#i want the reader to think about comparisons here and what actual revolutions are actually like

[lightdancer1]

That said Dessalines is the villain in historiography for the simple reason that he did give the order, which was carried out, to slaughter every French person in Haiti:

Dessalines has two comparative points that show that he was much more a man of his time than not. The first is his Mexican equivalent, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, a man of whom it can be said that few countries have suffered as much for their heroes as Mexico because of General Santa Anna. The second is the Jacobins unleashing the genocidal slaughter in the Vendee, for which they are both praised and the slaughter considered the acceptable detritus of modern times, and justified in all the ways that Dessalines' wholesale extermination of the French in Haiti is not when both appealed to atrocities done against the revolution by its enemies and had good reasons to think the people slain were in league against them.

One's view of the Vendee will shape one's view of Dessalines. The reality of why he's the villain to L'Ouverture's hero is also fairly obvious insofar as he literally ordered one of the largest massacres of his time and the only one for a long time done to white Europeans by the hands of a non-white liberation movement. It should also be noted in terms of how reflective this made him of the Haitian Revolution that the Haitian Emperor was strangled by his allies and colleagues as an increasingly unhinged tyrant in the making, setting in motion the bitter internal feuding exacerbated by US imperialism that has characterized Haitian politics ever since.

[projecthipster]

We, by Yevgeny Zamyatin

“Now I no longer live in our clear, rational world; I live in the ancient nightmare world, the world of square roots of minus one.”

Alright, list-makers, what makes this one so hip, then?

I guess it’s partly the fact that it's anti-conformist, a celebration of creativity and soul in the face of crushing squareness in a more literal sense than ever. But it's also the fact that George Orwell took so much from We in the writing of 1984, a book that then grew so popular as to be entrenched in the very core of dystopian literature, in high school curricula, and in knee-jerk comparisons to every piece of modern political policy. The hipster appeal of We, then, is the same as that of an obscure first EP in a style that would blow up ten years later. We did it first. But did We do it better?

We (non-italicized; pay close attention to italics in this review or it’ll get confusing) mustn’t judge a book by its cover, a word I use here in the same context as “a cover song,” which is what a certain kind of cynic would say that 1984 is of We. So putting the influencees aside, what are We? Is. What is We? And actually, can the question "What is We?" tell us anything about the question "What are We?"

We begin and We begins, and mostly progresses, with the setting up of a future city-state wherein logical, scientific efficiency dictates all other aspects of life and society. Like every other dystopia, this one seems to have arisen in the wake of a nuclear war, an always convenient narrative means of reducing population to an amount that can be explained in a single system. People are designated as serial numbers. All activities are determined by a scientifically deduced Table of Hours, written in capitals like the name of God, and indeed worshipped like it. Fashion is, of course, jumpsuits. Heads are uniformly shaved. The city that serves as the solitary setting is a rectilinear grid of glass cubes that would put Le Corbusier’s wildest fantasies to shame. You get the picture: it’s the duet of collectivism and modernism extrapolated ad extremum. Glass is the material of every floor, wall, and ceiling, of course, because logic dictates that the security of having every activity be visible is more efficient than entertaining old notions like privacy. It’s a more dramatic, less believable version of Orwell’s omnipresent telescreens, but that outlines the difference between the books. Orwell wanted to frighten his readers with a vision of an eerily possible future. Yevgeny Zamyatin wanted to make them think on a clearly hyperbolic allegory. It’s also noteworthy that the denizens of Our We’s Single State get a provided hour to lower the curtains around their glass cube and have sex – a prudish, anti-logical, old-fashioned throwback to inefficient and unsafe privacy that would be forbidden in 1984 and downright traitorous in Brave New World.

Speaking of Zamyatin, we can’t talk We without talking Zamyatin. This dead author in particular can’t be dead, because the novel is so tied up in his life and circumstances. With Zamyatin as with Orwell, those who simplify the politics of novel and author down to “anticommunist” are missing a lot— most— of the nuance. In fact Zamyatin was most definitely a communist, of the first and, it could be argued, Zamyatin himself would probably argue, the purest vanguard. A Bolshevik from just about as soon as there were Bolsheviks, Zamyatin craved revolution, smuggled explosives in his apartment, was arrested and beaten by Czarist police, and published satirical fiction while disguised and in hiding on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. He made his way to England and worked as a naval engineer, just as his protagonist in We, Δ503, is…

Okay. Pause. A side note on this character’s number-name: in the original Russian, the narrator was called Д-503. Almost every English translation has rendered this as D-503, since that’s the modern Latin alphabet version of the Cyrillic letter. I started reading a translation that had the number as D, and then I had to move. When I picked up another copy from another library, that translation had the narrator called Δ-503. The introduction explained the translator’s interpretation here: Zamyatin may very well have chosen Д to designate his narrator because it was very close, typographically and in use, to Δ, the Greek Delta, the root letter of both Д and D as well as the mathematical indicator for change. The whole function of every narrator, but especially this one, whose view shapes our impression of his world and its morality, is to be changed by the events of the plot. Russian readers might pick this up with Д, but English readers are unlikely to get that from D. Thus, go back to the root: Delta-Five-Oh-Three both sounds very mathematical and scientific, and has change right there in the name. I agree with this view. So, even though D-503 seems to be the overall consensus used in the newest translations, I prefer the symbolism and slightly more esoteric touch of Δ-503. So I’ll be using that.

Anyway.

Zamyatin made his way to England and worked as a naval engineer, just as his protagonist in We, Δ-503, is the chief engineer of the Integral, a glass spaceship which represents the One State’s crowning achievement. While in England, Things Happened in Russia. Zamyatin returned home in 1917 to find himself no longer a criminal, but now an old-guard member of the ruling party who found himself increasingly at odds with the new guard of Bolsheviks. They wanted greater censorship to protect the success of what was beginning to be known as the final revolution; he believed that the freedom to write was the whole point of the revolution in the first place.

Zamyatin wrote We in 1920 and ‘21, but knew without having to ask that it wouldn’t be accepted for publication under the Lenin regime. He sent it to New York, where a few years later it was published both in the original Russian and in the first of many English translations. His secret didn’t linger long. Russian copies published in Czechslovakia made their way over the border, and Stalinist ire forced Zamyatin to flee to Paris, where he lived in poverty, making no money from his book’s moderate circulation abroad. After the much more commercially successful 1948 writing of 1984 (you didn’t think that that year title was a coincidence, did you?) We saw a slight boost in sales as Orwell endorsed it as his inspiration. His original 1946 review is interesting to read. However, by then Zamyatin was dead.

So, suffice to say, Zamyatin didn’t fear communism; he feared the corruption of communism, of any system, into self-righteous, entropic dogma, into an art-fearing, obsessively modernist pursuit of the absolutely regulated industrial machine society. It’s easy to pick up that the world of We is one that prides itself on having conquered primitive religion and focused on efficiency, to the point that the dogma of efficiency itself has become a new religion. Dissenters to the life mathematic - those who smoke, for example, or dream when they sleep, signs of the bourgeois intellectual - are publicly executed in festivals with a spectacularly showy machine that turns them into goop. All of that seems rather, well, inefficient, doesn’t it? It’d take fewer resources just to ignore those people. But the state isn’t here for efficiency; it’s here to glorify the dogma of efficiency, like a hustle culture influencer. Zamyatin critiques the new dogmatic Bolsheviks' imperialist ambitions as well. The purpose of Δ-503's big spaceship is to spread the gospel of rationality to any civilizations that may exist out in the cosmos. The Single State has (or at least, has claimed to have) cured the whole Earth of the diseases of imagination and soul, but the crusade must continue even beyond, to forcefully civilize a universe of soulful barbarians that may or may not exist.

What was probably the death knell for Zamyatin’s hope of being published in the Soviet Onion 🧅 was also my favourite passage in the book. Δ-503 insists, as per the dogma of the One State, that there can be no revolution in the city because that which established it was the final revolution. But revolutions, another character says, are like numbers. You’re a mathematician, dear Δ. So what’s the final number? Not infinity. Not an abstract concept of all numbers. A real whole number, and the last one. What is it? Of course there isn’t one. Then how can there be a final revolution? The purpose of revolutions is to correct the corruption of the existing status quo and thereby avoid the entropic decay of society. The revolution itself must be anti-entropic, and if entropy is seen in the revolutionary establishment, a new revolution must be due. That’s how you can tell the revolutionaries looking to better their world from those seeking power over it. The latter think they’ve calculated the final number.

The plot of We proceeds along the same beats as that of 1984. There’s a seductive counter-cultural woman, secret trysts, the discovery of an underground resistance, and a tragic ending to drive home the ultimate power of the dystopia. Despite that ending carrying across, though, something about We feels more hopeful, or at least, less hopeless. Without getting into spoilers, despite how much weirder the physical world of the novel is compared to Orwell’s Oceania, it plays less in the space of the mind. There’s a bit of it at the end, but it’s so straightforward and easy in its literally surgical precision of hypothetical manipulative psychology that it feels fantastical, and so not all that impactful. Because Orwell delves deeper into the psychology of dystopia, it makes the whole thing more horrifically invasive. At the same time the frightfulness of a party unwriting history and neutering language at a whim exists in a more grounded world, one where the reader feels the dust and grime of a bulldozed London, the reality that underlies the propaganda of the shining city, better than Zamyatin’s actually shining city.

One other thing I enjoyed was the progression of the prose - the book begins as a scientific series of journal entries counting towards the launch of the Integral, but as Δ-503's terminal disease of having the stirrings of a soul progresses, metaphor, offbeat rhythm, and poetic flights of prose creep.

We are We is worth reading if you enjoy classic dystopian literature, to properly fill out that pantheon of Orwell, Huxley, and Bradbury. But I wouldn’t say it’s one of the most essential, or the best of the field. Still, it’s interestingly written, and it gives the hipster reader a chance to play a Did It First card when discussions of dystopian books come up, which they seem to be tending to lately, for some reason.

I give this hipster book four “society is all a machine, man!”s out of five.

Project Hipster is a futile and disorganized attempt to dive into the world of things that the internet has at some point claimed "are hipster," mostly through ListChallenges search results.

This review comes from the first list, Hipster Lit: If You Haven't Read 'em, Pretend You Have.

Stay deck.

[lonely-lost-soul]

Immortality and Nymphs Pt. II

(Philza x reader)

Kisses. God Phil missed your kisses against his skin most of all, you were always so warm and gentle. He couldn’t wait for you to be a constant in his life once again, he walked all three of you back to his home. Wilbur was eyeing you the entire time almost like he was trying to find the differences between himself and you, thinking, The boy looked much more like himself than he did you, but there were tiny similarities here and there. You didn’t seem to mind though when he asked you questions you answered them truthfully. Once they arrived back at his house Wilbur stood up a little straighter,

“As much as I’d like to stay and talk more, Fundy and I need to get going.” He trailed off a little looking at you, “I still have thousands of questions but I have a revolution to plan.” Wilbur continued as you raised a questioning eyebrow, Phil’s wings ruffled a little as he cleared his throat.

“You should come back next week with the others.” Phil gave a slight nod of his head, “I’ll send a crow to Techno.” Fundy was the one to whip his head and nod eagerly, Wilbur adjusted his glasses but eventually nodded.

“That should work.” Wilbur turned to face you taking a shaky breath, “I’ll see you then?” A tender smile spread across your lips as you reached out to cup Wilbur’s cheeks.

“I’m not going anywhere again baby boy,” You whispered as he flushed hesitantly leaning into your touch “I promise.” He pulled away, clearing his throat taking Fundy’s hand as he waved.

“Bye, grandpa! Bye, grandma!” The fox hybrid called and Phil watched as you flushed deeply. Phil wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close, his wings spreading around your body like a cocoon. You giggled softly as he nuzzled his face into your neck, his beard prickled your skin, you missed the feeling.

“Fundy seems sweet,” You mused as the man behind you kissed the skin of your neck. Phil only hummed in agreement which caused you to laugh, “you’re so not paying attention to what I’m saying are you?”

“What?” You burst into laughter at his genuine confusion, “Come on now. I missed you, can you blame me? You’re distracting.” Phil let out a little huff as you pulled away to face him,

“Then show me how much you missed me my crow,” You purred running your fingers through his feathers, you felt his entire body shiver as his breathing hitched. His fingers dug into your hips,

“Careful. They’re sensitive and wouldn't want a pretty thing like you to get hurt.” Phil teased pressing his forehead against yours,

“Oh, I remember.” You winked teasingly as Phil leaned in to swallow your words with a blistering kiss. He felt you melt against his body as his wings fluffed up, both of you poured all your love and admiration for each other into one another. It was then Phil knew nothing changed between the two of you even after all these years apart, there was still the same amount of love and longing you always shared. Phil lifted you into the air and you hooked your legs around his waist, he felt young again, back in the forest by his old home. He felt you giggle against his lips and pull away to rest your forehead on his own, he chased your lips almost desperately. Your hand came up to cup his cheek and he closed his eyes to lean into his palm, “Take me inside first.” You murmured and his eyes lit up mischievously.

“If I remember correctly you never had a problem with making out in the woods before.” He watched your face turn beat red as he smirked proudly, he adored getting you flustered which way to Sunday.

“Yeah well, I’ve lived in the woods all my life. I think I’m ready to stay with my adoring lover in his house, is that really such a bad thing?”

“No. I’d never be opposed to something like that, not when I’ve missed you this much. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, living with you and raising Wilbur, being a family.” He watched you visibly wince and guilt ebbed at his heart, “Hey, hey you had to do what you needed to. I’d rather have you alive and here now than dead or worse.” Phil reassured and you seemed to relax a little bit in his arms,

“I wish I could’ve been here to raise Wilbur with you...I wish I could’ve seen him grow up.” Your voice wavered a little as Phil pulled you close, he hesitated slightly trying to find the right words to say.

“I wish you were there too. But you’re here now, you’re safe and that’s what matters. Plus…” His cheeks flushed a soft pink, “we could always try again.”

“Jesus Christ Phil,” you giggled covering your mouth with your hands and he looked embarrassed. “I just got home Crow, let's give it some time. But...I’m not opposed in the future.” Phil’s face lit up again and he nodded rapidly, he could agree with that, maybe once you built a better relationship with Wilbur and his other boys that’s when the both of you could try again.

Oh god, the other boys. When he invited them all here next week, he hoped they’d make a good impression if not Dadza was going to craft a belt.

“How long has it been since you’ve had an actual meal?”

“God decades!”

He chuckled deeply, kissing your cheek, and led you into his house to have a nice warm meal. Having you around definitely took some getting used to, his days suddenly shifted around as he accommodated for another person but he didn’t mind. Phil woke up happier than he'd felt in a long time, you were curled up against his chest, the top of your head was right under his chin. He ran a hand through your (h/c) hair, letting it run through his fingers, even though it’s been about a week he still felt like you weren’t really beside him.

Wait a week.

His eyes snapped open and he shot up like a rocket, feathers flying everywhere as you groaned, “Crow? Everything alright?” You asked adorably rubbing your eyes, his stress melted away momentarily as he watched you wake up. A few flowers bloomed in your hair as you came to your senses.

“Everythings fine! Just remembered it’s Sunday and the others don’t usually follow set times.” He pulled you from the bed giving you a quick good morning peck on the lips. “Get dressed, something nice I wanna show you off,” He kissed you again longer this time you giggled.

“To who? Our son and your friends?” He gave a happy little nod, as you rolled your eyes, he felt your fingers fix the hair on his face, Phil closed his eyes and leaned against your touch. “But I’ll do as you wish my Crow,” You stood up from the bed and stretched your arms above your head. Phil had managed to get some clothes for you from a nearby village, he still remembered your style, but tried to make it more modern so you didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. You slid on the new clothes, they hung off you loosely. They clearly needed some tailoring, and you slid on the boots he got you the day before, as much as you like walking around barefoot it was pretty impractical.

“Shall we?” Phil held his arm out to you, you wrapped your arm around his own as he led you outside. You both stood on a hillside covered in soft green grass and a big willow tree. Phil looked down at you, his big wings gently covering your back from any danger, he was sure not feeling the grass between your feet was a foreign feeling to you but you didn’t seem to mind. The smile on your face said it all, you were peaceful and relaxed, letting the breeze flow through your hair. “You’re beautiful,” your eyes snapped up to him your cheeks turning light pink,

“Oh stop it old man.” He made an indignant sound as you laughed, your hands reached up and dragged him down to your level, kissing him tenderly. Phil felt his eyes flutter closed and his wings drop, he was snapped back to reality by loud whistling. You pulled back and he pushed you behind him, wings puffing up defensively, standing on the side of the hill were Wilbur, Tommy, Technoblade, and Fundy. Tommy was the one whistling eyes sparkling mischievously, Wilbur whacked him on the back of the head to get him to shut up.

“Dad! Wil’s being mean to me!”

“Don’t be mean to Tommy Wil,” Phil pressed his fingers to his nose with a sigh “Wilbur don’t antagonize your brother.” Fundy was cackling at their mischief, your eyebrows shot up on your forehead and Phil cleared his throat, face pink. Technoblade just stared seemingly eyeing you suspiciously, “(Y/n) these are my other sons. Boys this is (Y/n) Wilbur’s birth mother.” It was Technoblade’s turn for his eyebrows to raise and Tommy’s jaw dropped to the floor,

“No shit.” Tommy gawked, “You don’t look like her at all Wilbur! You’re so ugly, must’ve gotten that from Phil. Sad.” You burst into hysterical laughter watching Phil glare over at Tommy. Wilbur was seething at his sibling but ignored him in favor of giving you a light hug,

“Good to see you, mom.” He whispered,

“Good to see you too.” Phil heard you respond and hug him back, Wilbur whispered something to you and you made a little surprised face before nodding. Phil assumed he told you that the other boys were not in fact his biological children, but those he had adopted. Fundy soon joined in the hug snuggling into your stomach, you ruffled the young fox’s head and he chirped happily. Tommy walked over to introduce himself to you next, he proclaimed to be not only Phil’s favorite son but Wilbur’s favorite brother too. Which lead him to then boldly declare he’d be your favorite as well and Wilbur sent him a scathing look, ah yes, Phil knew that look rather well. Wilbur inherited that look from you, nose all scrunched up and eyes sharp. You shook the young boy's hand and happily told him you couldn't wait to see him fall into the number one spot. Wilbur shot you an offended look and Phil covered up a laugh with his hand, the offending look was sent to his father next,

“Dad.”

“What?” Phil laughed holding up his hands, “If he wants to win your mother’s attention I’m not gonna stop him. Every man for themselves.”

“Phil,” You nudged him with his elbow “be nice.” Tommy began to boast about how awesome he was in comparison to his brother, you sent a wink to Wilbur’s, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

You were his number one, anyone with a brain could see that.

Phil noticed Technoblade had his eye on you the entire time, it took him much longer than the others to gain trust. He decided to walk away from you to stand by the hybrid's side, “Hey mate.” Technoblade only grunted in response, arms crossed over his broad chest protectively, “What’s crawled up your butt eh?”

“You didn’t tell me ‘bout her.” He motioned in your direction with his chin, “you tell me everything. Why not her?” Technoblade was trying to remain stoic but after all these years he could tell he was hurt. Phil sighed softly scratching the stubble on his chin as he watched Fundy run around you trying to fight for your attention.

“It was hard for me to talk about, she didn’t leave on her own free will. Her life was in danger and I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. It was a shock when she came back last week, a good shock but a shock nonetheless. (Y/n) was my everything, is my everything. I kept it from everyone because I hoped it would keep her alive and safe from those who wished to harm her.” Phil looked over at Techno, for once Phil’s eyes showed his true age, “I’m sorry mate you know I would’ve told you if I could. Doesn’t take much for me to start gushing ‘bout her. I mean look at her.” Phil glanced back over at you, Fundy was on your shoulders, his hat on your head, meanwhile, Wilbur was wrestling with Tommy on the ground. You looked over at him desperate for his help and Phil only smiled over at you and shook his head. Your eyes screamed distressed as you tried to get the boys to stop fighting, Phil felt Techno’s eyes on him and he looked back at his son and friend.

“I understand I suppose,” Technoblade sighed rubbing the back of his neck, “You wanted to protect her. I can’t be mad at you for that, but no more secrets alright? Promise me?”

“Promise. Now go say hi to her before she gets upset and thinks you don’t like her,” Phil nudged him forward and his eyes widened a little,

“Heh? Phil hold on-”

“(Y/n)! This is Techno.” Phil clapped the man on the back, you looked up at him with a kind smile.

“Pleasure to meet you Technoblade, I like your cape.” Phil watched the man flush in embarrassment at the compliment,

“Eh...thanks. Like your flowers.” He motioned to the flowers blooming in your hair, you beamed brightly at him, always happy to talk about your flowers.

“Thank you, sweetie!” His ears turned red and he waved you off anxiously, he moved to peel Tommy away from Wilbur, wanting to get out of this conversation. Fundy hopped off your shoulders to tackle his father and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, “wow. They’re…”

“A lot?”

“Yes.” You laughed fondly, “but…”

“I wouldn’t trade them for the world.” Phil nodded kissing you on the apple of your cheek,

“Good. You better not. They’re all my sons now. I hope you know that” You leaned against his chest, he laughed and you felt his chest rise and fall.

“I’d expect nothing less from you.”

Letters. That’s how most of you communicated in the years to follow, Wilbur would send letters and you would beam in delight. It melted Phil’s heart, he knew his son was busy with the revolution and the now Presidency but he wished he’d visit his mother. You would write him back almost immediately after receiving a letter, you’d seal the letter with a kiss before sending it off with one of Phil’s crows. Afterward, Phil would take you in his arms and pepper you in tender kisses, you would giggle and snuggle into his arms. He told you he loved you, and you cooed and told you loved him back, then you both would share a kiss. Phil loved those days the most, seeing you truly happy made his heart swell. There were days where Phil taught you how to fight, days where you would garden, and days where he let you groom his feathers. He loved that, grooming was another one of the things he missed the most, you got out all the tangled feathers just perfectly. He would lean back against your hands head falling on your shoulder as he panted, his pupils were blown wide as you hummed fondly.

So, maybe Phil enjoyed it a little more than he remembered.

It was a cold autumn day when the letters stopped coming, you were heartbroken, always anxiously petting and feeding his crows. They could sense your disappointment in waves, it was almost choking Phil himself, his heart ached to see you so sad. He pets your hair gently as you both sat on the hill with the willow tree, he noticed the bags under your eyes were dark, Phil’s frown only deepened.

“My love please smile for me, I’ve missed it so much these past few weeks.”

“Somethings wrong,” Your voice was soft looking up at Phil “He wouldn’t just stop writing to us. He always writes to us.” He hated the way your voice quivered, “what if he changed his mind about me?” Phil shushed you softly with a kiss,

“First of all, there’s no way he changed his mind about you. The way the both of you bonded these past few years, Wilbur wouldn’t throw that all away for no good reason.” He tried to reassure you, “Although, I will admit this is strange. Wilbur isn’t one to not write to me, it’s something he’s always done ever since he was old enough to spell.”

“Crow…” You whispered, “can we visit him? Just to put my mind at ease...please.” Phil’s heart melted as soon as he saw your puppy dog eyes, he nodded and you smiled.

Good. He was going to keep that there as long as he was physically able.

The next day, Phil scooped you up in his arms and you headed towards the direction of his son's new nation.

It was called L’Manburg if Phil remembered correctly.

What the both of you didn’t expect to see was a war zone, “Phil…” You murmured eyes wide in fear, he held you to his chest, your brow furrowed in worry. He swore he could see Tommy and Techno looking up at them from below, it didn’t ease the anxiety prickling at his skin, the sky suddenly went black with crows.

A bad omen, something bad was going to happen, and they knew it.

“Phil they’re distressed. Somethings wrong.”

“I know hon,” Phil looked around worriedly, he spotted a glance of Wilbur walking into some sort of room. He landed just outside the entrance, he put you on your feet, “Stay behind me.” He instructed you, you nodded your head clutching onto his bicep. The both of you stepped into the dimly lit room, there were scrawlings etched into the wall, all scratched in by Wilbur. Your brow furrowed in concern, fingers dancing across the lettering, “what’re you doing?” Phil spoke, his tone flat and serious, looking dead at your son, wings spreading out behind him.

“Wilby?” You asked softly as he slowly turned around, his big brown eyes were wet and wide.

“Mom…” He whispered, “I didn’t want…” Wilbur looked away from you and grit his teeth, “Welcome to L’manburg. Sorry, you have to see it like this, war-torn and broken. I wanted you to see it in its prime, a shame you didn’t visit sooner.”

“Wilbur, don’t do this,” Phil said watching his son look longingly at the button in the middle of the wall, almost with longing. “This is your country, it can be fixed. Things can be rebuilt, it’s where you raised your son,” Phil continued his entire body tense and nervous he was too aware of the sword on Wilbur’s hip. Phil reached out his hand as you walked towards Wilbur,

“Baby boy…” You whispered tenderly, vines slowly growing out of the cracks in the floor. “Don’t do this I only just got you back, please think about what you’re doing.” Wilbur’s brow furrowed watching you smile softly holding out your arm, “Everything will be alright I promise you. We can help you.” He let out a wet laugh running a hand through his brown curls, his pointed ears visible.

“It’s not the same nation anymore. There was a special place where people could go but it’s not there. It’s no longer the nation it once was Mom.”

“It is there. You've just- You've just won it back, Wil!” Phil spoke up in opposition to his son.

“MOM, Dad, I’m ALWAYS SO CLOSE to pressing this button, Phil! I've BEEN HERE like seven or eight times, I've been here seven or eight times...Phil, I've been here so many times…” All of you jumped a little at the sound of crackling fireworks outside, “They're fighting. They're fighting!” Phil and you glanced at one another, there was a beat of silence.

“And you want to just blow it all up, You fought so hard to get this land back... So hard.” You argued reaching out to cup his cheeks, he melted into your palms, snuggling into them like they were his last lifeline.

“I don't even know if it works anymore, Mom, I don't even know if the button works, I could, I could... press it.”

“Do you really wanna take that risk?” Phil laughed, “There is a lot of TNT potentially connected to that button.”

“Phil... There was a saying, Phil. By a traitor. Once part of L'Manburg. A traitor- I don't know if you've heard of Eret? He had a saying...It was never meant to be!” He tossed his hand back and slammed it against the button, you let out a devastating shriek pulling Wilbur into your arms to try and protect him from the blast. Phil felt pure adrenaline enter his bloodstream as he flew towards you and his son. His wings wrapped around the both of you and you whimpered, some of his feathers caught fire and he squeezed his loved one’s harder. Wilbur meanwhile let out a roaring cry “MY L'MANBURG, PHIL! MY UNFINISHED SYMPHONY, FOREVER UNFINISHED! IF I CAN'T HAVE THIS, NO-ONE CAN, PHIL!”

