouble?”

He regarded his brother with a beat of silence. Then I don’t have anything to worry about, Joseph had said. What had he been worried about? John? Or Elliot? And if it was the latter—what for? What for? His that voice demanded again. He was going to let her die. He was going to let Jacob shoot straight through her. What for?

John said, “Of course.”

Joseph nodded again, releasing John from his grip. He departed back to the head of the chapel, flipping open the worn, white leather book, reading quietly.

A lingering uncertainty kept his feet rooted to their spot. He wanted to ask what it was he and Elliot had been talking about the day before, when she’d come sprinting around the corner with Joseph lingering behind, eyes fixed on them. But each time he opened his mouth, jealousy wound its way thick and wretched up his throat and clamped his jaw shut.

Do you want to know? it said. Do you want to know what he was doing?

Joseph glanced up, his gaze inquisitive. “That’ll be all, John.”

“Right,” John said, and finally his body complied, carrying him down the aisle and to the doors that led out of the church.

No, he thought. I don’t.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The cruelest thing, she thought, was that the world seemed to carry on just fine—as though nothing had happened, as though her body was not plagued with panic in that very moment and had been every moment since realizing that Joey was missing. The sun still made its descent behind the distance mountains a leisurely one, giving the Autumn evening a brisk, energized feeling, but though it was her favorite season and the exact kind of weather she liked, there was nothing that felt good.

Boomer had come back from when she’d let him out and searched the bunkhouse up and down for Joey. When he couldn’t find her, he paced and whined; his gaze turned to Elliot, inquisitive, and then he’d begin his search all over again, until she couldn’t take it anymore and she took him out of the bunkhouse.

She didn’t know what was worse—staring at the empty bunkhouse or watching Boomer search for Joey over and over again.

Elliot had been sitting outside of the bunkhouse—well, sitting and then standing and then pacing and then smoking and then sitting again —by the time John had come out of the chapel and told her they’d be sending out a search party to check on the whereabouts of the Family—and to see if they had Joey or not.

“Just the one?” Elliot asked.

“The one,” John confirmed. She sucked in a sharp breath. A headache was resting just behind her eyes, stuffed-up from the ever-present verge of tears she sat on, a feverish heat humming around idly in her skeleton.

“Fucking unbelievable,” she said at last. “I’m going to go find her myself.”

She took a few steps around John, but before she got very far she felt his hand catch at her elbow. He said, “Now, just wait a second, deputy, and listen—”

“No, you listen here John Seed,” Elliot bit out, her head snapping around to look at him, meeting his gaze. “I’ll fucking die before I leave finding Joey in the hands of your little cockroaches. Especially a tiny handful of them that probably won’t try very hard—”

“If we tell them to, they will—”

“—and I especially ,” she ground out over his interjection, “wouldn’t trust a search party issued by Joseph Seed farther than I can throw them. So I’m going to go out and look for Joey on my own, and if you want to try and stop me, then—”

She stopped herself. Then? A voice inside of her prompted, inquisitively. John stared at her, waiting for whatever blow was going to come next, tension radiating through his very posture.

“Then you’re exactly who I thought you were,” she managed out at last, pulling her arm out of his grip, “and fuck you.”

“And you’re just going to go traipsing through the woods, in the dark, unarmed, looking for her?” John snipped. “I’m sure that’ll be super helpful to Hudson.”

“I’m not going unarmed,” Elliot replied briskly, “because you’re going to give me a gun.”

“Pardon?” John’s eyebrows arched up, and she didn’t want to lose her nerve but the sheer indignation in his voice almost had her second-guessing her less-than-concrete assertion. “You just about tried to sink your teeth into Jacob for something that was completely unfounded, and you want me to arm you?”

“If you have to worry about me killing Jacob without a gun, then whether I have one or not doesn’t make a difference.”

“That is absolutely not how that works.”

“John,” Elliot said, steeling her voice in a last-ditch effort, “you promised.”

He took in a sharp breath, glancing around the main yard of the compound for a moment, like maybe he didn’t want to look at her right then and there—the man who couldn’t stop looking at her, trying to make her squirm. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her, but she tried to push that down for another time, another place.

“Fine,” John said at last, “but I’m coming with you, and we’re only firing on the Family, not on Jacob.”

A little flood of relief rushed through her system. She swallowed and nodded. “Deal,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment—her body had leaned, as though after their little moment in the bar her body now tilted to kiss him on instinct—before clearing her throat and averting her eyes. “I’ll meet you at the gate, then.”

He eyed her warily. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John was right. It was unhelpful.

The turning of the season meant that the sun drifted low behind the mountains much earlier. Though Elliot knew it couldn’t have been much later than six, it was nearly dark by the time they got out into the thick of the woods; the birds had stopped their singing, and the woods had fallen asleep, leaving them painfully, dreadfully alone .

John had reluctantly put a shotgun in her hands on their way out and said, “Keep that trigger finger under control,” before heading out with her. She didn’t want to say it out loud, but it felt good—the weight of the gun in her hands felt good , familiar and hefty and she knew the second she fired it she’d feel that slick, red-hot rush of adrenaline.

And she didn’t say that to John, because she didn’t need him trying to confiscate it.

Boomer paved the way ahead of them, darting and ducking through the underbrush with his nose to the ground. He was a smart boy; the second she’d held Joey’s water bottle up for him and said, “Find”, he’d set off with a newfound purpose, always looking for a job to do or a task to accomplish.

Her breath puffed out in a milky-white cloud. While silence reigned, the cogs of her mind churned, leaping frantically from one thing to the next. Jacob, goading her into trying to kill him; Joey, telling her she didn’t have to go it alone all the time; John, hands on her face as he kissed her like he was desperate for her. The last twenty-four hours were beginning to blur together until it became some kind of fucked-up Picasso painting, one where she couldn’t tell one moment from the next—the only thing keeping her headache and the last dredges of her pneumonia under control being the tylenol she popped the second the suggested time period had passed.

“—you doing?”

Elliot’s eyes flickered and she turned her gaze to John. “What?”

“Yesterday,” he reiterated, “when you asked me to take you to Fall’s End. What were you doing?”

She turned her gaze forward again, spotting Boomer worming his way through the brush. “What do you mean?”

“You were panicking,” John elaborated, his tone implying that there wasn’t any humor left in him. “And it looked like Joseph was—”

“I wasn’t doing anything ,” Elliot interrupted. “Your brother tried his psycho bullshit on me and I exited the conversation. That’s it.”

John was quiet again, just for a moment, before he started, “Elliot—”

“I’m going to need you to shut up,” she bit out.

“Don’t you get tired of doing this?” he demanded. “What are you running from all the time, anyway?”

“You,” she snapped, “and your stupid family, always trying to dig into me—”

“Me,” John repeated flatly, “or all of your problems?”

Indignation, and anger , red-hot and unruly, spiked straight to her brain. Yes yes yes, her mind chanted, fight us, push us, give us something to sink our teeth into.

But then Boomer was barking, and then he was growling, the thick, hearty kind of snarl that came from deep in the cavity of his chest. Elliot shut her mouth with a determined click of her teeth and set off to follow the sound of his barking.

“Elliot—” John started, but she lifted her hand to signal for silence, and he blissfully shut up. As she dug through the woods lining the compound to follow Boomer’s alerting, dread started to coil in her stomach; there were no voices to match his signaling. Nobody yelling, nobody talking to him. The idea that he’d found something, but that the something was incapable of speaking, made her stomach lurch and twist.

She found him just at the edge of the woods, hackles raised fully along his spine. At first, she couldn’t see what he was barking at—in the dark, she only saw the looming shape of a boulder and the ground scattered with pine-needles around it—and then she saw it.

Blood.

The ground was damp with it, a large dark circle, and on top of it crushed lily blossoms littered the ground. The sickening smell of hot copper mixing with the sickly-sweetness of the blossoms shot nausea straight up into her throat. Funeral flowers, she thought through the haze of sickness washing over her. Restored innocence, after death.

And then, in the center of the blossoms, a head.

Not Joey’s head, she realized after a second of brutal panic shot through her. Someone else. Blonde hair, matted with blood, the skull slumping to the side like it was uneven in the back, white lily blossoms stuffed into her mouth, two perfectly preserved blooms flowering out of her eye sockets. It was Ase.

Do you see?

“Boomer,” she managed out unsteadily, reaching for him as she stifled the urge to gag. He darted over to her, nosing her hand with a cold, wet nose and whining softly just as John had caught up.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, lifting his arm to cover his nose, flashlight landing first on the crimson-stained ground and blossoms and then straight up to the boulder nearby. On it, scrawled in what she thought could only be blood, were the words WRATH, DO YOU STILL WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

“What the fuck,” Elliot said, feeling her body hunch and try to puke up the bile rolling around in her stomach. “ Who —”

John’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “I have an idea. But that’s—”

Elliot turned away from the gruesome sight, and at last she couldn’t hold it back anymore; the image of the decapitated head, stuffed with flowers, was burned into her memory so that even when she closed her eyes, she saw it. Her hand hit the trunk of a tree for support in keeping herself up as she vomited, the wretched sound of it only inspiring further sickness in her.

Ase’s fingers laced with hers, eyes glassy, blood and gore spilled across her face. “Do you see?”

“Fuck,” John said, disgust welling in his voice. “We have to get back, El.”

“He’s going to kill her,” she managed out between heaving breaths, the sour taste of bile still in her mouth. “Fuck, he’s going to kill her, John, I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have ever—”

“Let’s go.” John reached out, hand planted between her shoulder blades. “We’ll get back and tell the others. Now we know who has her.”

She nodded weakly, pulling herself up straight and swallowing back the urge to be sick again. Worse than the blood, worse than the flowers, worse than the writing—Kian, or whichever one of them had done this, had just left her. Her head, left here, alone. It wrenched her heart, somewhere deep inside of her, because in her last moments of life, Ase had reached for her.

And now she was here. Left behind. Forgotten. Serving one last purpose, even after death.

Elliot couldn’t have recalled even half of the walk back to the compound if someone asked her. Not that anything happened—John didn’t push for conversation, but seemed more preoccupied with whatever was going on in his own mind, his brows furrowed and his eyes fixed ahead of them.

By the time they got back, darkness had completely fallen; a blanket of stars stretched out above them, only a little drowned out by the lights of the compound, and a more bitter chill had settled around them. Sometime on the trip back, Elliot had gripped John’s hand, afraid that if she didn’t he’d carry on without her when she would inevitably be unable to continue.

I’m so sorry, Joey. I’m so sorry.

She stood numbly while John said something to Joseph. Though her eyes drifted aimlessly around the compound, she felt Joseph’s eyes—lingering on her, and then John, and then their hands, loosely clasped. Elliot was sure that he was delighted by this; but though his eyes kept drifting back, he said nothing about it. 

The two men spoke in low, urgent tones, and though she could have listened if she wanted, there was so little will left in her to exert the effort; it would just be a replay of the gruesome scene they’d found, anyway.

“They’re at least an hour out,” Joseph said, his voice cutting through the thrumming wobble of bass ricocheting around in her head. “They weren’t able to find them, but if they left that and it was fresh, they have to be somewhere close by. We’ll have to regroup when Jacob gets back.”

“We have to go now.” A strange kind of sensory experience washed over her as she spoke—she had become an audience member to her own body, the shotgun sitting limp and useless in her hand, the other slipping out of John’s grip. “They’re going to kill her if we don’t get her back now.”

“I’m afraid that just isn’t an option,” Joseph replied. The cloying patience in his voice made her stomach churn. “I’ve sent other members out to gather supplies, and I just can’t spare the manpower. You’d be going on your own.”

“Fine,” Elliot replied, pulling her hand out of John’s and heading toward the bunkhouse, Boomer trailing at her heels. “What’s fucking new.”

“Elliot—”

She might have tried to hear what it was Joseph and John said to each other, but she was too busy walking herself into the bunkhouse that had become her temporary base of operations. The shotgun deposited onto the bed and Boomer sitting patiently by the door, whining softly on occasion, she shuffled around in her bag before she found the carton of cigarettes. As she pulled one out, hands trembling, she tried again, and again, and again to flick the lighter on, each time a more colossal failure than the last.

I never doubted you’d be able to get me out.

Her lip wobbled against her better judgment. Discarding the cigarettes onto the bed as well after a number of failed attempts, she walked into the bathroom and rinsed her mouth, and then her face, sitting like that for a minute—bent over the sink, wet hands pressed to her face, anxiety and adrenaline battling for control over her mind.

When Elliot lifted her head, the face that stared back at her in the mirror felt like a stranger. It was her , undeniably; the logical part of her brain recognized each dip and curve of her face, the blue eyes and the panic-flushed cheeks. But the part of her brain that ruled more dominant—the one driven by emotion—thought, who is that? That’s not us. Not us, no. Too cold, too mean. Not us.

The door outside the bathroom clicked open and then shut. Boomer growled, low, but then John said something to him that she couldn’t make out and he seemed to be appeased. Funny, that he could do that now. She dried her face and hands off and stepped out of the bathroom.

“I’m going,” she said, “and I really don’t want to argue with you—”

“Then don’t,” John replied. “Don’t argue with me. You’re in no state to go and get her, El.”

“I—” Her voice faltered, and she tried to summon up the agony and the anger in her, but it was nowhere to be found. Squashed, dulled, emptied out of her. That was all she felt, now. Empty. “I can’t leave her. She’s—she’ll be waiting for me, I can’t.” She stepped around him when Boomer whined at the door again, opening it for the Heeler and letting him dart out.

“You won’t be any use,” he said from behind her. “Kian will crush you with one hand and her with the other.”

Elliot didn’t answer. Instead, she tossed the hand-towel off to the side and passed a hand over her face, closing her eyes.

John was right, and she didn’t want to say, so she wouldn’t say anything at all.

“Elliot.” His voice was soft, and closer now, and she saw his hand come up in her peripheral; he guided her to turn around and face him. “You know I’m right.”

Before his fingers could reach for her jaw, she caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” she said, steeling her voice, “okay? Don’t. I’ll wait until your stupid search party gets back, but—”

“Then you can be in charge,” John finished. His wrist twisted in her grip until he had her hand in his, bringing it up to the junction between his neck and shoulder where she could feel the steady rhythm of his pulse, and this close she could smell that fucking cologne, and the woods, and he was so close—when had he gotten so close?—and she knew what he was doing. “An hour, hour and a half tops. Kian probably wants to hold onto her and make a big show of it.” He paused, and then added, “I told you I’d help you find her, didn’t I?”

Her throat felt tight. “So help me,” she managed out.

“I’m trying,” he murmured, and their noses brushed, and she thought don’t fucking do it, don’t do it. “You have to let me.”

Elliot felt her brows pull together, knitting in frustration and anxiety, and she said, “I can’t,” her voice breaking just a little on those two words. “I can’t, I don’t—know how—”

He gripped her, like an animal he was getting ready to spear, just before his mouth met hers; it was not a gentle kiss, this time, no tentative breaths lingering between them in uncertainty. It was a punishing kind of kiss, the sort that stung when his teeth dragged against her lower lip and her nails dug into the warm skin of his shoulder.

Oh, something in her said, when John crowded up against her, warm and firm, one hand finding her hip and the other boxing her in against the door. Oh, is this what we needed? Is this what we wanted?

The bite of it grounded her, dragged her back to the sting of reality, back from wherever she had been sitting and watching her life unfold like a horrific play.

“John,” she said, his name coming out of her breathless and a little wrecked, but nothing followed. She didn’t know what she was trying to say. Please, her mouth wanted to say, but her mind said we can’t, we shouldn’t, we won’t. Scarier still was the knowledge that where she had been splitting, the part of her that had been driven through and cracked open, John had pulled her back together, even for just a little bit. Even for just a moment.

“You just have to tell me.” John’s voice was a dark, rich rumble, the sound of it shooting straight through her and pooling an unfamiliar but not unwelcome heat just at the base of her spine. Anticipation prickled along the back of her neck; his fingers at her hip slid just under the hem of her sweater, tracing the scars she knew were there. “Just tell me what you need, El, I’ll give it to you.”

“I—” She felt her gaze flicker, her breath hitching at the feeling of his fingers. He was grounding her back to reality, but he was picking her apart, too—just a different part of her, the part of her that he wanted. An even exchange. She exhaled sharply, and the noise caught somewhere in her throat and came out a whimper , fluid and filled with a strange, broken kind of want that flooded her with embarrassment.

But if John noticed her humiliation, it didn’t matter—he made a low, hungry noise against her mouth, his hand skimming along to her back to pull her closer to him. “Anything,” he said. “I’ll give you anything, you just have to tell me what you need and I will.”

The dark, lurid promise of it flickered through her brain. John—handsome, wicked John—dragging his mouth along her neck; John, hands deftly undoing her jeans and moaning against her skin; John, anything you want, Elliot, just ask, sliding down to his knees between her legs to give her the real grounding she wanted—

As though he knew exactly what she was thinking, John’s mouth drifted from hers; she felt the prickle of his beard against her neck, the tiny, tiny sting of his teeth against her pulsepoint, and she moaned, the sound as involuntary as it was jarring.

John’s own noise mimicked her own. She felt his hand drop from the door to her hip, gripping—like he wanted more, wanted her , but it felt like he was pacing himself. His voice, dark and low and oh so good rumbled against the skin of her neck when he said, “So pretty—you sound so pretty, El—”

Too much, her alarm system was screaming, it’s too much, too much, what do we do? Turn it off, pull the sprinklers, out out out.

But she couldn’t. Her hand slid from his shoulder down to his chest, curling into the fabric there, her body twisting traitorously to get closer to his as something wretched inside of her said, We could just forget, for a little, wouldn’t that be nice? And it would—it would be nice, she knew, to forget about all the gore, to forget about the panic, to let slip a few threads of control and indulge in something wicked and terrifying, like the way John said, “ Fuck, I want you,” so covetously it made her chest ache.

“Can’t think,” she managed out, squirming in his grip as panic wound its way through her, mixing in a toxic cocktail with what she knew was arousal sitting in her stomach. “I can’t think, n-need air, John—”

Her hand left his shoulder and fumbled at the doorknob. John pulled back, just a little, and then stilled her shaking hand over the doorknob. His gaze was dark, the black blown wide with want, but he turned the knob on the door anyway and dropped his hand from her back as it swung open.

The cold, chilly air of the evening brutalized her senses. She took two steps away from the brunette behind her, swallowing thickly until she could actually feel her heartbeat again—fast, but tangible. Her eyes fluttered shut, but treacherously her brain went sprinting—sprinting to John pressed up against her, the gentle, dull ache where his teeth had dug into her lip, the tingle where his fingers had brushed her skin.

It was a few seconds before John said, “You should try and get some rest before they get back,” as he stepped around her. She opened her eyes to look at him; he seemed perfectly composed, as though nothing had just happened, if not for the way his eyes settled heavy on her, if not for the way that she knew he sounded when he wanted her.

She didn’t know what to say. Desperate for something, anything to keep her mind busy and away from the task at hand, she wanted to say, kiss me again, please, but now it felt more traitorous than ever. Once in the heat of the moment was one thing, but to ask for it?

So she said, “Okay.” 

John’s eyes swept over her, slow and leisurely. “If you need me,” he continued, “come find me.”

Blood rushed to her face. Fuck fuck fuck, so fucking bad, this is so fucking bad. She opened her mouth to say, I won’t, but before she could muster the words out of her mouth John turned and walked away, heading to the church and leaving her alone.

Alone with that strange, hungry animal inside of her.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John could not stop thinking about her.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she tasted when she said his name against his mouth, or the way she squirmed and whimpered the second his fingers brushed bare skin. Fuck, he wanted to know what her scars were from—wanted to run his mouth along each one until he could dip lower, drag his teeth against the soft skin and make her say his name in a different way.

