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imaginationofacrazyfangirl · 4 years

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Imagine You are All Might’s Personal Assistant

All Might truly is the fastest man on Earth.

“What do you mean he just left? Where could he have gone?” you shout.

The police officer shrugs giving you a pitying look. It makes you want to smack it off his young baby looking face. Unfortunately, that would be assault and you are pretty sure you’d get arrested…All Might’s personal assistant or not. Besides you don’t want to deal with the added stress of bad publicity, even if you get some joy out of it.

“Well, we just got a call about a robbery not too far from here. Maybe he went –“baby officer barely got the words out, before you sped off shouting a loud, “Thank you!”

Ask any personal assistant of a major superhero, what the most important ability needed for their job was, and they all answer: being able to always find your superhero. It may seem like a simple ability seeing how superheroes almost always made themselves known to the public (minus a few underground heroes like Eraserhead, who hated the spotlight), but, it isn’t so simple. Sure, you know how to easily find All Might, for that you just check online. After all, the All Might Watch Forum tends to keep a better update on the hero than the police did. No, the real trouble comes in figuring out how to get to where your hero is.

For almost all personal assistants this is the first pain of their job. Superhero’s often have their own means of transportation and vice versa for their sidekicks; personal assistants though generally consisted of people with average quirk abilities. Meaning while their bosses took to the skies, teleported, or ran at breakneck pace, they themselves took taxis-or in your case ran. Luckily for you, All Might’s next heroic save happened to be only a few blocks away. An annoyance still but manageable. You only pray now that he stays there. The hero has a horrible habit of leaving without a word.

Thankfully luck is on your side for the first time today. All Might is still there when you arrive. His loud boisterous laughter reminding those around him that everything is alright. Besides him, a bloody villain slumps over, tied in what looks like clothed nappies? Apparently, the robbery took places at a daycare of all places, or at least it did, if any of the cooing babies and swooning mothers had anything to say

Pushing your way through the crowds of excited reporters and citizens, you hear All Might’s too familiar boom of , “Fear not. Because I am here!”

You can’t help the bitter irritation rising in you. Fear not? Oh, someone is going to have something to fear. Boss or not, he’s totally going to hear it from you. However, the lecture gets put on pause as you finally make it to the front. All Might’s still there standing proudly in front of a disturbingly bland daycare front. Its simplistic lettering of ‘KIDZ LEARN ABC’S” contrasts against his glowing persona. Around him, toddlers and mothers alike drool trying for his attention, to which he spares a grin and handshake to each one.

The sight screams All Might. It is so pure, so kind, so friendly-you must take a picture for social medial! Sliding the portable camera out of your bag, you quickly snap a couple of pics. Job number three of being a hero’s personal assistant: run their social media accounts. Most heroes with personal assistants fall into one of two categories: they are either high in ranking or up and coming. Either way, they all need someone to manage their publicity stuff.

Despite the flash of the camera, All Might takes no notice of you. Probably due to all the ongoing flashes of media cameras around him. The attention comes with every save so he’s more than used to someone somewhere taking his picture. No, it’s not until some brown-haired reporter asks, “All Might, a word please?”

That you intervene letting your presence be known. “All Might is unfortunately needed elsewhere. So, any questions or requests for an interview about today’s current rescues can be forward to his agency.”

The blond-haired hero stiffens besides the reporter. Sweat begins to form on his face at the sight of you. As horrible as it sounds you take great pleasure in the panic on his face. Not many people scare the great Symbol of Peace. In fact, you can only really say two other people not including yourself, have the power to make the hero squirm.

“(Y/N)- I didn’t see you there.” The hero stutters uncharacteristically.

You shoot him your best glare, causing him to shrink back. No one will ever understand just why someone so comparably tiny and non-life threatening could have so much control over the hero. Villains came and went without him so much as breaking a sweat. Yet you with neither the power nor quirk to stop him, scare All Might.

“I saved a pre-school!” he babbled, picking up a random toddler. “See? Aren’t they the most precious thing you ever seen? Wouldn’t it be horrible if something happened to them?”

He is milking it, and he knows it. Not only does he sound like a bumbling idiot on camera, but the toddler he chose, smells something awful. Still All Might refuses to give up. Children are your weakness. Their gummy gooey smiles make you coo every time. In fact, if you weren’t his assistant, the hero is sure you’d be a teacher.

“All Might, we agreed on letting other heroes do the rescuing sometimes? Remember? Keeping the market open for others?” you press voice low.

‘ Keeping the market open for others,’ a code for ‘you’re going to run out of time.’ A hard to swallow truth, but the truth nonetheless. Not many people knew about his injury, his time limit, but you knew everything-almost everything. For your safety, he kept the truth behind his quirk a secret. His return to Japan/ his decision to take on teaching all hidden under the guise of searching for a successor.