“Oh, my god…” Phil spoke, his voice quivering with horror, Wilbur looked down at you, hurt and pride swam in his eyes,

“Are you proud of me mama?” He whispered softly as your thumb caressed his cheeks, Phil glanced down at you ignoring the pain in his wing, your eyes were wet but you were still smiling.

It didn’t reach your eyes.

“I’ll always be proud of you Wilbur. I’m your mother, and I love you, I’ll always love you.” He let out a little cry, you were so genuine with him, your love was smothering him. Wilbur looked up at his father and grabbed his wrist,

“Kill me, Phil. Phil, kill me, Phil kill me!” Wilbur broke away from his hold and tossed his sword Phil’s way. Phil caught it in his arms the lines in his forehead creasing with worry, “Phil, stab me with the sword, murder me now, kill me! Killza, Killza, do it! Kill me, Phil! Murder me! Look, they all want you to! Do it, Phil! Kill me! Phil, kill me!”

“I- You're my SON!”

“Wilbur NO! PHIL DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!” You cried as Wilbur shoved you away from him, your growing distress caused vines to spill into the room, filling it with greenery, nature wanted to protect you.

“No matter what you- dude, no matter what you've done, I can't-” Phil’s voice cracked, his knuckles turning white against the hilt of the blade.

Wilbur slammed his fist against the wall, “Phil, it's- LOOK! LOOK! HOW MUCH WORK WENT INTO THIS, and it's GONE!” He grabbed Phil’s hand and shoved the point of the sword into his chest, “Do it. Do it.”

“PHIL!” You sobbed grabbing onto his other arm, eyes red and puffy, fat tears were running down your pink cheeks.

The man squeezed his eyes tightly, his throat closing up, he couldn’t look at you, he could feel the look of horror that was slowly spreading across your face.

“Phil. I’m begging you we can get him help, I can’t lose him. Not again, not when I’ve only just got him back.” You choked out, “he’s my baby. He’s our baby.” You were clinging to Phil desperately, your smile was gone, he failed you and he failed his own son.

“Do it, Dad.” Wilbur interrupted you, you let out a desperate cry and Wilbur shushed you softly, brushing away your tears. “It’s better this way,” Wilbur leaned down and kissed your forehead, “I love you and I forgive you.” He looked back at Phil and his disintegrating right-wing, guilt ate at him, “It’s time.”

Phil let out a deep breath, jaw tense and he felt you bury your head in his uninjured wing. He ran his sword through his son’s chest, Wilbur fell forward against the blade, he choked on the blood in his mouth, it flowed out of the corners and stained the front of his shirt. Phil felt you move to look but he covered your face with his wing once more, “Don’t look darlin’” He whispered as your sobs only increased, Wilbur slowly died in his arms with a smile on his face that would forever haunt Phil’s nightmares. He stroked Wilbur’s hair as he slowly faded out of existence, three lives completely snuffed out, Phil was part of giving him life and was the one to take his final one. Once Wilbur was gone you crumpled to the floor loud sobs echoing in the chamber, he fell beside you and wrapped you in his arms, you clutched his beanie to your chest.

“It’s alright. It’ll be okay.”

“Okay! Philza Minecraft how the FUCK is this gonna be okay!” You snarled in his arms but he only held you tighter, “Our son...our baby is dead.” You choked holding your hand to your mouth, the vines that had grown started dying feeding off your agony. “He’s gone…” You whimpered letting Phil caress your hair and plant kisses on the top of your head.

“We’ll get through this. I promise you.” He swore up to you cupping your cheeks within his hands, you sniffled a little and gave a small nod of your head. You were drained emotionally and physically, Phil’s heart ached in his chest.

“You’re hurt…”

“I’ll be alright,” He tried to stretch out his wings he flinched as pain shot up the right side of his body. Phil’s wing was charred to bits, you both knew the unspoken truth that he’d never fly like he once did, Wilbur wasn’t the only thing Phil would mourn.

“We need to set up a grave for him. Under the willow tree, I’ll plant yellow flowers. That way he can always be close to us so long as we live there,” You looked up at him eyebrows pinched so tight “Please.”

“You don’t need permission Darlin’.” He whispered to you resting his forehead against your own, “If that’s where you want it that’s where it’ll be.”

“Good.”

Phil slowly helped you to your feet, you weren’t injured, a few cuts and scrapes he took the majority of the damage from the explosion just like he had planned. He hissed as he tried to put pressure on his left ankle, “Fuck me. I’m too young to need a cane.”

“Eh,” You smiled weakly “Wouldn’t say that.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You giggled softly, your laughter significantly improved his mood, even if it was a minuscule adjustment. “We all can’t be as spry as you,”

“What can I say some of us have it and some of us don’t.” You smirked slightly hearing another loud explosion go off in the distance, “the Withers. Technoblade spawned them didn’t he?” Your eyebrows furrowed in thought and Phil gave a little nod,

“Most likely.”

“Our boys, they can’t do anything without explosions can they?” You shakily whispered and Phil couldn’t help but let out a dry laugh,

“Guess so,” He shrugged limply as you slipped Wilbur’s beanie on your head,

“What now?” You looked up at him through wet eyelashes, Phil caressed the back of your head,

“We go home, bury what’s left of Wilbur, and take a look at my wings to assess the damage.” Phil watched you nod numbly against him, “it’ll be a long walk back.” He groaned rubbing his eyes and you rubbed his back soothingly.

“Let me handle that,” You reassured and he raised an eyebrow the both of you moved to leave the structure neither one of you wanted to put up with anyone, you both had lost a son and wanted time to mourn. Plus, it seemed Tommy and Technoblade were busy fighting. Phil watched you with careful eyes allowing himself to lean against one of the trees that survived the explosion. You placed your fingers in your mouth and gently whistled, not only did a crow from a tree flutter by but a wandering horse as well, you really were an animal whisperer. The crow ruffled its feathers and cawed loudly at Phil, he shot the crow a look and flipped it off, meanwhile, you worked your magic taming the horse in a matter of moments. “Come here Crow,” You held as your hand and he fell into it, you helped him onto the horse and he shot you a look,

“I’m not riding on this horse with you walking on foot. Switch with me.” Phil tried to argue but you shushed him,

“You took an explosion to the back. Take a breather, relax, nature helps me heal anyway.” You hummed fondly as he slumped against the horse reluctantly, it took about an hour to get back home, Phil had lost all feeling in his wing and wanted nothing more than to curl up with you and go to sleep. As the looming willow tree came into view Phil heard you sniffle and clutch his son’s beanie on your head,

“(Y/n)?”

“I-I’m alright.” You cleared your throat shaking your head, “Let’s get you looked at before anything else, okay?” Phil too exhausted to argue only nodded limply, you helped him inside and set him down on a chair. “Spread your wings for me,” You commanded, helping him stretch out his wings. He cursed, only feeling pure agony shoot through his right side,

“Ow! Fuck me!”

“Sorry, sorry,” You whispered out tenderly rubbing the base of his left-wing. The mixture of pain and pleasure was foreign but not completely unwelcome. “Oh, Phil…” You trailed off hesitant to touch the damage that was inflicted, “I don’t...I don’t think-” You chewed the bottom of your lip, but Phil got the message, he wasn’t going to be able to fly as he once did, maybe ever again. His flight feathers were singed to hell, completely burned away, not to mention the patchiness of his other feathers. His shoulders slumped forward as he ran a hand down his face, he was exhausted, he felt the coolness on his wing as you spread some antibiotic on the injury. “I’m sorry,” You kissed the back of his neck and he shivered at the feeling. “We’ll bury what we have tomorrow, you need rest.”

“I’ll be fine-”

“Phil, I will force you into bed. Don’t fucking test me right now, I will force you if I have to.” You hissed out glaring daggers at him, he should be threatened but he just felt oddly aroused.

He decided to attribute that to how fucked up he felt today.

Phil allowed you to tuck him into bed as gentle as you were capable of doing, “I’m going to send out some letters. I’ll join you in a little bit.” He felt you remove his hat and run your fingers through his blonde hair, he leaned into your touch like a kitten. As soon as you shut the door, Phil was out like a light.

Phil found out the next day that you had sent a letter out to both Tommy and Technoblade, you wouldn’t specify what you sent but you seemed a bit more relaxed than you had the other day. You both didn’t get a chance to bury what was left of Wilbur until a week later, Phil’s healing process was slower than he could’ve imagined. Phil reluctantly had to use a cane to get around easily, his crows laughed at him but you were also so kind and careful.

You were an angel.

The two of you buried him under the willow tree on the hill where you’d met the other members of your odd family for the first time. Technoblade had shown up at your doorstep holding out a large box inside of it was a stone tombstone inscribed on the tombstone was Wilbur’s name and date of birth and death. It had surprised Phil that the hybrid even agreed to make this for you, but at the same time, he was Phil’s adoptive son and closest friend, he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Phil had placed Wilbur’s coat and beanie into a box and placed it under the ground. You had kept your promise and had grown little yellow flowers around the site of the burial, and the two parents mourned the loss of their biological son. Technoblade stood close by a hand resting on Phil’s shoulder in hopes to soothe him at least a little bit, Phil would never admit it but he appreciated the gesture.

Little did the three of them know, a small smile spread across a young ghost’s face. He picked at the sleeves of his yellow sweater, maybe he could give both of them some blue sometime to help them heal.