So close, he thought idly, the sounds she made replaying themselves in his head. I was so close, I almost had her, she was almost mine.

It would be bad to push—he needed to exercise patience. Her friend was missing, after all. The next time he got so close, he wanted her to ask for it; he wanted her to say please, John, the way that had become so easy for her to say as of late, but more. He wanted her to twist her fingers in his hair and beg him to put his mouth on her. And he would, if she did. He’d do anything she asked, if she just made that noise again.

I want I want I want, something in him chanted, hungry, demanding. I want her, she’s mine, all mine, nobody else’s.

An hour passed. He stepped out of the church and made his way across the yard, feeling more composed than before; he would be fine to wait, he thought. It would make it all the sweeter when she came around.

John knocked on the door to the bunkhouse and waited a few seconds before stepping inside. Elliot stirred on one of the beds, sitting up a little; her face was warm from sleep and whatever panic had been rushing through her before seemed mostly abated.

“Are they back?” she asked, kicking her legs out from under the blanket.

“Not yet,” John replied, pausing. “How are you feeling?”

Elliot eyed him with a sort of wanting wariness; as though she wasn’t going to allow herself to fall victim again, even though she wanted to. It was more than she’d given him, anyway. “Fine,” she answered briskly.

“Just fine?” John prompted.

“Just fine.”

Another silence stretched between them. John said, “Elliot, I meant it when I said—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Elliot interrupted. “There’s—it’s—”

“It’s?” John waited, again, while she worked the words around in her head.

“I don’t—know,” she managed out at last. “It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said idly, taking a few steps over to her. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“You said it yourself,” Elliot pointed out, “you would do anything for them. Right?”

He paused, watching her. “Yes.”

“Even,” Elliot continued, “try and—with me—”

John blinked. “Pardon?”

“Try and fuck me,” the blonde bit out, “so that I’ll—so that I won’t try and put them away. So I won’t try and kill Joseph. So I’ll—”

She cut herself off, then, stopping. John thought, She really doesn’t stop, does she? That brain of hers just won’t stop turning. Because, perhaps, those moments that she had seen John straining for Joseph’s effort like she said—those moments that had been spent with Joseph saying things like, I think you’re doing great with the deputy, or I don’t have anything to worry about, then, made his fingers itch. Something in him was hurtling, careening to make Elliot his in every way. Before anyone else. 

“Elliot,” he said curtly, boxing those thoughts away to keep his composure, “please do not condescend to me about the draconian machinations you think are behind the fact that I want to fuck you.”

She sucked in a sharp little breath, like she was doing her best to control her temper about what he’d just said. He saw her fingers curling absently into the sheet, and then loosening and curling again. Her lashes fluttered, and she parted her lips to say something, but nothing came out; when she turned her face away from him, he could see the beginnings of a bruise blooming where his teeth had met her skin.

John narrowed his eyes. “If you can tell me that—”

But he was interrupted by the sound of shouting outside, the rattle of a truck’s engine coming to a slow and then shutting off. Elliot’s gaze flickered from his to the door and she reached for her boots. “Is that them?”

Fuck, John thought. Deal with the matter at hand, and then finish this. Patience was a virtue, as Joseph would say. “I’ll check.”

He turned, opening the door to see Jacob pulling the truck around. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he had walked into the bunkhouse. Elliot would want to get out and find Joey as soon as possible, and then —

Joseph was already outside, and when John stepped out into the yard, his brother said, “John—” and his voice plunged over the proverbial cliff; when their eyes met, Joseph’s feet carried him forward, an eerie and unsettling urgency to his tone. 

John hesitated in his movements as anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach. The last thing that he wanted was to see the thing that made Joseph say his name that way , whatever it was—whatever monster had crawled out from under the bed.

But it was too late. Against his better judgment, and against his personal wishes, his eyes strayed innately, searching searching searching for the source of duress so that he could eliminate it, until finally he found it, planted right in the middle of the compound: Joey Hudson.

Joey Hudson sat up cross-legged, her jaw broken in her skin and hung slack like a horror monster, her dark eyes glazed over and empty. From her mouth spilled the most brilliant bouquet of wildflowers John thought he had ever seen—but it was nothing, nothing compared to the voluminous collection of flowers that filled up the cavernous hole of her chest. 

It was bursting with blossoms and verdant ferns. Fresh. Not a single bloom wilted. Recent. She was so packed-full of them that he thought, surely, they’d had to have broken her ribs out of her and tossed them to make room. The harsh lights lining the compound bathed her in a most unforgiving, cruel fluorescent glow, so that there was no mistaking any detail; each flower picked and placed with insane, meticulous care. He felt his stomach churn.

Jacob’s truck had pulled in just behind it. It was his voice shouting at the men to stay, his commanding presence that tried to root John back to the earth as his brain mindlessly fizzed static around the corpse laid out in front of him, his feet carrying him forward despite his better judgement, despite the alarm bells screaming for him to go back. All thoughts of his conversation with Elliot were wiped clean from his brain, bashed in and crumbled to dust under the sight before him.

“What’s wrong?”

Elliot’s voice jarred him out of the strangely-dulcet reverie the gruesome, discordant corpse had put him into, like a spell suddenly broken. He thought, very quickly, Elliot is going to be devastated, and then, I have to stop her, she can’t see this.

When John turned to look at her, his hands instinctively went up, in a foolish act of trying to block it from her view. It was no use; her eyes fixed on it immediately, having come out before he could notice, in plain view of Hudson’s decorated body.

“No no no no—”

Her voice wobbled and filled with dread. John reached for her. He thought, if I can hold her; he thought, if she would just let me hold her; but Elliot had never before, and he didn’t know why he had thought she would now. She shoved his arms away from her, the anguished noise that came out of her ripping right through his sternum.

The blonde took one, two, three steps before she stumbled, and John’s arms went for her, circling around her waist to keep her from the ground and keep her from Joey, and she howled, grief and rage welling out of her in a sound that John wished he had never, ever had to hear.

“Stop looking, El,” he said helplessly, the feeling of her body crumpling over the circle of his arms nearly pulling him down with her; her feet found purchase on the ground, and she pulled at his grip, sobbing an incoherent train of no’s over and over until she was wrenching her whole body like a wild animal to get loose. Doing the only thing that she knew how to do, anymore: hit, and hurt, and try to get free.

She moaned, viciously, “Don’t fucking touch me ,” and he grabbed her wrists to still her, to stop her from hitting him. Over and over, she said, “This is your fucking fault—this is your fault, I’ll fucking kill you, I’ll kill you, John Seed—”

“Elliot,” John said over her howling, “I have you.”

Elliot cried, and cried and cried, until all she had the energy left to do was cry, rattling deep in the cavity of her chest where the rest of the sickness still lingered; she cried and John gripped her wrists and pulled her forward until her face was against his chest and he said, “I have you, I have you,” again, because that was all he could say to her; there was nothing else that he could give her.

Her fingers curled and uncurled weakly into fists. He was only vaguely aware, over the sounds of her grief and misery, of Joseph telling Jacob to get help to move the body; he registered the voices somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he could really think about was the way Elliot slumped against him, digging her nails into her palms over and over again as she cried until he slid his hands to hers to keep her fingers laid flat.

John pushed the hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed red from her grief, her bottom lashes—normally so blonde and fine—a dark, mousy color from the tears. His hands took her face and he said, “Look at me,” and he pressed their foreheads together. “Just you and me. Don’t—look over there, stay here, with me.”

“I can’t.” Her voice broke. She sobbed; the sound of it rattled somewhere deep inside John’s skull, locked itself in his jaw, to haunt him, forever. “I can’t, I can’t —I hate you—”

He said, helplessly again, “I know, El.”

Her breaths rattled, laborious and exhausted, from somewhere deep inside of her where Grief had made its permanent home. She lifted her head and sucked in another breath, a sharper one, but as soon as she saw Jacob moving towards Hudson’s body, she lurched forward.

“Don’t.” The words came out of her like something wretched, something vicious. Jacob, blissfully, stopped; the lines of his expression were hard, and unforgiving, but he seemed to be waiting rather than doing it out of spite. For once. “Don’t you fucking touch her, don’t—”

“We have to move her body,” John said; just like that, the words crushed her, brutalized her under agony’s weight. The words her body seemed to have cut her right to the quick, and if he hadn’t been holding her, he thought she might have collapsed on the ground.

“My Joey,” she moaned. Agonized, an animal trapped and wailing to be let go . “What did they do to her? What did they do to you? John—”

A near-midnight breeze carried the voices of the Eden’s Gate members just ahead, and Joey Hudson’s corpse stirred, petals fluttering and dark hair drifting in the breeze. For a second in time, she had been resurrected—just one second—where the horror of her murder melded into something more monstrous than before.

And Elliot, saying his name in a way that said help me. All of her vitriol, and all of her poison, and all of the times she’d said I’ll rip your fucking eyes out or I’ll kill you, and now she was here—gripping him, holding him tight, like he was the last thing in the entire world that was going to keep her anchored to the earth. Each dreadful noise of heartache that came out of her tolled like a bell inside of him, vibrating its discordant song over and over again.

I need you, help me.

John wrapped her up in his arms more securely. “Let Jacob move her somewhere quiet, Elliot.”

The sorrow hiccuped in her chest. She tried to say something, but the words came out broken, merely fragments of the sentence she’d been wanting, and she stopped her squirming; when John was able to turn her away from the gruesome sight, Jacob began moving again, speaking in a low, urgent tone to another member of Eden’s Gate.

It felt like he was in a dream as he walked her into the church. The time between Hudson’s corpse and the doors seemed both to stretch on forever and pass in a blink; once inside the dark, quiet chapel, the door closed behind them, John found himself releasing a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He guided Elliot to a nearby pew, sitting her down; as he settled between her knees, palms flat on the tops of her thighs, Elliot sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.

“John,” she said, and he waited for her to finish her sentence but she didn’t; each time she opened her mouth, all that came out of it was a wet, agonized sob, the kind that dragged the grit right out of her chest, shuddering and hoarse. She tried again: “ John ,” and he took her hands and held them in his.

“I know,” he said. And then that nasty, wicked little monster inside of him; finally, finally, finally, it chanted, Elliot crumpling at the waist to bury her face, wet with tears, against their clasped hands. Finally finally finally. Mine, all mine, mine and nobody else’s.

It should have made him feel guilty. He should have felt bad about it. John knew it; he knew what kinds of emotions were expected out of people in times like this, what people looked for, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel guilty at all.

“El,” he murmured against her hair, “you have to breathe.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed, “I can’t.”

Poor, desolate little hellcat, he thought, knelt between her legs as she cried. Poor, agonized hellcat.

“You can,” John said. “For me.”

She did. One long, arduous breath in, and then another, and another, until her breathing was normal and she was emptied out. Only the hollow grief remained; her gaze lackluster, empty, searching idly for somewhere safe and soft to land.

“I have to find him,” she whispered, her voice rasping raw in her throat.

“We will.” He watched her, and though her eyes never landed on him, her hand still clutched his, nails digging into his skin like she thought she was going to float away. Like she was afraid he’d leave. She finally looked at him.

“Swear,” Elliot said. “Swear we’ll find him, and kill him—rip him apart—”

Just like that, the grief was reformed; he saw it happen, the way she gripped it, mangled it in her hands, even when it bloodied her with its edges. Twisted it into something useful. Anything to fit it, slot it right into her like one more missing piece in her puzzle. There was no room for sadness in there: only anger. Only wrath.

What do we do with grief?

“I swear,” John insisted. She was so full of it; vengeance, burning straight through her, so easily flipped on. And all his. 

“I mean it, John.”

“I told you,” he said. “Anything you want.”

[jessiebanethedragon]

The Village That Burned

It was cold, not the bitter and biting cold, but the still calm cold that follows after a peaceful snowfall. The kind of cold where you could lay in it until the snow melts. To a passerby that's exactly what she was doing, spending her free time laying in the snow. It wasn't until you got closer and realized she was covered only in tattered clothing and warm sticky blood that you realised the truth. 

The village of Gable was spread out, each neighbor trying to be as far away from the other as they could possibly be. It was a loveless village, built to withstand the cruelty of those around them. The Dwarves resided in the center, their houses were once stacked together as a community but the empty rooms and buildings left crevasses where families once lived. They made up the smallest of the population, for the very reason that they were the bravest species ever to walk the continent. 

The Orcs took up the space closest to the forest, their brutish nature keeping most other creatures at bay. Their watch towers spaced apart to watch the most amount of ground possible, serving as everything to them. If not for their weapons, the watchtowers would be the orcs prize possessions. 

The Fae’s or Fairies (depending on your take of the entirety of the race) took the inner west side of Gable. They could be found farming or looking for anything else alive that they could make use of. Not typical actions for the magical creatures. But, after all, Gable wasn't exactly natural in itself.

Lastly, there was ‘The East’ as it was called.  The East was empty, it had been for centuries and would remain that way for eternity. The legends say humans once inhabited the land, but that leaves little room for logic and little explanation for the dark magic that hovers over the area. 

It was mid rotation the day it was found, freshly fallen snow covered the village and the smell of smoke was on the horizons, making the orcs ever on edge.  

“My dad says the snow is a sign of death.” Dergu said, kicking it with his military boots. orc teenagers were known for their short temper and constant need for altercations. His face was already littered with marks. Rusty red scars contrasting to the dark armour they all had to wear. 

“You’d think your kind would appreciate it.” Neglorum grunted. “Being that you hide easier in it.” Ah there it is, the grumpiness and bluntness of the dwarf. Already so clearly ingrained in Neglorum’s personality. 

“Some of us, like warm weather and fresh air Neg.” Dergu spat. “We don't all have our heads affected by metal you know.” If not for their usual banter, one might think the two young adults hated each other. An onlooker would assume so, pale orc skin verses the darkness of a dwarfs.  But for these two it was business as usual. (Heavens forbid they actually utilize the word friendship.) 

“Insufferable.” A fleeting voice said from behind them. But before either boy could turn around the owner of the voice was in front of them. Ail Stone-Shade, or Stone, to people who knew him better than most, wasn't as short as Neg or as tall as Dergu but his Big black eyes and pointy ears gave him away. 

“Would it kill you not to sneak everywhere you go?” Neglorum asked brushing past him to continue on their way. It was the end of the month, and that means all three boys have been sent by their families to tend to the biggest tree on the edge of the forest. If the species could agree on one thing it was that this tree was precious and the most talented of their young should be tasked with its upkeep.

“Just because you insist on trampling around doesn't mean I do.” Ail said, his light voice coming out as a song in the winds. 

“What's wrong, Stone? Scared the donkeys on your farm will notice you?” Dergu chuckled, slinging his broadsword over his shoulder. Having removed it in a startle when the Fae had first arrived. 

“Trust me,” Ail said. “I've been noticed by the two biggest donkeys here already.” he said with a signature smirk. And It wasn't long before the other two were chasing him down looking to push him into the ground for such a joke. But not as friends would of course, because in Gable friendships just aren't allowed.

The edge of the forest carried an air of calmness about it, the border of trees before the clearing that made way for the town. It felt like a forcefield keeping out the creatures that lay within the dense trees. 

“You two would never guess what I saw three nights ago.” Dergu said once they had reached the edge of the town. There was a path that led their way which wasn't traveled by anyone within Gable. And for the three boys, it was a place where they could be themselves. 

“Three nights ago?” Ail questioned, thinking back to the noises he heard and the energies he could feel from his animals. “Was it near the west?” Dergu nodded. 

“About seven towers from your farm.” Using your friends living spaces as a measure for distance was the only kind of measuring Dergu ever used. At first, Ail and Neglorum assumed it was because orcs do not possess acute cartography skills. But then, one night when the three had planned to venture out into the night for some entertainment, Ail and Neglorum learned it was because Dergu always felt the need to keep the dangers away from his friends. They had been close enough to see the orc kill a possessed wolf that entered the city just before Ail’s farm. ‘That was too close.’ Dergu said. ‘Should have been disposed of two towers ago. That was too close to your quarters.’ Nothing else was said about the matter. 

“So, what was it? Something new? What was it like? Armoured? Clawed?” Neglorum quirked. The technical side of his mind already works through what weapons could be effective against a new kind of threat. 

“I do not believe I have seen anything like it before, it was dark so forgive the lack of description.” Ail and Neglorum nodded quickly excited by Dergus' tale. “You know the bone-creatures? Well this was like that, but the bones were half covered. And it pulled itself forward by its arms, not on its hind legs like usual.” Ail felt a cold wind travel up his spine, fleeting over his green toned skin and past his dark hair. 

“What did you do with it?” he asked softly. Suddenly Dergu stopped walking and turned to face his friends, they were almost at the tree now, but this seemed to take precedence. 

“That's the issue. We did not approach it, my legion had orders to hold all fire. And the thing just kept crawling until it collapsed.”  Neglorum tugged on his light-coloured facial hair, the dirtied blonde, disheveled locks catching as he ran his hand through it.  

“So, it just died? Just like that?” he asked. “What were the wounds like? Did you get a closer look Der?” Dergu shook his head in the negative. 

“The wind took out our torches. We had them relit in moments, and when we looked the thing was gone. Like it had decomposed into the snow.” The three were silent as they resumed walking, each thinking through what the thing could have possibly been. It must have been a sight to get Dergu talking that much, while he was chatty for an orc he was still a man of little words.

“Well at least the tree is in good shape…” Ail started, trying to ease the uncomfortable silence. This was sacred in Gable, when you have people mingling together as they do, it is hard to accommodate all beliefs and ideals. But all would agree that the tree was a symbol of life and growth, and well, that was good enough.  Nothing really changed about the tree, except for when the chosen representatives came to bring their offerings, Ail would chant a spell of fertilization and growth, Dergu would take the boot laces of fallen orcs and gently tie them to the branches  as a symbol of the willingness to give, and Neglorum would place a moonlight jewel in the center of the trunk, removing the old one that had become dull. The tree would then look exquisitely ethereal, draped in leather, fairy dust floating by the leaves, and a shining clear crystal, all to show the utmost care for peace in the world. 

They all set about their jobs once the boys had reached the tree, working slowly and carefully, Neglorum was finished first, as per usual, and set himself down to relax, staring out into the forest absentmindedly. Ail was finished second, joining his friend in the snow. 

“It is a wild place isn't it?” Ail thoughtfully asked. Tilting his head to the side like he always did when he was deep in thought. All he got was a grunt in response. The dwarf enjoying his moment of peace with closed eyes. But it didn't last for much longer before Ail was hitting him softly but quickly to get his attention. 

“Get up. Get up!” He punctuated each word with a tap on the leg. “There's something out there!” Neglorum rolled away mumbling:

“It’s just a rabbit or something. Stop your flapping” 

“No, it’s too big, it’s different, I can feel it! Neglorum!!!” Ail got up and ran after him once he had noticed his friend walking away.

“Can you please talk sense into this big-eared idiot?” he asked Dergu, sounding only vaguely annoyed (perhaps because he couldn't be bothered to be fully annoyed, that would've been too much effort.)  

“What's your problem Stone?” He asked. 

“There’s something in the woods.” he replied curtly nodding his head in the direction of the source. 

“Of course, there's something in the bloody woods. It's the woods.” Dergu sighed. Sometimes it was easy to forget the ignorance of a civilian compared to that of a soldier.

“I know, I know. I am speaking of something new that is in the woods.” Ail said for what felt like the millionth time. Sometimes he forgot that his company couldn't feel auras like he could. The group grew quiet, all trying to listen and look for anything that could hint to what was out there. Nothing moved, save for the wind rolling through the treeline. 