“Yes, well-look at these chubby cheeks!” he replied, pushing the kid towards you. Again shameless, but did he really care? No. Last time All Might angered you, he sported a pink suit for two months. And while the hero didn’t discriminate against any color, the hearts and frills were too much. “Could I really risk the chance of another hero arriving on time?”

“All Might-“ you started only for the kid to cry, “All Might!” as well.

You glanced over at the toddler, eyes softening. Said hero couldn’t help but feel like the cat who ate the canary. Silently he cheered for the kid to continue. If they did a really good job, All Might would send them some signed memorabilia.

Shaking your head, you fought the doubt creeping within you. As preferable as it would be to just let the man off, you knew you couldn’t do it. Rescuing kids may take priority to most things, however not when there are other heroes perfectly capable of doing the job for him. “Don’t try and get out of this one. I’ve chased you to not two or three, but five different incidents.” You pressed. “Without flight, teleportation, or transportation! Do you know how hard it is for someone without a quirk or car to follow you?!”

All Might slumped slightly under the pressure of your lecture. Each escaping your mouth seemed to hit him worse than any supervillain could. “Not to mention you’re overdoing it again.” You lectured, ignoring the exasperated looks on his and everyone else’s face.

You knew how people viewed. Most PA’s tended to be shy docile beings pushed around by their heroes or ignored. In fact, the average years for a PA to work under a hero ranged from two to three years, before they either quit or got fired. Those who lasted longer tended to be outliers such as yourself; people not easily cowed by the awe of their employers. As for All Might’s view of you…he knew how much you truly cared about him. It was why he kept you around despite your lecturing and harsh tactics.

Having someone worry for him felt nice, especially given how he cared more about others than himself. A natural feeling obviously for heroes, but All Might ignored his health beyond that of usual heroes in your opinion. “You worry too much, (Y/N). I’m built to last.” He grinned, thumping his chest. “See?”

His words did nothing to quell your fear. From day one-even before the tragic accident you worried over him; almost as if he wasn’t the world’s greatest hero just another human being. It was strange considering how used to being worshipped by even his own friends, All Might was. Everyone saw only the smile and hero versus the man behind it. Yet you never did. To you, All Might was just a man with an extraordinary job and that…that felt nice.

“Come on (Y/N), let’s go home. I promise to leave the rest of the saving to the other heroes for today.” All Might grinned, patting your head.

You blinked cut off mid-rant. A warmth spread through your cheeks at the gesture, but you pushed it back. Falling in love with your hero was a big no-no in the world of PA’s. However could anyone really blame you when it came to such a selfless man like All Might?

#all might x reader #all might imagine #toshinori yagi x you #toshinori x reader #my hero academia #my hero academia imagines #bhna x reader #boku no hero academia #boku no hero acadamia oc #bnha imagine #mha imagine

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good-rwbyaus · 4 years

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honorable-asshole asked:

Au where Whitley has actually been running the bank accounts since he was young and keeping the group financially viable

#Rising Snow AU - [ first ] [ next ]- mod lilac

7. Red

The Schnee Dust Company was hemorrhaging money. He would’ve thought it absurd a couple days ago - couldn’t believe the profit margin graphs he saw at first demonstrating worsening debt every year. It was to the point where the company may very well collapse in just a few scant years if the trend continued.

His first thoughts were that the graphs must be all lies. How could the SDC be on the verge of going bankrupt? The Schnee Dust Company was practically a household name - because there was no one else people can turn to for their Dust needs. A monopoly in every sense of the word. They were successful both at home and abroad with branches everywhere, even in Vacuo where the populace outright hated them. Why were they losing money?

Was this why Father meticulously scoured everything involving the budget?

He tapped his finger against the table, the milkshake Klein had provided having turned soupy a long time ago. Those fingers moved to massage his temples, eyebags from lost sleep causing his vision to blur. He gritted his teeth and punched the table with a loud bang.

Why was his father going off taking vacation when there was a very real chance his company was going to keel over and die?!

Why were they still having extravagant monthly banquets, costing millions of Lien when they were on the brink?

How could things have gotten to this point?

Wait, why don’t people know about this?

Something like the Schnee Dust Company about to go under was big news.

He looked into the glowing computer monitor, gritting his teeth - knowing he’s probably not going to like what he’s going to find.

____________________________

8. Trust

“Klein. Is father reachable right now?” said a pale Whitley, breath smelling acrid from the dry retching he did earlier in the bathroom earlier.

“I’m sorry, young master,” Klein replied apologetically, “your father has always been out of contact when he’s on vacation.”

Damn it. He knew that, but he had hoped... It was a stupid hope. Even back when his sisters were around - even when his eldest sister got badly injured from training, his father had never left a method of contact during his vacation. What made him think that would change? He felt like he was going to explode from what he learned.

He needed to talk to someone. This was a problem too big for him to handle, but the only one who he can talk to...

He stared at Klein whose eyes changed to a bright blue, staring him with...concern. Something he’s never seen in his father’s eyes.

“Young master, are you feeling okay?”

Even the man’s words of care, said frequently, were never said by his father even once. It...was honestly something he’s always taken for granted. Until now.