He had a feeling they’d like that idea.

~~~

I usually don't tag people in my stories but I figured a lot of people wanted a part two:

@xx-smiley-xx @dreamsofficialwife @dirtydiavolo @thatguythatsshy

@shinyshimaagain @little-odd-dude @theultimatewifu32 @hee-hee-haw @thegeekishere

[vperyod93]

@sprawa-przybyszewskiej

Here--I guess--is a partial “review”/critique of Ingdahl’s book about Przybyszewska. It’s long (I tried to make it like the rough draft of an actual essay), but I hope it makes sense. :’)

In Kazimiera Ingdahl's invaluable and thorough study of Przybyszewska's work, Ingdahl at one point (lmao, I can't find the exact quote atm, but I don't think I'm making it up) draws attention to the tension between Przybyszewska's idealized Robespierre and what she [Ingdahl] calls the "truth" of history. However, Ingdahl's understanding of the historical "truth" of the revolution is very biased and Dantonist.

1.

After dismissing the evidence of Danton's corruption, she provides for the reader "a brief account of the political situation in France during this period." According to her, Danton's program was "soberly realistic and pragmatic" in comparison to Robespierre's "spartan egalitarianism." She emphasizes that Danton wanted to rebuild commerce and industry by ending government restrictions and regulations of the economy, provide individual freedom, and end both the Terror and the war. She mentions Vieux Cordelier as the outlet for Dantonist politics, and of course explains that in his newspaper, Desmoulins denounced the policies of the Terror and advocated for clemency. "The Dantonists," she writes, "favored a pragmatic stabilization of France and had little patience with Robespierre's utopian notion of an 'Ideal Republic' based on the 'rules of political morality.'" In short, she makes Danton the consummate freedom loving, market loving bourgeois.

This is an extremely simplistic narrative. I won't go into each point, so I will just focus on the most prominent myth: that Danton was a down-to-earth peacemaker compared to the frigid, virtue obsessed puritan Robespierre. Regarding Danton as down-to-earth peacemaker, major historians of the Revolution would take issue with the assessment of Danton's program as "realistic and pragmatic." The staunchly Robespierrist Mathiez, who Przybyszewska respected most among the scholars of the revolution that she read, writes that if the Dantonists had been successful "before Toulon was taken back from the English, before Hoche chased the Austrians out of Alsace, even before the revolutionary government was fully organized, before the Maximum was assured in its application, the Dantonists would have shattered the revolutionary endeavour . . .” And here, he was just noting his agreement with the older historian Jaurès. Mathiez goes on: “He [Jaurès] has also noted that their policy of hazardous and outrageous moderation led to an inevitable alliance with the monarchists . . ." And he then lists evidence of corruption and treason that he discovered in his own research, making the case against Danton more compelling (if not quite conclusive) since Jaurès’ time.

The more cautious and circumspect Lefebvre is less blunt in his assessments, but he too notes the disadvantaged position from which Danton was attempting war-time negotiations, as well as the opportunism, corruption, and scandals that tainted the endeavor. These are both "pro-Robespierre" Marxist scholars, but Lefebvre can hardly said to be in the "hagiographic" tradition that Ingdahl is aware of and cites as Przybyszewska's bias.

Ingdahl also doesn't mention Robespierre's own attempts to moderate the terror nor show a deep understanding of the balance of political forces during 1793, which provides the context for his "utopian" (democratic) ideals as expressed in his speeches about "virtue and terror." In a word, she simply accepts the myths and caricatures about both Danton and Robespierre.

2.

I suspect this bias on Ingdahl's part causes her to misread some of The Danton Case and Thermidor. Because she either doesn't know or doesn't accept scholarship against Danton and explaining Robespierre's decisions, she overlooks one of the (very valid) points Przybyszewska was trying to make about the actual historiography of the Revolution. In one of her letters, Przybyszewska writes: 

I have the desire to beat into the mushy interior of the public brain a new image of the Revolution, an image which would not do a terrible wrong to a number of its heroes … but I know only too well that I won’t attain this goal. For one hundred and thirty-five years they have had an image of the Revolution that is incomparably simpler and much more comfortable, from both an intellectual and moral point of view. That’s something that won’t be given up so readily.

Unfortunately, Ingdahl was also unable to give up one hundred and thirty-five years of Thermidorian propaganda when writing about Przybyszewska. However, Przybyszewska herself saw the smearing of Robespierre's name as a historical injustice that she wanted to fight. She alludes explicitly to this injustice within The Danton Case when Danton, climbing the scaffold, unleashes a curse: "A few years from now my name will shine in luminous letters in the Pantheon of history, while yours--you villain Robespierre--will be imprinted forever in its indestructible black book!"

3.

The meta-commentary on the historiography of the Revolution may connect with the theme of lies and truth, which are also connected to the gnostic metaphysics, in The Danton Case (and to a lesser extent in Thermidor). For Przybyszewska, lies are central in how a revolution breaks down and regresses:

Robespierre: Until man outgrows this beast in himself, he will time after time rebel and bleed--in vain. Revolution will not survive to achieve its aim this time, or the second time, or the fifth time. Danton's corruption, Danton's lie will after a while outweigh the upward momentum...

Lies go hand in hand with the realm of "matter" and "nature," which to Przybyszewska is a basically satanic evil that veils the higher truths of "spirit," which generate the possibility of human freedom. Przybyszewska elaborates on lies in Thermidor, when Robespierre explains the nature of propaganda: a concept detached from the concrete, runs amuck in the abstract, generating fantasies such as nationalistic fervor.

Robespierre: . . . Within the country the same destructive process is taking place. The citizen finds the war atmosphere to his taste and revels in it; he is even more disgusting than the mercenary soldier, since his pleasure is derived from pure imagination, it goes round and round in a vacuum. His emotions, removed from reality, feed on empty dreams and breed nightmarish visions. And here breaks the umbilical cord that binds man to earth. Phantoms appear in the place of concrete objects. Class feeling is replaced by an abstraction: nationality. The natural hatred of the exploited for his exploiter makes room for the pointless elemental hatred of a Frenchman for an Englishman. Communal feeling takes the form of a perverse idolatry of the French army. Truly, what a splendid organization! A war waged for profit isolates people from each other, and from earth, makes them prey to empty prejudices and groundless animoisities. In a vacant trance, deprived of spirit, these unhappy lonely people are enveloped by the thick fog of lies, breathe them in the place of air, drink them like posion . . .

It is interesting that she, who emphasized the vertiginous heights of reason against the evil of earthly matter, here posits the loss of connection with earth and the “concrete” as the work of unchecked “nature” expressed in nationalistic militarism. She may have been influenced by Freud, who described regression on an individual level as an inward retreat to a realm of fantasy. To me, it looks like Przybyszewska saw the tragedy of the revolution as one of regression on a historical level, the consequences of which continued to reverberate through history in the form of "lies" that sprout in the fields of capitalism and imperialism.

This is important because it brings attention to, not just tragedy caused by the chaos and upheaval of revolution, but the tragedy of what happens when revolutions fail. This changes things. It is no longer a story about how Robespierre has unbearably high standards that he inflicts on others and without him everyone would be able to enjoy frivolous pursuits, the 18th century equivalent of Marvel movie fandom or whatever instead of Robespierre making everyone read Rousseau everyday... because he's such an intolerant snob... and of course he guillotines anyone who doesn’t enjoy it (the propaganda image of Robespierre really is literally like this). Because Ingadahl misses this point and sees only a Thermidorian propaganda Robespierre, not what he is reacting against, she says that Robespierre’s republic “threatens the survival of humanity. This becomes even more obvious in his view that total destruction is a source of rebirth, and he actively tries to put it into practice.” She is refering to his plan in Thermidor to interfere with the armies and cause a foreign invasion, changing the aggressive offensive war into a defensive one. Ingdahl sees his actions as simply him being insane, and she sees his rant against Capital as evidence of it. But I think Przybyszewska’s intention, through the rant about Capital, nationalism, and wars was to have him prophecize the disasters of the 20th century and be driven to desperate extremes to try and prevent it. In other words, Robespierre has an actual altruistic reason for pursuing the hell of revolution: because otherwise there would still be hell, just of a different and even more hopeless sort. This, I think, is an even more bleak outlook than Ingdahl’s reading of Robespierre, so it seems in line with Przybyszewska's "pessimism." It makes it so that the triumph of "lies" has real consequences that Przybyszewska herself was witnessing in her own time, in the aftermath of World War I and rising fascism.

4.

To Ingdahl, however, the binary between truth and lies is extremely ambiguous. She sees Przybyszewska's Robespierre as an anti-Christ and Satanic figure. She is aware that Przybyszewska intended for her Robespierre to be wholly good and heroic, but she also identifies what she considers unintended subtext as expression of a fundamental ambivalence (and maybe a deeper “truth” of history). Indeed, Przybyszewska was ambivalent about revolution in many ways. She emphasizes her pessimism and yet was unable to definitively reject revolution and its quest for the realization of human freedom on Earth as a hopeless endeavor (as conservatives writers like Dostoesvsky and Bernanos did). However, I don't think Przybyszewska's ambivalence expresses itself in her Robespierre as much as Ingdahl thinks it does.

Ingdahl describes Robespierre's tragedy as "ironic" based on a line by Fabre in The Danton Case. Fabre says:

"That's right, careful with the truth, friends. Do you know how one must think in our situation? That the sacrifice offered to an allusion, a useless sacrifice, is the most beautiful. That it is a good thing to wear a jewel, or to give it to a public charity, but that it is beautiful to throw it into the sea. Any truth can be tolerated in a tragic guise; and tragedy is not hard to come by."

Ingdahl explains: "He is referring to Danton's defeat, but the content of the aphoristic monologue summarizes above all Robespierre's predicament."  But Przybyszewska would disagree that Fabre's line applies to Robespierre. One of her letters containts echos of the ideas expressed by Fabre:

It would seem that once we do away with sentimental illusions and see human nature dans toute son affreuse misère, and recognize the ugly underpinning of the most spectacular events -- we would then have to do away with the sense of tragedy since it vanishes into the muddy water along with the remants of all those dead concepts which are the cheapest of pleasurable narcotics. But that is not the case. Only two-thirds of what is commonly understood to be included within the word Tragic must be thrown out; there is still left one-third totally invisible to enthusiastic youth. This remaining one-third is intensely real; it is an attribute of heroism, which also exists (but not where school textbooks tell us it is).

To Przybyszewska, Robespierre--but not Danton or his followers--was in that “one-third” of truly tragic heroes on the side of a higher "truth." As Ingdahl obviously understands, the existence of this "truth" that transcends the “affreuse misère” of human nature was important to her, and by extension important to her Robespierre. To them its existence is simply "logical" and necessary (not just pragmatically but metaphysically) as a counter to the nihilism of Danton. In a key moment in The Danton Case, Robespierre echoes Fabre's comments about tragedy.

Saint-Just: . . . It was the desire for that freedom and the faith in it which roused the people after ten centuries of pasitivity! The same desire and the same faith have kept it for over four years in a superhuman strain of heroism! Robespierre: [sullen, leaning against the headrest of the bed]. What of it, child? This desire, this faith--could be an illusion. They may lead to chaos. Saint-Just: [sits down. After a long silence]. Even if it is so... one must go on. Let there be what must be. Even then it is worth dying for that faith, it is worth drawing the ultimate defeat on oneself... for there is nothing of more value on earth. Robespierre: [looks at him fascinated]. Worth dying... for a lie! A lie the highest value on earth!!... [His legs give way under him. He sits at the edge of his bed] Oh, you have finished me, you know.

Saint-Just is proposing the Nietzschean solution to nihilism: the necessity of lies, the need to create new values in the face of a world inherently devoid of meaning. Robespierre rejects this philosophy as conceding too much ground to nihilism. Unfortunately, the nature of faith is that it has no real answer to doubt. Robespierre cannot prove his "truth," so once doubt has been unleashed and allowed to infect the masses (through the betrayal of a leader), it is already too late. Ingadahl does a good job analyzing the theme of doubt and connecting it to Przybyszewska's favorite book, Sous le Soleil de Satan. But I think Ingdahl misses how that faith distinguishes the Robespierre dictatorship (as portrayed in Przybyszewska's plays since historically Robespierre was never a dictator!) from the nihilistic, regressive Danton or Bonapartist dictatorship. Ingdahl tends to reduce them to two sides of the same coin and attribute them to Przybyszewska's "ambivalence."

5.

Ingdahl writes:

There is a destructive core in Robespierre's 'divine' pretentions, and on the subtextual level his transformation into dictator is at the same time a transformation into the Antichrist. Now he will follow in the footsteps of [Dostoevsky's] the Grand Inquisitor and create a dictatorship that fulfulls humanity's three basic needs: to have an idol to worship, to be liberated from conscience, and to join together in an anthill. When after his meeting with Danton Robespierre brands him a traitor whose ideas are from Satan he is in fact describing the essence of his own future strategy.

Ingdahl says again, elsewhere:

. . . This revolutionary spirit is ambivalent: it is evil disguised as good, and its perfect incarnation is the Antichrist. It is this duality in both Robespierre's and Danton's portraits that accounts for diametrically opposed interpretations of Przybyszewska's play as both pro- and counterrevolutionary.

However to Przybyszewska, the difference between Robespierre and Danton is that Robespierre's dictatorship is born from necessity in service to a higher (noble) ideal whereas Danton's ambitions and Bonapartism is dictatorship in service of nothing beyond individual glory--selfishness sanctified by the dynamics of imperialist war and capitalism.

Przybyszewska, as quoted by Ingdahl, explains her ideas of dictatorship:

The genius takes absolute and permanent possession of the idea as an active medium for its realization. It is only in his brain that it finds a formulation . . . The idea born of the masses as an impression of absence then returns via the genius and teacher to the masses as consciousness of the goal.

Since Przybyszewska believes in “the idea,” she cannot see the two types of dictatorship (the one in necessary service of the idea the other in service of “Nature”) as being fundamentally equivalent. However, if one does not believe in that idea, then “dictatorship is dictatorship,” which is the reading that Ingdahl offers in order to trouble Przybyszewska’s attempt at portraying a heroic dictator. In doing so, Ingdahl makes a good case for the influence of some of Dostoevsky's writings, specifically characters such as Ivan Karamazov and Shigalev, who both start with premises of freedom and end in conclusions of slavery and dictatorship. However, I don't think Przybyszewska had the same angst about dictatorship in and of itself as Dostoevsky did.

In a letter, Przybyszewska elaborates her ideas about revolution and dictatorship:

. . . The basic evil in the mechanics of the revolution: the unavoidable necessity of centralizing the whole undertaking around individual leaders. Even worse: around a single leader -- for as long as there are many leaders they will have to fight one another. The thought, the will, the energy of a single human breain has to penetrate the entire society and decide its every movement. Robespierre’s dictatorship was a necessity for revolutionary France in the Year II; unfortunately the Brutuses of the Comité de Salut grew frightened at the sound of that word. -- I don’t know who said that democracy is the purest form of aristocratic government -- congratulating himself on inventing an extremely bold paradox. it’s not a paradox, but a sad and self-evident truth. Perhaps today the masses, having achieved consciousness, will no longer be shapeless and powerless raw material in the hands of the leader; nowadays a dictator will be subjected to tight control; mutual dependence between a dictator and the masses will be established, as Marat had insisted that it should be.

What Przybyszewska seems more troubled by is the alienation of the people from their leaders, due to lack of “consciousness,” which causes a breakdown in the revolutionary mechanism, and starts the feedback loop of greater and greater repressions--thus creating a true despotism and what I'll call "revolutionary regression."

6.

In conclusion, I cannot prove it, but I suspect--and it is only a suspicion--that Ingdahl’s biased understanding of history influenced her reading of Przybyszewska’s plays. I also think she may have misidentified the source of the plays’ “ambivalence.” Actually, I don’t think she is wrong about there being contradictions and ambivalences, but I think they are not quite what she thinks they are. In fact, it would be interesting to elaborate on them more from a perspective of German Idealism, Hegelianism, and Marxism (traces of all of which seem to have been absorbed and remixed in Przybyszewska’s idiosyncratic theories).

[petruchio]

i want to try to articulate my own dislike of mal in the grisha trilogy because i want to be clear that it doesn’t stem from a place of me having wanted alina to end up with someone else, nor would i really have been angry if she HAD ended up with mal if it had been written well, but i would like to take a stab at why i feel that it WASN’T. 

1. what was alina’s power meant to represent? this is honestly my main sticking point in the series as a whole. in my opinion, the way the “grisha power” is portrayed in the books is fundamentally antithetical to alina’s choices at the ending of the series. grisha power in the novels is portrayed as something innate, as something which is not separate from the self but merely an extension of the self, and as something which is essential for one’s health and, literally, lifeforce. “does the bird feel the weight of its wings,” etc., it is literally portrayed as something which is an essential part of one’s person. so -- this book is YA. YA, especially YA fantasy, tends to have some lesson to draw out to its young readers, some analog to real life meant to demonstrate something deeper. this begs the question then -- WHAT does alina’s power represent? what are its metaphorical implications? i think it’s crucial that she is initially only able to access her power when she LETS GO of mal and her unhealthy attachment to him. and at that turn in the story, she finds herself happier, freer, and healthier. so.... my question is what on earth are we meant to draw out of this, metaphorically, other than the idea that unhealthy attachment and obsession to others limits us and once we trust in ourselves completely we find our inner power? (i’d be fascinated if anyone disagrees or has different ideas about what the power and her ability to use it is meant to represent. but i have a hard time understanding it as anything else) we can further draw out some of the more literal metaphors -- regarding light and the sun. light which tends to represent joy, which reveals the unseen, which brings forth what is hidden. i think these are all pretty... on the nose metaphors. within her, alina contains this power to reveal what is hidden, to bring into the world joy and safety, and to bring balance to a world plagued by darkness. and her choice is to just... not? i just don’t think it tracks with everything else that grisha power is meant to represent.

2. what was alina’s arc meant to represent? this kind of ties into my larger issue with grisha power, but on a more individual level. you hear people justify alina’s choices by saying “she was a reluctant leader.” to which i say... then what was the point of the entire series? what did she learn? that actually her life was fine and she didn’t want to change it? i mean, power to her, but i again don’t think it follows with the portrayal of her discovery of her power (both her literal sun power and her ~internal~ power and strength) what was the point of having her have to “let go” of her attachment to mal in order to discover her power? what was the point of the line “there’s nothing wrong with being a mouse, unless you’re meant to be a hawk?” i just think these narrative beats don’t map on to her ultimate choice. 

3. the love arc of alina/mal is poorly written. in fact -- there IS no arc. she starts and ends the books in love with him. as a reader, i think this is one of the most uninteresting forms of romance to read. we have no sense of WHY she falls for him, other than the fact that they’re childhood friends which we are exposed to in a few flashbacks and stories about a vague “meadow.” but we don’t actually SEE any of this -- we basically have to take alina’s word for it that mal is amazing and perfect and he is the only person who sees her for who she “truly is” (which as an aside, i still don’t buy because again, if her power is something innate to her, he categorically DOESN’T see her as who she truly is and her whole person.) it’s hard as a reader to fall in love with a character if we don’t see the protagonist fall in love with them as well. plus, like i pointed out in her need to let go of mal -- in the start of the series, her attachment to him is framed as unhealthy and obsessive, as something she has to learn to let go of in order to become her whole self. i just don’t understand this metaphor, then, if the ultimate conclusion is that she was right to begin with.

4. i would like to draw a comparison here to the hunger games, which is a book i feel hits many of the same beats but does it (obviously perfectly) and justifies and explains katniss’ choices within the metaphorical and symbolic meaning and argument of the trilogy as a whole. i propose to break this down into three subsections and draw comparisons:

4a. the love interests. i guess mal is meant to be a sort of peeta like character, one who advocates for peace and sees the protagonist for HER not as a tool or a device. but again -- does he? i think this again ties into the idea of power as innate. none of katniss’ powers are necessarily innate to her. she’s not an amazing archer because she just happens to be so, or because she was just born that way. it’s something she learns and is forced into because of the poverty her and her family face, which again ties back into the larger social commentary of the series. she doesn’t become a symbol for the revolution because of some magical ~thing~ that she has, but because she is used and manipulated by the adults around her. but alina isn’t like that! she doesn’t learn to be a sun summoner because of the society she lives in, she just IS. she is also used as a symbol by the adults around her -- but because of her LITERAL power. so mal’s dislike of that aspect of her doesn’t read like peeta’s distaste for the capitol, it just reads like... he doesn’t like a part of her. then i guess you also have a bit of the gale mapped onto mal, as her childhood best friend. but i again feel that this is a poor analog. again with the distaste for the capitol vs. distaste for her grisha power. gale rejects katniss’ new life because it seems to him to represent the wealth and power of his oppressors. mal rejects it for apparently the same reasons -- but the power is represented as something internal to her. it’s different than wearing fancier clothes or living in a nicer house because of artificial social divisions. sure, the SOCIAL divisions between grisha and non grisha in the book are artificial. but she LITERALLY has a magic power. so again to my point about her power -- it just doesn’t make sense in context of how the power is described. 

4b. the villain. let’s imagine a hunger games where president snow is young and sexy and manipulates katniss by making out with her instead of just threatening those she loves. uhhhhhhhhhh. i just think this confuses the reader too much to be effective. once again, if this had been written a bit better i think it could’ve worked, but like. it wasn’t. there’s a reason people really thought they were going to end up together. in thg is that katniss is just.... some girl. she’s not snow’s only equal in the world, the one destined to balance his power, the only one who can understand his life and reality, his only immortal partner. again with the symbolism just not matching up to what seems to be the intention behind the story. okay, the darkling is evil. alina is good. so the solution is... kill him and stop using her own power? but the rest of the grisha and their powers are all fine? again, WHAT is the implication about power? it just doesn’t make sense.

4c. the choice at the end to live a peaceful life and reject the narrative which society has placed on you. this is where i think tgt really falls flat at trying to achieve and make a similar argument to thg. crucially, katniss’ choice is pretty metaphorically obvious. gale and peeta both hate the capitol, but have different opinions of the solution. peeta represents peace, gale war. (suzanne collins has literally said this.) katniss’ choice at the end of thg to live peacefully with peeta is a broader commentary on the nature of peace and the need to choose peace. but alina’s choice doesn’t read this way -- because in order to choose peace she literally has to deny a part of herself! a part of herself that is clearly an analog to finding herself in the series! 

these are all just some general thoughts about where i think tgt fails to really take on the implications of the power it seeks to portray. i think there are a lot of potential and legitimate criticisms of a lot of my points here, but i think overall it will always come back to the power for me. why was she sickly and sad before she discovered her power? why does she find joy and fun only once she is able to access a part of herself which she had repressed for so long only out of an unhealthy attachment to her childhood? if the power she wields is just too much for the world to handle, and same with the darkling, then why is grisha power portrayed as innate natural and essential? 

the realities of how power is portrayed in the grisha trilogy are why i ultimately believe her choice of mal and her choice to give up her power makes no sense and does not track onto the literal and metaphorical implications of the trilogy. 

[bookaddict24-7]

AUTHOR INTERVIEW! 

Hello Fellow Readers, 

Today I have a treat for all of you! I haven’t done one of these in a while, but I love coming out and doing an author interview for a very good friend of mine. TJ Swackhammer’s debut YA Dystopian novel came out on October 20th and has received so much love and attention! 

I wanted a glimpse into her brilliant mind and I hope you all enjoy our interview! 

____

Synopsis for City of Immortal Shadows by TJ Swackhammer: 

“The dawn of revolution approaches. We will not look away…. Something is rotting in the city of Emaldin. Those outside of the Pod could tell you that, if they weren’t too exhausted to open their eyes. Citizens spend their days slaving away under the brutal, all-seeing eye of the Council for a chance to get closer to the towering structure at the centre of the city, and the safety and utopia it promises. Valencia was supposed to be one of the lucky ones. Plucked from a life of crime, the Institute promised her a ticket to an easier life inside of the Pod, if only she could make it to graduation. Or so they claimed. Instead, she found herself reawakening at the bottom of a polluted river, back from the dead with a lethal touch. For years, Valencia has kept her identity secret, slipping under the radar of the Council as the deadly shadow of one of Emaldin’s most dangerous, always believing that what happened to her was an accident to be made the best of. A weapon, for her to wield. Until she realizes she hasn’t been the one wielding it. Until the wrong life, at the wrong time, gets cut short. On the run, she is reunited with Eli- a ghost from her past with the most nebulous of loyalties. She must work to untangle the web of deceit surrounding the Institute and find the truth of Emaldin… even if it means letting go of every truth she’s ever known.” 

You can add TJ’s book to your TBR on Goodreads here. 

You can buy your copy here: 

KOBO | Kindle CA | Kindle US | Amazon CA | Amazon US

___

Q: Can you tell us a bit about your book and why you think readers will devour it?

A: I’d love to. City of Immortal Shadows is a new take on the classic dystopian genre, following a young girl named Valencia who is discovering for the first time that possibilities lie beyond the limits of her compliance. One of the things that I think makes this read “devourable” is that it has all this action and is rife with these mystery elements, but the story itself has such heart, such authenticity in Valencia’s journey from being closed off and traumatized to being a person who believes in something again.

Q: I love the title and cover of your book! Can you share the process of how you came up with the title and how the cover design was chosen/created?

A: City of Immortal Shadows actually went untitled for a long time. It was really hard to sum up the feeling of this brimming revolution told through the eyes of a girl that should, by all intensive purposes, be dead. We landed on City of Immortal Shadows because it touches on how a city can hold the trauma of its people. while also alluding to Valencia’s journey, and how she feels permanent, yet dark and insignificant. Hence, an immortal shadow herself. —- There’s a lot of symbolism tied up in the cover- the girl, silhouetted against a smoking city, anonymous in her surrender, symbolizing Valencia’s struggle with self. The flowers, bursting from her gut as a symbol of rebirth, a manifestation of her learning how to live again.

Q: What would you say was your greatest learning experience while writing CITY OF IMMORTAL SHADOWS?

A: My greatest learning experience was releasing perfectionism, for sure. I have one of those personalities where I expect to be perfect at something right away, and though I’d written stories all my life, I rarely followed through. Through the writing process of COIS, I learned a lot about what it means to be a beginner and accepted that the hiccups and mistakes I made necessary for my journey.

Q: What do you think, in your honest opinion, makes a book binge worthy? How did you incorporate these themes into your debut?

A: For me, I really love when books steep you into the story rather than jumping right in. I love the “questions” and intrigue part of the journey the most, how you get tangled in the story and your own curiosity for answers rises with the characters. I really wanted to incorporate this into the gritty drama of a dystopian world, but make it very intimate and authentic as if you, the reader, was starting to see the pockets and holes in society as you went along.

Q: If you had to put your debut in a list of books on Goodreads, what do you think the title of the list would be and what other books do you think would be on the list as well?

A: Possible Goodreads list names: Atmospheric Haunts That Bite Back, All The Beautiful Uglies, Wake-up Calls, Speculative Profile of the Human Condition, Favourite Anti-heroes? Books to include- Girl With all The Gifts, and Frankenstein have been the ones it’s been compared to the most.

Q: What would you say surprised you the most while you were writing CITY OF IMMORTAL SHADOWS?

A: I was really surprised at how well my poetry background meshed with my brand of story-telling- it was such a treat to discover my “writer’s voice” and make use of these other gifts!

Q: CITY OF IMMORTAL SHADOWS is getting a lot of love since its debut! What do you hope future readers will love about your novel?

A: Thank you, it’s definitely been very exciting! I really hope that future readers will appreciate the subtleties in this work, and enjoy piecing together their own theories with these hints hidden in the story for them to find.

Q: I’ve known you for a while and I always see you writing. What tips would you give to other writers who struggle with writing every day?

A: Well, for me, I always establish a clear vision of what the next scene will be the day before, so when I jump in, I don’t have to spend time on the literal aspects of the work. I think it’s important to treat each scene (whether it’s five hundred words or five thousand) with a definite beginning, middle, end and then fill the rest in with your heart.

Q: What has been your greatest challenge as a writer so far and how did you overcome it?

A: Mine has always been comparison. While writing, I felt very confident in the risks I was taking stylistically, but that soon depleted shortly after it released. I kept reading other books that had a very similar cadence to one another, and started to feel insecure about my differences. I didn’t begin to overcome it until I changed my expectations- some people won’t get what I tried to do, and that’s okay. So far, my different voice and tone has been a standout praise from my reviewers!

Q: Finally, what was the best piece of advice you’ve ever received as a writer and why did it resonate with you?

A: “It doesn’t matter if it’s good, bad, or ugly- just get it done.” This is an amalgamation of advice over the years that all meshed together into this line. For me, it meant everything because I had let my own expectations sabotage every project before and I was no longer going to let my fear of being a beginner get in my way! Finishing was really all it was about, and all I needed to push myself to do.

___

Thanks for joining us!

Happy reading!

[montagnarde1793]

Ribbons of Scarlet: A predictably terrible novel on the French Revolution (part 2)

In case you were wondering, that’s not actually the novel’s subtitle, which is really “A Novel of the French Revolution’s Women.” But like, only the famous ones. Ok, I’m done. Moving on...

Parts 1, 3, 4 and 5.

Structural Issues