“Well, arm up boys. Guess we’re going for a little wonder.” Dergu tried his best to not sound enthralled by the chance of an adventure. 

“I think not, that is by far the last thing we shall be doing.” Neglorum huffed. “I mean really, Der, you think the three of us should go tromping through literal hell on the basis that Stone is a little jumpy?” 

“Stay here if you insist on being such a coward.” Dergu snapped, “but whatever we find, we get to keep.” Thinking about it, Dergu was the most un-orc-ish an orc can be. He was kind, good for a conversation now and again, and most surprisingly, a tad clever. He knew for a fact, the prospect of finding and collecting something new, and something valuable, would be enough for Neglorum to come along. 

“Orc smelling, dung heap.” Neglorum mumbled as he pushed past Dergu, making his way into the trees, knowing he’d been bested.  

It was not long before Gable was completely out of sight, the sunlight was growing sparser by the moment and the trio was making their way through the forest. Ail leading the group in the direction he felt the presence coming from. And Dergu brought up the rear with his broadsword drawn and his wits (what little of them he had) about him. 

The snow was clean, packed down by each footstep and in their wake a trail of dirtied footprints behind them. The mud left in the snow would be enough to find their way back afterwards. And while the sunlight was lacking the bright white of the snow was enough to keep the strangeness of the forest at bay. It was motionless, not a thing moved, no wind in the leaves, no rabbits springing from log to log. It was as if every living thing that should be there had just vanished. And it wasn't until they happened upon the creature that they knew why. 

“No.” whispered Neglorum. “No, no, no, I knew we should not have done this. You ignorant Fae, you’ve killed us all.” All three boys had frozen in fear. Just on the other edge of the clearing they had happened upon, laid a figure, half buried in the snow. Red seeping out of the body and into the area around them. 

“It cannot be.” Ail slurred, almost intoxicated by the waves of emotions coming off of the barely alive lifeform. “They are all dead, extinct. There hasn't been one around for millennia.”

“Well how about we kill this one and high tail it out of here.” Dergu snapped. Clenching his weapon until his pale knuckles were beyond white. Ail hesitated, something still wasn't right. 

“I think it is dying Der, I think it is done for.” Carefully he took a light step towards the figure. Neither of his companions moved, frozen by fear and shock, and admiration for his bravery all at the same time. The thing was breathing. Very, very slowly. The tiny puffs of air clouding in the atmosphere as the chest rose and fell. Kneeling down, Ail focused on the face, or what he could see of it. He didn't think he had ever seen so much blood collected on a living being before. Its eyes were open and trying to focus on him. Hair was all over the place, matted, torn and covered in who knows what. 

“Please…” it whispered. Mouth barely moving. 

“We can save it.” he called to the others.

“Are you an absolute madman!?” Neglorum roared. “It is a human.” Then, he stomped over to the fairy, grabbed his collar and started to drag him back out of the clearing. 

“But she’s dying.” Ail said as he twisted and turned. 

“Good riddance.” Was all the reply he got. 

“Take cover” screamed Dergu, running them all into the snow without warning. When they came to, the human was in the same spot, their hand slightly pointed and raised towards the group. 

“See the thing is clinging to life and still trying to end ours,” He hissed. The hand fell back into the snow. Ail crawled over to it. And very slowly, he put his hand in hers. 

“What is it?” he asked. The hand in his flexed, making sure he would not leave.

“I am sorry.” she whispered. “I came to help.” panting in between words, “they’re expanding.” Her head rolled back, eyes looking at the sky. “You have to leave.” 

“Who is expanding? The Goblins, the Bone creatures, the Risen, the Spiders…” he listed everything he could think of. 

“No.” she cut him off. “The humans.” And with that, she gave into unconsciousness.  

“Maybe we should interrogate it.” Dergu suggested. And Ail gave him a look that showed just how stupid that idea was. 

“If we need to know anything else she needs to heal.” He said softly. 

“We are not bringing that thing back into Gable with us, we can warn our families ourselves.” Neglorum stated, sounding unconvinced of his own idea.

“Who would believe us?” Ail countered. Dergu nodded in agreement. “She needs taking care off until we can get the facts.” The group went silent for some time. 

“She could stay with my cousin…” Neglorum said slowly, surprising the other two.  “He has the attic where we could keep it.” Ail didn't bother to point out that he had called the human a she. 

“I do not think we have any other choice.” Ail said.

“If we do nothing and the village falls, we would be at fault.” Dergu added.

“I guess we are taking the human with us then.” Neglorum finished. 

Was it strange for three young adults to sit and watch a sleeping Human? Yes, it was. But then again if you found a unicorn in the woods you would probably stare at it too. After much time had passed they had decided maybe she was not a threat in her sleep. But when Dergu suggested they search The East both Neglorum and Ail smacked some sense into him. Each found a different part of the human post conflicting. She didn't carry any weapons, but Dergu had been taught about their dangers and love for fighting. She had no magical properties but Ail had heard enough stories about their magic that would suggest otherwise. And she had no valuables on her but Neglorum and the dwarfs knew just how deep greed was embedded into humanity. 

“Are we sure she is a human?” Neglorum whispered the last part like it was a curse word. “She doesn't look like how they're supposed to.”       

“But it’s got to be a human, what else would it be?” Dergu countered. 

“Maybe it’s like half human half something else, like how a mule is half donkey.” Ail offered, resting his big head in his small hands. 

“Let's review what we know.” Dergu said sitting down beside Ail. Taking his commander role as per usual. “We know it’s probably some sort of human or human related. We know it's injured so there's something else out there. If we trust it we know there's more on the way. And even though this one doesn't appear too bad the others could be different things entirely.” Neglorum pulled an empty crate over to sit opposite his friends. 

“We need to heal it somehow, if Gable is facing an attack we need to either desert or prepare for conflict.”  he said stroking his beard. 

“But if we tell anyone about her they would call us mad.” Ail protested, their conversation had been going in circles like this for what felt like ages. And they ended up at the same conclusion every time. 

“So, we bandage her, add the healing lotion and hope for the best?” They all nodded in agreement. 

It was three days before the human woke up fully. Each of them had tried to keep as close tabs as they could, and when Neglorum came running into Shade’s farm, Ail need not have asked what it was about, before he took off in a surreptitious scamper. And after Dergu had been found they had rushed to Neglorum’s cousin’s attic. 

The human was still laying down on her crates alone. Looking at her surroundings. 

“These are the others.” Neglorum stated. Ail gave an awkward wave and Dergu just stared. 

“You were present in the forest.” She said looking at Ail. he nodded, unsure of what to say. Her voice was soft but decisive, delicate but firm. No one said anything at first, they just all kind of looked at each other as if to say, ‘okay what do we do now.’ The human was looking out the window she spoke again: 

“You did not evacuate.” It was more of a thought made aloud rather than a question. 

“Where would we go exactly?” it was Dergu who spoke up. “We need to know what we have to fight against. We need to be able to defend our city.” 

“It isn't the city that they want.” she tried to sit up, but only got halfway before giving into  the pain. 

“And why should we believe you?” Neglorum cut in.

“Would I have walked through that forest for a lie?”   

“If you needed it to be believable, you would.”

“Then why would I be injured? Ask your orc friend over there. I wasn't bloodied up by anything in the forest, I was attacked by the things on the other side.” All eyes went to Dergu. 

“The wounds were not usual. Not by our weapons or by the means of a creature I could recognize.” 

“Yeah because you are known for your skills in medicine.” Neglorum commented. Earning a chuckle from his two companions. 

“You said there were more humans?” Ail whispered, bringing up the thing that is scaring everyone in the room. 

“There are two armies of them moving in from the east, but slowly, neither have mobilized yet, and it will take them time to do so.” 

“And these two armies, what do they want with Gable?” Dergu questioned. 

“I told you, it is not the town they are interested in.” She sighed and then paused. “What Do you know of the Pact of Tolerance?” they all shook their heads. “Have you ever even heard the name?” she was beginning to realise the gravity of the situation. 

“What are you talking about, there hasn't been anything like that since civilization fell when the humans got infected by dark magic.” Ail explained. 

“There was no dark magic,” and with that she began her tale. 

“Millennia ago, humans were integrated in society, we lived and worked together just like you do now. But my kind is destructive, self-destructive. We are our own worst enemy. If a human see’s another with something they themselves do not possess they will fight for it. And when the wars started, and my race started to fall we looked to our friends and allies for help. But what could you do? How do you support a group that fights itself, a city that tears itself apart is not worth rebuilding. So my elders and your elders made a pact. The humans would take their fair share of provisions, weapons and animals and leave. All across the country there was a mass migration. As the humans were expelled to the darkest corners of the world, where they could not hurt anyone but themselves.” She paused, letting it all sink in, of course, it made so much sense now they had heard the tale. Everything clicked together, the desertion of the east, the blockades from race to race built on a fear of internal conflict, dozens of small villages separated by woods rather than one interconnected huge city. 

“And that's how they all died?” Dergu asked. “You killed each other until there wasn't a single one of you left.” he let out a breath of nausea, what kind of monster was capable of that? What happened to the elderly, the children and those who could not fight? 

“Not exactly.” She said, emotionless like the story had been told and told again until it lost meaning and left a hollow feeling in the stomach. “The numbers dwindled and fell until the fighting stopped, and then when we rebuilt and reformed it all started again. A cycle that lasts for hundreds of years. And the humans are all too stupid to notice it.” 

“That still doesn't explain what you’re doing here.” Neglorum said, a slight softness in his voice.  

“Someone from another village stumbled onto one of the battlegrounds, and well. You all can guess what happened after that. They had something we didn't, and now we know there's more out there. I’ve been plotting out possible villages with a small group, we have been trying to warn you that they're coming.” 

“You and your group.” Dergu said, “you’re trying to stop a war between races.” She nodded slowly. “Are you making progress?” She did not have to answer for them to know that they were getting nowhere. 

“Everyone and everything I meet wants me dead. My people say I'm a traitor and every town knows I am a monster.” There wasn't anything anyone could say to make the human on the crates less correct.

“We must take her to orc high command.” Dergu argued they were outside the attic now, standing in the torch lit hallways of Neglorum’s own home. The human was resting, sleeping off what was left of her injuries.

“Orc high command would kill her the moment they recognized her species.” Neglorum sighed, itching his nose in thought with crinkled eyebrows. 

“Not if I am present.” Dergu told them, already he sounded protective of the small creature. 

“They would kill you as well,” Neglorum responded in protest. 

“They would not kill all three of us, if we all went as a united force, the three chosen children. The three of us, chosen to protect the sacred tree and our village.” Ail said, his voice sounding more and more hopeless. “It’s like she was sent to us. The only people in Gable who could help her and our people. the tree has given her to us.” Dergu rested his hands on his friend’s shoulders, and leaned his forehead down. Ail and Neglorum joined, connecting the circle in the first and last embrace they would ever share. 

The walk to the tower of the Orc high command was solemn and silent, the human was covered by the biggest and heaviest cloak they could find. Nobody spared them a passing glance. To everyone else this was a normal day in their dull village. 

The orc high command tower was not that different from any of the other orc towers around the city, except for the flag that adorned the top of it, flying the symbol of gable. Which of course, was an embroidered tree on a plain black background. The doors were never locked because they need not bother, most had no reason to ever want to be in the tower. 

The oldest orc, or Sur, as he was known, stood atop the edge of the tower looking off into the distance. 

“What is it children?” he asked slowly, not bothering to turn around.  Already bothered by their presence. 

“We request a meeting with an open mind.” Ail spoke out, only to receive gracious laughter from the four other orc guards present at the tower top. 

“Well then,” the scarred face turned around, missing teeth, broken lips and no piece of skin uninjured. “I will do my best Ail Stone-shade.” 

“We have news of an attack.” Dergu stepped in front of his friend. “Two armies of humans are making their way here from the east.” Sur took slow calculated steps towards Dergu and reached his hand out even slower. No one made a move to step him as he began to strangle the young Orc in front of his friends and comrades. 

“The humans…” There was no measurement for the anger in his words and Dergu began to struggle. “Are extinct. We drove them out. We let them die like the vermin they are.”  

“Stop, you are going to kill him!” Ail exclaimed trying to rush forward with Neglorum only to be restrained by the other orcs.  

“Good riddance.” Sur spat. Ail, Neglorum and Dergu all looked to the small cloaked figure standing off to the side. Wondering what would happen next. 

“Perhaps you should heed his warning.” she said calmly. Carefully reaching up to remove her hood. Sur dropped Dergu to the ground in shock, and he rolled to his side gasping for air. The human walked to him resting her hand on his back, offering some sort of comfort. No one moved, after all, it is not as if there was a precedent for this kind of altercation. 

“This is not possible.” Sur told the group and himself. 

“I do apologise but we have not been graced with the luxury of time for us to ponder the possibility of my existence.” The human stood eye to eye with the warrior in front of her. “You need to evacuate the city.” 

“I do not take orders from disgusting creatures such as yourself.” And with that Sur spat at her feet. The human took a small step back.

“Can you smell the smoke?” she asked looking around, visually the air was peaceful, but the faint smell of smoke had been lingering for days.  “That is the smell of your forest burning. That is the remnants of every village before yours.” Her voice shook. “They will take your people and burn your homes. Please.” she begged as she dropped to her knees. “Evacuate your city.” 

Blind trust is dangerous, it’s as sharp as a sword, hot as magma and cold as space. It is the safest of embraces and as lonely as death. Blind trust builds kingdoms and destroys empires. It’s taking care of a sacred tree, and it’s saving a dying woman in the forest. It’s that feeling of falling in love and breaking a heart all at the same time. It is standing on the edge of the forest, in an abandoned battlefield, watching the smoke rise from where your home used to be. It’s one human, a single dwarf, a Fairy, and a sole Orc, all coming together in blind faith to save the few they could. And even though they couldn't see the flames there was no mistake of what was occurring in Gable in that moment. And in a town where no one trusted each other and friendships were not allowed, three boys, who couldn't help but care for each other had saved them all. 

[a-stone-world-saga]

“Senkuu? Are you busy?”

Senkuu glances up from the melting contents of the test tubes he’s been waiting on. Ruri is standing in the doorway, one hand pushing the curtain aside, half-turned away like she’s unsure of her welcome. Haloed behind her, the moon hangs heavy and full in the clear night sky.

“Nah,” Senkuu shrugs, setting his latest experiment to the side. “I have to wait for these to defrost first, so the next step can wait until morning. Chrome will complain if I start without him anyway.” He considers her for a moment. “It’s late. Did you need something?”

Ruri’s chin dips into the fur of her coat but her gaze remains on him. “I couldn’t sleep,” She admits. “So I thought I would go for a walk.” She pauses, eyes darting away, then back. “Kohaku told me you don’t sleep much, so I wondered if you would like to come with me?”

Senkuu stares at her, more than a little surprised. He must take too long to answer though because she winces like she’s committed some horrible offense, and in the next second, she’s already apologizing, “I’m sorry, I overstepped, I just thought-”

Senkuu snorts loudly, and then has to hide a wince of his own because he always forgets to be a little gentler with Ruri the way everyone else naturally seems to be around her. It’s not really in his nature though, to be careful with people, except maybe Suika, sometimes, since she’s a child. But Ruri... Ruri’s somehow always registered as tough in his mind, when he thinks about her, and so it never occurs to him right away that she’s technically more delicate than all the other people he usually interacts with.

Ah well, too late to take it back now. Onward and through it is. “Don’t be stupid, why would you be overstepping?” He grumbles, pushing to his feet and stretching the stiffness out of his muscles. “Besides, I don’t have anything better to do right now, and I could do with some fresh air. Let me just get my coat.”

He fetches it from the wall hooks in the corner, and then rakes a critical eye over Ruri before grabbing an extra scarf as well.

“Jeez,” He grumbles, sparing a moment to blow out the oil lamp on the table before joining Ruri at the door. She’s still blinking owlishly at him, like she fully expected to be turned down in the first place. Senkuu just sighs and loops the scarf around her neck, knotting it loosely before tucking most of it inside the collar of her coat to make sure it does its job. “I know you’re not sick anymore, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get sick again. It’s almost winter; look after yourself a little better.”

He pulls on his own coat, and when he glances up again, he finds Ruri smiling at him, faint and softly delighted the way her sister’s brashly confident grins almost never are. Sometimes, Senkuu looks at them and can’t believe they’re sisters. But they have the exact same steel in them, straight down to the core; they just show it in different ways.

They don’t need words as they set out for the surrounding woods, although Senkuu does smirk a little when he spots the bridge leading to the village in the distance. “How’d you slip past your guards?”

Ruri tips a secretive smile up at him this time, something just shy of mischievous. “I just told them I had important priestess secrets to impart to the village chief right away because it’s a full moon. Same with the guards on bridge duty.”

Senkuu barks out a laugh. “You’re lucky it’s not Kinrou and Ginrou’s shift at the moment; they’d never believe that anymore.”

“Why do you think I didn’t come earlier?” Ruri retorts lightly, and for a moment, they grin at each other like old friends.

The days have been getting shorter, the nights longer, and the woods feel extra quiet as they walk through them. The trees whisper with the night breeze all around them, and it’s peaceful in a way Senkuu’s modern world probably never could be. He misses it of course, but the longer he lives in this Stone World, the more he thinks that it isn’t so terrible, even if a lot of everyday activities he once took for granted aren’t so convenient anymore.

As if reading his mind, Ruri peers over at him, eyes bright with curiosity as she asks, “Kohaku and Chrome have caught me up on much of your modern world, but was it so very different? Were there still places like this in your time?”

Senkuu makes a considering noise as they step out onto the grassy bank of one of the nearby rivers. The water is clear enough that in some of the calmer parts, he can see right to the bottom like there isn’t even anything there.

“Some,” He says to Ruri. “In some parts of the world, there were still a few pockets of civilization similar to Ishigami Village. And lots of places still had natural wildlife and vegetation, although if you compare it to now, you could say there weren’t nearly as many.” He grimaces a little. “I suppose that’s one issue with civilization advancing as far as it did. The planet can only produce so many resources at a time, and we humans always wanted more. Pollution was a pretty big problem too - our species tend to generate a lot of garbage, and nature had to pay for that.”

They stop right by a mostly smooth spike of rock that juts out over the water, and once Senkuu’s hoisted himself up onto it, he turns to offer his hand to Ruri, who takes it firmly and lets him pull her up as well. They sit right by the edge, legs dangling above the river, and the moon is low enough on the horizon that it almost looks like the water is pouring right into it.

“But you made incredible things too,” Ruri says, sounding a touch wistful, imagining a world that Senkuu knows won’t ever be exactly the way reality was, no matter how well he tries to describe it.

Humanity’s legacy, forgotten by humanity.

“We make incredible things now,” He says out loud, flashing a smirk when Ruri looks up at him again with a startled expression. “We’re all humans, even in this world, and we’re still alive. We’ll go on to make more and more incredible things, and it won’t ever be the same, but it’ll still be pretty exciting.”

Ruri’s eyes widen, and for a long minute, even after Senkuu turns to stare out at the sprawling woods in front of them again, she doesn’t look away. Senkuu lets her at it, content with the silence between them. It’s comfortable, somehow, even when he’s acutely aware of her gaze on him.

She looks away, at last, but she also sways to the side, her shoulder knocking gently against his, and when he glances down, she’s smiling again. Perhaps it’s Senkuu’s own occasionally whimsical imagination, but somehow, Ruri has a way of smiling that radiates a quiet sort of inner joy now that illness and impending death no longer plague her, as if every breath she can freely take these days is something that makes her happy.