“Klein, I need to talk to someone.”

“If you nee-”

“You can’t let father know about what I’m about to tell you,” he cut Klein off, staring at him straight in the eyes.

Without skipping a beat, Klein replied, “Young master, so long as you say so, I will not relay a single word to your father without your permission.”

“...There was never a test, was there?” he let it out there.

The butler hesitated for a moment before nodding his head.

Whitley took a deep breath.

____________________________

9. Downhill

“This company is a landmine with the amount of debt that’s been accumulating,” Whitley pinched the bridge of his nose, “And when it explodes, it’s not going to just affect our family. It’ll affect all of Atlas, maybe beyond that.”

“Tens of thousands of people are going to die when this company folds over. And I can’t figure out how to stop it.”

Whitley agitatedly stalked back and forth as he clenched his fists back and forth, his only audience of Klein quietly but attentively listening.

“And Father’s content on just ignoring the prob- No. He doesn’t care. He’s cooked the books enough to make it look like we’re only barely in the red - enough to demand subsidies from the government to help prop us up instead of causing the state of emergency that would happen if we were to reveal how badly in the red we are now.”

He stomped his foot.

“But that solution is not sustainable. We’re just pouring water into a sieve, and I cannot solve this problem. The only one who can solve it is intent on just getting what jollies he can from the company and leaving.”

He never thought he would say that about his father, but the evidence he perused through several days of scouring didn’t lie. His father, from the very start, only cared about making sure he had all the power but didn’t care about anything else beyond his fancy dinners, expensive vacations, and his appearance.

Cautiously, Klein made his opinion known.

“Young master, have you ever thought...that this problem may not necessarily require you in particular to solve it? You could always repo-”

He shook his head vehemently at Klein’s suggestion.

“And then what? The Kingdom of Atlas has always been merciless to those that disturb its order - the Schnee’s are only tolerated because we have both the power and the resources to both help and contend with them,” he gritted his teeth, wiping away a dampness in his eyes with a sleeve.

Klein opened his mouth to say something, but he could only cut him off.

“Don’t argue with me on this point. You haven’t attended those high-class dinners. They’re all snakes maneuvering to get the biggest piece of the pie. If we report the SDC’s situation to the government, all those snakes - the government, the biggest of all - will just slice the SDC into bite-sized pieces under the guise of management, and we’ll be left with nothing.”

“Father will probably go to jail. Weiss will likely be asked to leave her school in disgrace. Maybe Winter will be left unscathed, but that’s only because Ironwood admires her skills; she won’t be able to protect us. Mother might even have to join Father in prison, even though all she’s been doing is drinking her days away and doesn’t care about anything anymore.”

He couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice at the last bit. Yeah, she’s a horrible mother, but she’s his mother.

“Even if father is content to let this company go to ruin, I won’t let it. I can’t. Even if I have to fix every stupid problem from gross corruption to a leaking toilet myself, I will not let our only shield against the world break in my hands.”

“..But I just don’t know where to start,” Whitley finished bitterly, “Or who to trust. I’m smart enough to know when a problem’s too big for me to handle. I’m good at numbers. I’m good at reading people. But I’m not nearly experienced enough to fix the problems that need fixing all by myself. ”

“I feel like we’re going to capsize and drown, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

[ next ]

#whitley schnee #willow schnee #klein #rwby au #rwby fic #rwby #mod lilac

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springsaladgaming · 4 years

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Progress Update 3/26/21

I was in a major adhd/depression funk (I dunno which was the culprit) this past week that I have successfully powered through! 🥳

Going public with this demo was kind of scary for me, but getting so many supportive messages from people has been beyond amazing, and I’ve already gotten a lot of feedback that has given me a list of things to work on beyond the one I already had, so thank you for that!

I’ve spent the last week mostly on revision and editing. Chapter 1 has undergone some key balance changes to the stat increases/decreases that will pave the way for me to refine chapters 2 and 3 a lot and hopefully allow your MC’s personalities to shine through more even though it’s early in the story. Part of this was changing/adding a few choices in here and there. There’s a little bit more variety to how Chapter 1 ends that will add a lot more variety to how the conversation with the MC’s brother can go in Chapter 3. I’m pretty excited for people to experience it. Once I get through the same thing with Chapter two, I plan to beef up that conversation with the brother even more, so that should be very exciting.

Also, the brother’s name is changing! For anyone who hasn’t seen the asks on here, the brother is Korean-American, and a very illuminating conversation with an anon made me realize the racist connotations of having a Korean-American character with a single-syllable given name, so I’m changing his name. Going forward, the MC’s brother will be introduced and referred to as Sungjae from the beginning of the story. I spent a portion of time making sure all instances of his name in the code and in the text were updated.

I also spent a little time cleaning up some of the code for my own sake. I only started learning how to code when I began writing this story toward the beginning of February, so a lot of the code in Chapter 1, though still technically correct, was inefficient. I’ve learned a lot between then and now, and now it’s a lot more efficient and much easier for me to mine through for the sake of editing and revision.