 While the choice of characters was a red flag for me (and not in a good way), choosing to structure the book the way they did was a mistake.

 This is true for a number of reasons. (I’m sorry, btw, for all the comparisons to Marge Piercy’s novel, but the shared conceit kind of made it inevitable.) Piercy’s characters also only got an average of 80 pages each (though as the typeset was denser, they arguably had a little bit more space), but since the POVs were interspersed, they played off each other much more naturally and allowed the characters the time to develop. Even there it could feel underdeveloped, but here it seems like they’re rushing the undeserved character development so they have some kind of complete arc for each character before the next part starts.

Some chapters are clumsier at this than others. The absolute worst is Pauline Léon’s, which is unsurprising for a number of reasons, but notably because she has the fewest pages of anyone except Charlotte Corday, who doesn’t really get an arc: she shows up in the plot already wanting to assassinate Marat; she succeeds; she doesn’t regret her decision; she’s tried and executed. That’s it.

 This choice also means that the main strength of this type of anthology goes largely untapped: namely, that we get different POVs on the same events. Since each protagonist is associated with a different period in time, we can only ever get their point of view on previous events through awkward flashbacks.

 It probably also accounts for one of the worst, most artificial and amateurish aspects of the book: the way in any given section the other six point of view characters are shoehorned into the narrative, whether it makes any sense or not. The protagonists of the different sections have to have some (highly improbable) relationship with one another or be reflecting on each other’s lives in the most ham-fisted, author-soapbox way possible. We’ll circle back to that last part in a bit.

 Possibly the most ludicrous example of this is Manon Roland’s inexplicable decision to take a random trip to Caen in mid to late August 1792 just so the author can have her run into Charlotte Corday. Like, do I even need to explain how little sense this makes? Apparently so. Look, first of all, going from Paris to Caen was not a trivial trip in the 18th century. Today you could make a day-trip of it and not be missed. It’s about 2 hours each way in the TGV. But in the 18th century, you’re looking at more like 2 days each way, minimum. Not the sort of trip you tend to make without an ostensible reason. Does Manon Roland have one, even as written? No, she does not. She’s going to Caen to flee the temptation of François Buzot’s advances. Which, ok, internal motivation for leaving Paris, but they don’t bother to give her a pretext. How is she going to explain to her husband her random absence of at least 4 days (not to mention the expense)? And why Caen (other than the external reason of the author’s wanting her to come across Corday)? She has no connections there. Does the author even know that the main person Manon Roland knows from the region is Buzot and that it’s therefore the last place she should flee to stop thinking about him? And she’s supposed to be a savvy politician: does she not care about the optics, as the interim Minister of the Interior’s wife, of fleeing in the opposite direction as the Austro-Prussian troops are advancing on Paris?

 And I know what you’re thinking: I’m overthinking this. This wasn’t a book designed for specialists. But I think a reader can tell when a world they’re reading about doesn’t feel fully fleshed-out. In that sense, it’s less about accuracy than it is about how flat and artificial a reading experience it makes for. One of the most valuable things I was taught in school was that when making a presentation, you should always know more than you intend to say. I think the same goes for fiction: you should know more about the setting and the characters than appears on the page. In this book I consistently have the impression that the authors know less.

 Moreover, the authors claim to have been striving for maximum consolidation of characters in order to reduce confusion, but it ends up coming across as both artificial and condescending. Trust your readers to be smart enough to work through their confusion. Otherwise you make it feel like there were a total of about 20 people in Paris during the Revolution, which, again, makes the setting feel completely artificial.

 While I’m not sure anything but better research and writing could have salvaged it, this book would have already been 1000% better if the characters met or thought about each other only when it would actually make sense for them to do so and the narratives were interwoven.

  The Authors are Desperate to Make Sure You Feel the Way They Want You to about Key Figures. They Also Think You’re Stupid

 Don’t get me wrong. I’m not accusing them of supposing their readers to be ignorant about the French Revolution. You should always assume your reader to be ignorant of what you’re going to tell them. Ignorant, but intelligent. That’s the key. The problem is that the authors don’t trust their audience.

 So we also get characters doing things like giving you a who’s who of the most famous (and only the most famous) authors, artists and activists of the time whether it makes sense for them to do so or not, like this is a textbook and we’ve got to make sure the reader is informed of the existence of all these figures (or maybe give them the chance to pat themselves on the back if they’ve already heard of some of them).

 Or my least favorite French Revolution trope: having Robespierre ominously show up in 1789 to start plotting the “Terror” (here they have him spouting the apocryphal* quote “pity is treason” to an audience of Sophie de Grouchy, Condorcet and the Sainte-Amaranthe family sometime in May or June 1789) (p. 89).

 *Presumably, it’s a corruption of declarations such as the one in his 5 November 1789 response to Louvet’s denunciation that “La sensibilité qui gémit presque exclusivement pour les ennemis de la liberté m’est suspecte.” (“I find the sensitivity that groans almost exclusively for the enemies of liberty suspect.”) or the one in his second speech on the judgment of Louis XVI of 28 December 1792: “la sensibilité qui sacrifie l’innocence au crime est une sensibilité cruelle ; la clémence qui compose avec la tyrannie est barbare” (“sensitivity that sacrifices innocence to crime is a cruel sensivity; clemency that compromises with tyranny is barbaric”).

 Again, we see the same need for oversimplification. Robespierre is, as one of the authors’ notes puts it, one of the “dangerous men” (back matter, p. 18) that should have been prevented from ever having power so he’s not allowed to ever do or say anything sympathetic. (And yeah, I know, death of the author and all that, I shouldn’t count the authors’ notes, but they really only serve as explicit confirmation of what could be pretty transparently inferred from the text and this way no one can accuse me of reading things into it that aren’t there.)

Because of this, even real quotes are cited out of context to the same end: when Robespierre says “pity is treason” in 1789, Condorcet says his bit from the Chronique de Paris article from April 1792 to his wife — you know the one, about Robespierre’s being admired by women because he’s basically a cult leader (p. 90). There’s no reason to think Condorcet had any particular enmity toward Robespierre (or even that Robespierre would have been on his radar) just after the opening of the Estates-General, though certainly, contrary to what is portrayed here, Condorcet was not a democrat in 1789 and Robespierre was. But again, historical figures we’re not supposed to like must be set up early and often as stock villains — otherwise you run the risk of your readers thinking for themselves, I guess. Also the Chronique de Paris quote (which is from an unsigned article generally attributed to Condorcet) is pretty damn misogynistic, which given the book’s stated main theme, you would think would be addressed in some way, but nope!

 Conversely, figures the authors like are liked by the characters — or they are at least forced to begrudgingly recognize their merit — whether it makes sense or not. One of the things Manon Roland is made to number among the things going “wrong” in August 1792 is “the hero Lafayette[’s being] forced into exile” (p. 261) and while it is the author of a different section who is a self-proclaimed La Fayette stan (thanks to Hamilton, of all things…) I think it’s fair to say from his portrayal in all the sections that we’re meant to admire him. But here’s the thing. I don’t really care what you think about La Fayette. That’s not the question. To Manon Roland in August 1792, La Fayette was a traitor who attempted to march his army against the Legislative Assembly and all her friends and allies in said Assembly voted to indict him. If you’re writing from her point of view, it should reflect that.

 Likewise, they have Pauline Léon describe Olympe de Gouges like this in July of 1793: “A defender of women, of slaves, I wish I could have admired her, but having aligned herself to my enemies, I could look at her no other way.” (p. 353). Olympe de Gouges is far better known now than she ever was in her lifetime, so making sure every character has an opinion on her is, once again, pretty artificial, but even assuming Pauline Léon had heard of her, Olympe de Gouges’s brand of feminism was an elitist one that excluded women like Pauline Léon and her abolitionism went out the window when the slaves actually started to rise up, so Pauline Léon actually would have had reason to dislike her beyond the logic of ‘you’re with me or you’re my enemy’ (there is a quote where she’s made to think precisely that, but I can’t seem to find it now — or maybe it was Reine Audu; they’re characterized pretty similarly in that respect). Likewise, Pauline Léon is made to disapprove of Condorcet or the Rolands because they don’t “[get] things done,” not because of any actual ideological disagreement (p. 349).

Probably the worst bit of condescension comes once again from Manon Roland’s section, where she tells a fellow spectator in the gallery of the Convention, “‘Don’t bother trying to tell the different assemblies and conventions apart,’” which is pretty transparently just the authors directly talking (down) to the reader rather than a conversation people who were living through events (and invested enough to be attending the Convention) would plausibly have had.

If it sounds like I’m being particularly harsh on the Manon Roland section, btw, I actually think it’s one of the less poorly done, at least in terms of rendering an historical figure’s mentality, most likely because unlike for some of the other figures, we have her memoirs and correspondence. It helps that the figures she’s supposed to hate line up with the figures the authors want us to hate as well. She saw herself as a reasonable republican and her Montagnard enemies as demagogues and that’s also clearly the authors’ assessment of the situation, so there’s less of the strange cognitive dissonance you get in some of the other chapters where even what is supposedly characters’ own POV frames them as wrong.

Stay tuned for style issues and reflections on what it means to “write what you want to know”!

[hellyeahheroes]

Eve Ewing Interview for Outlawed

Newsarama: Eve, Outlawed kicks off a whole new era of Marvel stories with big ramifications. We know there’s an incident involving Kamala Khan that leads to teen heroes being illegal. What can you tell us about that big crucial turning point?

Eve L. Ewing: Ahhh, unfortunately not much! If it were up to me we wouldn't even do previews.

The only thing I can say is that we're trying to avoid easy answers or a clear sense of what's right or what's wrong in this story, and trying to make it a little more complex than "mean government guy oppresses kid." I'm hoping for some real moral ambiguity.

Credit: Marvel Comics Nrama: The obvious comparison here is to the original Civil War, which started with a tragedy involving young heroes leading to a fracture between Marvel’s superheroes. What’s different about this conflict and the fallout?

Ewing: Yeah, it's interesting to me that people have been making that comparison, because to me, although the inciting incident is familiar, the ramifications are so different because the people impacted are young people. In Civil War, we see adults with different moral centers, different ethics, different relationships to the government and to power, but they all are operating in a way from a place of power.

In this case, we're talking about superheroes, but they're still teens. Which means that they're sort of marginalized and disempowered by mainstream American society, and they're marginalized and disempowered by the adult superhero community. Some of the adult superheroes are sympathetic to them, but at the end of the day, they don't actually stand to lose that much from the law. It's more of a "tsk tsk, that's too bad, seems unfair" thing rather than something where they're willing to fight tooth and nail. Because why would they?

Credit: Marvel Comics So the teens are essentially on their own. So to me the stakes are quite different. That being said, I also hope this run will appeal to some of our readers who were literally like three years old when Civil War happened, and maybe we can have some intergenerational conversations among fans about where they see similar or divergent themes.

Nrama: The law that outlaws teen vigilantes is called “Kamala’s Law” – but Kamala Khan herself seems pretty willing to break her own law. How does Kamala’s specific POV and morality inform how this story develops?

Ewing: A recurring theme in Champions and in her solo title is how Kamala wrestles with being a leader, moments where she kind of fails in her leadership and moments where she steps up to the plate even when she'd rather not. I hope to extend that in this story, and have Kamala grapple with other people - people she respects and cares about - genuinely questioning not only her leadership, but her basic sense of right and wrong, her moral compass.

Credit: Marvel Comics The Champions position themselves as being in service of regular, vulnerable people, but what happens when those people are not a monolith, and when they have real critique of Kamala's choices?

Nrama: We know there will be a new status quo following Outlawed, and that similar to the post-Civil War Marvel Universe there will be factions. How does that affect these teen heroes who have been through so much together? Will we see friends take different sides?

Ewing: Sure, but I'm not as much interested in the whole "There are two sides! which one are you on?!" thing. I'm more interested in... let's say you have a certain political stance on something, something you believe to your core, and there's a friend with you, someone you deeply love and care for, and you want the best for them, and you see that they have a different perspective, not because they're bad or they're unintelligent or need to be convinced, but because they're actually a different human with a different life that means they'll be differently impacted by whatever happens? What do you do then?

This is less a story of the teens going to war with each other as much as trying to figure out how to care for each other across real difference in an environment of terror. So, you know, pretty chill and lighthearted!

Credit: Marvel Comics Nrama: What are the advantages of shaking things up with this kind of a story in a one-shot, versus a longer format limited series or arc?

Ewing: A one-shot is cool because it's just action-oriented, high-stakes, we get to mix it up a little bit on the art side, and I think it provides a clear entry point for readers. Should be fun.

Nrama: You’re launching a new volume of Champions following Outlawed. The Champions originally formed with an ethos of using their powers to improve the world. How does Outlawed shake up that perspective? What’s their mantra as they move into a new era as fugitives?

Credit: Marvel Comics Ewing: They're trying to figure that out themselves!

Nrama: Outlawed is the latest chapter in an ongoing saga of tension between the different philosophies of superheroing for Marvel’s heroes. If Civil War was about being responsible for your actions and Civil War II was about freedom of choice, what is the theme behind Outlawed? What questions are you hoping to raise for readers?

Ewing: Wow, that's an excellent question. I think the theme is that, while it's easy to call for revolution or easy to say you're fighting for something, when it comes down to it, there's rarely one clear path to get where you're going, and you have to figure out what values you really share with the person alongside you.

There's no one way to liberation, and you have to decide what allyship means, what friendship means, what camaraderie means. Because if you don't know, when it all comes down to it, you'll be ripped apart.

[the-end-of-art]

Sewn into his jacket an incoherent note

How to Make Love, Write Poetry, & Believe in God by Nin Andrews

A few weeks ago, I was part of a Hamilton-Kirkland College alumnae poetry reading, and after the reading a woman asked a simple question: “How do you write a poem?” I didn’t have an answer so I suggested a few books by poets like John Hollander, Mary Oliver, and Billy Collins. The woman said she had read books like that, but they didn’t help. She wanted something else, like a genuine operating manual—a step by step explanation.

I, too, love instruction manuals, especially those manuals on how to perform magic: write a poem or know God or make love, if only love were something that could be made. Manuals offer such promise. Yes, you, too, can enter the bee-loud glade and the Promised Land and have an orgasm.

I love the idea that my mind could be programmed like a computer to spit out poems on demand—poems with just the right number of lines, syllables, metaphors, meanings, similes, images . . . And with no clichés, no matter how much I love those Tom, Dick and Harry’s with their lovely wives, as fresh as daisies. I can set them in any novel or town in America, and they will have sex twice a week, always before ten at night, never at the eleventh hour, and it will not take long,time being of the essence.

I love sex manuals, too: those books that suggest our bodies are like cars. If only we could learn to drive them properly, bliss would be a simple matter of inserting a key, mastering the steering wheel, signaling our next moves, knowing the difference between the brakes and the gas pedal, and of course, following the speed limit.

A depressive person by nature, I am also a fan of how-to books on God, faith, happiness, the soul, books that suggest a divine presence is always here. I just need to find it, or wake up to it, or turn off my doubting brain. That even now, my soul is like a bird in a cage. If I could sit still long enough and listen closely, it might rest on my open palm and sing me a song.

God, poetry, sex, they offer brief moments of bliss, glimpses of the ineffable, and occasional insights into that which does not translate easily into daily experience, or loses its magic when explained.

In college, I took classes in religion, philosophy and poetry, and I studied sex in my spare time—my first roommate and I staying up late, pondering the pages of The Joy of Sex. As a freshman, I auditioned my way into an advanced poetry writing class by composing the single decent poem I wrote in my college years. The poem, an ode to cottage cheese, came to me in a flash as a vision nestled on a crisp bed of iceberg lettuce. Does cottage cheese nestle? I don’t know, but the professor kept admiring that poem. He said all my other poems paled by comparison.

This was in the era of the sexual revolution,long before political correctness and the Me-Too movement. My roommate, obsessed with getting laid, said we women should have been given a compass to navigate the sexual landscape. She liked to complain that she’d had only one orgasm in her entire life, and she wanted another. “What if I am a one-orgasm wonder?” she worried. The subject of orgasms kept us awake, night after night.

In religion class, my professor told the famous story about Blaise Pascal who had a vision of God that was so profound, his life seemed dull and meaningless forever afterwards. He never had another vision. But he had sewn into his jacket an incoherent note to remind him of the singular luminous experience.

The next day in religion class, a student stood up and announced that the professor was wrong—about Pascal, God, everything. The student knew this because he was God’s friend. He even knew His first name, and what God was thinking. The professor smiled sadly, put his arm around the student, and led him out of the classroom, down the steps and into the counselor’s office. When the professor returned, he warned us that if we ever thought we knew God, we should check ourselves into a mental institution. Lots of insane people know God intimately.

But, I wondered, what would God (or the transcendent—or whatever word you might choose for it: the muse, love, the orgasm, the soul, the higher self) think of us? For example, what would a muse think of a writer trying, begging, praying to enter the creative flow? All writers know it—that moment when inspiration happens. The incredible high. And the opposite, when words cling to the wall of the mind like sticky notes but never make it onto your tongue or the page.

What would an orgasm think of all the people seeking it so fervently yet considering it dirty, embarrassing, unmentionable? And then lying about it. “Did you have one?” a man might ask. “Yes,” his lover nods. But every orgasm knows it cannot be had. Or possessed. Or sewn into the lining of a coat. No one “has” an orgasm. At least not for long.

What did God think of Martin Luther, calling out to him in terror when a lightning bolt struck near his horse, “Help! I’ll become a monk!” And later, when he sought relief from his chronic constipation and gave birth to the Protestant Reformation on the lavatory—a lavatory you can visit today in Wittenberg, Germany.

I don’t want to evaluate Luther’s source of inspiration. But I do want to ponder the question: How do you write a poem? Is there a way to begin?

I think John Ashbery gave away one secret in his poem, “The Instruction Manual:” that it begins with daydreaming. Imagination. And the revelation that the mind contains its own magical city, its own Guadalajara, complete with a public square and bands and parading couples that you can visit this enchanted town for a limited time before you must turn your gaze back to the humdrum world.  

But a student of Ashbery’s might cringe at the suggestion that poetry is merely an act of the imagination. In order to master the dance, one must know the steps. And Ashbery was a master. So many of his poems follow a kind of Hegelian progression, traveling from the concrete to the abstract to the absolute. Or what Fichte described as a dialectical movement from thesis to antithesis to synthesis. Fichte also wrote that consciousness itself has no basis in reality. I wonder if Ashbery would have agreed.

In college I wrote an inane paper, comparing Ashbery’s poetry to a form of philosophical gardening in which the poet arranges the concrete, meaning the plants or words, in such an appealing order that they create the abstract, or the beauty, desired. Thus, the reader experiences the absolute, or a sense of wonder at the creation as the whole thing sways in the wind of her mind.

Is there a basis in reality for wonder? Or poetry? I asked. Or are we only admiring illusions, the beautiful illusions the poet has created?  How I loved questions like that. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Fichte and Hegel and Ashbery and write mystical and incomprehensible books. I complained to my mother that no matter how hard I tried, I could not compose an actual poem or philosophical treatise—I was trying to write treatises, too. “That’s good,” she said. “Poets and philosophers are too much in their heads, and not enough in the world.”

I didn’t argue with her and tell her that not all poets are like Emily Dickinson. Or say that Socrates was put to death for being too much in the world, for angering the public with his Socratic method of challenging social mores, and earning himself the title, “the gadfly of Athens.”  

Instead, I thought, That’s it! If I want to be a poet, I just need to separate my head from the world. Or at least turn off the noise of the world. And seek solitude, as Wordsworth suggested, in order to recollect in tranquility. I imagined myself going on a retreat or living in a cave, studying the shadows on the wall. Letting them speak to me or seduce me or dance with me.

The shadows, I discovered, are not nice guests. Sometimes they kept me awake all night, talking loudly, making rude comments, using all the words I never said aloud. “Hush,” I told them. “No one wants to hear that.” Sometimes they took on the voices of the dead and complained I hadn’t told their stories yet or right. Sometimes they sulked and bossed me about like a maid, asking for a cup of tea, a biscuit, a little brandy, a nap. One nap was never enough. When I obeyed and closed my eyes, they recited the poems I wanted to write down. “You can’t open your eyes until we’re done,” they said, as if poetry were a game of memory, or hide and seek in the mind. Other times they wandered away and down the dirt road of my past, or lay down in the orchard and counted the peaches overhead. Whatever they did or said, I watched and listened.

That’s how I began writing my first real poems. I knew not to disobey the shadows. I knew not toturn my back on them and look towards the light as Plato suggested—Plato who wanted to banish the poets and poetry from his Republic.I knew to not answer the door if the man from Porlock came knocking.

To this day I am grateful for the darkness. For the shadows it creates in my mind. It is thanks to them I have written another book, The Last Orgasm, a book whose title might make people cringe. But isn’t that what shadows do? And much of poetry, too? Dwell on topics we are afraid to look at in the light?

(https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2020/09/how-to-make-love-write-poetry-believe-in-god-by-nin-andrews.html)

Five prose poems by Nin Andrews (formatting better at http://newflashfiction.com/5-prose-poems-by-nin-andrews/)

Duplicity

after Henri Michaux “Simplicity”

When I was just a young thing, my life was as simple as a sunrise. And as predictable. Day after day I went about doing exactly as I pleased. If I saw a lovely man or women, or beauty in any of its shapes and forms and flavors, well, I simply had to have it. So I did. Just like that. Boom! I didn’t even need a room.

Slowly, I matured. I learned a bit of etiquette.  Manners, I discovered can have promising side effects. I even began carrying a bottle of champagne wherever I went, and a bed. Not that the beds lasted long. I wasn’t the kind to go easy on the alcohol or the furnishings, nor was I interested in sleep. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly men drift off. Women, many of them, kept me going night after night. You know how inspiring  women are.

But then, alas, I grew tired of them as well. I began to envy those folks who curl up into balls each night, their bodies as heavy as tombstones. I tried curling up with them, slowing my breath, entering into their dreams. What dreams! To think I had been missing out all along! That’s when I became a Zen master, at one with the night. Now I teach classes on peace, love, abstinence. At last I have found bliss, I tell my followers. The young, they don’t believe it. But really, I ask you. Would I lie?

The Broken Promise

after Heberto Padilla, “The Promise”

There was a time when I promised to write you a thousand love poems. When I said every day is a poem, and every poem is in love with you. But then the poems rebelled. They became a junta of angry women, impossible to calm or translate, each more vivid, sultry, seductive than the next. Some stayed inside and sulked for weeks, demanding chocolates, separate rooms, maid service. Others wanted to be carted around like queens. Still others took lovers and kept the neighbors up, moaning at all hours of the day and night. One skinny girl (remember her? the one with flame-colored hair?) moved away. She went back to that shack down the road where we first met. At night she lay down in the orchard behind the house and let the dark crawl over her arms and legs. In the end even her dreams turned to ash and blew away in a sudden gust of wind.

Little Big Man

after Russell Edson “Sleep”

There was once an orgasm that could not stop shrinking. Little big man, his friend called him, watching as he grew smaller and smaller with each passing night, first before making love, then before even the mention of making love, then before even the mention of the mention of making love. Oh, what a pathetic little thing he was.

One night he tried reading, Think and Grow Big, but it only caused him to shrink further inside himself. Oh, to grow large and tall as I once was, he sighed. What he needed, he knew, was a trainer with a whip and chains. Someone to teach him to jump through hoops and swing from a trapeze and swallow fire until he blazed ever higher into the night. Yes, he shuddered. Yes! as he imagined it. A tiny wisp of smoke escaped his lips.

Questions to Determine if You Are Washed Up

after Charles Baudelaire, “Get Drunk!”

Do you feel washed up lost, all alone? Do you fear that time is passing you by like a train for which you have no ticket, no seat? That you have lived too long in the solitude of your room and empty mind,  that now you are but a slave of sorrow? Or is it regret? Do you no longer taste the wine of life on your lips, tongue, throat? Is there not even even a chance of intoxication? Bliss? No poetry or song above or below the hips? No love in the wind, the waves, in every  or any fleeting and floating thing? No castles in your air? No pearls in your oysters? Are you wearing a pair of drawstring pants?

Remembering Her

after Herberto Padilla

This is the house where she first met you. This is the room where she first said your name as if it were a song.  This is the table where she undressed you, stripping away your petals, leaves, your filmy white roots and sorrows. And there on the floor is the stone you picked up each morning, the stone you clung to night after night. Sometimes she kicked it aside. Sometimes she placed in on the sill and blew it out the window as her presence filled you like a glow, and you thought for an instant, I, too, can fly.

[vaguely-concerned]

Mass Effect: Annihilation thoughts

TL;DR I fucking LOVED IT, a balm to my heart after struggling through Nexus Uprising! Also canonical lesbians! The sweetest quarian & his badass grandma! Elcor Hamlet except this time it’ll make you cry!!! 

- Aaaaaah the audiobook reader is Tom Taylorson (so male Ryder)!! Fryda Wolf (female Ryder) read the two others and did a nice job, but man I’m soft for his voice in a way only rivaled by (...outside-of-Overwatch!)Jennifer Hale and Nicholas Boulton haha. He also has a much better handle on the pronunciations and voices for the different alien species -- delightful, I’m still cackling over his pitch perfect elcor impersonation. (Bioware please give him more Scott Ryder to voice I miss my son)

- I’m only about half an hour in and this is already SO much better than Nexus Uprising, it really does feel like a brave new galaxy haha. Very funny, very warm and smart and engaging in how it does its characterization and Valente clearly has affection for the setting and the universe, she and Jemisin both do incredible jobs with these. 

- I’m fucking crying laughing at this cross-species near-brawl over a flower arrangement, god I love Mass Effect SO MUCH (what a neat idea though. something blooming quietly even when no one can see it. impractical as hell and hilariously including a high-nutrition celery now, but still neat)

Taylorson continues to wonderful things with the voices, that volus suit sound is so good. (he’s just generally really good at comedy) also a volus bellowing insults ‘moments before punching an anti-bouquet batarian in the groin’ sdafhjklsahfsjadkhfklajshdfkjlsadhf

- a high as a kite elcor... what a time to be alive, to get to read this book

I have already reached the ‘I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR’ stage with these characters, hard boiled drell detective lady and sweet sweet quarian first officer and manically enthusiastic elcor doctor TOT I would die for any one of you!!!

- The quarian/multispecies ark was built for long-term habitation, potentially over multiple generations. So what you’re telling me is that the quarians are the only ones who fucking thought this through and the rest of the Initiative probably should have listened to the people who’ve essentially been living on arks for ages. Who’d’ve thunk huh lol. (I guess the in-universe explanation is that people like the mysterious benefactor just wanted those arks yeeted to Andromeda ASAP, no time to get fancy in case the Reapers changed up their schedule. Fair enough)

- ;n; petition to let senna have a SAM pls (also uh. how happy do you think the stringently anti-AI quarian pathfinder will be when he finds out about everyone else’s SAMs lol lol lol he’s going to PASS OUT FROM RAGE upon meeting ryder. well he sounds like an asshole, I hope he dies so senna gets a chance)  

- I can’t BELIEVE yorrik is an anti-stratfordianist, i am betRAYED! disgraceful, how can I still love you knowing this (and yet I do he is extremely funny and sweet)!!! (at least his theory is that this so-called ‘shakespeare’ was actually an elcor, which makes it better somehow lol. anything so long as he’s not an oxfordian tbh)

senna and yorrik’s friendship is so good and wholesome 

- I really love the consistent alien POVs in this book, mass effect should indulge in this more -- everyone loves this universe so much, bioware, stop making us squint through a human lense to look at it!!  

- oh of course quarian ‘pirates’ exist, the people who’re thrown out of the fleet must be doing something huh. 

- haven’t written that many notes in a while just because I’m enjoying myself so much, I keep forgetting 

- lfsdkhfsajkldhfskadjhfsjakdfhsdkjfh communist volus!!!! this is not a drill, communist volus! I am completely and utterly charmed by this entire book

- the quarian ancestor VI is so interesting and weirdly touching. senna is adorable (and relatably neurotic lol)

grandma AI smoking T___________T I love everything about this, she’s so cool. the worldbuilding being done around pre-geth revolution rannoch here... exquisite 

- way to make me cry about batarians cat valente ;_______;

- the voice acting is SO FUCKING GOOD! I keep forgetting it’s one dude reading all these characters haha, I caught myself wanting to look up who voiced this dying batarian. (special shoutout that he does so many wonderfully distinct and specific female voices!) 

- haHA I KNEW the quarian VI was a full AI (or near enough that it makes little difference tbh)!!! this fabulous grandma was self aware the entire time b i t c h e s !!!!

- the running joke of borbala’s ‘you need ______? I can make _______ happen’ is SO satisfying hahaha

ooooooh serious femslash vibes!!!! initially I thought batarian ex-crime matriarch was too old for drell PI, but this is undeniable. (I don’t think we actually ever get to know how old annex is, anyway, come to think of it) I guess if asari get to be five times older than everyone else and still fuck freely this isn’t really that weird lol

- “don’t look! it’s not so bad if you don’t look!” ofhsdalfhskldlsfjas oh senna baby boy 

hey qetsi? qetsi both senna and I love grandma liat more than you. stand the fuck down 

- NOOOO GRANDMA LIAT ;______________________________________;