“Tell me something,” She says, her words fogging the air at her lips. “About your world. Something I would like.”

Senkuu’s eyebrows go up, and then he chuckles. “What, electricity and ramen not good enough for you?”

When Ruri only peeks up at him, tentatively expectant, Senkuu sighs and hums in thought for a few seconds, casting his mind back to a childhood lived a lifetime ago.

“Libraries,” He finally says.

Ruri blinks. “Libraries? What’s that?”

Senkuu lifts his hands, outlining the vague shape of a square. “I told you guys what books are, right? Stories and information, knowledge, all written down on paper, recorded for everyone to read. Now imagine a whole building of them, lined with shelves, containing hundreds of books, a place where people can go to read them for free. Libraries were a thing all over the world, at least one in every city, dozens in just about every country.” He drops his hands. “The library nearest my house was three floors high. It wasn’t the biggest, but it still had tons of books on every subject you could imagine - fiction and non-fiction, fantasy and adventure stories, physics and chemistry texts, books suitable for everyone from children to adults. It opened early and closed late, so you could spend the whole day in there and read as much as you want. Most of the walls were floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and you know that couch we made for your birthday? Imagine rows of them, right by the windows, where you could sit in the sunlight and just read from morning to night. The third floor had a balcony too, with chairs and tables and umbrellas over them, so you could go outside on nice days and sit in the shade and enjoy a drink and read a book.”

He stops for breath and rubs the back of his neck as he checks Ruri’s expression. “Eh, I don’t know if I’m describing it very well, but I think it would be something you’d like.”

Because Ruri has the same thirst for knowledge as Chrome, as Senkuu himself. It isn’t as science-oriented, but she’s taken to asking him about the Tales. She’s memorized them all from her mother, like every priestess before her, but now that she can, she also wants to know what they mean, and that led to questions about other old-world stories, about fairy tales lost to time, romance novels that are more up Taiju’s alley than Senkuu’s, even old theater plays and the famous names that wrote them. Ruri was the first to ask Senkuu for lessons on the written word. It’s slow-going, but Ruri wants with a passion that Senkuu knows very well, and he thinks that in the modern era, they would’ve had to pry her out of the library every day.

“It sounds wonderful,” Ruri announces, drawing Senkuu’s attention back to the present. She claps her hands together, then spreads them, palms up. Her father despairs of the broken skin and new callouses she sports these days, but she insists on helping with their science, now that she can, and she’s just as stubborn as Kohaku when she wants to be.

“One day, I want us to build our own library, in this world,” She continues, gaze focused on some point beyond her hands, a vision of her own in her mind’s eye. “I want books of our own that we’ll be able to write ourselves, good enough to be passed on to the next generation, and the next, and the next.” She folds her hands together and smiles up at him. Her hair glows almost white in the light of the moon, and the determined steel shining from her face is... incandescently captivating. “I think it would be just as exciting as your science, Senkuu.”

Senku huffs a laugh. “Well, why not? I’m not planning on leaving this world without writing down everything I know, and a library’s not complete without a decent science section.” He leans back and grins up at the sky. “A library’s not any harder than everything else we’ve done so far. And one compiled by all the weirdoes we have in our Kingdom of Science? It’ll be one hell of a library!”

It’s not entirely science-oriented, but Senkuu thinks he could see it anyway. Glass is not an impossibility for them anymore. And if Ryuusui can lead the construction of a ship, then a building wouldn’t be difficult.

A library, three stories high, with floor-to-ceiling windows. Why not?

He pushes off his hands, suddenly itching to do, to make something, to create. He hops off the rock, then turns back to Ruri, and maybe it’s infectious because she looks just as alive as he feels in this moment. When he holds out his hand, she grasps it, but she also half-leaps off the rock after him, and her laughter spills out into the night - silver-bright and free - when he spins her once before setting her on the ground again.

“Tell me a story, Senkuu,” Ruri requests, cheeks flushed, a little breathless, and so, so alive.

What can humanity not do, so long as they live on?

As they begin making their way back towards the village, she slips one hand around the inside of his elbow, fingers light with unspoken question.

Senkuu bends his arm and tucks her hand more securely into the crook of his elbow. Ruri takes a half-step closer, settling into his side as her other hand comes up to join the first.

"Ever heard of old man Homer’s Iliad?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“It’s a long one.”

“I have time. Tell it to me, Senkuu. I want to hear it all.”

[thesffcorner]

Aquaman

Aquaman is directed by James Wan and it’s the adaptation of the eponymous DC comics superhero. It follows Arthur Curry (Jason Momoa), the son of Queen Atlanna (Nicole Kidman) and a lighthouse keeper (Temuera Morrison), as he is sought out by Princess Mera (Amber Heard) to stop his half-brother King Orm (Patrick Wilson) from plunging Atlantis and the surface world into war.

For this review, I want to switch things up, so instead of my usual rundown of the worldbuilding, plot and characters I want to talk about the different aspects of the filmmaking, because where this film rises and falls are exactly these elements. So let’s start with what the film does really right which is the

Direction:

James Wan as a director is better knows for his horror work, with films such as Dead Silence, Insidious, the Conjuring, and Saw; to date he has only directed one other action film, Furious 7. I was already impressed with his work there, especially in the fight scenes and big action set pieces, but his directorial skill is on a whole other level here, helped greatly by the excellent visual effects and character and environment design. Atlantis as well as its various inhabitants are a perfect mix of ancient and futuristic, and alien and human, making the time we spend underwater visually stunning.

There are so many incredibly creative and clever shots, especially the transitions between establishing shots and the rest of the scene, as well as fluidity of the action scenes. Likewise, Wan’s horror roots come through here and there, in the way he introduces the villains and explosions with jump scares, and a specific, genuinely creepy set piece on the open ocean in the darkness.

As superhero films tend to, there are several gigantic set piece battles, with lots of CGI creatures and monsters, and Wan manages to keep the action legible, dynamic and intense, without it being confusing. Some parts had issues with the compositing being slightly off which made it apparent we are looking at a green screen, but overall the direction and visual design of the film was its strongest part. I can spend hours just talking about all the tricks and clever camerawork Wan and DP Don Burgess use, but I realize you no one wants to read that; suffice it to say, I think this was visually DC’s boldest and best executed DC film to date, and I was very pleased with Wan’s work.

Story and Screenplay:

Strangely enough, this is where the film both excelled and failed for me. Let me explain.

I really enjoyed Arthur’s arc throughout the film, as well as the overall plot of him and Mera trying to prevent a war between Atlantis and the surface world, The film surprisingly manages to fit a lot of history and major storylines from Aquaman’s comic runs, and it manages to pull this off without making it’s story jumbled or the pacing uneven.

However, how the film actually delivers this story is where the problems start. There is a real issue with the dialogue in this film; character tell the audience exactly what they are thinking and feeling, they will often stop the scene to exposit on their emotions and motivations, which is in addition to the already dense scenes of characters delivering the history of Atlantis to each other (even though rightfully there would be no need for Orm, Vulko or Nereus to explain to each other who these historical/mythical people are or why they act the ways they do since you know, they are all Atlantean). Vulko is the guiltiest party here, because his entire character is just there to deliver exposition.

Case in point, the dynamic between Orm and Arthur. Arthur has spent his entire life hating Atlantis and blaming himself for his mother’s death, and feeling like he doesn’t belong on land or in the sea. On the other hand, Orm has spent his entire life also blaming Arthur for their mother’s death while also living in constant paranoia that should Arthur ever come to Atlantis, as firstborn he would take the throne (also clearly has some issues with who Atlanna loved more,  but that’s neither here nor there). That’s some rich characterization and emotion. You know how the film delivers it? By literary having Orm and Arthur say all of this, in more or less these exact words, to each other instead of showing us any of it. 

The dialogue varies between bad and extremely bad, and it’s such a shame because the story and the characters are there. I hate to compare the two, but Black Panther also had a scene where to estranged cousins vying for the throne, one of whom resents the other interact, and it did much better with showing us all the complex emotions these people were going through rather than bluntly telling us exactly what they think.  

Characters (and their actors):

The issues with the screenplay and dialogue unfortunately feed into the characters. While some of the actors do fine with the stiff dialogue, some… not so much.

Let’s start with the supporting cast. I loved Nicole Kidman as Queen Atlanna. Her role was small, but she does so much with the limited screen time, and gives Atlanna a full range of emotions and character arc. I also appreciated that the film does a reverse ‘women in refrigerators’ with her.

Yahya Abdul-Mateen II was excellent as Black Manta. His backstory was intense and perfectly understandable, and I really enjoyed that the film makes it pretty clear that the existence of Black Manta is solely Aquaman’s fault. The two don’t get too much time to interact, but Mateen steals every scene he’s in, and I’m interested to see what they do with him next.

As I mentioned Vulko was the designated exposition character. Willem Dafoe dioes fine with the role he’s given, though I have to wonder why he didn’t try harder to dissuade Orm from his conquest, since clearly the two are close. It almost makes me wonder if Vulko blamed Orm for what happened to Atlanna which doesn’t make much sense since he was a teenager at most. 

I was genuinely surprised to see Dolph Lundgren in this and though King Nereus didn’t play a hugely important part in this film, just like with Black Mantha he seems like he’d be a more important player in a future film. I’m just always happy to see him be in films honestly.

From our leading trio, Amber Heard was the biggest surprise. She’s pretty good in the role as Mera, and she’s helped by a really solid characterization. Mera was well written, competent and powerful, she was on equal footing with Arthur the whole film. Not once is she treated like a damsel and at no point does Arthur have to save her, or she needs  to teach him how to be a King or fight or anything similar; she is just that committed to doing the right thing, even if it means sacrificing everything she’d ever known (though I would have preferred the film show us this rather than just having her state it).

 The biggest issue with Mera was the romance. Bless Heard, she’s really trying, but she and Momoa just have no chemistry.  She has more chemistry in her one scene with Patrick Wilson, where she’s supposed to hate him, than in all the scenes she has with Momoa combined. There is also no real transition from “I hate this man but I must help him for the good of my people” to “I will sacrifice everything for him”; she just kind of thinks he’s a loser one moment and then loves him the next.

Patrick Wilson for me was the best part of this film. He is such a good actor that he makes this character so much more sympathetic and interesting than I think the filmmakers ever intended him on being. Orm is a rather blindsided hateful person, but Wilson manages to give him pathos and a sense of paranoia that builds with the amount of people that turn on him. He has a lot of issues to work through and were it not for Wilson’s acting, I’m not sure how much that would show in the film. The scene where he’s reunited with Atlanna was the best scene in the film, and you can clearly tell who the two best actors are in this film, because Kidman and Wilson sell it. 

Jason Momoa was perfectly fine, but rarely rose above that. He has the physique and charm for the role, and when he’s playing Justice League Aquaman he is a joy to watch. Part of it is an issue with the writing, because the film can’t really decide if we are following a seasoned, experienced, jaded Aquaman who is willing to let people die just because they annoyed him, or someone who is still learning how to deal with the responsibilities of his powers. This version of Arthur is lost, afraid and insecure, who is forced into acting against his better nature, and Momoa just can’t pull that off. He’s too cool, too confident for the role; he’s a Han Solo, not a Luke Skywalker, and this film needs him to be the latter.

Overall, Aquaman was an entertaining, visually stunning and faithful adaptation to the comics. I had a ton of fun watching it and I highly recommend it, in spite of some dialogue and script issues. It really is what a superhero film should be; fun, action packed and very genuine.

[langernameohnebedeutung]

Ask the Author

I was tagged by @78669! Thank you! ok!

1) is there a story you’re holding off on writing for some reason?

A third installment for Un/Hurt - I have a pretty good idea what it would be about, but I started about five times and I was never. quite. happy. I feel a bit guilty because I hinted at a third one. I think the longest version I’ve written about it is about 2k words so. not much.

2) what work of yours, if any, are you the most embarrassed about existing?

Aaah. aaaaaaaah. That one. Snow White.

ok. So if I ever critise other writers - professionals or friends or anyone ever - I do so in the full knowledge that I gave life to a monstrosity.

Okay, let me talk about Snow White (a title that - in retroperspective, also describes the main-cast pretty well)

One story I started writing in 9th grade. 

It basically ticked all the edgy-teen stereotypes. Little village: check. Edgy teen protagonist who’s Not Like The Other Girls: Check. Dumb parents who JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND: Check. Lots of casual drug use and alcohol: check. 

I guess the only strong point was that she didn’t have a love interest (because she was Too Smart for anything but casual sex with her best friend). Oh and her neighbour was a murderous, torturous rape-y cult member and if I had finished the thing she would have killed him and gotten arrested for it and stayed quiet about her (pretty valid) reasons for killing him because in prison she would be away from her parents who I don’t think ever did much wrong except tell her that she’s got issues. Oh I think one of her teachers was a spy or something. Also there was a lot of references to Japanese stuff in there because again. I was in 9th grade and I loved to plaster Kanji on things. (Although now that I looked at the document again, WHICH I DID, I ACTUALLY OPENED THE KURSÉD DOKUMENT FOR YOU) the Kanji chapter titles are gone. So I came to my senses about that one.

So far you’re going to say: Wow so you wrote an annnoying, slightly problematic story when you were That Age we all did, big deal. That doesn’t make it a monstrosity.

Well.

The thing is -

The whole story might even have had potential if I had thrown out some of the bullshit and given the main-character some sort of personality, but unfortunately it’s also basically almost unreadable. Like. At that point of my writing, every tip I ever gotten from teachers and advice books was: “Take your time, don’t rush! Describe!” Because that’s young writers tend to do - rush - but unfortunately they didn’t expect Josie’s dumb ass, who quickly concluded: 

The Longer The Story - The Better!

and that was the downfall of the entire story. Because bitch, I can talk for ages without saying anything and the result was:

464 pages of Word Document,

Times New Roman 12pt, smallest possible spacing. 257k words. And it wasn’t nearly finished. There hadn’t even happened much.

Just to give you a sense of how unreadable it is. I’ll allow you (if you speak German) a peak at my greatest shame. Or at least the opening.

What 9th grade me wanted to say: “It was warm outside.” What 9th grade me actually wrote, because she’d been told not to rush and to describe:

The entire scene is just about Protagonist and Friends being angst-y in the garden. Literally nothing plot-relevant happens (like in most scenes). Aaaah. 

Just to make you realise the extent of this catastrophe, I randomly just scrolled for a while and then here we are at page 264.

What 9th grade me wanted to stay: “Main Character is lying on her bed. She’s looking at the ceiling. Probably looking for a personality.”

What 9th grade actually wrote:

(Did I mention that this goes on for almost 300k words? Like. These days I’m proud when I write 20k words. Ninth Grade me, where did you find this much energy and why was this what you invested it on??? this giant chunk of text with no content - like yeah there’s characters and stuff happening but it’s mostly just...endless mind-numbing descriptions of things happening in metaphor) 

3) what order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

Usually chronologically, but ever so often I jump ahead to a scene that I really look forward to writing. The problem is that sometimes when I get there, something changed inbetween - because I’m a bit too spontanous and I love details - and then usually I have to re-write it anyway.

4) favorite character you’ve written

Usually the current one. And at the moment I’d probably answer the story from my latest original work - because they’re pretty fun and feral and also pretty simple. But with some distance this Victorian Demon Detective who gets hired by the murder-victims to avenge them was pretty fun. Was a giant dick. I enjoyed the entire 20 pages I wrote with him in them, before my attention wavered and I moved on.

5) character you were most surprised to end up writing

I’m pretty much suprised every time I write a nice, likeable character.

6) something you would go back and change in your writing that it’s too late/complicated to change now

I wish I’d ever really bothered to learn how to right good transitions. Mostly it’s just: Scene SMACK Next Scene SMACK Another Scene. Also I wish I could describe the passing of time more naturally.

7) when asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write?

I don’t talk about it with strangers much. Except you people on tumblr.com. Depends on how it’s going. When I got a project I’m excited about and it’s going well, I’ll talk about it. If it’s not going well, I will pretend I haven’t ever written aything.

8) favorite genre to write

I don’t really have one. Although I don’t do Romance much and Crime/Thriller isn’t my cup of tea either. Mostly I beat the trope: Unlikely partners forced to work together - to death. 

9) what, if anything, do you do for inspiration?

Buy notebooks and scribble into them.

10) write in silence or with background noise? with people or alone?

I usually have music on - I got a Spotify playlist for my current story and listen to it on Shuffle - but I can write anywhere, university - even on the underground I type on my phone (when I’m in the mood). In school I got called out for writing in the lessons so often I learnt to write Kurrentschrift so that the teacher wouldn’t be able to tell what I’m doing lol.

11) what aspect of your writing do you think has most improved since you started writing?

I feel like I used to be better at some point in the past, actually. But mostly the characters?

12) your weaknesses as an author

I can never really stick to an outline, so I will go into one direction with the plot and then I’ll have another idea and I sometimes worry there isn’t enough of a red thread.

13) your strengths as an author

Hmm...I can throw a lot of problems at my characters at an astonishingly efficient rate?

14) do you make playlists for your current wips?

For the last one I did, as I said. It’s a very weird mixture of Viking music, Electro-Synth, Opera and pop-songs.

15) why did you start writing?

I just always did, I think?

16) are there any characters who haunt you?

Most of my major characters while I’m writing them, but it’s usually the current one. So at the moment it’s Nith, the main-character of my current story, because they deserve so much better and everyone fucks my magic child over and they just want to be accepted but at the same time the thought of living around actual...people terrifies them, because they’ve been considered cursed and were rejected for the biggest part of their life and now they’re kinda twisted and due really dubious shit so that they don’t have to be alone in their icy wasteland. Then they met a literal prince and they were forced to work together (because that trope is my jam) except Nith panicked and poisoned him so they’re in even deeper shit now. 

17) if you could give your fledgling author self any advice, what would it be?

YOU CAN’T WRITE COLD CASE FANFICTION IF YOU NEVER WATCHED THE FUCKING SHOW AND DON’T EVEN KNOW THE CHARACTERS’ NAMES oh, ok you already did. And they go to Mars. ofc.*

(No, but serious advice: Don’t let anyone ever tell you it’s useless. As long as you enjoy yourself, just keep writing.)

*yep that’s a thing 11 year old me did. I liked the blond woman in the trailers on Kabel1 ok?

18) were there any works you read that affected you so much that it influenced your writing style? what were they?

When I was about 18 we had Tauben im Gras in school and I got obsessed with writing like that. I got pages after pages just filled by me writing in that style. It’s like a dubstep remix of what my 9th grade self wrote, but I won a price for one of those so there’s that.

But usually, whatever I’m currently reading influences me. Like, not even because I want it to. For example I was once switching to and fro reading fanfiction and writing something of my own. But the fanfiction was in English and my writing in German and I first adopted the same tense, then the POV and suddenly my brain insisted I need to write this in English. fuck.

19) when it comes to more complicated narratives, how do you keep track of outlines, characters, development, timeline, ect.?

- I take a lot of notes in a document which are mostly written as me dragging and insulting my characters

- then I split it up into scenes and write down plot-points for every scene

- I also note what it does for the characters individual storyline.

- then I start writing and ignore all of that because the character saw a butterfly and it sparks an entire dialogue with another character and they decide not to save the princess at all but to start an ice-cream truck.

20) do you write in long sit-down sessions or in little spurts?

Little spurts are usually draft-versions of scenes. Long sessions happen when I’m really inspired. What works best for me is putting a bowl of snacks in front of me and having a chip or a peanut every 100 words and to keep writing until the bowl is empty (at that point, usually there’s a sunrise outside)

21) what do you think when you read over your older work?