This coming week, I plan to continue this particular string of revisions. I anticipate that most of these changes will really come to a head in Chapter 3. As I said before, I’m also planning to beef up the conversation with Sungjae a lot, so that will be something to look forward to reading. I also plan to complete Chapter 4 so that I can finally move on to Chapter 5, where we will get to really meet Cherry, Lucia, and potentially Rene as well. Rene is one of my favorite characters, so it’s unfortunate that his part in the story means he gets introduced later than everyone else. 😞 If he makes it into Chapter 5, it will be only just. Totally tried to code that like I was coding my game lol.

I haven’t implemented these changes yet, but I’m planning to split the Cautious/Daring traits off from the others. These traits are intended to project how the MC approaches situations, which is something I want other characters to be able to comment on from time to time, but they shouldn’t really be used to determine how the MC responds to situations that take place outside of player choice, which is what the other stats are partially meant for. Right now, they compete with all of the other statistics for the role of the main personality stat. In the future, they will be in their own category.

I am undoubtedly somewhere between a pantser and a planner. I have clear checkpoints for where the story needs to get to, but not a detailed roadmap. Turns out, that actually works really well for writing a CSG because I can stop after hitting those checkpoints to do some revision passes and it’s actually very helpful rather than procrastination under the guise of revision. It’s also helpful for my adhd because it lets me change things up frequently so that I don’t get burned out or lose focus. So this has been so much fun for me, and I’m already excited to keep working on this more tomorrow.

Going forward, I will try to make regular progress updates, mostly to keep myself accountable. But any changes made to the demo will be reported in a changelog when they happen, so no need to read these all the time if you want simple and easy.

Thanks for the support, and I’ll see y’all next time!

#long post #ninelives progress update

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tinyshe · 3 years

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Story at-a-glance

In the spring of 2021, the Biden Administration said it was seriously looking into establishing a vaccine passport system that will allow unvaccinated individuals to be legally treated as second-class citizens

In Israel, vaccine certificates are already required for entry into many public spaces. Activists warn it’s become a two-tiered society where the unvaccinated are ostracized

The public narrative is not only building prejudice against people who refuse to wear masks or get an experimental vaccine, but is also using healthy people as scapegoats from the very beginning, blaming the spread of the virus on asymptomatically infected people

With the rollout of vaccine certificates, we are stepping firmly into discrimination territory. The last step will entail persecution of non-vaccinated individuals. At that point, we will have replicated the Nazi regime’s four-step process of dehumanizing the Jews, which ultimately allowed the genocide to occur

Vaccine passports are about creating justification for segregation, discrimination and elimination of certain groups of people, in this case, people who don’t want to be part of the experimental vaccine program, which identifies them as noncompliant with top-down edicts

This article was previously published on April 6, 2021 and has been updated with new information.

As predicted in 2020, vaccine passports are being rolled out across the world, including the U.S. As reported by Ron Paul in his Liberty Report,1,2 which streamed live March 29, 2021, the Biden Administration said it was "seriously looking into establishing some kind of federal vaccine passport system, where Americans who cannot (or will not) prove to the government they have been jabbed with the experimental vaccine will be legally treated as second-class citizens."

While Biden has yet to formally announce such a program, Paul warns that if it happens, this system "will quickly morph into a copy of China's 'social credit' system, where undesirable behaviors are severely punished." I've been saying the same thing for many months now, and there's every reason to suspect that this is indeed where we're headed.

Indeed, listen to Ilana Rachel Daniel's emotional plea from Jerusalem, Israel, where a "Green Pass" is now required if you want to enter any number of public venues and participate in society. Daniel, who emigrated from the U.S. to Israel 25 years ago, is a health adviser, activist and information officer for a new political human rights party called Rappeh.

The COVID-19 data simply don't support the rollout of this kind of draconian measure. In the absence of a serious, truly massively lethal threat to a major portion of U.S. citizens, having to show vaccine papers in order to travel and enter certain social venues is clearly more about imposing top-down government control than safeguarding public health.

We're Looking at the End of Human Liberty in the West

Mandatory vaccine passports will be massively discriminating, and are quite frankly senseless, considering the so-called COVID-19 "vaccines" don't work like vaccines.

They're designed to lessen symptoms when the inoculated person gets infected, but they do not actually prevent them from getting infected in the first place, and they don't prevent the spread of the virus — which is being proven by the number of fully vaccinated people who not only are coming down with the Delta variant of COVID, but are being told they can spread it to others.

With statistics like this, vaccine passports are nothing but loyalty cards, proving you've submitted to being a lab rat for an experimental injection and nothing more, because in reality, vaccinated individuals are no safer than unvaccinated ones. It's a truly mindboggling ruse, and unless enough people are able to see it for what it is, the world will rather literally be turned into a prison planet.