- do you think SAM could meet liat (either ship!liat or just grandma!liat).... and have... a friend ;_________; (a cool laidback friend who isn’t a murderous angaran ai who might very well go the murder suicide sort of friendship route lol) 

anyway I miss SAM a lot and love him??

- yorrik noooooooooooo this is awful everything is bad and terrible I love all of them so much why must senna be sad and watch everything he loves fade away 😭😭😭

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood/Clean from my hand?” He realized he’d forgotten to preface the words with an emotion. Now they wouldn’t understand what he meant.

Oh. Oh what a way to drive home the sadness and loneliness of this moment f u c k  (and again the emotion taylorson brings to it jesus cHRIST) 

I’m destroyed over how much senna and yorrik love each other, cross species found family out here wrecking my heart in true mass effect style 

- yorrik is such a great character though. he’d be so easy to make a one-note joke character (like most elcor have been in canon lbr), but there’s nuance and depth and just enough satsifyingly believable alienness there. (I love the staunch elcor ‘you can’t call anything love that hasn’t lasted at least two centuries’ perspective haha) his memories of his childhood and disappointment with his profession and everything... goodnight sweet prince indeed :(

- they went and made elcor hamlet heartbreaking how dare they 

(to be real for a second I think some of the human culture references are a little bit clunky, but the elcor hamlet stuff is perfect. contextualizing a throwaway joke from the original trilogy and giving it emotional depth, helping us see it from the elcor perspective and how frustrating and lonely it is to be so fundamentally not emotionally understood or seen on a level most of the other races are, despite their other differences, even though you have all these feelings and want to communicate... its very good.)   

fun additional fact: both mordin and yorrik have played/wanted to play polonius in a production of hamlet! though I guess mordin is the slightly problematic fave in that duo and yorrik is a sweet melancholic angel who has never done anything wrong in his life, I would say protect him but I guess it’s too late for that D:  

- qetsi giving off some real ophelia vibes here, I wish yorrik was here to see it, he’s the only one who’d properly appreciate it despite it all

- I. am. SO FUCKING HUNGRY for more mass effect after this (well even more so than usual) I’m so hyped!! I love this universe so much! I want a new andromeda game with senna as quarian pathfinder and grandma liat as the ship’s AI and see how they interact with ryder and SAM! (honestly though I feel like senna might be the one who’d translate the most cleanly into a game, I think there’s a lot of potential in him that’s barely being realized towards the end there with his deep righteous rage cutting through his uncertainty. also I just want nice things for him. is that so much to ask. he is a good boy, yorrik was so right.)

- aaaah not just femslash vibes, canonical lesbians, this is not a drill! I can’t wait until they propose... ‘we get shit done together, want to be in good cop/bad cop with me until the day we die y/n?’  

- the ME universe doesn’t feel quite itself without all these ‘background’ species hanging around, I suddenly realize. I dream of an Andromeda sequel with all of them on the board and in play again Y-------Y 

- potential Liat and SAM dynamics are so fucking interesting though! if she becomes/is confirmed as a full AI (all I hope and dream of), you’ll have two artificial intelligences with such different starting points but not that dissimilar goals? Liat was an organic person once who’s looking out for her family even now, and SAM is completely artificial but also intimately tied to and protecting His People. (and pulling a whole lot of symbolic weight re: the strength of familial/interpersonal relationships to boot; he’s the best way alec ryder managed to connect with his children. even though he was dead. because as established alec ryder was a disaster of a person)  

- I enjoyed the loose murder mystery structure of this quite a lot, but that might also be because nexus uprising is so shapeless and meandering by comparison that I’d be relieved by anything else (sorry I’ll stop ragging on NU soon it just. took some hours of my life I can’t get back)  

- jemisin did great stuff for characters already in andromeda (cora, SAM, alec ryder) and valente made me remember just why I love this universe so much and desperately want these aspects brought to andromeda too... and now I’ve exhausted all the fresh mass effect content I had available to me and will sit here consumed with lust for the rest of the time it takes for a new game to be announced thank you and goodbye  

[deviationdivine]

Wake Up | domestic!Android AU Part 1 (Connor x Reader)

gif by arsuf 

F!reader x Connor

13.6k words

Detroit: Become Human - 1 Year Anniversary Release Celebration

A revolution may divide the city but it will never divide you...

tw: Angst, Fluffy Connor in the midst, Language, Suggestive Themes, Violence

a/n: First part of mini-series AU “Wake Up”. An introductory chapter one. Apologies for how long this took but I struggled and I am not happy with the end result. However, it’s finally here. • Connor is the latest high tech domestic model built with a collection of extra features, skills and functions making him the most advanced of his kind. As your personal assistant he is equipped with becoming the perfect partner if you so require. Falling in love with your personal android was never part of the equation nor was his break into deviancy...

“My name is Connor. I am your personal assistant. My features will allow me to take extensive care of your home, do the cooking, mind children and repair any problematic issues that arise within the household’s utilities. 

As I am the most advanced make I can perform various tasks including but not limited to acts of a sexual nature. If you so require I am capable of being the perfect partner…”

Perfect is a conceptual illusion in every sense or so you come to believe. Why do humans think in terms of excellence when most shining examples tarnish in glaring flaws? Even technology can be made wrong or needing improvement not long after distribution. Faulty wiring, danger of overheating and causing harm of a radioactive proponent all seem minuscule in comparison. 

Today, in the future, there is a grander blueprint mapping out the most innovative, extreme to date.

When it becomes alive, mimics the very corporeal state of being born unto humans since man breathed life in this vast universe, mirroring visage of those who wish to create in their likeness.

How does it go from technological wonder to abstruse thinking? Concepts can be a greater weapon. They can also reach for too much too soon. Is this the true state of AI meant for consumer consumption?

Cart them off exclusively as merchandise no matter how human they look. Isn’t that their appeal? The more something foreign, inexplicable but resembles us the more it is accepted. Basic instinctual deep thinking bred into all humans. Difference is an attest beneath surface value. Judge a book by a cover but if there are features hiding its distinct nature by all means use it.

Laziness might be a better solution in this mathematical equation. Imperfect perfection makes way for future development. Those are the very elements that change the world.

Can you even imagine for one second, one little point in life it would come to change yours? So small in a world full of billions but here in Detroit home of Cyberlife and its creation the pilot sparks. Alight with technological revolution.

Androids are here. Androids are owned. Bought as slaves to humanity and used beyond measure, no consideration that those made in image could possibly develop feelings. Emotions are heavy. They are what make us all human. Can machine truly become human?

  You never wanted one. Mostly it made you uncomfortable witnessing cruelty by specific ‘owners’ on the bustling city streets. It’s everywhere. Even today, chillier, more specifically a frigidity creeping into bones.

Eyes shift over a couple walking briskly as you draw coat closer together up throat. Keeping wind seeping through to tangle around your body but watching them waltz their merry way without care. Of course they have none. Their female android, an AX400 to be exact, is taking care of two rowdy children.

Honestly it must be nice. Not having to parent after deciding to add more to the burdening populace. Maybe that’s just your pessimism talking. Simple fact though? Could be that too but who knows?

Just another one of those days but it is about to change drastically. Passing a Cyberlife store does pique curiosity. Window displays my God. They line them up as if that’s all they are.

They offer whatever a human wants and yet not all can bother to treat them fairly. Is it enough androids are made to look as everyone else? Would a genuine human being treat another so despicably? Yes. A resounding yes because it never goes away. People treat people with disdain for every reason, every prejudice and why should that shock? Androids have become an additional target. 

Honestly it makes you sick. Never did you once realize this is what would change things completely. On this very day, minding business walking home from another tiring bustle  

More than one occurrence struck you right in the gut. A previous household model absorbs brunt of   obscenities and physical humiliation. A scene like this turned your stomach. 

The moment it came to intervene you received an interrupting phone call. Unfortunately this was the start of big changes in your life.

What does one do discovering death of a relative? Closeness is a fundamental of familial connections. For you? Well, let’s say it didn’t quite work out.

  “What do you mean he…died?” Answering in a quiet breath, cell phone a tight clutch in hand stalling in breezy climate, everything stops around your personal orbit.

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” a familiar voice speaks over your ingenious disbelief.

Ignoring your pleas for a proper answer it becomes increasingly cruel on the woman’s breath digging truths in your ear. Whether she realizes this or not it’s up for debate. “You do realize this was coming. It isn’t as if he were young and healthy. Frankly, I am surprised you are having such a negative reaction.”

Negative is exactly the type of reaction! What does she expect? “Of course I’m having a reaction!” Practically screaming into your phone made the chilled air sting worse. How is this happening? How can this even be real?

“Oh, it’s all right, Y/N. Get it out now. It’ll be better if you don’t make a scene at the funeral.”

Anger is a burning pyre ready to fan over and incinerate. One snide comment reminds how much you can’t stand this person. She’s not even blood related. An ‘aunt’ isn’t technically qualified to hold the title and that’s fine. Just another excuse to dig at you in this family but there is no family left. Your father – he’s dead.

Money fixes everything? Unlikely but still nothing surprises you more than receiving something from an estranged parent. Generous sums to a black sheep or as you’re sure greedy auntie bitch of the hour calls you behind your back. She is one woman who deserves that damn moniker. Especially when it’s clear there are no connections left. Aunt Cruella, as christened ages ago by your best friend, made short work of your uncle. Certainly bled him dry continues to do so with his left over money after he succumbed to stress in a massive heart attack. Why do people like her thrive using, snide and heartless while others –?

What can you do then? Except you fall into an overwhelming sense of losing time and never extending an olive branch. Why is the universe so cruel? Why can’t you turn back time, forget every stupid thing that ever happened to drive a rift?

Part of you couldn’t stand the idea of being alone rest of your life. Maybe that’s why using part of a small deposit felt right. Watching so many gradually fall into current technological commercialism lead to most having their own android. It seems almost a little too barbaric making them cater to every whim. Honestly, you have no idea why this is needed. Do you really need him? 

No, he isn’t… He. Yes, he. 

Despite manufacturing Connor is a he in every sense.  Even then you saw as much. Now is much more complicated or you are just as ridiculously naive as you’ve always been told. Who cares about naivety? It is simple opinion. No. This is a belief one that surely would have left nothing to you in an event of final family member’s passing. Yet here you are with him.

You recall when he first arrives unaware of how efficient Cyberlife retail truly is. Why should you be surprised? Deliveries have gone from generic dairy of yesteryear, beyond personalized grocery orders and straight to personalized beings. Androids: alive or not alive?

In conjunction with preprogramming he sounds so lively. In his voice a natural husky dulcet and his eyes a deep soulful brown. Souls in androids are impossible but it’s the only way you think to describe warm chocolate. Hotter than a mug of it steeped in whip cream vanishes as a ghost beneath steaming liquid. 

Flecks of caramel shine in hypnotic swirls enriching accents of russets in muddy hues, the very first thing captivating attention as he offers his list of functions. Even falling upon the last is difficult to decipher how caught up you are in a consummately asymmetrical visage. 

He is far too pretty to look at and you try to ignore these facts. The facts of your newly purchased personal android possessing an aura of physical attractiveness. A fabrication in aesthetics you remember. A way to cover up what he actually is beneath soft synthetic skin dusted as constellations of freckles. 

Tiny beauties cresting upon sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, purposely formed to elicit a reaction. This is not at all what you expected but it’s never something to forget. Little do you realize in this moment Connor will always burn brightest to memory? Little do you understand how events will unfold but they shall.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks habitual to programming. 

Societal protocols run a gamut through system piecing together the best course of action. It is only his first day interior of your home. He is of a sense of determination to complete whatever task you assign. 

Determination is not part of proper function. However, he minded the concept. It will be efficient for current issue. “I may be able to rectify your issue. What do you require of me?”

 Require? What?

You cough, inhaling sharply at his head cocking so innocently. A droop of hair flutters atop forehead as a sole rebel willing to fight immaculate armies. He is very well put together. Not that you mean the whole manufactured part! He just – looks like a really good looking guy who takes care of his appearance. Hair mostly but…

Wow, Y/N. Real nice for your first try at handling a conversation with an android.

Not that this is the first android you’ve been in contact with. Difficult not to be when they’re all over but as your very own?

OK Cyberlife! What is up with making him look like real life Prince Charming?  I mean look at this perfection. Is this required? Are they allowed to do this to poor unsuspecting humans?

Watching his brows furrow and LED flutter amber somehow pumps the beats of heart faster. Surely it’s a dead giveaway. It’s not every day you’re cursing Cyberlife for practically throwing a chiseled Greek god at you.

Oh, shit, really? Greek God? What the hell is wrong with you? What isn’t wrong with you?

You sigh, clicking tongue at yourself. Frustration doesn’t begin with this!

“Your stress levels are high,” Connor offers a reading of initial scan. “Would you like me to remedy the problem? I have several possible functions that may reduce anxiety. My model comes with every physical attribute you are familiar with in human anatomy.”

A hitch stoppers breathing. Just enough as eyes widen a little at his declaration. Human anatomy as in…? Oh. OH.

Your eyes shift down. Fixating right on his crotch sends a luscious shiver through body. Goosebumps prickle skin, hair standing up on them. First time in forever you’ve had this type of reaction. Not even your ex managed to make you quiver like this. Not that your mind is even there because that’s been over for so long. Frankly that cheating asshole can have his baby momma all to himself. Probably already banged a couple more unsuspecting fools; you clear throat, scratchier than before.

“Connor, that-that’s really nice!” Agreeing with him that he has nice features you laugh nervously. It’s the first day he’s been here and already he’s mentioning his, uh, included *assets* and it’s not his beautiful eyes either. Ah, shit. Why is he made to be a young, attractive male? “But I don’t think that’s necessary. Not right now.”

It only takes a moment before you hear what came out of your mouth. Right now meaning it’ll be fine later?

“Which isn’t to say I’ll need it later!” Damage control is literally a creator of chaos. Can he just not look so sweet giving these heady ideas? “Just come with me. You’ll need a place to stay. I mean, you are staying here but I mean…” Shit! He’s made this impossible without stammering all over the place. Who gives him the right?

The android’s lips drop open, inevitably looking to provide another set of options but he snaps his mouth shut. Blinking in assessment of his actions to “argue” with your dismissal, Connor pushes away several warnings popping into visual. They are unexpected and not part of his programming.

Instead of speaking he follows your lead, gaze soft and quizzical. Trailing as a newly trained puppy the latest model of Cyberlife’s domestic line becomes further entranced with chirping outside window. No longer able to abide by strict attention he tilts his head at passing pane. Sounds of birds in song flitter and perch on external sill; one ruffles its feathers cleaning with its beak. The other stands still.

He freezes. Both in movement and system analysis he is however conscious of two live creatures. Opposite of android pets universally made available for public sale. His database offers much information outfitting him with the fundamental needs of intelligence and sophistication in his programmed function.

Reaching to open a door you stop when his presence behind you feels empty. It was obvious when he followed but now?

“Connor?”

Cycling indicator fluctuates upon the command of your voice. He snaps around in direction of soft tone. Softer than accustomed since his distribution from Cyberlife shipping to physical store location was riddled with aggressive bystanders. He-he is not meant to mull over his awakening. It does not make him feel anything. No, he is an android. He feels nothing. He is a machine.

Clinical cold manifests deeply behind blocks, barricades in protocols. Connor pushes this strange tickle back underneath wires.

“Apologies for not obeying you, Y/N. It will not happen again. I am efficient.” Nagging at him, strange and uncorrelated to system status, he almost sounds…tense. Connor straightens shoulders, folding hands neatly against lower back. “I was made to be the best of my particular type of domestic models. As an AX800, I am programmed to be a superior prototype.”

Obeying you?

That happens to be the only words you focus on. His choice of them ripple uncomfortably, nearly squeamish in stomach. Is this how you sound? Are you affecting a command or-? No, it’s what he is made to know. That’s the thing. All androids are only made to serve and immediately regret comes back. Maybe you shouldn’t have bought him.

Bought! God, you’re just like those people now. Aren’t you?

No more excuses. No more seeing horrible mistreatment and vowing never to be like them. Even if you never would do any harm losing your father, when you never spoke anymore anyway, still you fear loneliness. Estrangement ruins lives. It really does. What do you have left now? Except for yourself to fend in this world and growing more complicated as the future rambles on.

Detroit is a bustling mix of dilapidated districts, high tech innovations, Cyberlife Tower most significant in those builds. This house is small. Tucked away in a tiny neighborhood away from inner city but you never complain. You are grateful. A roof over the head is the best gift in a mostly gift devoid world.

“Connor, please don’t call it obeying. I-I only wanted to see if you were OK.” Admitting the hesitation beforehand you feel antsy. His LED is blue again but it was amber finding him staring at window.

“My system is fully operational,” he assures, forcing his lips to form a smile.

In actuality his little gesture is a stiff grimace. Eyebrows rise at his attempt. Even if it looks goofy, which is completely not his fault, it’s very – cute.

Again with this! Never mind just focus for once. Pretty comical coming from someone who hardly meditates in the day to day; you step backwards, slipping through threshold, eyes remaining on him. It takes ever ounce of willpower to remain collected. Things are still hard to digest. No matter if it’s been a couple months tangling with all of that legal stuff. Auntie not by blood sure didn’t make it any better. Yet, here you are. Still you stand even while stress is overworking at a job that might as well kill you first.

Offices are pretty dull to work in. At least they would be if they were not a regular cushy job. Piles of paperwork, demands creep up to swallow whole, a boss who just will not stop making things harsher. Mister perfectionist belittles the lower tier all the time. No surprise but it seems the future isn’t as bright as people thought it would. No need to wear shades.

Moving toward window, pulling curtains open a bit to allow sunshine transitions atmosphere from dreary to somewhat cheery. Perfect mask to hide the real truth isn’t it? Sometimes you forget how good you are that. A small smile camouflages best.

You rub hands against the thighs of your jeans. A little sweaty because of nerves but today is big. Being alone always hardly prepares for constant company. Well, he’s meant to be here permanently. That is the initial idea.

“This can be your room.”

Connor’s brow furrows. Studying your movements upon entry, analyzing vitals and their continual fluctuations, the android is confused. His indicator cycles to process the statement as unexpectedly inclusive as it is. “I do not require a room. I am an android.”

Somehow that reaction is to be expected. You sigh, “Just because you’re an android doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have something of your own.”

Ownership is not given to his kind. They are machines. Concepts of acquiring personal effects do not make sense nor are necessary. Connor voices this as per factual protocol. “Thank you for the offer but I am a machine. Machines have no need for accommodations.”

Yes, of course he’s a machine but…

Machine, manufactured and sold without an ounce of actual soul according to android haters you see. Picketing with their signs, so angry about them taking jobs but who made them? They did. Humans decided to and no one complained. Why complain about a technological marvel that can mow your grass, do the dishes and babysit children while living carelessly. That is the difference. Between you and plenty of others there has always been a divide in what you feel. This just crashes down those so-called fantasies. Ones filtering into brain as tiny wisps and at first it was a nice distraction. Finding him so…

“Oh,” a whisper, dawning realization. He is – a machine.

Coming back to the door, grabbing onto handle, you decide to forget the suggestion.

Something sharp stabs at his internal processors. Listening to such a dull syllable slipping almost – upset? Humans’ need for validity and comfort seem to be all too natural. They are highly emotional. The android steps close, head cocked, fingers pressing against surface of door preventing your need to shut it.

Contemplating left him at a cross roads in his programming. He is meant to function specifically and does not need or want anything as you believe. However, he-he could not refuse. It would be impolite. “I- very well, Y/N. I did not meant to be unpleasant. My social parameters are not meant to alarm.”

Alarm? That is not why you… Your breath hitches. Realizing how close he is standing, invading personal space and if it were anyone else? Allowing him is both a conscious need for closeness while still mourning and an illusion. Live up to that woman’s ideas. The title of ‘aunt’ is undeserving.

“Thank you, Connor.”

“You are welcome,” he snaps back to his programming. “What sort of tasks do you have scheduled for me to complete?”

“Scheduled? I, uh…” Shaking a head at his question is clarity. Honestly you are not used to giving tasks to people. Tasks are dropped on your desk until you down. A huff of breath, accompanied with snort is more for yourself. It does garner the most adorable expression on his face. “Maybe you could just…talk to me? For now?”

Connor’s eyebrows scrunch together. His facial expressions capture attention driving the tempo of your heart. He does not understand why. “Are we not speaking already?”

You laugh not at him but his innocent little response there is – Oh. No. 

It only deepens sadness in you now. Knowing where he came from and his confusion in you wanting a little companionship. Androids aren’t supposed to make friends are they? Even if they’re specifically programmed or upgraded to be partners. He mentioned that before.

Luckily a vibration against your thigh saves you. Reaching to pull phone from pocket your eyes train up to his and take a needful exhale. “Sorry, Connor, I have to take this.”

Connor moves aside out of your path. Remaining stationary, hands folded neatly, he awaits further instruction. However, the android’s eyes shift sideways at the sound of your voice outside room. Amber floods his temple.

“Why are you calling me now? No, I’m not wallowing! It’s called mourning. Maybe if you figured out what it was when my uncle died all those years ago you wouldn’t need a dictionary for it.” Hissing fire into phone attacks your aunt by marriage equally. Soon as you pick up! She just had to get in another word. 

Why does she feel the need for this? What’s the point anymore? “No. What do you want exactly? Is this about the trust fund again? I’m using a part to pay bills. What do you think I’m doing?”

Living expenses are still the same old problem. Must be nice for the rich their multi-billion dollar corporations feeding on tech. Just look at Cyberlife.

“It doesn’t matter,” you make it abundantly clear. Does she believe she’s that intimidating? Newsflash to miss upper crust but this labeled black sheep doesn’t take shit from people! “We might’ve had a rocky relationship but I loved him.”

Loved? Connor freezes in corridor. Disobeying processes to offer potential aid in obvious distress he finds himself…curious at such words.

“We were family. What do you think? Don’t you have enough blood money to spend on your Eden Club bots old woman?” Ending it on your terms this time does not fulfill you at all. Always the winner isn’t she? Rubbing it in your face about his death and if your father were here he wouldn’t let it happen. Whatever distances, issues it wouldn’t change that.

“Y/N?”

Connor’s quizzical tone jolts your weary bones. Inhaling sharply, not at all used to this tiny home being occupied by more than one but a heavy swallow fixes your voice. How long was he there? Did he hear all of that? Oh, great.

“I’m fine.” An automatic response always on autopilot gets the job done for you.

He narrows eyes. “Stress is not a healthy component in the balance of human’s…”

“Just leave me alone, Connor!” You snap, tears pricking corners of your eyes before twirling around to run upstairs.

 ^Software Instability

 Connor freezes momentarily. Flooding, filtering in a ripple through code blocks, he blinks in quick succession. Blinding and strange it is not part of his program –

Unable to run diagnostics, tears sparkling in your eyes draw his attention, overtaking protocol. The android’s soft gaze shifts from following your quick disappearance to ceiling indicating footsteps that conclude in a bang. Seemingly you have sealed yourself away. Scarlet pulsates in intervals mingling with amber processing solutions. Leaving you alone is an instruction. He-he cannot ignore. It is what he is programmed for. You are crying. Why must he obey? He must…

 >Obey

>Leave Alone

“Is there anything else you would like?” He asks as sun dips in later hours. Accomplish several menial tasks which he is free to do as he constructs. 

Following your distress several hours ago he feels – confliction. Few commands escape your lips and at times he is unsure with his current scheduling. Abilities are not in question but you appear distant. Did he do something wrong? By wanting to comfort…

 >Analyzing: Y/L/N, Y/N

Stress: 31.6%

Blood Pressure: 124/80

 Studying your face after initializing a vital scan enables Connor to store analysis records. Sleep deprivation, iron deficiency and higher stress than the human body should experience.

“Connor.” You straighten from your position curled upon couch. Mostly you tuck into one side, resting into upholstery and your breathing exhales shaky. Trying to rest off a headache isn’t working. “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

The android nods but pauses in thought. A fluid habit now out into the world. Yet, he has yet to see much. Only transferring from lab to warehouse storage and ultimately on display in a merchandise kiosk for Cyberlife; he is not widely available as of yet. Detroit is the originator of androids. The product mark on his white uniform christens his manufacturing origins: Made in Detroit.

“There are other functions I was built with,” he explains enthusiastically. “If you would like a domestic partner, it is one of my features.”

Rubbing at your temples ceases the moment he speaks. A domestic partner? Is he talking about that thing again? You draw breath. Unable to look at him now, feeling it twist in stomach, you uncurl, pressing feet on floor. 

“No!” Quickly you cover the rise in heartbeat.

It is so obvious. Wouldn’t be the first time stumbling across sexual depravity in humans. Look no further than the Eden Club. The fact they decided to make that a thing for a household model is honestly not a shock.

God, why do they live in this world? Why do you even have him here? Isn’t this just making you as horrible as everyone else? 

“No,” you repeat softer. “I’d never force you to do something like that.”

It is not forcing when he is programmed, installed with such features. They are high end. As several techs discussed ignoring his presence as though he were – merchandise. Androids are sold. He knows this but has never had a moment to process.

There is zero need. Androids do not think freely. They are constructs built for specific purposes and his are fundamentally clear. He has never performed these functions as he is brand new but Connor feels he can ease stress efficiently. 

Thinking solely as a machine built for a task did not hold true. He felt…strange at your refusal. “Am I not aesthetically pleasing?” Cocking his head, knitting brows together, Connor looks expectantly to you for validation.

Lifting eyes up to him your lips fall open at his question. Did he really ask that? Are androids supposed o ask those kinds of questions? It almost as though he was hurt by that. No, it’s just imagination. Today has been too tiring. Never would have gone so wrong if that woman didn’t call. Honestly answering was your mistake. Story of a sad little life but others have it worse. 

Humans will always be crawling through turmoil, unable to breathe depending on their situations. Maybe that’s why a little part of you wishes he was human. At least acts without programs but this is why he’s here. To fulfill a fantasy, cater to every whim? 

No. To rectify personal aches to pretend that someone is here to offer a shoulder. When there has been nothing going through your father’s death, legal dealings with assets and pressure in job.

“No,” squeezing eyes shut to battle tension, your voice is low. “I mean, yes of course you’re aesthetically pleasing. I mean…you’re handsome. Practically the most…”

What? Beautiful boy you have ever seen? There comes that illusion. They do that on purpose but somehow looking at him you don’t see a machine. How funny is that?

“That isn’t why, Connor.”

Getting up from couch, taking deep breaths and stepping clear of coffee table helps focus. Rubbing palms against face at least wipes away some mess. Eyes are puffy, red from an unnecessary outburst earlier. At certain points life reaches boiling and yelling at him to leave you alone twists in guilt. This is exactly the sort of things Auntie Bitch thrives on.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize to him. Even if it would make no difference it does to you. “This isn’t what I’m used to. Having someone else here.” 

Well, after deadbeat ex anyway but he was a typical freeloader. Thankfully you scrubbed his dirt out of life and home. 

“I’ve never done this before. Having an android I mean. Ordering you to do something that you have no control over is not the type of person I am.” Plus, it’s not as if the androids at those sex clubs have a say. “I’d never do that to you or any of your people. Like some humans would.”

People. A human way to look at him or other androids but that is incorrect. Why would you refer-?

 ^Software Instability

 Connor blinks. The error message was in his vision only briefly and the little blue arrow increasing shudders through his system. He opens his mouth but does not respond. Instead, his eyes fall to your back turning away, pacing in additional stress.

Immediately, the android steps over, placing a hand against your arm. “Y/N, I apologize. Please, do not be upset. Your blood pressure is slightly elevated. You should rest. Perhaps I can produce a remedy befitting in alleviating your headache.”

Touch spreads goose bumps beneath shirt sleeve. Forcing arms to cross over your chest you twist to face him directly an extra tiny thud winds up heart. A key cranks in melody of jewelry box, dancer spins a ballet recital; vintage little tokens, delicate but thunderous in sentimentality. Just a brief glance, pressure of long fingers and it’s the first time you realize how pretty they are. 

Long, beautiful digits on large hands made not born. Yet he is still heavenly.

Sharply a breath slips. Words soothing, touch comforting all those things you crave. Yet this is part of protocols for him. That’s all.

Deeply you sigh. Feeling an unmistakable need burning lower pit of stomach detaches you. A shiver runs a gamut through body and spikes straight to the core of your existence. You squeeze legs tighter together cursing the fact your body decides to get horny over a headache solution. 

Fuck that! It’s his voice. Husky velvet, raspy natural glory and you are so wet. It takes everything not to jump his bones right now. Or mechanical bones? Hmm. Close enough!

“I just need to get extra sleep, Connor.” Dismissing his ideas there are too many running through your mind. Staring down at his crotch again remembering what he said but no. Get it out right now. No matter how much you need to –

You need to go upstairs. Yes, that’ll work.

“Y/N, are you positive? Your levels are fluctuating severely in my scans.”

“Oh? Are they?” Can he also smell arousal? Please, please tell me he can’t.

Connor, however, is not as naive as you believe him to be. Built with specifics in domestic partnership it is easy for him to know when the human body is aroused. Due to your state of duress and current levels of stress he does not wish to explain. It may not be beneficial. It may hurt you.