I don’t ever do that much. but since you made me look at The Cursed One, I was actually surprised that it was not quite 100% as horribly cringy as I made it out to be in my soul. I didn’t want to spoon my eyes out of my skull.

22) are there any subjects that make you uncomfortable to write?

Not really. Nothing I would want to write in the first place.

23) any obscure life experiences that you feel have helped your writing?

not really obscure, no

24) have you ever become an expert on something you previously knew nothing about, in order to better a scene or a story?

At the moment a lot of norse mythology stuff

25) copy/paste a few sentences or a short paragraph that you’re particularly proud of

I’m never really proud of anything I write, but I’m kinda fond of the opening for one of my story-ideas, because I think it’s pretty efficient when it comes to world-building and setting the scene and explaining how the people in that place tick:

[cwnerd12]

I swear to god this is the greatest thing I’ve ever written.

Putting it here so I can bask in its glory.

“Rager” David convenes a meeting and tells everyone about Achish’s offer, “I can’t possibly say no to this.” Joel: “It’s a carrot. There’s gotta be a stick he’s hiding somewhere.” David: “Exactly. I’m scared if I don’t agree to it, the people in the borderlands are gonna pay the price.” Abby: “I’ve brought it up before, but we need to consider going to other countries.” David: “Which country, exactly?” Abby: “Moab.” Jack: “Are we really *that* desperate?” David: “We’re pretty fuckin’ desperate.” Jack: “When Moab separated from Jericho, the King of Jericho was happy because for once the trash had taken itself out. Queen Laura is only Queen because she poisoned her husband, and you’ve already been poisoned once!” Michelle: “Okay, Jack, when we met King Norris, he had more fat in his arteries than either of us could eat in a lifetime. I’m pretty sure Laura didn’t have to poison him. Besides, any old man who marries a woman that young is basically asking to get poisoned.” Abby: “In the five years that she’s reigned, Queen Laura has actually donated more of her personal wealth to philanthropy than any other sitting monarch. She’s peacefully settled a lot of disputes between rival militias and actually brokered peace between a few of them. Moab has resources. It has wealth that Gath doesn’t have. Personally, if I had any sort of choice in which country I ended up in, I would have gone to Moab.” Asher: “If we go to Moab, we could get a hotel on the beach.” Jack (muttering): “Uncle William is in Moab. If partnering with Moab means partnering with him I’m fucking leaving.” David: “I’m with Jack, if a partnership with Moab means partnering with CrossGen, I’m not doing it.” Abby: “We can negotiate that.” David (sighing heavily): “Not that it matters, anyway. We’re stuck here in Gath until we can get the Borderlands issue resolved. Is there some way we can… just make Achish want nothing to do with us?” Abby: “What do you mean?” David: “If we could get Achish to no longer trust us, but without being treacherous, like… if we could convince him we’re unreliable, useless, even, and we’ve been incredibly lucky, but we’re not a threat to him.” Asher: “You want him to think we’re a bunch of idiots.” David: “Yes! Look, we’ve met with Achish, talked to him, right? But we haven’t really shown him who we are. What if I can convince Achish that I’m just a dumb piece of meat that people flock to because I’m hot?” Jack: “You are hot, babe.” David: “Thank you, Jack.” Michelle: “If he thinks you’re an idiot, he’ll throw you out and put Jack in charge.” David: “What if we’re all idiots? What if Samuels picked us out to do his bidding because we’re all stupid and easily led, and now that Samuels is dead, we’re floundering in our own idiocy?” Abby: “I can’t act like an idiot. I’m the one who has to negotiate the borderland deal and make sure it doesn’t come with any strings attached.” David: “No! That’s good! One smart person to tell Achish that we’re all stupid!” Abby: “Well what if Achish wants me to work for him, then?” David: “Shit. I dunno. Cross that bridge when we get to it, I guess.” Jack: “Michelle and I can have lunch with Queen Lena. It’ll be easy to get her to hate us, all we have to do is act like Mom.” Joel: “What if he catches on? We can’t all be complete idiots.” David: “But you could be an angry person who uses politics as an excuse to punch people.” Joel: “Yeah, I could.” A big smile spreads over David’s face, “Yeah, we can do this. We just have to be careful, plan everything out. This is gonna work.”

On the way to meet Achish, David runs into Doug, an old army buddy (one of the guys Jack invited to come in from the front on First Night) who has joined the resistance. David is thrilled to see Doug, and he asks where their other friend is. Doug: “Still in Gilboa.” David: “Shit. I can’t talk now, I’ve got a lot of shit to do, but I’m definitely gonna catch up with you later!”

In the negotiations with Achish, David plays a mix of “golly gee whiz” ignorant farm boy and meathead jockbro, all while managing to be charming, while Abby expertly hammers out the details. At one point, Achish sees something on David’s wrist, “Is that a tattoo?” David pushes his cuff up, where “DELIVER US FROM EVIL” is tattooed around his wrist, “Yeah, I was thinking about what you said in the cathedral about you know being a king and how a king protects his people and all, and then, there was that our father shit, and the priest said, ‘deliver us from evil’ and I thought…. man, that would make a sweet tattoo. So I got it." After the deal is made, Achish congratulates David and Abby. David: “Hey, if you think me and Abby are cool, you should see the rest of my guys. They’re really cool.” Abby: “You should see the training program we’ve set up.” David: “Yeah, you can’t meet everybody, though. I mean, some people are still in Gilboa. It sucks you can’t meet Monique, she got me into the resistance.” He pulls something up on his phone, “See?” He shows Achish a photo of Monique dressed as the Holy Virgin Mother, but instead of holding the baby Jesus, she’s holding a giant, veiny cock. David: “She’s amaaaaazing! She made our flag!”

Jack and Michelle have lunch with Queen Lena, the frumpy Queen of Gath who Rose has always been a bitch to. Michelle wears a slutty dress and acts like an airhead Paris Hilton type, while Jack does an imitation of Rose with the cold, malicious perfection that only an angry gay son could do.

Isaiah and David take Achish out to see Isaiah’s bomb making proficiency. He lights off explosives by size and gives them all stupid names and generally acts like a pyromaniac. One bomb goes off unexpectedly, causing Achish to duck, “What the hell was that?!” Isaiah: “Discrete charge that can be dropped anywhere and detonated remotely.” David: “SWEET!” Isaiah makes a big deal about showing off his biggest, baddest creation, but when he presses the button it doesn’t go off. “Shit, lemme try again.” It still doesn’t work. Achish suggests going onto the next thing.

Elsewhere on the training grounds, Shay demonstrates a hand-to-hand combat training situation for the Queens of Gilboa. She appears skilled and competent, and Achish watches with approval. After the lesson is over, a female student approaches and asks Shay a question. Shay blatantly stares at the student’s boobs and flirts with her. The student flirts back.

In a building, Joel tells stories of all the brawls he got into in prison with a disturbing amount of nostalgia, “Shit man, almost makes me want to go back.” The sound of a distant explosion causes Achish to jump again. David: “Sounds like Isaiah got his bomb to work. I hope he wasn’t there when it went off.”

Back at home, Achish and Lena talk about the AFG. Lena: “The prince and princess are just like their mother. Absolutely horrible.” Achish: “Shepherd is up to something. I thought he’d be delighted with the borderlands deal, but this makes me think he doesn’t want it.” Lena: “How could he not want it?” “I don’t know!” There’s a knock at the door, and Abby enters. Achish asks her what David’s up to. “Up to, sir?” “He’s planning something. Something that involves making me think he’s an idiot.” Abby remains convincingly confused, “Have you…. ever really spent time with David, sir?” “Every time I’ve spoken to him, he’s always impressed me.” “Yeah, that’s the problem. People tend to think he’s smart because he looks good, he’s charming, and he knows how to give people what they want.” “If Shepherd is stupid, how did he manage to organize an army?” “That was Reverend Samuels, sir, and Samuels is dead. David Shepherd is a golden retriever. He means well, and people like him, but he’s easily led, and useless on his own. That’s why Samuels picked him. Every success we’ve had since his death has been just unimaginable luck.” “What are you saying?” “We’re lost without Samuels. If you’re thinking of using the AFG for anything, you’ll be lost, too.” Achish sighs heavily and thinks in silence for a moment. Abby, with deep sincerity, “I hope this doesn’t affect the borderlands deal.” Achish: “The paper is signed. I can’t very well go back on it, can I?” A brilliant smile breaks over Abby’s face, “So the deal is safe?” “Yes. The Borderlands are autonomous and will remain so.” “Well, if you don’t mind, sir, I have to go celebrate with my friends.” “Very well.” Abby gets up to leave. Achish: “You’re a very talented negotiator, Miss Hatch.” “Thank you, sir.” “I’d be honored to have you as a diplomat for Gath.” Abby hesitates, “I have to think about that, sir. Good night.” “Good night.”

David and everyone wait around the bar/stage area of the hotel, which is decorated for a party, complete with kegs and a DJ booth. David sits talking privately to Doug, “We need to get out of Gath. I’ve got this crazy idea, I don’t know if it’s gonna work, but I’m hoping it will.” Doug: “If you aren’t going to be in Gath, where are you going to go?” “Abby wants to talk to the Queen of Moab, see if she can help us at all. But beyond that, I dunno. It’s impossible to look too far into the future at this point.” Abby comes hurrying into the hotel. David stands and greets her, “How’d it go?” Abby, breathless: “It fucking worked! Time for step two!”

Cut to a rager the likes of which Gath has ever seen. Asher mans the DJ table while everyone chugs booze. David, who is shirtless, Abby, and Isaiah, who is dressed like an alien general from a video game, nervously look out a window that overlooks the entrance of the palace. David: “It’s not working. Should we make the music louder?” Abby: “Any louder we’ll all go deaf.” Isaiah: “I know what to do. Meet me on the roof.”

On the roof, David shivers and talks to Abby. Abby: “Achish wants me as a diplomat.” David: “Shit. Well, maybe this will work.”“I don’t know. I think I have to do something. ” “If you want to be a diplomat for Gath, I won’t stop you.” “I fucking don’t, that’s the problem! I have to do something that will make Achish never respect me again.” “Don’t ruin your dignity or reputation for me, okay?” “Okay.” Isaiah appears behind them, his arms crammed with fireworks: “I make these in my spare time. I’ve been dying to light these babies of for weeks!” He sets up a roman candle and lights it off. He names the chemical responsible for each color, “Strontium carbonate! Calcium chloride! Sodium chloride!” David: “It’s like chemistry porn!”

Achish, asleep next to Lena in his bed, is awakened by loud booms. Panic-stricken, he runs to his window, and sees fireworks going off over the hotel. “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

Abby spots movement at the entrance of the palace, “Oh, shit, its working!” Everyone runs downstairs. In the bar area, David runs up to Jack, who is also shirtless, wearing tight pants, and lots of black eyeliner, “Come on!” They go up on stage. David grabs two microphones from the DJ station and hands one to Jack. He grabs a plastic crown and puts it on his head. “Hit it!” At the front of the hotel, Arthur, Sean, and Ethan guard the door. Achish and his security men go up to them. Achish: “What’s going on in there?!” Sean: “Autonomy, man, the people want to celebrate!” “Let me in!” Ethan: “Yeah we can’t really do that…” Achish: “I’m the fucking king in this country, not Shepherd!” Achish pushes the brothers out of the way and wrenches the door open. On stage, David and Jack, arms around each other’s shoulders, scream sing along to “Mr. Brightside.” Michelle, in a plastic tiara, dances on the bar. Achish walks into the hotel, and is immediately accosted by Isaiah in full cosplay glory, “Halt, human scum!” Achish’s security men knock him over and keep going in. They see Shay, who is making out with the female recruit from earlier. She sees them and makes the international sign for cunnilingus. In the bar area, Abby has a sudden moment of inspiration: “I know what I have to do!” She goes over to the nearest person, who happens to be Doug, “I need to borrow your shoulders!” She proceeds to climb up on his back. Across the room, Joel talks to one of his friends, “I’m sorry for doing this, but it’s for the greater good!” Friend: “FUCKING DO IT, MAN!” Joel punches him as hard as he can, knocking him straight into Achish as he goes into the room. Jack and David scream sing the chorus and jump up and down in time with the beat. Before the security guys can get to Joel’s friend, he gets right back up on his feet, and brawls with Joel. Michelle pretends to sniff a suspicious white powder. Abby points Doug toward Achish, “Over there, over there!” Doug staggers over towards Achish. Abby rips her top off, “TITS OUT FOR BORDERLAND AUTONOMY! WHOOOOOOO!” Doug trips and they both topple over. Jack and David’s performance reaches its off-key climax, “I’M MR. BRIGHTSIDE!” Achish goes over to the DJ table and rips all the wires out. The music stops, grinding the party to a halt with it. Achish: “What in god’s name is this?!” David: “Uh, we’re celebrating? Thanks to DJ Hillel for the sweet tunes.” Asher gives a thumbs-up, “Shalom, motherfucker.” Achish: “End this party. Now.” David steps forward, concern and sincerity on his face, “Oh, shit, I didn’t- I’m sorry if I upset you, man, I just… That’s my home. I want to do what’s good for it, and when something good happens, I want to celebrate. Because we really haven’t had a whole lot of reasons to. Autonomy under Gath is going to be so much better than anything under Silas. That’s incredible, man! I have something I can hope for, now!” Achish eyes David warily. David: “This… this won’t hurt anyone, will it?” Achish: “End the party now, and it won’t. And no more fireworks.” Achish turns and leaves. David, “Good night, sir!” The door closes. Abby goes up to David, “He’s seen my tits. He’s never going to look me in the eye again, much less want to work with me.” David: “Okay. Thanks for your noble sacrifice.” Jack laughs, and David has to smile, “I think it worked. Let’s all go to bed. We’ll clean this mess up tomorrow.”

David, Jack, Michelle, and Doug all walk down a hallway. David, to Jack, arm around his shoulder: “Mr. Brightside always makes me want to fuck your brains out.” Michelle, “Can you not say that in front of his sister?!” Jack laughs, “We should be idiots more often.” They go off into their respective rooms, and Doug, alone, goes into his at the end of the hallway. He enters his room, and gets a phone out of his suitcase. He calls a number, and on the other end, the head of the Gilboa spy agency listens in, Silas and Abner beside him. Spy head: “What do you have to report?” Doug: “Shepherd wants to leave Gath.” “Where is he going?” “He didn’t tell me. He was rushed and couldn’t talk, but he still believes I’m his friend. I’m pretty sure he trusts me. I just need to find enough time to really talk to him.” Abner: “Can you get a grasp on the morale of his followers?” “From what I’ve seen, everyone still loves Shepherd, and believes in him. There’s no dissent among the ranks.” Silas: “How are Jack and Michelle?” “I haven’t spoken to them, but from what I’ve seen, I’d say they’re happy to be here.” Silas: “That’s all I wanted to know. I’m going to bed.” Doug: “Good night, sir.”

[pandatypewriter]

B.A.P Le Noir Au Ch. 17 (Himchan): Family Blood

THIS HAS BEEN TOO LONG! Thank you soooo much to the lovely followers and fans of this series for waiting so patiently for me! I finally got around to work on this haha! This story is a lot longer than I expected, but I promise I will try to make it worth it! As a little gift for all you lovelies, I will post the second part of the rest of the members stories so that you can have a little snippet of theirs. I feel like I’ve made you guys wait too long for their stories and I’ve very sorry about that! Anyways please enjoy! This are about to take a turn!

Himchan let out a sigh, rubbing his temples in frustration. He had called the boys to a group meeting to discuss their current situation as well as how they should proceed in dealing with with the INF. Problem was his children seemed to be at the rebellious age. As in if their asses weren’t in these black leather seats in the next 5 minutes he was going to rip them a new one. “Damn, am I dealing with grown men or children?” He let out an exasperated sigh.

“You look like you’re having fun,” Himchan’s ears and mood perked up at the sound of your voice as you entered the conference room of B.A.P’s hideout. It had become a routine for you for the past few months. Visiting the boys every so often at their hideout (now that you were allowed to know where it was), providing them with some snacks and refreshments now and then since the boys tended to forget to eat since their mission to flush Infernum out began. They limited their business conversations to their hideout, no longer using the back room of Le Noir for meetings in fear of curious ears. “I come bearing gifts.” You smiled sweetly as you lifted up a container of freshly made spaghetti.  

“God, I love you.” Himchan chuckled, pulling you towards him by the waist, and giving your hip a soft peck. You rolled your eyes at Himchan’s over dramatization, but pampered him a bit by running your fingers through his soft black locks. He always found it oddly comforting.

“Did I hear gifts?” Zelo smirked as he entered the room, ending the intimate moment of comfort you and Himchan shared. Himchan let out a frustrated groan as the rest of the boys started to pour into the room.

“When I want you guys here, you’re nowhere to be found.  But as soon Y/N is here you all flock like vultures,” He hissed, but the boys simply ignored his whines as they sat themselves down in their respective spots. “Speaking of vultures. We’re missing one. Where’s Daehyun?”

“I told him to move his ass to the meeting. No response.” Youngjae shrugged, leaning back into his chair to find a comfier position to sit.

“He’s been like this for weeks…” Himchan let out another exasperated sigh. These boys will be the death of him. You looked down at Himchan confused as you turned to Yongguk and cocked an eyebrow.

“Daehyun has been really silent lately. Not eating much and hasn’t left his room for some days. Kinda out of it.” Yongguk answered you mental question, which you thanked.

“Maybe he got dumped by another girl.” Jongup boredly nodded, not wanting to dwell on the mental issues of his members and instead get the meeting going.

“Like that’s anything new.” Youngjae snorted. Despite his smart quips, Youngjae had a boiling concern for his best friend. Daehyun being silent, let alone not eating, was something he deemed very unusual.

“He was fine when he went to that club up on Mercy street a few weeks ago. Weren’t you with him?” Himchan groaned, concerned deeply for the younger member, but at the same time frustrated at the rest of the members lack of cooperation.

“That doesn’t mean I have to follow his ass all the time?” Youngjae rolled his eyes.  

“Noooo, you’d rather tap that ass.” Zelo snickered, causing both Jongup and Yongguk to let out a snort. Even you had to bite your lower lip to contain a chuckle that threatened to escape your lips. Youngjae glared at the maknae for his juvenile joke.

“And you’d rather have a kick in the ass,” Youngjae growled before letting out a sigh to recollect his thoughts. “I saw him head off to the bar and that’s about it. I’m pretty sure he was chatting up with a girl.”

“Where were you?” Himchan raised a brow, wondering where Youngjae could have wandered off to that he would lose sight of Daehyun.

“At the tables. Got a few games of billiards in.” Youngjae smirked. “And guess who won us a shit ton of money?” Youngjae place a large wad of cash in front of the boys before leaning back into his seat, a cocky grin on his face. “Your welcome.”

“I’ll go check on him,” You offered, seeing as the rest of the boys weren’t going to be of much help. “I’m pretty good at getting boys to listen to me,” You winked over your shoulder, causing Himchan to raise a brow and flash you a smirk.

“It’s like we have two moms.” Zelo snickered, causing Himchan to shoot the young boy a sharp glare.

“Except one of them is easier on the eyes.” Jongup snorted in amusement.

“You boys go ahead and enjoy the spaghetti. It was Zelo’s request after all.” The rest of the boys turned their attention to the young boy, confused at the sudden request of spaghetti.

“What? Padrino said she makes really good spaghetti,” Zelo shrugged, scavenging through the package you brought. “Plus I’m getting tired of Himchan’s cooking.”

“I swear to God why do I put up with you guys….” Himchan groaned.