In Israel … we're hearing from activists that it's a two-tiered society and that basically, activists are ostracized and surveilled continually. It is the end of civil society, and they are trying to roll it out around the world. ~ Naomi Wolf

As noted by former Clinton adviser and author Naomi Wolf, mandatory COVID-19 passports would spell the "end of human liberty in the West." In a March 28, 2021, interview with Fox News' Steve Hilton, she said:3,4

"'Vaccine passport' sounds like a fine thing if you don't understand what those platforms can do. I'm [the] CEO of a tech company, I understand what these platforms can do. It is not about the vaccine, it's not about the virus, it's about your data.

Once this rolls out, you don't have a choice about being part of the system. What people have to understand is that any other functionality can be loaded onto that platform with no problem at all. It can be merged with your Paypal account, with your digital currency. Microsoft is already talking about merging it with payment plans.

Your network can be sucked up. It geolocates you everywhere you go. You credit history can be included. All of your medical and health history can be included.

This has already happened in Israel, and six months later, we're hearing from activists that it's a two-tiered society and that basically, activists are ostracized and surveilled continually. It is the end of civil society, and they are trying to roll it out around the world.

It is absolutely so much more than a vaccine pass … I cannot stress enough that it has the power to turn off your life, or to turn on your life, to let you engage in society or be marginalized."

Largest Medical Experiment in the History of the World

As noted by Donald Rucker, who led the Trump Administration's health IT office, the individual tracking that goes along with a vaccine passport will also help officials to evaluate the effectiveness and long-term safety of the vaccines. He told The Washington Post:5

"The tracking of vaccinations is not just simply for vaccine passports. The tracking of vaccinations is a broader issue of 'we're giving a novel biologic agent to the entire country,' more or less."

In other words, health officials know full well that this mass vaccination campaign is a roll of the dice. It's the largest medical experiment in the history of the world, and vaccine certificates will allow them to track all of the millions of test subjects. This alone should be cause enough to end all discussions about vaccine mandates, yet the experimental nature of these injections is being completely ignored.

Again, by shaming people who have concerns about participating in a medical experiment and threatening to bar them from society, government officials are proving that this is not for the greater good. It's not about public health. It's about creating loyal subjects — people who are literally willing to sacrifice their lives and the lives of their children at the request of the government, no questions asked.

Vaccinations Are the New 'Purity Test'

Wolf also points out the horrific history of IBM, which developed a similar but less sophisticated system of punch cards that allowed Nazi Germany to create a two-tier society and ultimately facilitated the rounding up of Jews for extermination.

Suffice it to say, some of the most gruesome parts of history are now repeating right before our eyes, and we must not turn away from this ugly truth. Doing so may turn out to be far more lethal than COVID-19 ever was.

The short video above features a 93-year-old Holocaust survivor who compares mask wearing to, as a Jew, having to wear a yellow star to mark their societal status. However, back then, everyone understood what was happening, she says.

At no point were they lied to and told that wearing the star was for their own good, which is what's happening now. So, in that respect, the current situation is far more insidious. She says the "hypocrisy in the public narrative," which claims that we need to wear masks to protect the old, "is absolutely unbearable." "I would love to die in a state [of] freedom," she says, "than live like this."

She adds that at her age, her life expectancy is short, and she would gladly exchange her death for the life and happiness of the next generations. She wants the younger generations to have the freedom "to live their lives, as I have lived mine ... To see people defile their children with masks is something totally unbearable to me," she says. Vaccine credentials, in my view, are even more comparable to the Jewish yellow star, but in reverse.

Not having the certificate will be the yellow star of our day, which will allow business owners, government officials and just about anyone else to treat you like a second-class citizen and deny you access to everything from education, work and travel, to recreation, social engagements and daily commerce — all under the false guise of you being a biological threat to all those who have been vaccinated.

According to the public narrative, vaccine certificates are a key aspect of getting life back to normal, but the reality is the complete converse, as they will usher in a markedly different society that is anything but normal.

Florida Bucks the Trend

As a resident of Florida, I must applaud Gov. Ron DeSantis who announced March 29, 2021,6 that he would issue an executive order forbidding local governments and businesses from requiring vaccine certificates.

He followed up with that order April 2, 2021, saying he was calling on the state legislature to create a measure that will allow him to sign it into law. Unfortunately, U.S. District Judge Kathleen M. Williams issued an injunction August 8, 2021, against enforcing the order; whether DeSantis chooses to fight to keep it is yet to be seen.

"It's completely unacceptable for either the government or the private sector to impose upon you the requirement that you show proof of vaccine to just simply participate in normal society," he said at the time he announced the order.

But, no matter what comes of DeSantis' order, other states and countries that do decide on such a requirement are also bound to face the problem of black market vaccination certificates, which have already started emerging.7,8

As reported by the Daily Beast,9,10 a number of health care workers have been caught bragging about forging vaccination cards on their social media channels. Apparently, they have not yet realized the public nature of the internet, but that's beside the point.