The android turns eyes down slowly, battling with these thoughts. He is not meant to debate. He is meant to proceed with internal core analysis. Percentages drive him. Yet, he struggles. Is this an error?

“Connor?”

His head snaps up. Connor’s LED flashes in a crescendo to your soft expression.  Hiding the obvious need you have. All humans must expel anxiety in some way. Perhaps he is aesthetically pleasing as you said but –

“I will return to my duties if that is sufficient.” He forces another one of his smiles.

Again the grimace is heartwarming. Albeit in need of practice but-but maybe you can teach him? If there is any good to come out of falling into the same realm as everybody else, then treating him fairly is a start. As if you would treat him bad. No. Why should it matter? Human, android or alien from outer space; you laugh now.

Stupid! So stupid but it’s calming down this literal burning.

Light, airy and symphonic this sound seeps into audio processors. A residual aura prickles sensors, blinding differently than unprecedented software errors. Are they malfunctions? Something soft, sweet cannot be. He has not experienced this before but his attention is solely on you. As brief as the laugh escapes, curling lips in a gentle rise at corners, Connor absorbs the natural human tinkle of chimes that expel so abundantly.

It is the first laugh, genuine laugh he has heard. And it is – beautiful.

The android is so distracted upon this new discovery he does not notice you slipping away. Androids do not possess a need for personal orbits. Their space is not granted freely as they are not free in will like humans. They are meant to serve. Obeying their masters is why they exist.

Yet, Connor can almost feel lack of metaphorical warmth. As you dissipate from his radius so does that laugh that digs into wires. Threading in circuits, causing another minor glitch of instability, forced away from vision in order to watch you; this is a tiny strain, a little piece implanting itself in him.

This is the piece that truly begins everything…

“Y/N,” he calls to interrupt your exit. Without prompt or instruction he once again acts beyond his programming.

Something new, urgent stops everything. You glance over shoulder. Steeling breath at his temple flashing you swear a blip of crimson glows in amber. Just a fraction of a second but you have no idea. Not yet, not then but you will.

“Yes, Connor?” Your breath is quiet, thoughtful meeting his uncertain gaze.

“I-” Connor stumbles. A perfect machine sputters. “Who was on the phone?”

Twisting your body the full way now, nails tap against wall for something to do. A way to hide that hollow pit forming again but no one can hide from analysis. Connor will already know. “That-that was my aunt. My aunt by marriage. She’s- Let’s say she isn’t a very nice person.”

Keeping rest of it bottled up is no solution but telling him will only upset you again. He doesn’t need to know. At least not yet but is this a conversation to share? With an android? Who else will listen? Who else even cares to ask?

Connor did. Is his social program that good?

Honestly, you think nothing of it. For a time it merely seems to be part of what he was built for.

Thinking back at times to this day, first meeting, you will find that so stupid. Naïve isn’t really part of you but he is more. Connor is so much more. It becomes apparent…

August 15th

 Practically slamming front door shakes the entrance with your current state of anxieties. Stress cannot be worse. Spoke too soon during midday. Damn it.

Clearing throat, wiping tears off your face, your breath is staggered. Unable to calm down from such ‘good’ news following that sudden meeting with your boss and everything ripples. Stomach twists badly. Nervous energy or just another month of-

Pressing face into hands poorly stifles sobs. Getting half way through home you just stop. Everything halts as things just don’t want to change. Now this of all things from work it’s going to hurt you in the long run. Your boss did this on purpose. Cutting hours and piling extra to sift through on that fucking computer.

How many sales diagrams, how many logs must you make now? There’s a specific quota. Each person who works database needs to meet their allotment. He threw a ton at you. In order to give leeway to another girl who just started there. Yeah, another potential conquest for the old pervert you’re sure!

What do you get in return? Hours cut and less pay but more weight. A ton sits on your shoulders. Isn’t it enough he humiliated you? Purposely shout out and criticize while leaving his office and you held your head up. Only in the sanctuary of home does it finally snap this flood.

Dropping keys moving uneasily into living room, sinking heavily on couch, you just want to curl up. Maybe it will make things feel better?

Lazily you peer up at television screen. Realizing it is switched on produces a tiny smile. Did he-?

“Welcome home, Y/N.”

Your head lifts up further. Narrowing on Connor stepping into view, he straightens, cocking his head in that adorable way that keeps invading your sleep. Even awake it’s a problematic daydream. He is just on the mind too frequently.

“Connor,” a quiet breath escapes, stilted, weary.

The android reads stress automatically. Forcing tiny fissures in his emotionless facade, splintering through system, he moves swift. However he freezes. Unaware of this strange urgency pulling up tendrils of glittering circuitry, waves undulating beneath shell, eclipses protocols. He must serve. He must obey. Yet he feels something else overshadowing programming. 

System stress battles this ever growing need to break. Crumbling at the seams the more he feels your presence. It is a permanent fixture. As he has become one in your space but Connor is only meant to serve. Why does he feel drawn beyond these stitches of code?

Androids do not question. They cannot experience existential crisis because there is nothing real. They are simple constructs. He – no, there is no personification heralded to androids. They are not alive. Therefore they are not allotted appropriate pronouns.

Connor has heard only one word countless times regarding his kind: It

“Y/N, you have been crying,” he observes through fluctuations.

Pushing them aside, attempting to stabilize, diagnose these errors, the android taps into social function. Sympathizing is not a genuine growth. It is merely part of his program. That is what Connor wishes to believe. He believes in nothing. Nonetheless it does not explain what is easy to machine. Calculations, data processing should offer quantifiable solutions. It is negative.

There is more emotion in his eyes than he knows. You see it. Honestly it surprises enough to cripple a proper response. Easily you brush it off any other time. This time there’s no hiding what he’s already seen. Can imagine what he sees through his eyes. How do androids really perceive the world? Quit thinking for once! All of it is illusion. Remember that.

Cyberlife’s one true goal makes millions, grows powerful in branding of highly sought after merchandise. Still it makes you sick but here you are. Do the same thing because you have Connor. No matter how different it is.

“I’m fine,” a lie tells a thousand truths.

Connor’s brows knit together, mouth twitching, flutter of LED amber. A sign of outward commiseration fights his shackles. He knows you are lying. Despite the fact he should listen and not broach the subject further, the android does not resist this new deviation.

“Why are you lying, Y/N?”

Your breath catches. Stuck in throat along with words it’s a surprise. Even more surprising is the glimmer of irritation on his face. The way his mouth goes lopsided like that is – cute. Wait a minute you’re supposed to be mad. You are! Mad at your goddamn boss for one!

“Lying?” you scoff back at him. “I’m not lying. I said I was fine. And I don’t appreciate you accusing me either, Connor!” Can androids even argue about things so mundane? Isn’t this what you wanted? A real conversation instead of a string of pleasantries, affirmations to duties he accomplishes.

“I am sorry but you are lying!”

Connor’s voice raises an octave higher than typical. Naturally husky, oh, how it deepens. Raw and very alive his tone completely solders you to the spot. Your eyes lift up to his face studying the gleam of his eyes. How strange that spark is. Almost a live wire crackles beneath the surface. A steamy cocoa bright before immediately dimming again; a breath sucks into your lungs cleansing the start of your body. Scarlet shimmers and that’s all the answer you crave.

He appears to swallow. Forcing his Adam’s apple to bob, which is a very realistic detail. Just as the rest of him is so real that sometimes you forget. Sometimes or all of the time, yes, most days his reality masks so well in the mind.

“I-I am…” Connor looks away. Unable to comprehend his reaction it is not part of his – “Forgive me.”

The way his voice lowers tugs at your heart. No. No, that’s not what should happen at all. You’ve seen enough of his kind out there. In the city of Detroit treated so fucked up. Most of them wouldn’t know what to do because they can’t. This is the first time he’s ever snapped from whatever social programming is built in him. He sounded too much like a person. A person with emotions reacting in a very obvious way and the idea Connor’s a person lingers.

You shift forward. Sucking in breath, following his gaze now landing on television, it’s the first time it hits. A ton of bricks, tumbling concrete could never do more damage. Everything about his apology stands still at the developing breaking news story.

ITM is broadcasting live somewhere. Is that outside an apartment rise?

Right now you ignore it. “Connor.”

The softness of your voice draws him back to you. Already he is far too used to it. Joining you upon couch, cocking head, his hand hovers atop yours. Fear of connecting with reality versus construction. He does not touch. He should not be pulled towards these fissures. Emotional surges strike ablaze as a fibrous match lighting his internal mechanisms. Wires push up, tendrils yanking one way towards control’s puppeteer. There it dangles him in strings made of electrical coil. Ensnaring his wrists, snaking around throat, digging thorny and jagged to his brain this is his prison.

Another piece cradles those signs of sensation, innervating beyond a great wall. A red wall gridlocks and crashes against him. It is a giant wave. Scarlet tides engulf and knock the android back where he belongs. Each time he wades closer to you the more it washes him out to that empty sea. He cannot stop. He still pushes. Something inside of him, he does not understand.

“You do not feel well, Y/N. I know this.” Apologizing again, he does not focus on his inner struggle. There should be nothing. He is supposed to be feeling nothing. Is he malfunctioning?

“It’s OK,” appeasing the strobe of scarlet cascading down his face worries. “Please don’t. I don’t want you to be stressed.”

“But I disobeyed. I lost control of…”

“That’s only human, Con.” Slipping on your tongue in an easy breath it’s the first time. Oh this will hardly be the last. Nothing will ever be last with him. If only fantasy can be reality most days. Maybe if you somehow knew here at this point in time. Everything happens for a reason.

He frowns. “I am not human.”

Sadly it’s true. Still you smile. Still you ease him because for once you realize. This isn’t supposed to be easy for him. He shouldn’t even react this way.

Both of you sit in silence. Deafening quiet just the two of you and how strange, wonderful this sensation crawls through the interstices of your being. Almost as if there is someone who cares. Does he? No. That can never mean he is not a needed presence. He is so much more. Soon you will know.

What you least expect is the pressure of his fingers sinking against your stomach. A jolt of electricity, naturally igniting a voltage inside of you and a soft sigh escapes the burden of a dry throat. Glancing down you realize – his hand is growing hotter.

“Connor, what are you-?”

“I detect an increase in prostaglandins.” His prognosis is casual, visibly reading as his LED flutters. “It will do well if you have a heat source to combat any discomfort or cramping.”

A shiver prickles down the curve of your spine. Simple touch or perhaps smooth husky words fill this awkward silence now with comfort. Sure it might be a technical way to point out this specific pain in the ass but it does take your mind off things. So easily you could remove his hand. A good idea to put up a barricade and distance yourself but you cannot do that.

Every thread of stress snaps. In one tiny moment anxieties melt off and ease into his aura. Androids are not supposed to have one. This conscious radiance but Connor’s orbit is safety, assurance. Even if he has no idea what sort of progress it means. A simple relationship of humane and machine, ownership and merchandise is how this world wishes. It is not your wish. There is more. Witnessing it now, gazing up at his face, concentrated crease of brow, optical unit bleeds a palette of amber and scarlet. Dusted in freckles his skin is a smooth canvas to admire. He is so real. Up this close it is so obvious even to your inferior eyesight. Compared to his advanced optical it is. His eyes are warm. Such life shines in them. Mocha sweet, soft and glitters in his careful evaluation. Technical and part of programming but still it sends you somewhere else.

“If confirmed this would be the first case of an android taking human lives.”

Your attention shifts. Drawn to the ITMtv news broadcast it was nearly forgotten. You sit up, unconsciously curling fingers around Connor’s wrist.

The action snaps his gaze down. Momentarily he freezes, stationary, until the soft gasp spills from your lips. Connor tilts his head. In line with television screen narrowing sharply on events unfolding leaves him struggling with process of information. An android is taking human lives? How is this possible? They are programmed to obey not to cause harm.

We are not alive. We are meant to serve not kill!

Connor tugs his hand back. Distancing himself, staring at news broadcast unsettles down to his core processors. A domestic model has taken a child hostage. An inferior model? No, he-he is the same. Upgrades, prototypes mean nothing. They are all part of a linear code. What they are made to be is what they must be. There is no deviation!

Artificial saliva swallows hard, bobbing in his throat. An increase of stress twists him to those original thoughts. Inconclusive on why he is feeling. The events live on air aren’t helping this strain.

“Connor. Connor, what’s wrong?!”

Your hand clutches at his shoulder. Unbeknownst to the android his face twitches with each strobe of optical unit. The shift between colors quickens. His eyes land on you. Concern for him is a shimmer of hope. A hope doesn’t exist for androids.

“I am performing a self diagnostic,” he lies.

Pulling away from him when he jolts up from couch deepens this sickness further. Everything flips in the stomach. Just hearing what they’re reporting. An android murdered a human. He has a little girl. What are they going to do? Is this really happening though? There have been rumors. For several months there’s been talk of androids running away. Going off and doing God knows what but that’s people who hate them. They’re the ones who talk about how evil they are. They shouldn’t exist. Made in our image and unnatural monsters; the erratic behavior in Connor abates this thinking.

There is no time to debate. You already know the opinion that matters. It’s your own.

“You’re lying,” echoing it back stops him. “Tell me the truth. What’s going on?”

“There is nothing.” Connor insists. Remaining turned puts his back to you. The android tries to fight his conflicts. All of it is bubbling, boiling upon his plastic surface. Itching, tingles beneath synthetic skin. You are part of it somehow. He knows. That is why he is malfunctioning.

Nothing? No. There is something! Proving it, grabbing at his arm, twists him to face you. There is no powerful in your pull. He whirls at the action out of choice.

A staggering breath barely reaches past your lips. Large hands engulf wrists, pulling your hands up. Entrapped in Connor’s grasp, fingers long and pliant in their fuse to yours swallowing up in such a strong, yet gentle touch. He doesn’t hurt you. That’s not at all what he took hold to do. Still the continuing broadcast emanates a horrifying soundtrack. Androids killing but he-he’s not like other androids. He wouldn’t do anything he should not do. Part of you wants to believe that.

How he looks now is the only answer to an impossible question. He is agitated, nervous? Not horrifying as people say they are. He looks lost. Lost and searching inwardly. This is the first time he ever appeared that way.

“Connor, please. Don’t shut me out. Just because of what I am.”

“You are my owner,” he lowers his voice. “I am a machine made to obey. I am not your equal, Y/N.” Studying traces of worry in your face opens a hole in his chest. Circuitry, mechanical proponents powering his structure bleed in this instability.

He knows. In the crinkle between your eyebrows, droop of the corners of your soft mouth he sees. For him, a thing without purpose, genuine distress shines in the warmth of your eyes. Human, innocent compared to those he has witnessed abuse in the street. You will never deserve harm.

“I’m not an owner. I-I’m…” What are you? A friend? A lover? None of those things! You bought him. What he says is the horrible truth. “It’s OK to be you. I don’t care. If you have a problem it’s not like that thing on the news. I know it triggered something. But that’s not…”

“I am not triggered by anything, Y/N.” Connor releases you slowly. Allowing wrists to drop from his fingers the loss of warmth registers profoundly. He did not realize he could feel so authentically. There is something wholly beautiful about how your skin blends with his. It fascinates him. You are beginning to fascinate him.

Connor breaks away. Narrowing heatedly upon news, he can only watch one of his own threaten to murder a human child. The android can only stand by as it unfolds. Unable to snap, break through and understand. What made him attack? What turned him on his owners?

He can’t calculate a reasonable response. Neither can he fall into these errors, system malfunctions whispered of since he arrived to your home. This thing they call deviancy.

November 1st

 Several months follow the first introduction; follow that news broadcast that begins a shift in the city. Still it seems longer. An infinite amount of space separates since then and now. Only in a comforting presence that you know is still simply part of his programming. Of course that’s all it is, he made it clear during the hostage event televised for all of Detroit to witness. Did it ever stop the truth in you? No because it would all be lies if you never admitted how…attached you’ve grown to him. 

Attachment to an android probably isn’t the smartest thing. How can you see him as just an android anymore? He’s more. There is so much more. Even his small barely there smiles, a hint of stiffness apparent in the corners of his mouth, make your heart flutter. Just a tiny drop of emotion dips in an endless sea of code.

No. You can’t think of it because the second you fall into this fairy tale something regretful will take place. It will swamp around heart, holding upon his smooth cool fingers. 

Cradling in his synthetic grasp without him understanding that slowly, profusely, so internally chaotic inside your soul, have already began this descent. However there is more to being in a daze. You certainly haven’t taken him up on his special upgrade programming to be the perfect domestic partner. 

Imagine others forced into things they can’t control? It sickens you at times. Reading about android sex clubs, knowing explicitly they have no option to refuse. That’s not to say you haven’t stared the tugging threads of temptation in its face. Imagining what Connor looks like underneath his uniform, pristine white, shades of blue stitch, android glitters in luminescent fabric; his deliciously toned forearms visible donning a short sleeved variant get your mind racing.

Large hands, long fingers, veins, muscles eye catching in their realism all built into his synthetic design. It doesn’t even cross your mind anymore. That his layer of beauty is artificial because what you’d give to trace fingertips against his lovely epidermis.

Kissing him all over, following the obvious toned planes of the android’s chest. Feeling him against your fragile human exterior; to say you haven’t fantasized, haven’t fought with internal desire is bigger than an understated battle. 

Just look no further than that incident first day he was here. Getting off on his voice, comfort spilling in a song; you hate the fact it happened. Only reveals how desperate you were in that time for any ounce of solace. 

He offered then as it is part of what is meant to be. But you can never hurt him. As much as others will say you are delusional for believing he has feelings. Emotions are part of human existence, after all, not part of creations built for sole purposes of serving.

Current state of the city might have something to do with it but today is like any other. At least it begins as such. Even in the now listing along day by day thankful for once in your life for a father who never lived up to his title. Until he dies of course then all is forgiven.

Small miracles don’t exist in the grand scheme of life. Sometimes wishing they did amplifies doubts.      

“Connor.”

Whispering in a lazy flip amid covers, groggy and unaware of his name sighing affectionately bundles you from penetrating sunlight. Blankets do little to hide from the morning. Squinting half lidded towards those streaks of light creating illuminated patterns. Spreading across snowy carpet and reaching up to edge of floral stitch coverlet draped mattress, you toss an arm over to cover eyes. Squeezing them beneath wakes you up better. This time it’s obvious.

Sitting up quickly and digging fingers into blankets sheds confusion. The state between unconscious dreaming to conscious awareness is a complete mess. Did you just have a dream about him again? Rubbing hands against your face doesn’t wipe tiredness away. It neither helps get your mind straight.

A complete mess in the mornings is a daily routine. All of your life what else is new?

Absorbing sunshine might be good for the pores. He will tell you that soaking in morning sunlight is a healthy way to get vitamin D. In his perfectly technical but also impeccably cute tone; you smile fixating on his changing mannerisms. 

Does he know how human he’s been acting with those facial expressions, eyes lighting up in rich cocoa? 

Could be imagination running wild trying to make something out of what can’t be possible. Nice to daydream a little even if representing unnecessary emotions piling up inside. Staring across bedroom lit with natural rays seeping through blinds leaves a warmer atmosphere. 

You enjoy it for a distraction. Quiet can be poetically sound as pressing face into pillow and letting loose a scream. Frustration doesn’t surround the home. It surrounds your job.

God another shift to cover and this time you’re damn sure this co-worker is pulling it out of –

“Good morning, Y/N.”

A gasp slips in a slither upon breath, pressing tongue against the back of teeth enamel in a stare down with your open door. He enters so stealthily sometimes you forget.

“Connor,” greeting him wearily, yawning and stretching arms, your neck is stiff. 

Rubbing at the back of it doesn’t distract you too much. What is he-? Oh. Explains the hot smell of food but this is a little unexpected. You never tell him to bring breakfast anywhere.

The android places an oak tray atop your lap. His eyes trail over exposed skin from a top haphazardly thrown over your body last night. After all of this time sharing space with you he has noted a penchant for wearing oversize shirts, pajamas to bed. There is still a glimpse of lace peeking out as the fabric slouches down.

“Are you hungry? I hope you are.”

He hopes? You smile, especially seeing him returning it. A slight indentation, just the tiniest of dimples in that sculpted face. Still not completely natural but enough to make caterpillars transform to butterflies in your stomach.  Much improvement you think!

“Of course I am but…” You jab a nail atop wood beside plate for emphasis. “Is there something I should know, Connor? You’re awful sneaky today. More so than usual.”

^Software Instability

Connor breathes in a fresh batch of warnings. Unnecessarily inhaling expands chest and it is the natural scent of you. Olfactory filters clog, storing away to memory each thread of you. He tilts his head softly, dip of hair flopping across his forehead.

“It is the anniversary of your purchase of me,” he answers quietly. “I thought you would enjoy having breakfast in bed.”

Everything flutters. You swallow. The careful attention he put into this is outstanding. Not because he whipped up food or was told. He did this by himself. He-he chose to surprise you?

A smile graces lips before biting the bottom one a little bit. This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you. And the last couple of months Connor’s really been broadening his horizons. He is so much different. Well, he’s the same with the whole analytics but – this android is less stiff. Softer but he always was a soft boy in your eyes.

“Oh, Connor,” a sweet breath skims along his name. Sadly you recall what you think of this. Most romantic, nicest thing and it’s breakfast in bed. Generic to others maybe but it’s the thought. He thought of you even if it might just be social parameters.

You pick up a folded napkin and curl fingers into it. Shit.

“Y/N.” Connor reaches down. 

Using the tip of his finger swipes a droplet corner of eye. Those eyes always look at him as if he is more. How strange to admit he feels different meeting your sparkle; Connor sits. Without a word, his hand wraps around yours nestling beside tray. 

His fingers squeeze as his system flutters, overheats in the most pleasant of ways. A way he believes he is beginning to crave.

Androids do not crave. They do not want. They do not need. Yet every little brush of your warm skin to his synthetic fills crackles against his blocks.

Your breath is easy feeling him. Little gestures here and there grow exponentially. Sometimes you wonder if he’s happy doing this. Then androids aren’t supposed to be happy, sad or anything. That’s what they continue to say.

Reports on androids going “rogue” or deviant makes you question things. It’s not new. You always have a habit of questioning but this is different. Ever since that older model was broadcast live. The one with the little girl; you slip hand from Connor’s.

“It means everything,” you admit to him. “Having you here. But – do you want to be somewhere else?”

Connor’s temple floods in thought. Straining, pushing away rising stress it spikes marginally at the question. He does not understand. Do you believe he wants to be from you? The news of his people has not left his process. You allow him to watch news or whatever he likes as if he readily possesses preferences. 

The android has found particular interests. He enjoys watching you read physical books. He has grown fond of touching them in his hands, analyzing an entire book in one second. However, he desires to hear your voice read aloud.

He witnesses protesters on local news. Those humans are cruel but you-you are the conceptual manifestation of an angel. Research and data compilation helps him understand better. Watching you is best to determine the differences, to realize not all humans are the same.

His creators, those who constructed him at Cyberlife may find him having his own ideals faulty. Malfunctioning, burdening in failure; is he obsolete? Does this software instability make him defective? As that android upon the high rise dangling over edge and threatening to maim a child? He will never harm you. It is not only against code, it is against what he feels.

Connor will keep you safe. It is not part of initial programming as he is not a military grade android but he cannot remove it from personal parameters. The more you smile, interact with him as if he is equal. He will never –

“I will never leave you, Y/N.” A determined oath he speaks without fear of showing what is happening inside him. “Not as those other androids. I promise.”

“Do you like dogs, Connor?”

Nudging at his arm playfully sends you to a nice state of mind. Nice change following all of the stress at work. Forever ongoing but at least it’s clear where your boss stands. He made the last few months a living hell. All because of some new intern the creep tried to get with. 

Dropping you down in a demotion also meant less money in your paycheck. Guess it helps your father did leave you that nest egg. Something that helps as long as it can last but you like to think you’re good with finances.

Instead of worrying about it you indulge this moment. Out in chilly first November’s day, crisp but warming in how close. Fingers brush down against his hand.

Connor tilts his head from shop window. A pet shop he has already been past occasional running errands in town. He always finds himself stopping to look inside. “Dogs are known as man’s best friend. I suppose I understand why humans prefer them. They are loyal.”

“Well cats aren’t so bad. Easier to take care of.”

The android shifts away from window. Even as his eyes freeze upon a cage of canaries. Android birds are sold up front. Again the display of machines as goods to buy and sell charges his instabilities. “If you think so, Y/N.”

You smile, laughing a little at the lopsided mess his collar’s now in. It is windy today. Reaching up to smooth fingers against it, you can’t help admiring him in the long wool coat. Dark suits his chocolate eyes. Still you’d love to see him wear regular clothes. His uniform is under there. Even so he just wanted to come out in typical wardrobe. You insisted otherwise. Even if it hardly meant anything but it just feels right.

“Call it preference.” Prodding a finger against his chest, catching a flicker of his eyes momentarily, you look away. “Well, it depends on the person I mean. What kind of pet they’re willing to take care of. That sort of thing. Cats are independent little balls of fluff. Dogs need a proper place to run, be free and…”

“I like dogs.” Connor interrupts, cocking his head.

A smile tugs up your lips. This time making eye contact with him again, trying not to think of the intimacy his gesture this morning blossomed in heart. Such an innocent statement, however, shivers sentiment not cold.

“Did you just decide that after some careful review?” Teasing, fingers slide down his arm unconscious but natural. Seems as though the world is no longer the one you know. The one that wouldn’t like what they see. All you see is him. So what’s it matter?

“I am the most advanced of my make.” The android teases back. “It’s only natural for me to know everything.”

Oh, is it? Wow he’s being awfully smug right about now. “Really? Connor, I’m surprised at you. Are you trying to say you’re smarter than everybody?”

He shakes his head. “No. No, I only meant I-”

“Just teasing,” an equal rib escapes, chiding him incessantly. “I thought you’d recognize that – mister advancement.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost falling into your smile but still he cannot properly elicit what he feels. Only ignores to remain what you need him to be. A machine designed to accomplish a task.

“Hey sweets!” Yelling across street, waving a sign, a grizzled construction worker spits in your direction. Interrupting the scene between an obvious human and plastic pet; he jeers loudly. Gaining attention from others they carry similar propaganda with them. A group of protesters form, stopping their trek.

Immediately you shift back from him. Realizing how close, affectionate you were being and – shit! Anti-android? Fuck that’s great.

Deciding to ignore it, not before scoffing in disgust! Never imagined running into these people because nothing ever transpired with Connor. Not a thing! Lately you have been forgetting. Maybe that’s the problem.

“Hey. I said hey!”

Huffing at the man you snap around to acknowledge his nastiness. So he crosses a busy street to come at you? Don’t they have anything better to do? As much as you’d like to ignore this jackass it’s best to tell him verbally to back off!

“Why’s your droid bundled up like that?” he jabs a finger threateningly. “Those things don’t feel anything.”

Thing? Oh, OK! Should’ve figured some old out of the loop jackass was one of these bastards. Didn’t even need a sign to show his ignorance!

“And how do you know?!” Snapping frustration, anger boiling, and your body grows hot in anger. “Why don’t you just mind your business? Come on, Connor.”

“Y/N.” The android snags onto your hand.

“What do we have here?” Another one of the anti-android group cuts in; her eyes slink up and down you before scoffing disgusted. “Are you out with your robo boy? What? Humans not up to your standards for fucking?”

Everything stops. Right then and there it is a swath of fire. Burning deep down to the core and nothing is preventing the eruption. Lava scalds insides, veins a blaze, eyes locking with hers, prying a hand away from Connor. You didn’t even realize he motioned. An attempt to remove you from their path but fleeing is not happening!

A matching scoff releases sharp. Your lip curls at her ignorance! Just as everybody who follows this line of thinking. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Care to repeat that? After all, I don’t understand bitch speak.”

 “Smart ass huh?” The woman shoves at you. “Typical android fuuu… Hey!” She stumbles away from you wide eyed.

Connor is already shielding, arm pushing you back behind him. Sidling into the path of protesters they have conglomerated this side of street. His eyes narrow. Brow creases harsh his expression unreadable yet his indicator reveal his heated struggle of raw emotions.

“Did you see that?!” She shouts purposely. Getting as much attention as possible it doesn’t stop there. “It came at me!”

Your glare dissolves, latching onto his arm. “Connor, please. Don’t.” Already realizing what could happen it’s a desperate attempt to continue walking. If anything is true something like this will only get him hurt. People will say that’s impossible they don’t feel anything but to hell with them! “Let’s go.”

Pulling him towards street halts the moment you are seized from behind. One of the men in the group drags you back, yanking rough.

“Get the hell off me!”

“Your fucking android came at her!” Throwing you aside, he rears up over to block you getting up so easy. “We’ll teach your fucking plastic pet!”

A painful huff, hard drop accelerates Connor’s stress levels. Watching this human manhandle, hurt you twists at his synthetic heart. His face twitches. Thirium pump chugs erratically in a fuel of anger. An urge to break through and protect overwhelms, even as he is shoved back by the one who started this.

The middle age construction worker; he grabs onto the front of the android’s coat, rough, spitting directly up into the taller plastic fucker’s face.

“Fucking piece of plastic! Think you can take our fucking jobs. Walk around the street like you’re human. Worthless pieces of shit like you fuck up the whole works! Poison other humans against their own kind. Like your owner there. Make sure that bitch doesn’t get up!”

Connor’s eyes shift down at you, stopped once again after pushing up to your feet. The man twists at your arm and it is…too much!

“Connor!”

  ^72%

Level of Stress

>Do not defend

>Obey Code Programming

>Do n defend

>Do defend

>defend

  A flood of scarlet eclipses protocols pushing him beyond programming locks. Even as they strain to tighten shackles on system, preventing a clear break, the android still moves in defense.