 “Daehyun?” You gently knocked on the door that belonged to the usually boisterous, flirty male. The response of silence was odd and unnerving. “Daehyun? Are you okay?” You knocked a few more times, the door slowly opening on it’s own. You took that as a sign to scope out the room. Usually you would never pry into someone else’s room. It was an invasion of privacy and outright rude. At the same notion, however, the sudden change in demeanor made the rude action warranted. 

“Y/N!?” Daehyun jumped at your sudden presence in his room. “W-what are you doing here?” He quickly scrambled some photos under his pillow, hoping that you hadn’t noticed. You had.

“I just wanted to check if you were okay. The boys were wondering where you were.” Your eyes were filled with concern at the sight of the man in front of you. Your mother bear instincts were kicking in. The once bright-eyed full of life boy was now a hollow shell. He had large bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for days. The bright spark in his eyes were now masked over by a cloud of confusion, anger, depression. The smile he once wore now painted over with forced, fake pleasantries. It didn’t help that him and his room exuded such a stench of alcohol that the smallest spark could probably set the place ablaze.

“I’m fine. Thanks for letting me know.” Daehyun flashed you a forced assuring smile as he began walking past you.

“Daehyun,” You grabbed his wrist, forcing him to turn and face you. “If there is anything you need to talk about. Anything. I’m here okay? No judgement.” You lightly squeezed his wrist, assuring that you could be his confidant.

Daehyun opened his mouth for a moment, contemplating deeply on the words that were about to leave his mouth. “Y/N...if you had the chance to save the person you loved….would you do anything in your power to take it?” You stared into Daehyun’s eyes, his eyes were pleading for an answer. A part of you wanted to lie. You had a gut feeling that you should tell him a simple white lie. That some sort of pain could be avoided. But you didn’t want to. You couldn’t.

“Yes, Daehyun. If I had the chance, I would.” Daehyun’s fell into a deeper sadness as another empty smile graced his lips. Your grip on his wrist was light enough for him to remove himself from your grasp. 

“Thank you….” Daehyun flashed you one more smile before trotting down the hallway towards the conference room.

“So where are we at so far, Youngjae?” Himchan leaned back in his seat, staring at the projector screen decorated with documents, video, and photos. He took a quick glance at Daehyun and noticed the boy’s sullen demeanor. He quickly looked up at you as you made yourself comfortable on the armrest of Himchan’s chair. You flashed him a reassuring smile that you talked with Daehyun and that at the moment you should simply leave him alone.

“So we’ve cleared up nearly all the goods that belonged to the Emperor Dragons. Their ports, storage units, and territory is all under our control now,” Youngjae smirked, a bit proud of the team's accomplishments. “But still not a peep from INF.”

Himchan’s eyes narrowed at that information. Why weren’t they retaliating? For such a big shot scary organization, Himchan had thought they would have done something by now? Were they still not big enough fish to fry? He was frustrated and annoyed. They were looking down on them. They were basically saying that B.A.P could do whatever hell they want because they were not significant enough to detriment their business.

“How about the special agents? They’ve been on our tail recently.” Yongguk noted. You slightly tensed at thought of the secret agents. Jaebum recently came by the bar lately, inquiring about the recent storage raids. That as well as checking on your well-being. He really was a sweet man, it was only unfortunate that he was trying to put your boyfriend and his gang in prison.

“Hmph, a bunch a bloodhounds who can’t find the right scent,” Jongup snickered as he leaned back in his seat and placed his hands behind his head. “Without any evidence their accusations are just a bunch of smoke.” 

“Jongup’s right. At the moment, the special agents aren’t our biggest problem,” Himchan gripped his hands tightly. “The INF. They’re too quiet...Either they’re arrogant as hell and think nothing of losing some profit or we’re in for one hell of a storm,” Himchan sighed before glancing over to the usually boisterous member, now eerily quiet with a dull stare. “Right Daehyun?” 

Daehyun jolted at the sound of his name, all eyes were on him now. “R-Right…” His voice was merely a mumble. 

“What the hell’s got your tongue?” Zelo lifted a questioning brow, only to receive an elbow to the gut from Youngjae.  

“He’s just a bit tired,” You smiled politely, a smile that you have trained to deceive any man. “Late night thinking.” You gently rubbed Daehyun’s back, attempting to loosen the tension the poor boy was holding up. Daehyun looked up and stared into your eyes. You could see a flash of apologies and guilt go over his dark brown eyes.

“Ahem...well there is this one thing that I found that I think will stir up some trouble,” Youngjae let out a awkward, redirecting the attention of the crowd back to the screen displayed before them. There was something up with his best friend, and though Youngjae would not outwardly show it, he wanted to ease whatever troubles that plagued Daehyun. “I haven’t found the location of this shipment. From what I’ve gathered this little treasure that they’re hiding is on the move.” Youngjae zoomed in onto the a scramble of letter and numbers SA20--V10.

“Do we have any idea of what this treasure is?” Zelo’s face scrunched up as he attempted to decipher the letter and number code placed before him.

“Not a clue. I’m working on trying to figure out though…” Youngjae grumbled, not content that this puzzle that the INF has thrown at them had stumped him. Okay, not stumped, but did make the boy genius pause.

“I think I can help with that,” You gently removed yourself from the armrest of Himchan’s chair as you sauntered over towards the screen. “It’s an information code on what kind of cargo the Emperor Dragons brought in for the INF. This,” You pointed at the SA letters etched on the screen. “South America, the shipment is from South America. As for the 20--, it stands for the worth of the cargo. The two dashes indicate that it’s in the millions, so 20 million,” You tilted your head slight, tapping your chin in contemplation as you racked through your pool of knowledge. Your eyebrows furrowed and your expression darkened as you came to the realization of the code. Something all too familiar. “V...Virgin. 10….they’ll be splitting it up into 10 different locations.”

“Human trafficking…” You could hear the low growl in Yongguk’s voice.

“Virgins? That’s hard to come by unless…” Zelo’s voice trailed off, answering the question that laid heavy in the room.

“Unless they were young,” Himchan growled. “This must be their cash cow. Bringing in young virgin girls from poorer countries and selling them off on the blackmarket…” The white of Himchan’s knuckles could be seen. No, Himchan and the rest of the boys were no saints, but there was a line that they would not cross. Children and the force labor of an innocent. That was something that they couldn’t stand.  “Youngjae, I want you to track that shipment with any means you can okay? Let’s stir up some trouble for them all high and mighty INF,” Youngjae gave Himchan a firm nod before typing away at his computer. “And watch out for Daehyun… he doesn’t seem to be in his right state of mind…” Himchan lowered his voice just so that Youngjae could hear.

“Yeah… I will…” Youngjae murmured, his expression softened for just a moment before going back to normal. “Yah, Daehyun! Get your butt over here and help me out! Quit your moping, just cause you got dumped or someone ate your last piece of cake.” Youngjae could hear a small scoff escape Daehyun’s lips as the boy came over and sat beside him. A small smile graced Youngjae’s face. At least Daehyun was showing some sort of emotion other than depressed.

“Jongup, Zelo, I want you two to hit the streets. What Youngjae and Daehyun can’t find out on the internet, I want you to find out, got it?” Jongup shrugged as he got up from his seat. Zelo took a small gulp as he got up from his seat. Zelo had never really worked with Jongup before and if he did it was always with someone else. It wasn’t like he was scared of Jongup. Of course not! He was a big bad gangster. Why would he scared of his fellow teammate...he wasn’t scared. Just wary. There was something about the dark blue haired boy and that sinister smirk of his that threw Zelo off.

“Come on, kid. I’ll buy you an ice-cream after this.” Jongup teased, causing Zelo to flare with anger.

“I am not a kid! I am like at least two heads taller than you so you better watch your mouth!” Zelo growled. 

“Or what? You gonna sit on me with your giant ass?” Jongup chuckled, enjoying the thrill in riling the younger. The giant baby chick’s emotions were so easy to manipulate. It was quite amusing.

“Quit fighting you two and go do your job!” Himchan groaned as he rubbed his temples. “And Yongguk…” Himchan leaned down, his voice was barely a whisper. “I have some contacts down in South America, get in contact with Benny and see what you can dig up about any illegal shipments.” Yongguk gave a nod in acknowledgement and excused himself out of the room.

“And what are you going to do, Mr. Big Boss Himchan?” You teased, your hands on your waist as Himchan came up to you, a big smile plastered on his lips.

“Me? I’m taking you home.” Himchan pecked you gently on the lips, causing Youngjae to groan at the two of you.

“You two need to get that cutesy couply shit out of here. You’re starting to make flowers and sparkles pop up out of thin air.” Youngjae rolled his eyes as he continued to type away.

“Uhg...why do I deal with you all sometimes…seriously. I should give you all an ass whooping.” Himchan groaned, his arm snaked around your waist. 

“Cause they’ve imprinted on you so you’re stuck with them no matter what, Mama Duck.” You teased as Himchan shot you a playful glare.

“Oh then what are you?” He raised an eyebrow, keen on your answer. 

“I’m the Papa Duck.” You chuckled as Himchan’s playful expression turned blank, an obvious look of ‘what the actual hell.’

“She ain’t wrong. We know who wears the pants in this relationship.” Youngjae snickered.

“That’s it. We’re leaving,” Himchan quickly shooed the two of you out of the room. “And the next time I see you Youngjae, you’re going to have a footprint on your ass.”

“So are you ever going to tell me how you figured out that code,” Himchan chuckled, his warm breath gently fanning you neck, his arms wrapped your waist as you opened the door to your apartment. “Or am I gonna have to pry it out of you?” He smirked, his voice filled with suggestion as his grip around your waist tightened.

“Hmmm, I wonder,” You smirked as you turned to face, playing with his collar. “Why don’t you come in and try to find out for yourself?” You playfully pulled him by the collar into your apartment, pressing your soft lips against his. The two of you just seemed to fit. His lips against yours. The harmonious synchronization of movement. The small playful nips on your lower lips. It was perfection. Himchan broke the kiss momentarily, a big ol cheeky grin on his face.

“Oh I plan on to,” He gave you a peck on the nose before casually walking into your kitchen. Despite what the boys (any thousands of many of other people) may think, Himchan had yet to touch you yet. Well….touch you in the way he wanted to do. He didn’t understand himself anymore. At first he was frustrated. Nothing more to pounce on you and ravage your body, but as time progressed he found himself basking in this relationship you two had. He didn’t quite know what to label it. Domestic? Romantic? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He was happy. Genuinely happy. There was no need to rush his happiness. “Coffee?” He flashed you his sweet bunny tooth smile, that you recently discovered. Only when you saw that endearing smile did you know that Himchan was being sincere. No facade. No tough guy act. It was just Himchan.

“How can I resist your coffee?” You teased as you headed towards your bedroom to dress in something more comfortable.

“So can you at least give me a hint as to how you figure out that code?” Himchan hummed as he began packing the coffee into the machine. He knew better than to pry into your life, yet at the same time the more time he spent with you the more he wanted to know.

“It’s just something I learned on the job.” You chuckled at Himchan’s persistency. The more time you spent with the man the more you discovered yourself opening up. The cold walls you built up were cracking, and surprisingly, you were relieved. Relieved to be happy. To perhaps, actually move on.

“Job? I thought your job was a bar owner?” Himchan raised a brow as he began mixing the perfect amount of cream and sugar into each coffee cup.

“I’m a woman of many abilities and talents,” You chuckled, waddling into the kitchen and peering over Himchan’s shoulder. “Why should I limit myself to just being a bar owner, Channie.” You teased, playfully pinching his nose as you scooped up your coffee cup.

“Channie? Really?” He sighed, knowing better than to argue with you since you would win in the end.

“I think it’s cute,” You shrugged, sipping on the perfect cup of joe as you snuggled into your couch. Himchan rolled his eyes. He was a notorious gangster and last time he checked, notorious gangsters weren’t cute. “Imagine the boys seeing you now, all sparkly eyed and making coffee. Very domestic.”

“And you have a problem with that?” He raised an eyebrow, taking his seat beside you and wrapping his around your shoulder.

“Nope.” You smiled sweetly at him then pecking his nose.

You leaned again Himchan’s chest reveling in his warmth as the two of you began talk about everything and nothing. You both talked about your childhoods, your favorite foods, your least favorite foods, your first dates, the list could go on forever. The occasional peck or two would sneak in between words. A moment of pause for the needed sip of coffee. The sweet lull of jazz music that was playing in the background accompanied your conversation (You always had some sort of music playing in the background). Everything seemed so natural between the two of you. Like things just seemed to fit.

“No, you did not do that,” You could not contain the laughter pouring from your lips, tears of humor threatening to fall. “A bouquet of dandelions? That’s what you gave her?” 

“At the time I thought it was cute!” Himchan defended his case, looking at you unamused as you laughed hysterically. “You blow on dandelions to grant a wish right? So I gave her a bouquet of those so that her wishes could come true!” He slightly pouted, thinking that his gesture was cute as shit. 

“That is very adorable,” You looked up at Himchan, the pout still very eminent on his lips. “I expect a bouquet of dandelions from you.” You pecked his lips causing the small pout to transform into a grin.

“I’ll go pick some right now.” He flashed you a cheeky grin as the both of you bursted out into laughter.

Knock Knock! 

“Huh?” You raised a brow at the sudden intrusion to your blissful. 

“Were you expecting someone? Do I need to start acting like your macho possessive boyfriend?” Himchan teased, causing you to roll your eyes and slap his chest playfully.

“It’s probably nothing,” You placed your coffee cup down and waddled to the front door. You peeked through the little peephole to see a small brown package lying in front of your apartment, a small folded note adorning the top of the box. You raised an eyebrow. Packages were never directly placed at your front door, usually they stayed with the your mailbox downstairs till you checked. Your instincts told you to be wary after the bomb incident, slowly prying the door open to exam the box. You stayed silent for a moment, not a sound of ticking or beeping could be heard. At least you could conclude that the box wasn’t a time bomb. You bent down to pick up the note. You wanted to play, right? Your eyebrows furrowed at the words staring back at you.

“Hey, you okay, Adenium?” Himchan raised a brow at your cautious nature and began removing himself from the couch.

“I’m fine it’s just…” You eyes narrowed as you noticed some sort of ooze seeping out of the bottom of the box. You cautiously reached out and opened each flap of the box. “Oh my God…” You fell back, your eyes wide. Your entire body was trembling and you could feel your stomach churn, wanting nothing more than to release its contents. Everything around you seemed to crash. Reality seemed to set in. The blissful paradise you were in now became a utter living hell.

“Y/N?” Himchan’s voice wary as he approached you, only to have his voice fall silence and his face pale at the sight of the contents in the box. Blood soaked the entirety of the box, seeping its way into the wooden floors of the hallway. The dismembered head beaten, bruised, slashed. Nearly unrecognizable. Nearly. “V-Vincent…”

Thanks for reading! Comments and Critiques are much appreciated!!

[aridara]

So, @wolfsaturn never bothered to give me an answer to the question I gave him in this thread:

The problem with your reasoning - “Black people commit more crimes, therefore they are targeted more by the police” - is that it doesn’t have any sense of proportionality. If Black people commit twice the amount of violent crimes than white people, I expect that Black people will be arrested for violent crimes twice as often as white people - maybe twice and a half. But more than five times? Ten?

Come on, give me a cutoff. What would be enough for you to consider it evidence of racism?

...which means that they seem to believe that, since Black people commit more violent crimes than white people (even tough that’s highly dubious), then ANY amount of violent response is appropriate. I don’t have to explain why that belief of them is fucked up.

So, here’s what I’m gonna do: I’m going to go through all of their “points”, post this, wait 24 hours, and then block them.

I’ve never claimed that the violence came from “Soros’ minions”, but whatevs.

Here so you can understand the Difference between the two, cause I know you are having difficulty.

Protest Riot So there is no longer any confusion on what I meant.

Ah, so this was not about people who cause vandalism for vandalism’s sake. Glad to see that you admitted it, so that we can move on.

Why yes, I do admit that BLM caused riots. They had to - like the Civil Rights Movement had to. Becaue they were being literally killed.

All this even after the fact that they found Brown to be in the wrong.

You’re mixing up “Not Guilty” with “innocent” here, buddy. Wilson couldn’t be condemned because the jury didn’t find enough evidence to erase all reasonable doubts of his guilt.

But here’s an interesting fact: the police’s version was proven to be false on multiple issues. Here’s some of the lies, and what turned out to be the truth.:

Brown was stopped because he stole candy >> The “robbery” victim did NOT call the police; Brown was stopped for jaywalking.

Officer Wilson did not use any profanity when telling Brown and Johnson to use the sidewalk >> Officer Wilson did use profanity when telling Brown and Johnson to use the sidewalk.

Brown injured Officer Wilson >> Brown did not injure Officer Wilson.

Brown assaulted Wilson in an attempt to take his gun. Wilson claims that the gun was holstered before the assault. >> This was proven to be false, as it would’ve been impossible for Brown to try to wrestle Wilson’s gun from his hands if it wasn’t in Wilson’s hands.

Brown was 35 feet away from Wilson >> Brown was more than 100 feet away from Wilson.

Brown had an injury to his hand, probably caused by the struggle. >> The claim is highly suspect, as it came out from the “official” autopsy done after 75 days from Brown’s shooting.

CLAIM 1: The unjustifiably violent episodes during BLM protests are not caused by BLM as a whole, but by individuals - often strangers to BLM itself.

Prove it.  Prove they had no involvement.

And this bit right here completely destroys any “innocent until proven guilty” bullshit you may ever spew. Because you sure as fuck haven’t waited until a full trial to condemn the entire BLM movement.

So, congratulations: any paragraph where you’ll try to use the “innocent until proven guilty” bullshit to silence a public discussion will be automatically dismissed.

Once again back to that article you linked to yet still haven’t read. First off it is the opinion of one man, that 70% of people in the riots were from out of town. No actual stats, just opinion.

False statement. The writer took that statistics from the police’s data on the arrests done at Ferguson.

It then goes on to say, that FUCKING SOROS MASTERMINDED IT ALL!

You claimed that Soros paid BLM in order to deliberately attack the police for no reason. Not to mention that you claimed that without a trial resulting in a sentence that condemned Soros.

Again: your “innocent until proven guilty” bullshit won’t work.

Black people are 3 times more likely to be killed by the police than white people. UNARMED black people are 5 times more likely to be killed by the police than unarmed white people.

Already explained why that is.

No, you haven’t. Even if we believe that black people commit twice the amount of violent crimes than white people, we could* expect black criminals to be shot at twice the rate of white criminals.

(*: Except that violent crimes has no correlation with

Less than 1 in 3 black suspects killed by the police were both suspected of having committed a violent crime, and suspected of having a weapon.

Why were they killed? Stories behind each one. Stats don’t lie but are very misleading without full knowledge of all information involved.

The fact is that only 1 in 3 black suspects who were killed by the police were both suspected of having committed a violent crime and armed. The other 2 were either suspected of NON violent crimes; or they weren’t armed. Either way, it casts suspicion on the shooting and, most importantly, it usually requires an investigation to check whether the shooting really was justified or not. Which is at absolute odds with the fact that only 3% of police shootings were investigated.

Ah a report about how police are mistreating so many black people… in a predominantly black area. [Ferguson]

It’s pretty clear that you haven’t even bothered to glance at that report. Have a summary:

African American amount to 67% of Ferguson population.

They account for 85% of all vehicle stops in Ferguson.

They account for 90% of citations.

They account for 93% of arrests.

Even after controlling non-race variables (such as the reason the vehicle stop was initiated), African Americans drivers were stopped twice as much as White Americans, buth were found in possession of contraband 26% less than White Americans.

Even taking in account the differences for the reason why the vehicle stop was initiated, African Americans are more likely to be cited and arrested.