In Florida, a man working at a web design company was fired after posting a TikTok video advertising fake vaccine cards,11 and in Israel, where the two-tier society is already forming, a man was arrested for making and selling forged COVID-19 vaccination certificates, which are now required for entry into restaurants, bars, clubs, hotels, swimming pools and other public venues throughout the country.12

Around the world, people are also being arrested for administering fake vaccines13,14,15,16,17 and selling bogus COVID-19 tests.18,19

Eugenics and Hygiene Obsessions

While it's often considered bad policy to compare anything to the Nazi regime, the comparisons are growing more readily identifiable by the day, which makes them hard to avoid.

Aside from the parallels that can be drawn between mask wearing and/or vaccine "papers" and the Jewish yellow star, there's the Nazi's four-step process for dehumanizing the Jews,20 — prejudice, scapegoating, discrimination and persecution — a process that indoctrinated the German people into agreeing with, or at least going along with the plan to commit genocide.

In present day, the public narrative is not only building prejudice against people who refuse to wear masks or get an experimental vaccine, but is also using healthy people as scapegoats from the very beginning, blaming the spread of the virus on asymptomatically infected people.

With the rollout of vaccine certificates, we are stepping firmly into discrimination territory. The last step will entail persecution of non-vaccinated individuals. This in and of itself also harkens back to the Nazi regime, which was obsessed with "health guidelines" that eventually led to the mass-purging of "unclean" Jews. As reported by Gina Florio in a December 2020 Evie Magazine article:21

"When Hitler first came to power in Nazi Germany, he kicked off a series of public health schemes. He started by setting up health screenings all over the country, sending vans around to every neighborhood to conduct tuberculosis testing, etc.

Next up was factory cleanliness — he launched a robust campaign encouraging factories to completely revamp their space, thoroughly clean every corner … After the factories, the next mission was cleaning up the asylums …

What started as seemingly innocent or well-meaning public health campaigns quickly spiraled into an extermination of races and groups of people who were considered dirty or disgusting. In short, the beginning of Hitler's reign was a constant expansion of who was contaminated and who was impure …

We're seeing an obsession with covering our faces all the time so we don't spread disease or deadly germs; most public places we walk into won't even allow us to enter without slathering our hands in hand sanitizer; and people act terrified of someone who isn't wearing a mask.

Nobody can say with a straight face that this is normal behavior … We're even seeing people advocate for some kind of tracking device to show that a person is vaccinated or 'clean' enough to enter a venue … Let's hope we can all learn the lessons from the past and we don't witness history repeat itself."

History Is Repeating Itself

Indeed, everyone calling for vaccine certificates — which became part of the public narrative early on in the pandemic — is guilty of following in the well-worn footsteps of this infamous dictator, repeating the very same patterns that were universally condemned after the fall of the Third Reich.

Highlighting them all would be too great a task for one article, so two glaring examples will have to suffice. In December 2020, Andrew Yang, an entrepreneurial attorney with political ambitions, tweeted the following:22

"Is there a way for someone to easily show that they have been vaccinated — like a bar code they can download to their phone? There ought to be … Tough to have mass gatherings like concerts or ballgames without either mass adoption of the vaccine or a means of signaling."

Signaling what, if not your "unclean" biohazard state? In his March 2021 Tweet, law professor, political commentator and former U.S. attorney for the Western District of Pennsylvania, Harry Litman, was more direct about the ill intent behind vaccine certificates, saying:23

"Vaccine passports are a good idea. Among other things, it will single out the still large contingent of people who refuse vaccines, who will be foreclosed from doing a lot of things their peers can do. That should help break the resistance down."

Comments like these demonstrate that vaccine passports are about creating justification for segregation, discrimination and elimination of certain groups of people, in this case, people who don't want to be part of the experimental vaccine program.

The justification is that they're too "unclean," too "unsafe" to freely participate in public society and must therefore be identified and shut out. In reality, it's really about identifying the noncompliant.

During the Nazi reign, those slated for segregation, discrimination and elimination were identified by their affiliation with Judaism (there's controversy as to whether Jewishness is an issue of race, ethnicity, religion, national identity or familial bonds, which you can learn more about on JewInTheCity.com,24 but all were relevant criteria in the Nazi's hunt for Jews).

Today, the global elimination strategy foregoes such identities, and focuses instead on identifying who will go along with the program and who will be a noncompliant troublemaker.

In short, vaccine passports are a device to identify who the loyal subjects of the unelected elite are, and who aren't. Those unwilling to enter the new world of technocratic rule without a fuss are the ones that need to be eliminated, and willingness to be a test subject for an unproven experimental treatment is the litmus test. It's really not more complicated than that.

Are You Ready To Be an Outcast?

This is essentially the conclusion drawn by Mike Whitney as well, detailed in an article25 posted on The Unz Review. I would encourage you to read the entire article as it succinctly summarizes the reasons behind the current censorship.