Connor’s arm thrusts upwards, locking fingers onto wrist of the protesting assailant. Stilling the human’s movement, he squeezes, and wrenches the man’s limb sideways. The fierce strength exuding from the AX800 ripples in flashing indicator going wild in a strobe of multiple hues.

He feels a strange pull tugging insides. Again pulling at his wiring allows an over stimulation of emotional surge to spread in him. There is only one blaring sign to follow:

 >Protect Y/N

 “Get the fuck off me!” Changing his tune quickly, trying to get the plastic off him, he tries to wrench out of the painful grab. “You crazy android! This thing’s going nuts!”

“Connor!” Pushing through several onlookers now who had to stick their nose into this, you find your way past the rest of these android protestors. Shoving directly through, wiggling your way out of that asshole’s grip, your steps are quick. Knocking that bitch that started this out of the way you manage to grab up onto Connor’s shoulder.

Breathing is fast, side hurting from where it struck asphalt. It’ll be sore tomorrow but only he matters. “Connor, let him go. It’s over. They won’t do a thing!”

Screaming at them to get your point across, hoping someone just-just anyone puts a stop to this. What good are the police around here? They don’t care. Of course not they’ll just let a group like these hateful fuckers brutalize someone like Connor. Someone that’s right. Fuck what they say!

The second he releases that man you hook an arm through his. Directing him away, glaring back as commotion does alert a wandering policeman, you pick up your pace. No longer needing anybody else’s help because Connor… He did something unexpected. Just as those other androids. Deviants. That’s not him. He’s not deviant. If he was –

Catching breath across the street you uncurl fingers from the front of his coat. Chilly air creates a frigid burn against stinging eyes. It takes every ounce of courage to prevent it spilling. Nothing stops knowing what people are really like.

His eyelids blink rapidly. Not even looking at you but his LED scares you to death. Stress levels are a thing. You know that.

“Connor, please.” Reaching up to cup his face forces his eyes down onto yours. Tears brim in a crystal sparkle. Threatening to slide down but you suck everything up. Just as you’ve always done in life but this time –

“It’s OK,” soothing hasty, breathless instills a deep ache. This is the first time he’s lost control. Then it’s not his fault. Those fucking protestors! They were minding their own business. Until they decide to gang up on you. This is your fault. If you weren’t so obvious, being so close to Connor out in public, none of this would have happened.

“Y/N, I –” Connor’s voice stutters. Strangely he cannot form a proper response. He feels as if his system is overheating. He feels. A tiny prickle underneath synthetic epidermis crawls, stress rises; Connor clutches to you, fingers digging into hips. He leans into this affection. 

Why do you offer him this? When he is not alive, he is not real. He could be your partner. It is part of his design. You did not want him that way. He recalls your words about not forcing him against his will.

There is no will. When he is a machine!

The android gazes longingly through leaking eyes. Glistening brown becomes another change in what he is supposed to be. Tears have broken in a trail down his cheeks. Androids are not meant to cry. He thought as much.

Tears threaten you too. Looking up into his face so conflicted, hurt because he’s not what they say. He’s alive. Of course he is. Only your sweet Connor would be. 

“Connor, please don’t.” Begging him again this time holds your heart on a jagged precipice. One wrong move and it will crash. “Your stress levels. Please, don’t…”

He leans his head down. Close, pressing forehead to yours, his eyelids flutter closed. “I am sorry,” Connor whispers, orbiting the warmth that pours from your body. This warmth he does not deserve.

His voice is husky heaven. Golden gates open with each syllable and you crave to hear your name. Again and again you crave his closeness. “Never apologize for what others do. They don’t know. None of them know what I know. You are more than them. You’re my Connor. With a heart of gold.”

“Androids do not have hearts as you do, Y/N.”

You smile sadly. “I know,” a whisper but next a beautiful revelation. “But this.” Fingers slide up against his chest. “It might not be the same but it thrums in a lovely song.”

 ^Software Instability

Steam rises in a soothing aroma from the mug cradled between your hands. A fresh brew of cocoa relieves mental ache. Physical? Everything is sore, tender where you fell. Changing clothes after getting back home alleviated discomfort. 

Soaking in a bath for an hour did loosen some tension. Rest of it just fails miserably. As much as you fail in public for all to see what you feel.

Still you blame yourself. Getting close to him acting as if you were out for an anniversary? How stupid can this be?

Of course he brought you that surprise breakfast. He told you why. Does that mean it was a real anniversary? What can be real about buying someone? Nothing is. It just reminds you about every sad truth. Those protesters made it clear.

Pursing lips to smoothly blow away steam, frothy top rich as you sip in a seat on couch. Toasty liquid fills insides with a burning comfort. This is the only solitude needed. Enough time to think it still edges nerves. 

Waiting for a word with Connor, he hasn’t been acknowledging much. Since what happened and who can blame him?

Part of you is still frightened. For him you just cannot help feeling afraid. What if he leaves the house for an errand and-and he’s jumped? What if he’s attacked?

There is no guessing. Possibilities are high. They will happen. They are happening. Each day it grows worse ever since that android who murdered that man. Pretending not to see makes you complicit. You don’t want to pretend. You will face reality no matter how dangerous it is becoming in Detroit.

“Y/N.”

Your head lifts. Peering over towards his husky drawl of your name straightens your perch. Leaning over deposits mug on coffee table and you wait. He appears as conflicted as before. 

Please, let him be OK. Just don’t let this ruin what you have found. 

All you care about is him. Yes, it’s true now. All these months and there are nothing greater than personal truths.

Connor hesitates. Ruminating over his actions offers him zero outcomes explaining his loss of control. There is only one solution. He is malfunctioning.

Something in his handsome face twists your stomach. It stabs deeper closer he gets. Joining you now is all the fear wound up in you showing its colors. They are similar to his LED. A constant swirl is unable to land on one draw.

“I will understand if you would like to send me back for reset.”

Reset? That word just guts you. Reset. No! 

“Connor,” a sob almost overtakes your response. The very idea of him taken somewhere and operated on ripples overtakes in a squirmy skin crawl. It’s barbaric. Resetting an android’s memories is horrifying. You hear about it all the time. They are completely wiped of their –

The android’s lips part, cocking his head while listening to shaky breath falling in sad soliloquy. He does not understand. No, he-he does.

“Y/N, I… Please,” he urges comfort stretching fingers out to soft skin. They do not touch. Simply artificial hovers above humanity but something tugs center of his chest. Something deep and satisfying as his synthetic heart thrums quicker in tempo. 

Connor pushes through this grid without fully snapping chains. Already he feels a flow spreading through system. Each day he looks upon your face happier since he came. As you told him once that it makes you feel better, safer to have someone. He is not someone. He is an android. 

How can you possess such feelings? How-how can he gaze over such softness, such beauty without wishing to remain? 

The thought of being taken - scares him. 

His LED flickers, red once more but not in anger. Fear is strange. Partially for his being but the possibilities of never seeing you again are tearing his programming shackles apart. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Reassuring him now is better than showing anymore of what has been lying inside. “No one will take you from me, Connor.”

Silence is best.

Sitting among a safe haven, your home offers that place now not just for you but him. Here no one can hurt this. No one can treat him inferior. Never will you treat him any different. You know it’s a fool’s game. Especially in this modern world of technology strives, transitions and creates intelligent life in humanity’s image. He is more than a sculpture, perfected work made for duties.

Today, Connor acted as any man would for the person they…. No. It can never be that. Neither does it stop how you felt. How he could tamper with his program just to be there for you.

None of this should have happened. You repeat it over and over again in your mind. None of this because of a fantasy; your eyes fall to his hand. Fingers touch yours now. It is soft, gentle and only a moment.

Connor pulls away too soon. Just a minute he allows himself to fall. Your reaction to his suggestion, no solution, cripples his code blocks. Almost he shattered them. They are close to crumbling. He must fight this deviancy. Only to stay with you because the android already knows what will happen to him. It’s happening to all of his people. Those who are succumbing to errors are hunted. They are murdered. 

No they are destroyed, deactivated. His kind is not alive.

If that is true... Why does he feel threads of humanity? Why does he feel alive with you?

Meeting his gaze deepens this sensation of fear. Today, waking up to a sunny morning seems so far away. It was just earlier. Horrible things happen and change perspectives. Tiny moments of peace and that’s what he brought. Into your life following circumstances you never expected to gain something worthwhile. He won’t even believe that. He thinks he should be reset. That will never happen.

“Connor, I want you to know something. And I want you to believe me. Not think of who you are.”

“I am – no one, Y/N.” The android dismisses for your sake. If he becomes deviant they will take him from you.

All you do is shake your head, cupping his face. In your hands he softens. Those sharp edges, cheekbones thumbs now caress. Soft skin in a freckle stardust that makes hearts flutter. Better than butterfly wings, better than anything you can use to describe how it unmakes your soul.

“It would break my heart,” a shaky whisper strangles. “If you are reset.”

An instant flood of scarlet reflects his inner feelings. You see it. He never has to admit. But he does feel. That’s what makes this harder. Knowing how afraid he must be not to show it. There has to be something happening inside of him. There are too many examples now.

“Con, I want you to…”

Dropping hands from his face makes it easy to turn in direction of doorbell. Who is that? Slowly you rise to feet, sliding fingers down atop his shoulder. “I’ll get it.” Striding away out of room quickly prevents him ignoring your request. Another sign but that’s for another day. As if it will be any easier.

Unlocking the door leads to a horrible drop in your stomach. Eyes connect with the woman standing there now, out of the blue, someone least expected and at the worst time imaginable.

“Hello, Y/N,” the older, staunch woman smiles, already assessing you like a microscopic Petri dish sample. “It’s been quite a long time hasn’t it?”

A long time is putting it mildly. Last time was on the phone and her trying to sink her claws into your father’s nest egg. The one he left you.

The conversation left on a sour note. There is nothing sourer than a rotten apple and your aunt is the literal evil queen hoarding an entire bundle.

Tag List: @tropfenlady​  @your-taxidermy @catastrophes-light  @rk900sexual  @tommy-10-k  @dreamyby @randomfandomgirl1996 @etherealcel @justashamwithwastedpotiental // tagging a few extra who I know would want a heads up <3

[shazzeaslightnovels]

Seireitsukai no Blade Dance 1

Official English Title: Blade Dance of the Elementalers

Author: Yuu Shimizu

Illustrator: Hanpen Sakura

Label: MF Bunko J

Release Date: 21 December 2010

Art Notes: This series went through 3 different illustrators throughout it’s life and I’ll be talking about each of them as we get to them. Hanpen Sakura was the original artist and covered the series for 13 volumes before having to step down due to health issues. Their art is definitely done in the moe style and, while it’s not really to my taste, I do like the character designs (Restia’s especially) and I think that it suits the series. I do remember Sakura’s art does get better as the series continues so I look forward to seeing that improvement.

Ecchi warning: aside from the cover, there’s also a colour illustration of a nude Claire getting attacked by a slimy water spirit.

So, first off, I have read part of this series before. It was years ago though, back in the day when fan translations reigned supreme, J-Novel Club wasn’t a thing yet, Yen-Press wasn’t licensing many light novels and I hadn’t begun to learnt Japanese yet. While my memories are a bit fuzzy, I do remember quite a bit about it so, while I don’t intend to spoil anything, there’s a possibility that I may do so on accident to please keep that in mind.

Anyway, I enjoyed this, though there were a few scenes that frustrated me a little bit. I especially enjoyed the fight scenes and found the protagonist to be charming. I definitely recommend it if you are into magic battle school series and don’t mind harem and ecchi elements.

Story:

Genre: Ecchi, Harem, Action, Fantasy, Magic school, Comedy

Elementalers - people who are able to make contracts with elemental spirits and use their powers for battle. The power usually only appears in pure maidens but it appears that Kamito is an exception. Having lost some of his memories three years ago, Kamito is on a search to find someone. His search takes him to a prestigious academy for young elementalers and the headmaster forces him to enrol there, telling him to compete in the blade dance, a competition in which elementalers compete in order to have their wish granted. Seeing as the blade dance may lead Kamito to find who he is looking for, he complies. But, this year, the blade dance is a group battle and Kamito must find 4 teammates in order to compete...

Content warnings: the ecchi here isn’t very hardcore (I mean, in comparison to modern ecchi light novels, anyway) but it is still there so I don’t recommend reading this series if you’re bad with that kind of thing. Also, there are violent tsundere characters and a character who has the form of a child but is actually hundreds of years old so, again, if you have issues with these character types then I don’t recommend it.

Yes, this is one of those series with a power that’s only meant to be used by girls except for the male protagonist who can use it because reasons, a bunch of tsundere, ecchi “comedic” scenes, misunderstandings and a magic battle school. I know that a lot people hate these types of series but I’ve always thought that they have a certain charm to them and I found myself enjoying this volume despite all of it’s cliches. The magic system is interesting and the battle scenes are exciting and the characters are likeable and that’s all I really want out of a series like this. There were some scenes that annoyed me like the misunderstanding scenes where Kamito ends up in a situation that looks bad and the girls are quick to jump to conclusions and accuse him of doing something that he didn’t actually do. It gets tiresome after a while but I did manage to look past it, in the end.

One of the main things that is set up in this volume is teamwork. The characters are very strong but they are really terrible at teamwork, especially Rinslet, and I look forward to seeing them get better at it. The other major plot points that are introduced here have to do with Kamito’s and Claire’s past as they’re both searching for someone. I’m really looking forward to unraveling the mysteries behind Kamito’s memory loss.

Character:

Kamito is an interesting and likeable protagonist. He has a mysterious past and slowly more facts about it get revealed over the course of this volume but we still don’t know everything and I look forward to learning more. I also find his personality charming with how he tends to tease the tsundere ojou-sama around him when they yell at him but is willing to apologise when he realises that he’s crossed a line. As you can tell from the cover, Claire, the fiery red-haired tsundere, is our main heroine for this volume. Her catchphrase is “I’ll burn you to cinders”, she weilds a whip that she often uses to wrap around Kamito’s neck and her first meeting with Kamito ends with her declaring that he needs to take responsibility and become her slave. The series has a few tsundere characters but she’s probably the most violent of them so she’s definitely one of those characters that is easy to hate. I think her tsun is made more bearable thanks to Kamito’s personality and his willingness to tease her when she gets violent and I found myself able to like her despite all of her flaws. I think there’s a lot of potential for good development with her and I hope to see her become less abusive as the series goes on.

As for the other heroines, 4 are introduced in this volumes and one’s a spoiler so I’ll just talk about the other 3 for now. Ellis is the captain of the school knights and she initially hates Kamito upon discovering his existence but she comes around to him by the end of the volume. She’s not as violent as Claire is but she is still a tsundere and often threatens to turn Kamito into *insert food of any type here* which I found amusing. Of the girls, Rinslet fits the archetype of “tsundere ojou-sama” the best but she’s less tsun than Claire and Ellis and is probably the least prone to violence of the three. I really enjoy her rivalry with Claire and I love her way of speaking. Est is a spirit that Kamito makes a contract with at the start of the volume. She doesn’t do a whole lot here but readers who enjoy the kuudere loli archetype should enjoy her. The supporting characters in this volume are memorable enough.

Adaptation Notes:

The manga adaptation is complete at 6 volumes and features art by Issei Hyouju (provided the art for the manga adaptations of Slayers Revolution, MM!, Slayers Evolution-R and the ongoing Isekai Meikyuu de Harem wo). It’s pretty good so far and has some great action panels and adorable chibi art. Some stuff is cut or moved but a lot of it improves the story as some of the more silly misundersting scenes are taken out and the moved scenes improve the pacing. It’s worth a mention that the scene in the light novel where Claire gets attacked by the water spirit is changed in the manga so that Claire and Rinslet get attacked by it while clothed. Anyway, I enjoyed the manga and I recommend it as a substitute for the light novel.

Apparently, there is another manga adaptation with art by Zenzai Yoshihira but it was cancelled after a few chapters due to health problems and a volume was never released so I can’t talk about it at all.

The anime adaptation is 12 episodes in length and this volume is adapted in the first 4 episodes. This is one of those cases where I wish that the anime staff had been more willing to cut stuff and change things. This is a short volume and it does not need 4 episodes to adapt it. The mediocre adaptation for this series is why I have to defend adaptations like Saijaku Muhai no Bahamut and Danmachi whose creators knew that volume 3 would not be a good enough stopping point to make an impression and saw opportunities to cut things out and I wish that Blade Dance had received a similar treatment. It’s also really low budgeted and you can tell. As for what I do like about the anime, I do enjoy the character designs and I like that the majority of the voice actors selected for the anime did not have much experience at the time, like Kana Yuuki, Shizuka Ishigami, Makoto Furukawa and Saori Oonishi. And they all nail their performances and are perfectly cast in their roles. There are some well-known voice actors cast as well, like Youko Hikasa, but most of the actors were not expeirenced when the anime was produced and I like that the anime gave the opportunity for these newer actors to shine.

Recommended for:

If you’re into battle school fantasy series and don’t mind harem and ecchi elements, read this. If you’re currently trying to learn Japanese through reading light novels and want to read a fantasy series, I found this easy to read. There is a bit of fantasy jargon but not too much and it’s quite short at around 250 pages.

I’ll be reading volume 2 fairly soon.

[jeanjauthor]

A rambling musing on mortgages, stone lions, traffic signs, & European heraldry, the symbology that rules much of our modern lives.

Stone Lions at the end of a driveway...means that the mortgage has been paid off.

I like this concept...except I think I’d want to get stone snow leopards. I grok them (get them / intuitively understand them / feel at one with them) more than lions, or any other cat...other than housecats.  Might be easier to get stone housecats...but if I got them...

Would I get them as Sejant (heraldic term for cats sitting upright, butt on the ground, forelegs vertically straight, think cat statues from Egypt), Couchant (heraldic term for butt & belly/chest on the ground, forelegs semi-stretched in front, head erect, think of lions in front of the NYC Public LIbrary), Dormant (same as couchant but head down, napping), or Catloaf (not an official heraldic position/term, but basically couchant with the paws tucked under, head erect)...?

Rampant (heraldic for one foot on the ground, the other three raised as if scratching/mauling/attacking) would be difficult to acquire, and require either: hellaciously expensive stonecarving with supportive flora or flowing cloak or tail dragging on the ground, etc, to hold up the weight of the body; cement or geopolymer with steel rebar support welding it to a heavy base; wrought iron (which can support its own weight on one slender-by-comparison hind leg); or cast resin...which would require more supportive elements.

Or maybe I could go totally modern and install video screens, and just stream images of funny cat gifts & videos all the time...?  (And occasionally flash a sign, “This is NOT a drive thru entrance, No U Cannot Haz Cheezborgers Here!”...?)

...Also I have no idea what to call this position, heraldically. (Which could totally be my aesthetic, not gonna lie...well not gonna fabricate, ‘cause obviously if it’s my aesthetic, it’s my position and I’ll lie down ‘n mlem it, lol.)

If it were a bird, it would be Splayed, but splayed is seen in a position looking directly at the belly of the beast, like an X shape, usually with the head at the top of the image, tail (feathered or otherwise) down at the bottom.  This is like...dormant inverted?

The tongue mlemming in the .gif would not be replicatable in a static image, but tongues showing is often a part of heraldic design; you just have to say “langued (color)” (langued = we gave it a tongue, yo!) to indicate it’s visible.

And since snow leopards are automatically argent (white/silver, a metal (the other metal is Or, gold/yellow, and always written with a capital O)) spotted sable (black, a color, but in minor amounts compared to the main color)...you have to tint the langue (tongue) a contrasting hue. 

This means that argent (the main ‘color’ of the beast, heraldically considered a metal) must be langued (given a tongue) with a color (often rouge (red) or azure (blue), but could also be purpur (purple) or even vert (green)).  Or it could be tinted with a “fur” (spotted in special ways, or patterned in specific ways meant to emulate ermine spots, grey squirrel fur backs & bellies, etc, but let’s be honest, a tongue is too small for that, and my tongue isn’t always dead-fuzzy in the mornings, so it’s not 100% “me” to have a furry tongue.)

Confusing? I know!

But remember, European heraldry was designed to Make Things Visibly Distinct At A Distance.  Before the eras of snazzy uniforms (American Revolution, French Revolution & Napoleonic Wars, the Prussian Army, etc, etc), everybody just threw on whatever armor or protection they had available and went to war...and...in the melee scrum, everyone moshpitting around you could easily end up killing folks on your own side by pure mistake.

So heralds came up with rules for heraldry...and to this day, those rules govern our lives, writers, artists, readers...and those rules have gone worldwide.  Not just because of colonialism (sorry for that part of things, everyone else), but because the rules work.

If I recall correctly, I’ve blazoned (written out in fancy heraldry language) this particular sign before:

On a lozenge Or within an orle, on a billet sable, a torteaux, a bezant, and a pomm. --12th Century Norman Heraldry language (English translation: With our fancy shorthand language and its many governing rules, we are describing a yellow diamond shape with a thin black border around its edges that doesn’t actually go all the way to the edges, so you still see a little bit of yellow at the very edges of the sign; in the center of all that yellow is a black rectangle that’s vertically long, and on that black rectangle we can see a red circle at the top, a yellow circle in the middle, and a green circle at the bottom.)

Aka it’s a Traffic Sign Ahead sign.  For those who aren’t visually impaired, if you’re on the internet, you’ve probably been exposed to enough other modern life images to know what this is.

The yellow background is bright but light in color, compared to the black, the red, and the green elements.  (Btw, a torteaux is French for cake, bezant means the gold coin of the Byzantine Empire, and a pomme is French for green apple; it’s way shorter and more concise to say a torteaux, which is automatically defined as red & round, than a red circle, one word for the price of two.)

Here’s another one, a little more challenging to define:

Ignoring the 3D-esque shadowing and oulining, we have:

Argent within an orle sable, a fletchless arrow upright, shaft and pheon broken to dexter, sable, surtout an annulet barred bendwise gules.

...Who the what now??

Since it’s not on a diamond shape (lozenge), but instead on a square (a form of rectangle), we don’t have to mention the shape, this time.  Coats-of-arms are always presumed to either go on a shield shape or a flag (rectangle or square) shape.  It’s only when you get fancy (or female coats-of-arms, blah blah blah), that you have to mention it being on any other shape.

Argent (white background) within an orle sable (thin black border that doesn’t actually touch the edges, same as above), a fletchless (no feather bits) upright (arrow pointing up), Shaft and pheon (midpoint and arrowhead) broken dexter (to the viewer’s left, but the wearer’s right if they’re actually wearing this as a shield or a tabard; the fact that we include the pheon (arrowhead) in this indicates the arrowhead is off to the viewer’s left); surtout (another object lying on top of the last one(s) we just described) an annulet (fancy name for ring) barred (it’s got a stripe across it!) bendwise (hey, it’s a diagonal stripe, from dexter chief to sinister base (viewer’s top left to bottom right, but the wearer’s top right to bottom left), gules (ande hey, it’s red!!).

Basically it’s a No Left Turns Allowed sign.  The red circle-with-diagonal-slash is a “Not Allowed” symbol, and the arrow points to the viewer’s left, indicating “Do Not Turn Left Here.”

Black on traffic signs is a strong color that shows up very well against yellow (the color used for cautionary rules, curvy road ahead, rocks falling, pedestrian crossing, etc) and white (absolute rules, such as Speed Limit/Maximum signs and Do Not Enter signs, etc.).  Black is most often used for either text, or for arrows and other lines indicating the flow of traffic (merging lanes, etc).

It’s visually friendly to pair up a very strong color (black, red, brown, blue, green, rarely purple) with a pale one (white or yellow).  People who have colorblindness issues or who need glasses to see can usually still tell the various bits apart with these high contrast choices.

But...the smaller the details, the less you want to clutter those details.  So the basic rule in heraldic design is, make the image about 6 inches tall, pin it to a wall, and stand back 10, 15, or even 20 feet.  Can you still tell what it is?  Yes?  Good design!  If you cannot...rework it!

So...the reason why I got off on this tangent is that...well...I finally sold my house.  Which means my mortgage is technically paid off.

So I could get stone lions for my driveway...except I no longer own the property. *sigh*

But I’m hoping to take the funds leftover from paying off the mortgage to buy land outright, and build a tiny house on it.  Which hopefully would be paid off without needing a mortgage...or maybe only the tiniest of mortgages...which means I could get “stone lions” for my driveway, some day.

...Which don’t have to remain stone-colored.

See, that’s the thing:  statues in medieval times weren’t always plain stone, ya know!  (Certainly not in Roman & Grecian days, hoo boy did they love color!) They painted them, covered them in fabric and flowers, applied gold and silver leaf, copper sheathing, etc, etc, etc.

So I’m sitting here wondering what sort of “My House & Land Are All Paid Off” stuff I could get.  Because I (technically) could...some day.

[joannalannister]

Do you think grrm could have based the targaryens on the aryan race? Their obsession with keeping their Valariyn blood pure, with being exceptional and special (superior = master race anyone ?). Their looks set them apart from the rest of westeros too, they're meant to have white hair (blonde hair) and violet eyes (blue eyes). They seem like a mix of colonizers and arryans the more deeply I think about them, a Targaryen restoration seems like the worst possible idea to me.

Why would you ask me, a Lannister blog? Me, a Lannister blog. Yet here I am hoisting the Targaryen banner; the things this fandom makes me do smh. Nobody’s even gonna read a post this long but I’m not doing this by halves. 

So, GRRM has said that the Targaryens have an “obsession with the purity of their blood”. Let’s look at the text to get more details:

The tradition amongst the Targaryens had always been to marry kin to kin. Wedding brother to sister was thought to be ideal. Failing that, a girl might wed an uncle, a cousin, or a nephew; a boy, a cousin, aunt, or niece. This practice went back to Old Valyria, where it was common amongst many of the ancient families, particularly those who bred and rode dragons. “The blood of the dragon must remain pure,” the wisdom went.

The way the Old Valyrians maintained a “pure bloodline” was by marrying “kin to kin”. Marrying one Valyrian-blooded person to another Valyrian-blooded person was not enough in Old Valyria to keep the blood of the dragon “pure.”

What historical precedents could GRRM have been drawing on when he wrote that Targaryens  “marry kin to kin”? Fortunately we don’t need to speculate, especially when speculation leads to … this anon. GRRM has told us that he based the Targaryens on the Ptolemaic dynasty, which ruled Egypt from 323BC to 30BC:

The Targaryens have heavily interbred, like the Ptolemys of Egypt. As any horse or dog breeder can tell you, interbreeding accentuates both flaws and virtues, and pushes a lineage toward the extremes. Also, there’s sometimes a fine line between madness and greatness. Daeron I, the boy king who led a war of conquest, and even the saintly Baelor I could also be considered “mad,” if seen in a different light. ((And I must confess, I love grey characters, and those who can be interpreted in many different ways. Both as a reader and a writer, I want complexity and subtlety in my fiction))  [SSM]

The Ptolemaic dynasty included Cleopatra, who married her brothers and whose parents were the products of incestuous unions to keep their Macedonian bloodline pure. Here is an interesting article comparing Daenerys and Cleopatra. Another fun article. (I am throwing this wish out into the void that I would like to see in-depth Dany-Cleopatra comparisons on my dash please.)

It’s interesting to me to read that the doylist reason GRRM chose to include interbreeding among Targaryens to accentuate “both flaws and virtues.” To me, GRRM has written ASOIAF as a story much larger than life, like the Paul Bunyan of fantasy, with impossibly large castles and impossibly vast geography and impossibly long seasons, an oversized place where GRRM’s characters do superhuman feats. GRRM’s characters have glaring flaws, but they also have glorious virtues to which I can only aspire. That’s the point tho. That’s one reason why we read: to see ourselves, only magnified. 

Why do Targaryens have a tendency to interbreed and keep their Valyrian blood pure? GRRM says the Targaryens intermarried to avoid conflict. It’s a matter of  common sense to avoid fights when giant fire-breathing lizards are involved, as the Dance of the Dragons illustrates. 

The Targaryens are the extreme example of that policy [to reinforce the family’s bloodline]: they only marry within the family to keepthe purity of the blood, and that way you avoid the problem of having several candidates for thethrone or the rule of the family. 

If you have a generation of five brothers and each of them hasseveral children (sons?), after two or three generations you could find yourself with thirtypotential heirs: there could be thirty people named Lannister or Frey, and that produces conflict,because all of them are going to get involved in hereditary fights for the throne. 

That’s what originated the War of the Roses; An excess of candidates for the throne, all of themdescendants of Edward III. Laking an heir (like Henry VIII) is just as bad as having too many ofthem. If you have five sons and you want to avoid that kind of problem, maybe it’s not such abad idea to marry the firstborn girl of the oldest son with the third son (or with the firstborn of thethird son?), and that way you avoid fights and the bloodline remains united

Something to note about this SSM entry is that GRRM was discussing all this blood purity stuff in the context of Tywin. The asker was literally asking why Tywin married Joanna, and GRRM answered that it was a love match and to reinforce the Lannister bloodline. Now, why would GRRM jump to discussions of blood purity when Tywin Lannister comes up?? Why ever could that be?? 

I know why. If we’re looking for the family that was inspired by fascist ideology, we don’t need to look far. 

This issue of blood purity is a way to maintain dynastic power in a feudal system. 

Which is bad, in the sense that feudalism is inherently a bad system, especially in comparison to, say, democracy. Even Ned Stark’s benevolent feudalism is bad compared to democracy. Lemme say that again - Even Stark feudalism is bad. 

There should be a populist revolution in Westeros and literally every noble should lose their aristocratic status and wealth and power, and all this wealth and power should be redistributed to the common people, and everyone in Westeros should be given equal rights and there should be free and open elections to choose democratic representatives. 

But I suspect anon isn’t interested in TWOW detailing their fav aristos losing all their fancy jewels and samite, and I don’t think anon is making signs saying “Down with feudalism! Down with monarchy! Down with the aristocracy! Eat the rich!” Somehow I really don’t think that’s what this anon is campaigning for. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

(Note to self: is there a correlation between real-world economic systems and the types of fantasy produced under those systems? In other words, does capitalism motivate medieval fantasyland? And how do real-world levels of income inequality influence income-inequality in fantasyland? These are questions I am interested in.)