African Americans are also more likely to receive multiple citations in the same stop. From 2012 to 2014, FPD issued four or more citations to African Americans on 73 occasions, but issued four or more citations to non-African Americans only twice.

FPD appears to bring certain offenses almost exclusively against African Americans. Considering Ferguson’s crime rates, that’s literally impossible without the presence of racism.

African Americans accounted for 95% of Manner of Walking in Roadway charges.

African Americans accounted for 94% of Manner of Failing to Comply charges.

Africans Americans are more likely to get a speeding charge - significantly more (+48%) when radars or lasers are not involved.

Nearly 90% of documented force used by FPD officers was used against African Americans.

In every canine bite incident for which racial information is available, the person bitten was African American.

African Americans are 68% less likely than others to have their cases dismissed by the court, and are more likely to have their cases last longer and result in more required court encounters.

African Americans are at least 50% more likely to have their cases lead to an arrest warrant, and accounted for 92% of cases in which an arrest warrant was issued by the Ferguson Municipal Court in 2013.

Available data show that, of those actually arrested by FPD only because of an outstanding municipal warrant, 96% are African American.

The investigation indicates that this disproportionate burden on African Americans cannot be explained by any difference in the rate at which people of different races violate the law.

Oh there are so many black people in prison… OMG this must mean they are in there unjustly! But you can’t assume that the people in there are innocent!

Considering that the amount of convictions against black people are massively disproportionate in relation to the actual crime rates of Black people, and considering that the majority of those wrongly convicted are black, I DO assume that racism is involved.

But you’ve all but admitted that, as long as Black people “commit more crimes” (read: are convicted more) than white people, then it doesn’t matter how much Black people are charged, arrested, convicted, or shot.

“In New York, an average of 10-11% of stop-and-frisk searches are done on white people, while 53-56% are done on black people. Nearly nine in ten stopped-and-frisked people are innocent.” I’m sure the fact that they are dispatched in high crime areas in NYC doesn’t play a part in that. Probably because of who you’ll find in those areas more. BLACK PEOPLE!

Prove it. Especially since those statistics are NYC-wide.

“24% of black people had force used against them by the NYPD, compared to only 17% of whites.” Now off the bat, oooorrrr did some put up a struggle and resist arrest?

Orrrrrr you forgot that’s 24% of the entire Black population of NYC.

You’re claiming that 530.000+ of Black people resisted arrest? When “resisting arrest” is a charge decided solely by the police officer?

I mean really, all it is is statistics but no meaning behind it but the one you place on them.

Where are the FACTS!

War on drugs? Well I do admit this was a plan of the government to hold back minorities, especially those of African and Mexican heritage. I am adamantly against prohibition, and understand a lot of minorities would be left free if they legalize some drugs/ But man it’s still illegal. Just like stealing, and murder. Don’t be upset because you can’t stop breaking the law.

Fun fact: most of the biggest drug dealers (we’re talking cocaine and heroine, not marijuana) were - and still are - white.

Yet the police didn’t ever think to target white people more than black people.

Also: tell me ONE case where a BLM protest resulted in someone being hanged.

Lynching though it tends to end in a hanging, does not necessarily involve a hanging. An officer shoots a poc, rather than wait for the results of the case other poc gather to protest the death.

Yeah, no. You have no idea what lynching is.

Then again, it happens quite often that bigots call any protest the oppressed do - no matter how pacific - “violent” or “lynching” or “offensive”, or, or, or. I’d ask you “What, exactly, would be a way of protesting that you would approve?”, but since you believe that protesting an unjust shooting is exactly the same as hanging someone yourself, I already know that the answer will be “I don’t approve them protesting period”.

LOL ^^^Funniest thing I heard all day^^^ That is our Judicial system to you? Dude, without evidence a person IS innocent! That isn’t silencing the masses, it’s protecting them. I’m not trying to silence discussion of the case, I’m just saying that a group that rallies together and starts protesting something they don’t have all the facts to is ignorant. Not only that, it has been known to sway judgment of juries, and put pressure on judges.

In other words, no protesting or talking about the case until the verdict comes out? Yeah, no. Again: you don’t believe this is a penal trial, otherwise you’d speak only when the judge calls you. You don’t believe that you shouldn’t speak of guilt until the verdict, because YOU sure as fuck haven't waited the verdict to claim that Soros caused a riot. But you are trying to silence a discussion that you don’t like.

Again: all paragraphs about “innocent until proven guilty” will be dismissed.

You are insinuating that EVERY shooting of an unarmed person was because of brutality. Prove it.

I don’t have to prove a claim that you made up.

You are insisting that because so many poc are being shot that it must equal racism. Prove it.

The evidence is that, even taking in account crime rates and whether the suspect was violent or not, the numbers STILL don’t match up.

Any paragraph where you keep ignoring this will be istantly dismissed, since for you, as long as black people keep being convicted for more crimes than white people, then any amount of arrests, fines, police brutality, convictions, and police shootings will be acceptable.

I don’t have to provide evidence, the trial of the officer that shot him provided it all to show that brown was in fact leaning in the car reaching for the gun.

Except that A. that was possible

only if Officer Wilson already extracted the gun

, which means that he lied in court; and B.

Brown was shot after he ran away, at a 100+ feet of distance

.

Everyone thinks thats [the Brock Turner verdict] a bogus outcome. But that’s what happens when plea deals are made for less violent crimes.

This right in: rape is a less violent crime.

I think maybe YOU should read the fucking article you illiterate little prick.

I��ve already pointed out the many, many, many problems with that ruling.

Also: what about White-on-White crime? Did you know that more than 4 in 5 white murder victims were killed by another white person?

Prove it!

Here ya go. 81% of white murder victims were murdered by white murderers.

The white community acknowledges white criminals, and condemns their actions. the black community is quick to rally behind their criminals.

Citation needed for “rally behind criminals”. Make sure it’s statistical evidence and that is enough to go against evidence that they do care about intra-community violence.

Besides Explain the fact that black people commit crimes towards white people at a higher rate.

Because A. poverty is correlated with higher crime rates; B. the legal system is massively racist (see the above); and C. “Black people commit half of all violent crimes” is bullshit.

Your claim is that it is police brutality, now fucking PROVE IT!

The proof is that: A. Black people are disproportionately targeted by police shootings; B. Such disproportion cannot be explained by “suspect was armed/unarmed”; C. It also cannot be explained by “suspect was suspected of having committed/not having committed a violent crime”; D. It also cannot be explained by “Black people commit more crimes, therefore the police is more wary of black criminals”. We DO know that police brutality (including police shootings) are NOT correlated with violent crime rates; so, when you say “Black people commit more crimes, and that makes the police more vary of black criminals”, what you’re actually saying is: “This only happens to black people. White crimes don’t make the police more vary of white people. I, in no way, will ever admit that what I just implied is evidence of racism”.

[Sterling] was a criminal, and though it was unknown at the time of the justified shooting that he was a criminal, he was reported to the police to have been threatening a civilian with his gun that he should never have had in the first place due to his MANY charges against him for violent actions some of which he had illegal firearms.

Except that, again, the police officers didn’t even know who he was, didn’t know that he already had charged against him, didn’t know that he had no right to carry a gun (by the way: citation needed that he couldn’t have a gun).

Not to mention that they tazed him multiple times and they (yes, they; there were at least two officers) were sitting on top of him at the time of the shooting. And they shot him dead - not at the arm, despite requiring the same effort and reaction time. So: what do you think happened?

The policemen weren’t able to prevent Sterling from reaching for his gun, because Sterling had magical Black super-strength and was capable of shrugging off multiple tazer shocks and having at least two men on top of him. The policemen had no choice but to shoot him dead in order to stop him.

The policemen were so incompetent, they weren’t capable of stopping Sterling from reaching for his gun, despite the fact that they were literally on top of him, and despite the fact that Sterling was tazed multiple times. The policemen shot Sterling dead, without bothering to aim for the arm or the shoulder.

Sterling was unable to reach for his gun. The policemen shot him dead anyway.

OH? The black men in that picture seem to be alive. You gotta look for them but they are there lol

Different case different officers different reasonings behind doing what they did.

They literally shot at the police with shotguns.

Cutting repeated bullshit - we already know that you istantly assume that any Black person shot dead by the police was guilty with no trial... more lies about Brown... a bullshit video...

MLK wanted intelligent hard working men and women of color to be treated as equals, not the people that are placed on pedestals by BLM protesters.

MLK wanted to build up the black community, not tear it down.

Don’t invoke the name of MLK, he would be embarrassed by you.

Yeah, no. He knew full well that “asking nicely” doesn’t work:

We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was "well timed" in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word "Wait!" It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This "Wait" has almost always meant "Never." We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that "justice too long delayed is justice denied.

We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, "Wait." But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: "Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored"; when your first name becomes "nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "John," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "Mrs."; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"--then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience. You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern. Since we so diligently urge people to obey the Supreme Court's decision of 1954 outlawing segregation in the public schools, at first glance it may seem rather paradoxical for us consciously to break laws. One may well ask: "How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?" The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that "an unjust law is no law at all."

[...] I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and that when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. Actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with. Like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed, with all the tension its exposure creates, to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured. [Letter from a Birmingham Jail, 1963]

Not to mention that MLK was blamed for riots, looting, and violence, he endured government subversion, and in the end was assassinated.

It doesn’t matter how polite Black people are towards racists. The racists still murderously hate Black people.

Cutting more bullshit... more accusations that either BLM or Soros caused vandalism and violence for the sake of vandalism and violence (again: so much for “wait until the verdict”)... more Occam’s Big Paisley Tie* about the 70% of vandals being from outside Ferguson and outside the protest... more of the usual “Black people commit more crimes, therefore it’s just right they’re being fined/arrested/shot at more than white people no matter how disproportionately”... OBPT* about unarmed people getting shot... more “Stop protesting”.

...Aaaaaaand that is all. You get 24 hours to write whatever bullshit reply you want, and then you get blocked. Bye.

*: “Occam’s Razor” is a principle, attributed to William of Occam. When someone uses “Occam’s Razor”, it means that, for any given question, they assume that the answer is the one that requires the fewest assumptions and doesn’t have enough contrasting evidence to be shot down.

“Occam’s Big Paisley Tie” is when someone, when asked whether Act X constitutes oppression (for example: racism) or not, would rather select every single answer, no matter how improbable, that allows them to deny the existance of the oppression; than admit that such an oppression exists.

Example: A: That salesperson ignored me in favor of that white guy who just cut before me. That’s the fourth time by now. B: Are you sure that salesperson didn't ignore you because he just didn't see you? A: Yes. I called him when the first guy cut me off, and he told me to wait. Then it happened again. And again, and again. B: Well, maybe he was just having a bad day. A: ...What does this have to do with anything? B: Are you certain he heard you? A: ...Yes. Again: he told me to wait. Twice, in fact. B: Did you really try to get his attention? A: .........YES. B: Maybe he didn't realize you needed help. A: I told him! B: I'm sure it's not that he was being purposefully rude. A: And this matters how?! The fact is, I’m here, and he just let four other people cut in before me! B: Maybe he’s hard of hearing. A: Of course. That’s why he doesn’t have any problem hearing other customers. Not to mention that HE TOLD ME TO WAIT. HE CLEARLY SAW ME. B: Have you considered that maybe you had an unfriendly look on your face? A: What?!? B: You know how your face gets when you're not smiling. A: .........Really? That is your explanation? And that doesn’t make him an asshole how, exactly?!? B: Then I don't know—there has to be some explanation you just didn't notice.

[commonplace-book-project]

Feminism, Intersectionality and Stereotypes

I have learned a lot this semester that has opened my eyes to feminism and mainly intersectionality. Feminism is the movement for social, political, and economic equality between women and men. Globally feminism is not only concerned with direct laws that discriminate against women, but also social structures and the denial of equal opportunity. This is a current issue still going on throughout the world, women are not treated equally than men around the world. In many places’ women will make less money than a man for doing the same job and women are seen as figures who stay at home and take care of the house chores and take care of the children, while men go out and work and make the money. This is one of the gender norms, social rules on what each gender can and cannot do, of women in men. Burn explains in,Introduction to Global Women’s Studies, “materialistic explanations for gender inequality view the oppression of women as a social, historical and alterable phenomenon. Family and social institutions arose out of material forces, such as the ownership of private property, led to male dominance and female subordination, and these materialistic forces maintain gender inequality” (page 3).  Women are also seen as emotional, bossy, and less than a man because of the different biological factors. These are some of the stereotypes of women seen around the world. Feminism is a very important movement for women’s rights, but it is not feminism if it’s not intersectional.        

Intersectionality is the interconnected nature of social categorizations such as race, class, and gender as they apply to a given individual or group, regarded as creating overlapping and interdependent systems of discrimination or disadvantage. Burn says in, Introduction to Global Women’s Studies, “Gender is intersectional because the way it is enacted and experienced depends on the way it interacts with other social categories and identities. It’s also important to contextualize women’s issues and activism. This means that to fully understand them you have to consider the context in which they are situated-culturally, socially, politically, historical, and economical” (page 8). I agree with the statement on the page above it that says, "in some ways woman all over the world have a lot in common" (page 7). I think women do have a lot in common but there are also a lot of things we don't all have in common like culture and background. When reading this I immediately thought about lecture 1, where I learned that white woman could vote in 1920 while African American woman couldn't vote until 1965, so I think that although women have things in common there are also a lot of things they don't have in common and are not all treated the same way that goes deeper than gender but into, race, ethnicity, and gender that we need to understand. This is the idea of intersectionality, the main factors that affect people throughout the world are; race, gender, class, education, language, culture, sexuality, ability, age, and ethnicity. All of these factors affect people on a daily basis creating unique and varied experiences of discrimination. We may have human “traits” in common, but it’s important to see the difference because these differences impact how women experience oppression and discrimination differently.

Women of color are not only discriminated against because they are women but also because of their race. Racism and feminism are two big current issues going on in the world right now, yet they are seen as two separate ideas when in fact they both are interconnected. I said above that in some place’s men make more money than women for doing the same job, but women of color will make less than a white woman too. Kimberlé Crenshaw explains intersectionality within gender and racism in her story, Mapping the Margins. One of the things she said that stood out to me the most about this issue is, “I consider how the experiences of women of color are frequently the product of intersecting patterns of racism and sexism, and how these experiences tend to not be represented within the discourse of either feminism or antiracism. Because of their intersectional identity as both women and in color within discourses that are shaped to respond to one or the other, women of color are marginalized as both” (page 201).

Sex and gender are other issues that also affect feminism and women. Sex is not the same as gender, sex describes the biological identities of women and men that are assigned at birth, while gender is the behaviors and characteristics that are associated with each sex, these are assigned socially and culturally. The social norm seen in many places throughout the world is that your sex is your gender and, in many places, socially, and legally women can only have sexual relations with men, and they can only marry men, and men can only be w women. In Nigeria, lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender persons face great legal and social challenges. The country does not allow or recognize LGBT rights. Very few LGBT persons are open about their orientation, and violence against LGBT people is frequent. The Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act criminalizes all forms of same-sex unions and same-sex marriage throughout the country. This is the very sad reality that occurs in our world and in some places the death penalty is in place if you are caught. Even in countries that have legalized same-sex marriage, socially not everyone thinks it’s right and people a part of this community are discriminated against for it.

Islamic feminism is an idea that stuck out to me, it aims for equality of all Muslims, regardless of sex or gender, in public and private life. This was one of the Western feminists’ biggest failings is overlooking the way Muslim feminists are handling issues themselves without interference from other women or groups. Many Western women and feminists believe that Islamic women need saving and are oppressed or being silenced because many of them wear a hijab or veil. These are the head scarfs that covers their hair and sometimes part of their face. For many Muslim women, wearing the headscarf is a feminist act, serving as a symbol of their identity and a way to counter-cultural imperialism. This is just one example of how Muslim women are defining and developing feminism, on their terms. The veiling can be seen as a symbol of faith/religious identity; a symbol of modesty; a sign of self-respect or social status. Yet many western feminists saw this as exemplifying the myth of Islam as inherently sexist and patriarchal. In Dalia Mogahed’s Ted Talk, What it’s like to be Muslim in America, she explains when she started wearing a Hijab her feminist friends often asked her, “why are you oppressing yourself.” Lila Abdu Lughod explains the reasoning behind this idea of the veil in, Do Muslim Women Really Need Saving. She says, “it is common popular knowledge that the ultimate sign of the oppression of Afghan women under the Taliban-and-the terrorists is that they were forced to wear the burqa. Liberals sometimes confess their surprise that even though Afghanistan has been liberated from the Taliban, women do not seem to be throwing off their burqas. Someone who has worked in Muslim regions must ask why this is so surprising” (page 599). She explains that “the Taliban didn’t even invent the burqa. It was a local form of covering that Pashtun women in one region wore when they went out” (page 599). Not only did Muslims face discrimination for being a woman but they also were discriminated against because of their religion and even clothing accessories they wore, and many of these ideas come from stereotypes.

Stereotypes are an over-generalized belief about a particular category of people. It is an expectation that people might have about every person of a particular group. These ideas cause a lot of issues and discrimination among people and a lot of it comes from the spread of media. Dalia Moaned, a Muslim woman living in America, explains that when 9/11 occurred she said, “not only had my country been attacked, but in a flash, somebody else’s actions had turned me from a citizen to a suspect.” This shows how we put people into categories based on the factors that apply to intersectionality and associate them with all being the same. We all need to understand that all of these different categories affect people in different ways, and you cannot just be seen as by one social identity.

Overall intersectionality is extremely important to the feminism movement. People need to be more aware and educated on this idea for changes to happen. I also think for changes to happen we need to stop the spread of stereotypes and seeing people as the same based on one social identity everyone is different and have their own stories and background. “The problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story” (Adichie).  

[circe-poetica]

Current astrology on coronavirus

Today (20th March, 2020) Mars and Jupiter will meet at 22 Capricorn 49' (GMT 11:21:52) 'recalling' the time when the great Saturn/Pluto conjunction was happened (at 22 Capricorn too, on 12th of January 2020). We are going through very intense and hard time, as you all know, coronavirus' issue is today the world's issue. The whole world is one global village and we all have the same problem! 

Saturn/Pluto cycle brings wars, conflicts, but it seams that we are in the war (not literally, but...), as many leaders said in past few days. In my article on coronavirus (which I posted on my blog in late Janaury 2020) I linked this virus with asteroid McDonalda which was discovered at 2 Taurus  (at 3 Taurus the Moon exalts, and there we have  an image of food,  our planet Earth, our Mother). We all noticed that in past days people are in panic that they won't have enough food for tomorrow, which made us to buy a lot of food, without thinking that there is someone around us who also needs food, right? I am sorry to say that transit Saturn at the very end of old and wise Capricron, at 29 Capricorn right now, shows we did not grow up enough!

Hoping from my heart that when Saturn enters Aquarius (22 March, 2020) at least there will be more solidarity around us. Saturn is in domicile in both signs, in Capricorn as well as in Aquarius, but touching 0 Aquarius is bringing totally different vibe where we should show we are humans most of all!

Mars exalts in Capricorn, and that is great, but  Mars is colored by weak Jupiter in its fall, which will spread more problems, and people with 22 of cardinal signs are indeed 'called-out'

. How we can stop spreading?  It is not the point I tell you there is  a 'poison' if I  do not have to offer you (as  an astrologer) some 'pill'. ALL WE SHOULD DO IS REALLY TO CALM DOWN, TO MEDITATE, NOT TO SPEAK,TO USE ISOLATION TIME AS SOMETHING THE BEST  FOR RETHINk OVER OUR LIVES, TO ADMIT OURSELVES OUR MISTAKES. EVERYONE OF US IS PART OF THIS WORLD, AND IT IS ENOUGH YOU JUST BE FOCUS ON YOURSELF, to be in silence. YOU CALM DOWN-THE VIRUS WILL SLOW TOO. HOW? 