In his article, he points out that behavioral psychologists have been employed by the government to promote the COVID-19 vaccination campaign and maximize vaccine uptake. They also have a "rapid response team" in place to attack the opinions of those who question the "official narrative."

Mike also highlights a National Institutes of Health report26 titled, "COVID-19 Vaccination Communication: Applying Behavioral and Social Science to Address Vaccine Hesitancy and Foster Vaccine Confidence," which lays out the intent to turn vaccine refusers into social outcasts as a tool to coerce compliance.

"This is very scary stuff," Whitney writes.27 "Agents of the state now identify critics of the COVID vaccine as their mortal enemies. How did we get here? And how did we get to the point where the government is targeting people who don't agree with them? This is way beyond Orwell. We have entered some creepy alternate universe …

If behavioral psychologists helped to shape the government's strategy on mass vaccination, then in what other policies were they involved? Were these the 'professionals' who conjured up the pandemic restrictions?

Were the masks, the social distancing and the lockdowns all promoted by 'experts' as a way to undermine normal human relations and inflict the maximum psychological pain on the American people?

Was the intention to create a weak and submissive population that would willingly accept the dismantling of democratic institutions, the dramatic restructuring of the economy, and the imposition of a new political order? These questions need to be answered …

Vaccination looks to be the defining issue of the next few years at least. And those who resist the edicts of the state will increasingly find themselves on the outside; outcasts in their own country."

Will You Obey?

As detailed in an internet blog titled, "Will You Obey the Criminal Authoritarians?" the 1962 Milgram Experiment (embedded above for your convenience), tested the limits of human obedience to authority, proving most people will simply follow orders, even when those orders go against their own sound judgment. They'll commit atrocious acts of violence against others simply because they were told it's OK by an authority figure.

We've already seen examples of this during the past year's mask mandates. Suddenly, people felt empowered to verbally harass, pepper spray and physically attack others simply for not wearing a mask. Families were kicked off planes because their toddlers wouldn't wear a mask. People were even shot for the grievous "crime" of not wearing a mask.

If those things were allowed to happen over mask wearing, one can only imagine what will be tolerated, if not encouraged, when vaccine certificates take full effect. The most obvious answer is to take a firm stand against devolution into inhumanity, regardless of whether you think COVID-19 vaccinations are a good idea or not. The question is, will you? In many ways, the months and years ahead will test the ethics and humanity of every single one of us.

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bibliocratic · 4 years

Note

For your writing prompts, I’ve always found that the phrase “for you” has a certain gravity, so maybe something with that? :3

This was such a good prompt, which is my only excuse for why this is three days late and barely counts as a drabble at all.

jonmartin, post-S5 domesticity and parenthood

“He was showing me another room he's made it to on his game,” Jon offers as an explanation as he ambles back into the living room. “Some sort of creepy dungeon, lots of what I can only presume are zombies. He can turn into a dragon now with this magic cloak thing, it's all very sophisticated.”

Martin, whose knowledge and ability with video games both started and ended with having a go on someone's Game Boy Colour one rainy school break, makes a supportive, 'showing-interest' noise as he feels around for the remote before finding it wedged under his thigh, muting the sound of a gritty BBC drama he is clearly not enamoured by. He shuffles over to make room on the sofa. Disturbing the cat, who jumps off his knees, casting a betrayed gaze upon the offender before she haughtily goes to commandeer the high-backed chair usually taken up by Jon.

“Dragons are one of the few things that haven't turned out to actually exist, and tried to murder us.”

“Oh, don't be like that,” Jon smiles as he drops down next to him. Martin's got a beer out of the fridge now Lewis has gone to bed, and Jon leans forward to snaffle it from the coffee table, takes an slow sip, winces at the flavour and puts it back down on its coaster. “Swimming's at ten Saturday, isn't it? Still haven't fixed his goggles.”

“Half past, they had to move the rota round for some other thing,” Martin says distantly. In the background, someone on the TV has their mouth bared in shouting, and some grim-dark poorly shaved detective is holding a gun.

Martin's shoulders are set tight. He's twisting his wedding ring round and round and round, fidgety and unsettled all evening, and now he's leant forward with his elbows on his knees, half-way through a beer on a Thursday night even though he can get funny about drinking in the house on a weekday.

“You want to talk about it?” Jon asks quietly.

Martin frowns, but doesn't ask how he knows. His palm opens from clenched to fold their fingers together, his touch chilly from the condensation on the bottle.

Jon waits for him.

Martin clears his throat. He sources out the remote again and flicks the TV to standby, the dour detective vanishing morosely.

“I'd like to talk to you about something,” Martin replies eventually. “And I know that we're not going to agree on it, but I want you to at least – hear me out, alright?”

“Alright,” Jon says carefully. A frown has rooted on his own face, but he pushes the curious simmer to a lower heat and tries to be patient. “Alright. What – what do you want to talk about?”

“What happened last week.”

“Martin...”