*~*~*~*~*~*

 Anyways.

If we accept feudalism as par for the course in medieval fantasyland, I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing that the nobility wants to maintain their dynastic power in a feudal system. It’s what they do with that power that’s important. 

As the original asker of this SSM question pointed out, marriages are a way of maintaining power and building alliances in a feudal system, but such marriages also raise up the lesser House and make it more powerful

For example, I believe Lord Roger Reyne wanted to marry one of his sons to Genna Lannister to gain more power in the Westerlands, but was thwarted when Tytos betrothed Genna to Emmon Frey instead. Similarly, the previous Lord Reyne, Lord Robert Reyne, arranged a marriage between his daughter Ellyn Reyne and Gerold’s heir Tywald Lannister. The Reynes wanted more power and influence in the west, perhaps even to go so far as to topple House Lannister and become the dominant House in the West. 

The Targaryens face a similar problem, on a much larger scale. Whatever House they marry into, it raises that House up and grants them considerable power, potentially creating a disequilibrium point in the game of thrones and causing more innocents to suffer. (…honestly why do you think Tywin wanted his daughter to be queen?) 

This is why the Targaryens (and all the nobles really) need to consider their marriages (or even mistresses) very carefully. If you choose your partner poorly, without concern for dynastic politics, it could throw the land into chaos. (See: Tytos Lannister, Rhaegar Targaryen, Duncan the Small, etc) 

So, who are the Targaryens marrying? Because anon seems to be making the assumption that the Targs don’t marry outside their bloodline in any significant numbers, and I intend to challenge that assumption. 

The Targaryens certainly do have a tendency to intermarry, as we see in The Sworn Sword:

Egg spoke as if such incest was the most natural thing in the world. For him it is. The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister for hundreds of years, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. Though the last actual dragon had died before Dunk was born, the dragonkings went on. Maybe the gods don’t mind them marrying their sisters. 

“The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister for hundreds of years, to keep the blood of the dragon pure.” And yet, despite Dunk’s observation, the Targaryens have been marrying outside of House Targaryen for hundreds of years as well, suggesting to me that dynastic politics rather than blood purity is their greatest concern. 

I will attempt to compile a list of people who are not of Valyrian descent who married a member of House Targaryen. I have not read Fire and Blood yet, so I hope that someone will let me know if I’ve forgotten anyone and I will edit this post to include them (I do not mind spoilers). Any corrections to this list are appreciated. 

Ceryse Hightower 

Elinor Costayne 

Alys Harroway 

Jeyne Westerling

Tyanna of Pentos (Tyanna of the Tower)

Argella Durrandon (who married Targ bastard Orys)

Rodrik Arryn

Rhea Royce

Alicent Hightower

Corwyn Corbray

Garmund Hightower

Rohanne of Tyrosh (who married Daemon Blackfyre)

Michael Manwoody

Ossifer Plumm

Ronnel Penrose

Aelinor Penrose

Betha Blackwood

Dyanna Dayne

Mariah Martell

Maron Martell

Jenna Dondarrion

Kiera of Tyrosh

somebody from House Tarth

Jenny of Oldstones

Lyanna Stark (I believe in R+L=J. I personally do not think R/L got married in the books, but even without a marriage I think this relationship should be included here. When Rhaegar chose someone to have his ice & fire prophecy baby with, he did not choose someone with valyrian blood.)

I think it’s also important to note that there are various Targaryens who wanted relationships outside of House Targaryen, but who couldn’t marry outside their House / couldn’t marry who they wanted, for various reasons. For example, Aerys and Rhaella did not want an incestuous marriage.

And gay marriage is not legal in Westeros but anyways:

Daeron Targaryen, son of Aegon V - in love with Jeremy Norridge

Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of Prince Aenys - idk if she was bisexual or a lesbian or what but Rhaena definitely liked a lotta non-Targ girls, and Westeros is a homophobic, misogynistic place that hates women and hates wlw so it’s not like Rhaena could have married any of these women

I am counting this as (at least) two non-Targ “marriages”. Fight me.

This makes a total of 27 non-Targ relationships. 

There are also instances where a Targ has married someone outside of House Targaryen, but that person has some Valyrian blood. As mentioned above, tho, keeping the blood of the dragon “pure” is defined in the books as marrying “kin to kin” but I will keep this as a distinct subcategory for now. 

Valaena Velaryon

Alyssa Velaryon

Jocelyn Baratheon (valyrian blood through Orys)

Corlys Velaryon

Larra Rogare

Aemma Arryn

Laenor Velaryon

Laena Velaryon

Alyn Velaryon

Daenaera Velaryon

Ormund Baratheon

Elia Martell

This brings us to a total of 39 non-Targ marriages. These 39 marriages do not fit the in-world definition of keeping the blood of the dragon ~pure~. 

So how many Targ*Targ marriages do we know of exactly, so that we can figure out if blood purity was the main concern for House Targaryen?

Gaemon and Daenys

Aegon and Elaena

Aegon and Visenya(+Rhaenys)

Aegon and Rhaenys(+Visenya)

Aegon and Rhaena

Jaehaerys I and Alysanne

Baelon and Alyssa

Rhaenyra and Daemon

Aegon II and Helaena

Aegon III and Jaehaera

Aegon IV and Naerys

Baelor and Daena the Defiant

Aelor and Aelora

Aerion and Daenora

Jaehaerys II and Shiera

Aerys and Rhaella

I’ll list Targ*Targ affairs too to make it fair, since I included potential gay marriages above:

Aegon IV/Daena the Defiant

Brynden/Shiera 

Aemon the Dragonknight/Naerys (this is only speculated and I honestly don’t actually think this was consummated but let’s throw it in here)

This is a total of 19 Targ*Targ relationships. 

It is possible I’ve forgotten someone and I appreciate corrections. 

So I have a total of 58 relationships here in my sample. 

25+12+2+16+3 = 58

Let’s break that down:

~pure dragon blood~ relationships = 19/58 = 32.8%

~impure~ relationships = 39/58 = 67.2%

Roughly two-thirds of known Targaryen relationships do not keep the blood of the dragon “pure” by the book definition of blood purity. 

If you wish to break the ~impure~ relationships down further:

Targ*Valyrian-blooded relationships = 12/58 = 20.7%

Targ*non-Valyrian-blooded relationships = 27/58 = 46.6%

At the very minimum, at least 46% of Targ relationships were not motivated by blood purity reasons. Note, I think this number is too low, because like Queen Victoria “the grandmother of Europe” and her descendants, the nobility tend to intermarry a lot (because of classism). People like Aemma Arryn have valyrian blood because everyone is intermarrying. 

I will say again, roughly two-thirds of known Targaryen relationships do not keep the blood of the dragon “pure” by the book definition. 

Targaryens intermingled with the people of Westeros, they didn’t keep their blood “pure”. This is a very different attitude from, say, the 20th century anti-miscegenation laws that made it illegal for people of different races to have sex. 

I already pointed out above how GRRM has said these incestuous unions were motivated at least in part by dynastic politics. Could there be any other reasons?

Why did the valyrians before the Doom all practice incest? The “blood of the dragon” is not just about valyrians marrying valyrians, although that’s how anon is trying to spin it. The text specifically says that maintaining “the blood of the dragon” is about marrying “kin to kin.”  

We do not yet know why the valyrians practiced incest. Why is it important that “the blood of the dragon must remain pure”? It has not yet been explained. But there are theories. @nobodysuspectsthebutterfly​​ has already addressed this issue, so I will refer you to her posts: 1, 2 and her entire tag for #the blood of the dragon.

Why is it important that “the blood of the dragon must remain pure”?

I don’t know, but we’re definitely not reading books with magic. We’re definitely not reading books with blood magic. We’re definitely not reading books with giant magical fire-breathing lizards. We definitely don’t need easy ways to control those lizards. Definitely not. 

I mean, we still don’t know exactly what “the blood of the dragon” means but I  think what GRRM wrote with House Targaryen’s incestuous ~blood purity~ is something different from Aryanism. 

Which isn’t to say that all this blood purity bullshit GRRM wrote shouldn’t be criticized. Placing importance on the ~purity~ of someone’s blood in any context is … not a good look. GRRM has been kinda playing this trope straight so far, but I am hoping he smashes it in future books; Tyrion is eager to ride a dragon, and A plus J does not equal T.  

To quote what @moonlitgleek​​ said:

I hate it when people start talking about percentage of Valyrian blood as if that’s the measure of who rides a dragon. Whip up your calculators, everyone. We need to figure out how much Valyrian blood it takes to ride a dragon, be the subject of prophecy or be a savior. Anyone below a certain percentage can not measure.

This blood purity bullshit is bad, I actually agree with anon on that. But I’m not sure why that means we should condemn the entirety of House Targaryen. 

Especially when GRRM loves the Targaryens so much he keeps writing history books about them instead of finishing the series…

Like, from Fire and Blood, Jaehaerys I and Alysanne Targaryen are one of those Targ*Targ marriages that I admit help reinforce Targ blood purity. But this marriage was how Alysanne exercised her own bodily autonomy, by marrying who she wanted, because she and Jaehaerys had their dragons and no one was able to stop them. But anon … anon gonna call that Aryanism …

Anyways. I want to move on to anon’s other claims, but first I think it might be useful to define Aryanism, since anon seems to think it is about marrying brother to sister, which it is not. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aryanism grew out of 19th century fascist ideologies. The term Aryan is related to the root -arya which is related to a Sanskrit word meaning “honorable, respectable, noble.” In the mid- to late-1800s, the term “Aryan race” was coopted by racists to justify their repellant “scientific racism” that claimed that “blond” Germanic / Nordic / Northern European people were a “superior race.” Note that “blond” is specifically mentioned by these ~scientists~ espousing their racist ideology. They claimed that “Aryans” were “natural leaders, destined to rule over” the other races. According to Jackson Spielvogel, Hitler described the Slavic peoples as “a mass of born slaves who feel the need of a master.” Himmler said, “whether nations live in prosperity or starve to death interests me only insofar as we need them as slaves for our culture. Otherwise it is of no interest.” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Anon was correct that racial superiority is a characteristic of Aryanism. 

But do the Targaryens consider themselves to be a superior race to the other peoples of Westeros, or other peoples in general?  

GRRM says he wanted the Targaryens to be “a race apart”:

Speaking of Valyria… right from the start I wanted the Targaryens, and by extension the Valryians from whom they were descended, to be a race apart, with distinctive features that set them apart from the rest of Westeros, and helped explain their obsession with the purity of their blood. To do this, I made a conventional ‘high fantasy’ choice, and gave them silver-gold hair, purple and violet eyes, fine chiseled aristocratic features. That worked well enough, at least in the books (on the show, less so).

But in recent years, it has occured to me from time to time that it might have made for an interesting twist if instead I had made the dragonlords of Valyria… and therefore the Targaryens… black. Maybe I could have kept the silver hair too, though… no, that comes too close to 'dark elf’ territory, but still… if I’d had dark-skinned dragonlords invade and conquer and dominate a largely white Westeros… though that choice would have brought its own perils. The Targaryens have not all been heroic, after all… some of them have been monsters, madmen, so…

Well, it’s all moot. The idea came to me about twenty years too late.

What does it mean to be “a race apart”? Does “apart” automatically mean superior? To me, “apart” here means different or distinct.  But does that mean “superior”?

I’ve already addressed the fact that Targaryens are on average twice as likely to marry someone outside their House than to marry a Targaryen, so I don’t think the incest can be used to say the House as a whole claims superiority. 

There are certainly some Targaryens who view themselves as racially superior. Aerys Targaryen comes to mind; he said of his newborn granddaughter that she “smells dornish.” The Blackfyre cause is certainly racist (for example, Team Blackfyre did not like it that their ~precious white princess~ Daenerys Targaryen, was married to Maron Martell). There are many other Targaryens who were racist. But racism isn’t exclusive to members of House Targaryen. Many nobles in Westeros are racist: Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin - but we were talking about House Targaryen.

What of Daeron Targaryen, who married a Dornish princess, who surrounded himself with Dornishmen and women and artists and intellectuals, and he wanted to include all these people at his court? I don’t know where the textual evidence is that King Daeron adopted an attitude of racial superiority.

What of Maegelle Targaryen? Would you truly accuse her of an attitude of superiority? Maegelle was a septa who nursed children with greyscale, until she herself caught greyscale and died. 

When Aegon the Conqueror became high king, he adopted some Westerosi customs to assimilate. For example, 

Heraldic banners had long been a tradition amongst the lords of Westeros, but such had never been used by the dragonlords of old Valyria. When Aegon’s knights unfurled his great silken battle standard, with a red three-headed dragon breathing fire upon a black field, the lords took it for a sign that he was now truly one of them, a worthy high king for Westeros.

Aegon the Conqueror literally wanted to join with the Westerosi nobles and become one of them. Compare this to Tywin, who disparages nobles from another continent as nothing but "spice soldiers and cheese lords”. So who has the superior attitude? 

And what of Daenerys Targaryen? Dany embraces the Dothraki customs of her husband. (Contrast this with how her brother Viserys belittles the Dothraki.) Daenerys befriends orphans, former prostitutes, former slaves, people of many different races. I don’t think Daenerys adopts an attitude of racial superiority. (It’s true that GRRM does fall into some racist tropes when he writes ASOIAF, but I don’t think this means that Daenerys supports Aryanism, or that GRRM was inspired by white supremacy when he first imagined Daenerys. (Like, srsly, wtf??) Daemon Blackfyre I can definitely see being inspired by white supremacist movements in the real world, but Daenerys?)

Anon accuses the Targaryens of being “exceptional and special”. idk I thought controlling dragons was special.  Kinda like controlling direwolves is special. Controlling magical creatures is special. But I didn’t think controlling magical creatures made you a fascist or a supporter of Aryanism. 

If you want to make the case for a group of white people in ASOIAF posing as ~the master race~, I would actually suggest the valyrians of Old Valyria. The sorcerer-princes of Old Valyria captured and enslaved people and used people to fuel their magical empire. The attitude of Old Valyria actually seems very similar to that Himmler quote I gave you above:  “whether nations live in prosperity or starve to death interests me only insofar as we need them as slaves for our culture. Otherwise it is of no interest.” The dragonlords of Old Valyria definitely colonized other places and practiced imperialism. 

But the Targaryens were like the hillbillies of Old Valyria. They weren’t very powerful. Shortly before the Doom they relocated to a rock in the middle of nowhere on the edge of the Valyrian empire, and then the Doom and the Century of Blood meant suddenly the Targs were on top by accident (and a really smart woman). It’s like an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard or The Beverly Hillbillies, and this is why Tywin and his ancestors before him were so fucking pissed, because who the fuck even is this hillbilly targ family with their ~dRAgoNs~ and their ~InCeSt~ that’s ~bEtTeR~ than our ~LAnNiCeSt~ and ~~~We were kings in Casterly Rock for thousands of years, so who the fuck are these hicks~~~

Anon mentions the characteristic silver-gold hair and purple eyes of House Targaryen. GRRM explains that he “made a conventional 'high fantasy’ choice, and gave them silver-gold hair, purple and violet eyes, fine chiseled aristocratic features.” 

Is there racism in conventional high fantasy? Yeah. 

Does ASOIAF have racist writing? Yeah. 

Is GRRM playing some of those racist tropes straight instead of subverting them? Yeah. 

Could GRRM do better? Yeah. GRRM himself thinks he might have made the Targaryens dark-skinned.

Despite GRRM’s racist writing, I don’t think this means that the Targaryens as GRRM wrote them are all, without exception, terrible people. 

I would also like to point out that House Targaryen exhibits a variety of phenotypes. They are not all the same, they’re not all blond and fair and ~Nordic looking~. Here is a partial list of Targaryens without the traditional look. If someone has statistics on the percentage of Targs without Valyrian features, I would appreciate a link, but I’m math’d out right now. 

Speaking broadly, House Targaryen has certainly done some terrible things. For example, I think the Targaryen conquest of Dorne was imperialistic. Many people have already addressed imperialism in ASOIAF in detail, so I will refer you to this tag. 

Was Aegon’s Conquest of Westeros a good thing, or a bad thing? I don’t know. Truly I don’t know - there is good and bad both in what Aegon the Conqueror did. 

GRRM says this about him:

“Aegon finally decided to take over Westeros, and unify the Seven Kingdoms (that existed at the time) under a single rule. There is a lot of speculation that, in some sense, he saw what was coming 300 years later, and wanted to unify the Seven Kingdoms to be better prepared for the threat that he eventually saw coming from the North – the threat that we’re dealing with in A Song of Ice and Fire.” 

Individually, some Targaryens were certainly awful. Others were good and kind. Some of them were mediocre. I think we should evaluate these characters individually, instead of condemning an entire family. I think that is what GRRM is trying to get us to do, judge each character individually based on their crimes and/or their heroism. 

“a Targaryen restoration seems like the worst possible idea“

Anon thinks the worst possible thing that could happen to Westeros is that Dany becomes queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

That’s “the worst possible idea” of what could happen. 

The Others could win the War for the Dawn and enslave/murder every single living creature on Terros. That’s a distinct possibility. 

But anon would rather have every single person on Terros die than for Dany to become queen of the Seven Kingdoms? 

And people say this fandom isn’t misogynistic. 

I really don’t think it would be a bad thing for a person as compassionate as Daenerys Targaryen to become queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Westeros could certainly do worse than Dany. The Lannisters could stay in power, for example. 

Cuz you know which family is repeatedly described as blond and fair and there is a LOT of uniformity in their appearance? Which family didn’t want to marry a Dornish girl? Which family described the Westerlings as “doubtful blood” and wouldn’t marry them? Which family had a common girl gang raped because the heir married her? Cuz it sure wasn’t Aegon V’s family.

Who said Lannisters are “worth more” than other people? Who captured and enslaved people at Harrenhal while burning their lands?

Tywin Lannister did that. GRRM ain’t exactly subtle about pointing out the fascist. It’s Tywin and Randyll and people like them who are the fascist who support Aryanism.

Daenerys is repeatedly in direct opposition to Tywin’s philosophies. Daenerys is one of the heroes. She’s a complex, well-written hero. She flirts with darkness but ultimately rejects it. She’s a grey, complicated hero. 

This fandom doesn’t deserve Dany, but she’s gonna save the world anyway.

[badbookreviewclub]

Waiting for Snow in Havana: Confessions of a Cuban Boy - A Book by Carlos Eire

Please note, this will be different from other reviews as I have a deep love for Waiting for Snow in Havana. In this review, I do critique the book a bit, but it’s more a general summarization of the book. I don’t have any spoilers in it (not that you really can have spoilers for a memoir), but I do highly recommend that you read this book.  I’m trying out writing a good book review for once, so please do let me know what you think.  Waiting for Snow in Havana is an immersive tale of lizard hunting, Cuba-shaped clouds, and adventures someone could only have in Cuba as a young and rambunctious boy. Carlos Eire takes the reader on his own memory-filled trip that twists emotions and gives the reader a look into the life and thoughts of a young Cuban boy, who was brought into America as a refugee after Fidel Castro became dictator. As a result of these being Carlos Eire’s memories of his time in Cuba and even a little bit of when he was first in America, the book can be a bit disorganized at times and comes off as a stream-of-consciousness style of writing. And yet, it works magnificently. This style benefits the book and gives overall better imagery throughout. Waiting for Snow in Havana is not the typical autobiography and that only makes it all the more wonderful to read. Carlos Eire grew up in Cuba before being brought to America through Operation Peter Pan. His mother joined him in America about a decade later, though it was through much struggle on her own part. In the United States, Eire went on to get an education and graduated from Yale with a Ph.D. in 1979 in religious and early modern European history. He ventured out of his normal zone of comfort writing about early European history to write his memoir, Waiting for Snow in Havana, which won the National Book Award for Nonfiction in 2003. Carlos Eire gives the reader an insight into how Fidel Castro’s revolution affected families and the people that it was supposed to help. Eire’s grandfather had been in a horrible car accident and had broken his leg so badly that it could not be fixed. As Eire puts it best, “He was the kind of guy the revolution was supposed to help (pg. 364).” Fidel Castro had taken the little bit of money that his grandfather had saved up and turned it into nothing around the same time that he had broken his leg. And yet, Eire’s grandfather still had to stand in line like everyone else, in tears because he had lost everything yet again. Eire comments a couple of times throughout the book saying, “The state owns everything—excuse me—the people own everything (pg. 220).” Rephrasing it the way that Fidel Castro put it as well as the way that it actually appears to be, this dual perspective is unique to Eire’s writing. Although Carlos Eire makes it clear at the beginning of the book that he has a deep dislike for Castro, possibly even a hatred, he does let the reader know that in the beginning, he was in awe of the soon-to-be dictator. “Anyone who was against Batista must be good, I thought… Anyone who treated human beings like lizards couldn’t be a good president (pg. 180).” In the second part of this quote, Eire is referring to how Batista, the current president, tortured people before he was overthrown. Eire also compares this action of torturing people to how Ernesto, his adopted brother, tortured lizards by frying them with electricity. After Castro took over though, Eire’s opinion of the dictator quickly soured. When making a school project, Eire compares the propaganda that was repeated over and over again, from radio broadcasts and television to a scratched record when he had to make a school project for the Agrarian Reform. Eire later comments that people would turn off their televisions and radios so as not to hear the speeches, but the speakers on the utility poles quickly rid every house of silence.  The reader also gets an insight into how the lives of everyone, specifically the lives of the wealthier changed, not just how his own opinion changed. Eire’s life may not have differed much after the forced take over until the forced currency change, considering that his father was a judge. Eire tells some of the stories he heard from other children and stories of what he saw on television. Fidel Castro’s revolutionaries would arrest rebels and prominent figures in Cuban society who could contradict Castro or become a threat to his dictatorship. Then, the revolutionaries would line them up against the wall, shooting them live on television for all to see. The spectators would shout ‘paredón,’ or ‘up against the wall’ over and over again before the revolutionaries finally shot to kill, torture, and maim. Eire’s own cousin, Fernando, was arrested and put through this torture over and over again, though Fernando eventually was released from the prison alive. Carlos Eire recalls one story he heard from two girls of their father being dragged from their home by revolutionaries. These two girls had seen their own father “dragged from their house weeping and screaming, ‘Please don’t kill me, please don’t!’ He had soiled his pants on the way to the paredón, and begged for his life until the split second when the bullets ripped into him (pg. 219).” Their father was taken to the paredón simply because he had worked as a mayor under the Batista regime. Despite Eire’s emotion-twisting stories of Cuba, there is more that could have been done to make Waiting for Snow in Havana a more satisfying read. Although the book is explained from a child’s perspective, it does not give much insight into how it felt as a young boy to move to the United States as a refugee. Eire does not go much into his emotions of what it felt like to have to leave his mother. He does not detail how it felt to be split apart from his brother so soon after landing in their new home. He does explain how hard it was to be an immigrant and refugee in the United States, but it feels as though it is all from a logical perspective. It stands out from the rest of the book with its lack of emotion. It would have also been incredibly interesting to see how Eire’s life changed in America in comparison to his brother. He hinted vaguely at it throughout the memoir, but to have a chapter dedicated to that would have elevated the book to an unbelievably amazing degree.  Nonetheless, Waiting for Snow in Havana is a book that the reader will find themselves not wanting to put down and a story that saddens them when it is finished. Waiting for Snow in Havana deserves its National Book Award and so many more. As the reader moves through the pages, they will find themselves in Havana, right next to Eire as he plays with his friends, seeing things from his own perspective. Eire is an absolutely astounding writer and it shows in his storytelling abilities. At the end of it all, the reader will find themselves looking for Cuba-shaped clouds and firecrackers with the red paper to launch lizards into orbit. Overall I would give the book 8/10 stars. I highly recommend that anyone who likes history, memoirs, or even just having a beautiful picture painted in their mind read Waiting for Snow in Havana. It’s beautifully written and Eire pulls you into his writing. Before you know it, the book will be over and you’ll have found yourself longing for more. I recently discovered the Eire wrote another memoir called Learning to Die in Miami: Confessions of a Refugee so when I get the chance, I will be buying and reading that one. It will probably be a while until I can, considering I made a promise to a very good friend of mine that I wouldn’t buy more books until I get through the ones that I have bought (13 so far, six of which are terrible books, so wish me luck).  If you are interested in purchasing Waiting for Snow in Havana, you can find it here.

[cyberlifeleds]

Gentle Giant

Luther x Android!reader.

A/N: this is just an idea that popped into my head. Luther lives in this and it is post revolution.

Warnings: Slight angst.

Nimble. Lithe. That’s how you were made. Your frame was small, but had shown evidences of slight muscle. You were made fro a specific task. That was to dance. You either taught humans the art, or you were a stand-in on practice days when someone’s partner was not around. Everything about you claimed elegance. Smooth and calculated were your moves. You knew every step and you took them with confidence. Thousands of styles of dancing were programmed into your head. You were lighter than most, made to be lifted. To be thrown through the air with grace and style. The perfect dancing partner.

Except that was not how the humans saw you. They saw you as a cold machine. A pompous machine that rubbed their noses in the fact that you were better than them. This wasn’t true. You had always striven to be supportive of your human counterparts, encouraging them when you thought they needed it. It hurt when they treated you like this. And you weren’t supposed to feel pain. They saw you as a threat, and that was something you just couldn’t understand.

It happened so slowly, you didn’t even realize it was happening. Deviancy. It started with slight pangs of fear that twisted at your thirium pump. These would happen when the humans would be in groups, their backs turned to you, whispering inaudibly. It always felt wrong when glances were thrown your way. Something was not right. Fears continued to creep into your system, clogging your code. Red seemed to t=be the only color your LED could rest on. Focus was harder to find as the instances got worse. You were dropped more often. You would teach and they didn’t listen. You broke when they threatened you, warnings of dismemberment were thrown your way like malicious jokes.You ran, and you were lost.

You wandered a long time before you found Jericho. A new home, but you were hesitant. It was a... switch to say the least. You felt useless, out of place. Your code didn’t seem to be useful in these circumstances. Often you wandered empty parts of the ship, dancing quietly while sadness ate at your mainframe. This was where you met Luther. Often he was seen with Kara, or Alice. You kept your distance for the most part. In all honest, he scared you. You were like a mouse in comparison. And while any android has the strength to tear you apart, you felt like he would actually do it if you were to step on his bad side.

You couldn’t figure him out, so you stuck to your shadows. When in empty rooms, you often felt.. watched and uneasy, always assume you were alone. Until one day you were stopped mid-spin by a recognizable voice. You didn’t think it was possible to feel a chill up your spine. “It’s beautiful you know. The way you dance it’s... elegant”. Luther stepped forward, with a soft reassuring smile. “you should perform for the others here... could be good for morale”. Weight shifted back and forth as you fidgeted. You clasped your hands tight together, thirium pumped through your system. Your LED flickered from yellow to red steadily and a chuckle was heard “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone” His voice was soft. Slowly you unclasped your hands, LED crept to a steady blue. He turned to leave, stepping away when you called out “Thank you..!” Your voice echoed off the metal walls of Jericho, all that was left was a smile thrown over Luther’s shoulder before he exited the room.

That seemed forever ago. And now here you were. All of you. Free. It was strange to have things happen so fast. Strange and bitter. You fought in the revolution. Well you fought as well as any dancer could on a battle field. You were scared and determined. Humans were ruthless though. You had been overwhelmed by a group of humans, pushed to the ground, fear coursing through you. You tried to scramble away. You tried to escape! But you couldn’t. A few had grabbed onto one of your legs, beating and pulling. Beating and pulling until...crack. 

An unneeded breathe of air pushed past your lips, pain flooded your sense and notifications of something wrong popped into your vision. You couldn’t run a self diagnostic yet, you had to get out of there. You don’t know where he came from, but it was like he heard you call for him. Luther was there, you don’t know how but he was there. Somehow, he got you away from that group, carrying you to safety. You clung to him, panic attacked your body as one of your legs swung limply as he carried you.

You had lost the leg in the battle, but the androids won. You should be happy. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to be. After Jericho had relocated you hid from the others, having to move around with assistance or a crutch you didn’t want to be seen. You felt lost once more. You were unable to stand, let alone dance. The one job you were made for was now a distant memory. A soft knock pulled you from your thoughts as you sat by the window, rain poured outside. “I thought I’d check up on you. I haven’t seen you since...”

His words hung in the air, you made no movement to pull away from the window “What is it?”, it came out harsher than intended, but didn’t stop Luther from standing behind you “I’m worried about you. you haven’t been out of this room at all. There are people out there who would like to get to know you”. You scoffed and turned in your seat to face him “People do not  want to meet me. Besides I don’t want to meet them. I’m broken.... useless..” You looked away, tears rolled down your synthetic skin.

“Stand up” Luther straightened his posture, looking down at you. Your head snapped up, anger and sadness touched you. He spoke before you could “Stand up... and trust me” you closed your mouth, unsure of what he was doing. You stood, shakily and unbalanced. His hands moved gently to catch you. Once you were standing properly he used one free hand to wipe away your tears, before moving it back down to your waist, the other holding your hand. “What are you doing?” disbelief tinted your words. he pressed hes forehead against yours “I am showing you that you are not useless. You are not broken. You’re important even if you are missing your leg. You are still a friend. You’re still elegant” He pulled away and pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head before moving, his arm around your waist as he gently picked you up in a twirl. 

He helped you balance, whispering encouraging words into your ear. “See? you can still dance. Not like before. Of course, many things won’t be like they were before. And that is ok. Change is ok. lean into me and I will help you” You wanted to be angry. Wanted to scream at him, but the way he was able to carry and lift you reminded you of the way you used to glide through the air. Your spirit began to lift. You clung to him, realization starting to bloom in your head and chest. Maybe he was right. Maybe there is another way to dance again.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! I don’t see a lot of Luther fics and I wanted to write at least one. Sorry if it is late. Also I just wanted to say as a side note that I hope whoever reads this is doing well. If you’re in a slump just know that I’m cheering you on. I’m in your corner and you got this.