Mars/Jupiter conjunction at 22° of Capricorn is squaring 22° of Aries, where we can find the fixed star from constellation of Cetus (BATEN CAITOS -Belly of The Whale) which always speaks about isolations,having problems with home, refugees. It gives compulsory transportation, change or emigration, misfortune by force or accident, shipwreck but also rescue, falls and blows. Baten Kaitos in The Whale has the character of Saturn, which perefectly fit right now with this story! The Saturnine properties, such as inhibition, reserve, caution, solitude, and simplicity often are forced onto such people either by a mundane power or a higher power. Sometimes ideas are propagated which make life for the native trying or troublesome for the native. To such persons, their fate is usually one of change. People influenced thus tend to depression or dwell on the thought of death. Life often is full of humiliation, renunciation and obstacles. Literally, imagine isolation because of COVID-19 is our own prison, and spending time in selfisolation is the perfect time to rethink about our mistakes, about our lives. The main point regarding BATEN CAITOS  is to admit yourself who you are and what is your true being. Did you run away from your purpose all your life?  After selfconfession, you should ask the God (the Universe) for honest forgivness after the freedom should happen. The gate will be open, and isolation will end.

As asteroid McDonalda was discovered at 2° Taurus (very close with 3° Taurs-the Moon’s exaltation degree) I would say the main human mistake might be – how we did treat the Mother Nature, and all what our Earth gives to us -  food we eat! After all, Taurus represents our planet Earth, and within Taurus at 3° vibes food and nature... WE have  to learn something from all of this-we have to start to be grateful for food, water, for all what comes from Taurus (food), because what we eat-we beecome. Of course, Taurus is money too, but as you can see the only two things we can't buy with money are: health and true love! So, we should review our material views too.

Saturn (borders) just crosses over the very end of Capricorn, 29° Capricorn, ’calling-out’ asteroid McDonalda from the US chart. Donald Trump declared the Proclamation of National Emergency regarding COVID-19, cancelled all flights between EU and US. I think it may reflect on Presidential election race and possible outcome, for the progressed Moon (together with progressed Pluto) of the US will cross over the same degree (29° Capricorn) around election (3rd Nov, 2020), as well as transit Moon and Jupiter will meet at 29° Capricorn too, between 17th-18th December, 2020 (when Saturn enters again Aquarius), just few days before the great Jupiter/Saturn conjunction at 0° Aquarius. For example, in my country, in Serbia, since 15th March, 2020-the Proclamation of National Emergency was declared, and it means that we are going to use army for civil needs too which fits with tomorrow's Mars (army, police) JUpiter (law) conjunction. A lot of them will break the law (Jupiter falls in Capricorn), not respecting isolation-specially those who come back to Serbia from abroad (most of them immigrated in countries of EU several years ago seeking for better lives, better sallaries). All that fits with Mars/Jupiter conj.at 22 Capricorn squaring the fixed star BATEN CAITOS.

This is the great time for silence, because we are waiting for the New Moon too at 24 March 2020, at 4 Aries, at the same time the Sun enteres Aries and spring is coming.

The Sabian symbol for Mars/Jupiter meeting is: Two awards for bravery in war. The degree opposite says: Meeting of a literary society. Let's hope that there are some wise, smart people who will in nearest future surprise us with some good news regarding possible pill which will help the corona virus' issue -stop. BATEN CAITOS is very spiritual fixed star, it is always a caling for a big   inner transforamtion after which we will all start our new lives. I think the Universe (the God) is very angry on us, and this all happens in order we change. SAturn/Pluto cycle opens wars, and this might be some kind of pilot episode of  WW3 and it might happen we fight for food most of all in a time ahead (have on mind that Saturn/Pluto cycle lasts around 33- 38 years)!Even in one Germany today Angela Merkel did beg people to stop to buy big ammounts of food and she said that this is the biggest challenge for the country after WW2!  

BE IN SILENCE, BUT BE AWARE TOO! I THINK THAT IS VERY IMPORTANT WE SPEND NEXT 5 DAYS IN DEEPEST SILENCE,IN ORDER THE CHANGE REGARDING CORONAVIRUS HAPPENS. REMEMBER, WHEN WE SLOW DOWN-ALL AROUND WILL SLOW TOO. ALL WHAT HAPPENS IS ONLY OUR INNER REFLECTION, SO THE KEY IS IN YOU, ONLY YOU!

As I've said in my article, I do really expect all this with coronavirus touches some end between 22 April-22 May 2020. REad more about that in my article: https://astrologsmiljanagavrancic.blogspot.com/…/coronaviru…

Here you can read my work on Jupiter in Capricorn and SAturn/Pluto 22 Capricorn conj.https://astrologsmiljanagavrancic.blogspot.com/…/jupiter-en…

[365footballorg-blog]

How Cotterill used Lego in his long-term battle against depression

Warning: this article contains content which you may find upsetting.

Feeling he had nowhere else to turn, David Cotterill would try anything to distract his mind from his own thoughts.

There were times he’d be sat in a hotel room on international duty, spending hours painstakingly piecing together his latest Lego construction.

Teammates would raise eyebrows, but wouldn’t pick up on the clues. His kids aren’t with him. He’s not just passing time. He’s desperately trying to block out his own thoughts. Thoughts that would take him to dark places, even at one stage to contemplate suicide.

The 30-year-old knows such moments are some of his lowest in a battle he has fought with depression since his teens, moments that have proven far harder for him to forget than they are to talk about.

There were times when the Wales winger was stopped by the restraint and tears of his wife, feeling like he could no longer go on.

These were times and moments he would never dare discuss in front of managers or team-mates, fearful more of the consequences of opening up than of death.

‘Didn’t want to face the world’

These were the darkest days of Cotterill’s mental struggles, which he has carried with him through a career of more than 400 games for Birmingham, Swansea, Sheffield United, Doncaster and Wigan, including 24 caps for his country.

The Cardiff-born midfielder says he had most of the material things many would dream of: the cars, the house, the wages and the fulfilled boyhood ambition of playing in the Premier League and on the international stage.

This was all by the age of 17, all ultimately irrelevant to Cotterill, all overshadowed by a realisation that the depression and anxiety he has felt from schooldays was consuming him.

Football provided a release, but not the support.

“When you’re around others the conversations are flowing and you tend to not have time to think about it, you’re looking forward to going out to train,” Cotterill says, speaking publicly for the first time about his struggles.

“But there would be times when I finished training and I couldn’t wait to go and lie in bed. I’d be there for hours.

“Particularly in the off-season, I’d just spend three or four days at a time not even eating, just thinking the worst things you can imagine and not actually sleeping at all. You’d stay there because you didn’t want to face the world.”

<!–

Cotterill says he always “sensed he was a little bit different”; that it was more than just the typical teenage difficulties.

He says the excitement of his early career – he had already become Wales’ then-second youngest international in 2005 before a £2m move to the Premier League with Wigan from Bristol City – stopped him focusing on what was always in the background. It did not last.

“I had an Aston Martin, the big house, anything a person could want – but you can’t help what’s in the brain,” he concedes.

“It’s the most powerful tool you have and what you feel can block out everything you have. And when you’re fighting that battle every day, it takes its toll.”

Cotterill explains the hardest periods were often when he wasn’t playing, not because of being out of the team, but being unable to have what he calls his ‘release’.

“When I didn’t have that, it would double, triple what you’d have in your head,” he says.

‘How can you do that when you have children, a wife?’

Drink became a crutch, but it only, eventually, exacerbated the issues. A false sense of control built up into both rages and moments of clarity when he wanted it to end.

Cotterill recalls: “In the early stages, I’d always have to go and have a drive where I would spend hours in the car and think a lot of bad things.

Read more about depression on the NHS website[1]

“I’ve searched for the easiest way to commit suicide. Then you think, how can you do that when you have children, a wife?

“You kind of then have a couple of days when you feel OK again, but it keeps repeating itself.”

Cotterill says he realised he was in “a dark place”, although neither team-mates nor managers would ever know, something he believes is part of both his and football’s problem with depression.

In long periods on the road, he says plenty might have attempted conversations with him and “I wouldn’t be there” but, in general, he says they would also describe him as “one of the liveliest in the dressing room”.

He was never tempted to let them in.

‘There’s footballers all over the country who feel this way’

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“Put it this way, if I went to a manager and said I’m struggling mentally, I need a break or I need a little bit of help, there’s no way he’s playing me on a Saturday or a Tuesday,” Cotterill says.

“He would say ‘he’s not mentally stable, he’s not mentally up for it’ – and my release was to go and play.

“I guarantee there’s footballers all over the country who feel this way. They won’t tell the manager because they’re not going to jeopardise their place, they’re not going to jeopardise their earnings to look after their family, so they’re parking this to one side.

“I don’t think you can go to the manager or club and say, ‘by the way I’m not coming in today, I’m going to see a doctor because mentally I’m not feeling great’. It’s not possible.”

Cotterill credits his wife of two-and-a half years for making a big change to how he’s learned to cope with his mental illness, adding that “without her I probably wouldn’t be here today”.

It was her he first opened up to, saying he had “parked” for too long because of football.

Using Lego as therapy

Cotterill would use Lego as a way of distracting him during long hours in hotel rooms, team-mates not picking up on the clues of the therapeutic nature of constructing toy brick buildings.

Without a club after his release from Birmingham and a short-lived spell in India, cooking is his latest focus.

Counselling and regular contacts with a therapist have helped. He took a personal decision to opt against the support of the Professional Footballers’ Association (PFA) because he wanted to go “outside of football”, though he accepts they could be the best choice for others who he encourages to “find that person you can speak to”.

“I feel better for speaking about it,” he says, with one of the reasons for breaking his silence being to help others feel more able to talk about issues honestly.

“When I spoke to my wife more about it I actually felt better. Your rash decisions and what you’re doing doesn’t make sense, but if you explain it more you’re getting it off your chest and people can better understand why you act the way you act.”

Yet, pointing to the difference to the everyday workplace, the winger has his doubts if the football industry can change anytime soon.

BBC: Mental Health[2]

PFA: More players affected by mental health issues[3]

“I truly believe if a manager or club finds out they’d use it as a weapon to not play you. If you’re the big man or big dog in that football team you potentially might get help; if you’re just a number in that squad I don’t think you’re getting the help you deserve or need,” Cotterill says.

“If we’re trying to protect injuries, knee injuries, foot injuries, whatever it might be, then why are we not protecting the brain, I don’t get it. We definitely need to look into it.

“If everyone was open and honest (in football) about depression there would be a scary number. A huge number.”

Cotterill talks about being encouraged by his counselling to take the little steps rather than the big ones

But he knows going public is his biggest stride forward in a battle he admits he might never win, but simply learn to better deal with and manage.

And this time he is not concerned with the sporting consequences, saying: “If talking about it affects me from signing somewhere else then I don’t want to continue to play football.”

If you have been affected by the issues raised in this article you can find the details of organisations offering support via Action Line.[4]

References

^ Read more about depression on the NHS website (www.nhs.uk)

^ BBC: Mental Health (www.bbc.co.uk)

^ PFA: More players affected by mental health issues (www.bbc.co.uk)

^ Action Line. (www.bbc.co.uk)

BBC Sport – Football

How Cotterill used Lego in his long-term battle against depression was originally published on 365 Football

[lopezdorothy70-blog]

Fake News vs. Faith News: How Biblical Principles Can Expose the Truth through Investigative Journalism

Commentary from Brian Shilhavy Editor, Health Impact News

We face a unique period of history in western culture in regards to the “news media.” Western values extol the virtues of independent voices exposing corruption among the rich and powerful, particularly in the political realm.

The founders of the United States Constitution encoded this value in the First Amendment, seeking to protect the freedom of speech and the freedom of the press of the American people.

However, for much of our history, the airwaves and the “media” have been controlled by a select few in the corporate world, where the “news” was tightly controlled by the main power-brokers in our culture who sought to control the opinions of the masses.

To learn more about this, see:

Mainstream News Media: Freedom of the Press or Controlled Propaganda?

Today, the tide has turned, and it is not so easy to control the thinking of the masses, mainly because the “medium” that feeds information to the masses has changed from the airwaves (TV and radio broadcasts) to the Internet, where the playing field, at least for now, has been leveled.

This is easily evidenced from the 2016 elections, where the “mainstream” corporate-sponsored media tried to convince the masses that Hillary Clinton was way ahead in the polls, and that Donald Trump had no chance of winning the election.

(Please note I am making observations about the media and politics here without taking a political view or endorsing any particular political party.)

But for the first time in modern history, the corporate-sponsored mainstream media was not able to influence the opinions of the masses and elect the person they had obviously chosen. The reason for this is because a majority of Americans found their information and “news” via other sources on the Internet, and not the airwaves that are still tightly controlled today.

The result has been predictable: the corporate-sponsored media, funded mainly by Big Pharma, is trying to define “fake news” from “real news,” and silence the independent media where much of the truth about our culture runs contradictory to what the “mainstream” media would like us to believe, especially on matters of health.

Here in 2018, much of the broadcasting of the alternative media is done via huge social media networks, such as Facebook, Google/Youtube, Twitter, and others.

These technology giants are trying to stifle the public's access to this new, alternative media, with their biggest target being Alex Jones and his Infowars.com website.

Regardless of your views of Alex Jones as a person, he is an American, and has a right to freedom of speech and freedom to publish the same as every other American.

I disagree with some of my peers who see his censorship on the social media technology giants as a First Amendment issue per se, because private corporations also have the freedom to pick and choose the content they want to publish.

The bigger legal issue in these censorships is probably discrimination, if their policies do not publicly state which content is acceptable on their networks and which are not.

Where this could venture into legal First Amendment issues is if the government gets involved in the censorship, via the FCC or other government regulatory bodies.

But in the case of Alex Jones, for example, statistics seem to show that his own website and platforms have only become more popular since these bans on social media networks. So as long as he continues to have the right to broadcast his news, it is up to the public to decide where they want to get their news, and that is the right that is protected under the First Amendment.

Marshall Allen of ProPublica has written an excellent commentary on how truth in journalism can be best communicated by following biblical standards of truth, a principle that we also follow here at Health Impact News.

Contrary to what modern post-Darwinian culture would have us believe, truth is absolute, not a matter of one's opinion or how many “likes” one receives from others, and these eternal truths are best explained in the ancient scriptures that have existed for thousands of years.

I don't know Marshall Allen personally, and I may not agree with everything he writes (I would not choose the name of a religion, like “Christian”, to define myself as a truth teller, for example – see: What Does it Mean to be a “Christian”?), but his commentary is a breath of fresh air in the moral abyss we call the “media” today.

From Ministry to Muckraking: The Biblical Basis for Investigative Reporting

Some people say journalists are “godless.” But I spent five years in full-time Christian ministry, and my faith has made me a better reporter.

by Marshall Allen ProPublica

More than a dozen years ago I was a finalist for a reporting job at a small newspaper. All I needed to do was survive an interview with the top editor. The other editors warned me, saying their boss took perverse pleasure from smashing the hopes of naive reporters. I braced myself as he studied my resume. His lips curled into a sneer.

To be fair, my job history was a tad unusual. I had spent five years in full-time ministry, including three as an evangelical Christian missionary in Kenya. Then there was my master's degree in theology from Fuller Theological Seminary. There didn't seem to be a lot of churchgoing, Bible-believing, born-again Christians like me working at daily papers.

The editor scowled and said, “So what makes you think that a Christian can be a good journalist?”

He emphasized “Christian” as if it were some kind of slur.

I liked that he spoke his mind, but I was taken aback. I explained what I saw as a natural progression from the ministry to muckraking, pointing out that both are valid ways of serving a higher cause. The Bible endorses telling the truth, without bias. So does journalism. The Bible commands honesty and integrity. In journalism, your reputation is your main calling card with sources and readers.

Obviously, many people have succeeded as reporters without strong religious beliefs. But I told him my faith had made me a better, more determined journalist. He replied with a noncommittal grunt. But I got the job.

My response to that editor is more relevant than ever today. It has become popular for some conservative leaders to argue that people like me don't exist in America's newsrooms or that journalism is immoral. Just the other day, a Washington State lawmaker called journalists “dirty, godless, hateful people,” according to The Seattle Times. President Donald Trump seems to take delight in taunting reporters and has referred to members of the media as “lying, disgusting people.”

It's estimated that about a third of Americans attend a regular church service. From my experience, most newsrooms don't come close to that. But in 17 years, I've never had a colleague suggest that my religious beliefs kept me from hard-nosed reporting. In fact, my convictions give me a foundation to be demanding.

After a few years, I moved on to the Las Vegas Sun. Yes, it occurred to me that God must have a sense of humor, if not irony, if his plan for me involved Sin City. I became a health care reporter and began gathering statistics that showed the local hospitals were not as safe as advertised. The articles we published led to new state laws that favored patients and jolted powerful institutions in Las Vegas.

Journalists, particularly those who do investigative reporting, tend to annoy people in powerful positions. Some people might think that Christians are supposed to be soft and acquiescent rather than muckrakers who hold the powerful to account. But what I do as an investigative reporter is consistent with what the Bible teaches.

The mission statement of ProPublica, my employer, says we want to use the “moral force of investigative journalism to spur reform.” If you go through my work, you may sense a bit of “moral force.”

The Bible teaches that people are made in the image of God and that each human life holds incredible value. So when I learned that medical mistakes are one of the leading causes of death in America, I called attention to the problem.

The Apostle Paul points out that God comforts us so that we can be a comfort to others. So since 2012 I've moderated the ProPublica Patient Safety Facebook group, so people who have been harmed by medical care have a place to turn.

The Bible rebukes deception and unfair practices. I've shown how our nation's health care system is rife with schemes that are unfair to patients.

Proverbs talks about how hearing only one side of a story can be misleading: “The first to speak in court sounds right - until the cross-examination begins.” At ProPublica and many other journalism outlets, reporters go to great lengths to get all sides of every story.

Another basic tenet of fairness is refusing to accept any gifts, of any amount. Our readers need to trust that our work is untainted by any reward. “Do not accept a bribe, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and twists the words of the innocent,” Deuteronomy says.

Most journalists admit their mistakes and run corrections. This is consistent with biblical teaching about humility.

God didn't direct the writers of the Bible to avoid controversy. I love how Luke describes his mission in the first few verses of his Gospel: “I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning,” he wrote, “so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.”

Luke's goal was to tell the truth about Jesus, which upset many people. Luke didn't airbrush the early Christians. He named names. Luke told the story of Judas betraying Jesus. He exposed Peter denying Jesus three times. He verified the facts and then told the truth. If it was good enough for Luke, it's good enough for me.

The biblical mandate is to tell the truth. But some conservative Christians don't seem to understand that. I started out in the Christian media and had run-ins with editors because of my interest in reporting about Christian leaders, even if it made them look bad. Administrators recently censored student journalists at Liberty University, a conservative Christian institution, for, in their view, making the school look bad. But God calls us to publish the truth, not propaganda.

The biblical prophets were the moral conscience of God's people. Today, in a nonreligious sense, journalists are the moral conscience of the wider culture. We live in a fallen world, so there's no shortage of material.

It takes some sinners a while to repent, and some never do. That means the influential people we expose might criticize us or call us names. They might even think we're godless. But journalists are called to keep digging until we find the truth - and then proclaim it.

Read the full article at ProPublica.org.

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