“Let me finish,” Martin says, his tone slightly sharper. He doesn't shout, never in the house. The only time Lewis sees his dad raise his voice in anger, he's belligerently got his hands in the guts of the boiler, pride the only thing stopping him call a plumber, or else he's stubbed his toe against the side table he always manages to catch.

Jon lets out a heavy breath.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine – we – we can talk about it. You know what I think.”

“Yeah, well, I don't.”

“It was an outlier. It doesn't mean there's a conspiracy.”

“I can't see why you're downplaying this. It was a threat, and you got hurt.”

“A few bruises from the fall. Look, Daisy and Basira handled it. They were – they were a lone Hunter. It wasn't anything organised, so I don't see the need to twist myself in knots when it won't happen again.”

Martin scoffs dismissive. “Last I counted, we've had three 'it won't happens again' in the last ten years. Face it, we've been lucky. This one got too close.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Jon says, deliberately calmly. Martin'll get to his point eventually, but he'd rather cut through whatever he's been stewing in for the past several hours.

Martin throws up his hands.

“I am suggesting that we consider the very real possibility that something like this might happen again. Something worse than some mangy Hunter or clueless cultist. These things out there.... there's more than one of them who'd see a former Archivist as a threat, Christ, I just want you to take this seriously...”

“I do take – ” Jon's voice spikes before he exhales hard and lowers his tone again. “Of course I take this seriously. Of course I worry. But if someone came here, if anyone came here, I'd – I'd Know....”

“Knowing didn't stop you from getting hurt,” Martin insists. “It – it doesn't make you invincible.”

“I've never thought that...”

“We need to prepared, is all I'm saying. Your... the knowledge you get from the Eye, it's so much, it's so much less than before. So what if it's not enough, what if it tells you something too late or not at all?”

“Martin, I'm not going to get myself worked up over maybes.”

“Maybe you should!” Martin snaps.

They are both bullishly quiet for a moment before Martin holds his hands up again.

“Alright,” he presses on, lower pitched than before. “Alright, then lets deal with facts then. Fact number one: there are – there are forces out there that want to see you come to harm.”

“Martin.”

“Am I correct?” Martin repeats. His gaze won't leave Jon's. His temper's made his neck and throat go blotchy, but he's pressing his hands down too hard on his knees to stop their tremors.

Jon meets his eyes.

“Correct,” he says. Because it's what Martin wants to hear, because it's what Jon tries not to think about when the night-time drags loud and sleepless, and every noise he cannot account for takes on the guise of malevolence.

“Fact two,” Martin continues. “There is the possibility – no, no, listen to me, Jon – there is the chance, however small, that those forces, those people, could come here.”

“So what, we should install more locks? Buy more fire extinguishers?”

“This isn't funny,” Martin says waspish.

“I'm not laughing,” Jon replies dogged.

Martin lets out another aggrieved noise. He takes a moment, steeples his hands against the lower half of his face.

“That Hunter,” Martin says slowly. “Had our address on them. Knew where we lived. If Daisy and Basira hadn't sorted them out, they would have come here, and tried again. And if it can happen once, then it could happen again. A-and some of those people, the ones that serve their gods a-and want to make a name for themselves by going after an Archivist – ”

Here Martin's voice catches thready, the centre of his terrors finally excavated.

“I can't – I can't protect you from that, Jon,” he confesses. “I can't protect Lewis from that. And if someone comes here, what if you can't either? You're not – you're not exactly in the game of e-exploding people any more.”

“Been trying to give it up,” Jon replies. Martin's laugh is a little wet.

“Sets a bad example anyway.”

Jon rubs the skin of Martin's hand. He doesn't know what he can say to make this better.

“I would like to propose an idea,” Martin says. Softer now. More tired. “and I-I want you to hear me out.”

“OK.”

“Whatever it is.”

“You're not exactly inspiring confidence.”

Martin gives him a Look.

“OK,” Jon says, rubbing his thumb over Martin's knuckles. “OK, I promise. Whatever it is, I-I'll at least listen.”

Martin nods, and though his lips are pinched, he squeezes Jon's hand once gratefully. He separates them, and gets up, going over to his shoulder bag slouched by the door. He'd been vague, earlier this week, when he'd gone out on an 'errand'. Jon had assumed it was something to do with their anniversary in the next few weeks.

Martin takes out a thick clump of folders from the stomach of the bag. Jon's heart drops when he sees the green-ink stamp of an imperious owl on the front of the beige folders but he says nothing.

“I have been thinking,” Martin says, planting himself back down. “About back-up plans. Last resorts, you know. If someone does come here, if they're more than either of us can handle, if we can't keep our son safe.”

He passes Jon the folders. They're stuffed wide with statements, corroborating evidence, photographs, police reports, newspaper snippets attached with paper clips. Jon reads the introductions of a few statements as he flicks through, feeling not a little unmoored by the way this conversation has progressed – Statement of Dai Williams, regarding a library in Blaenau Gwent; Statement of Michalis Charalambous, regarding an unusual wedding present – and something aches in him like a barely-forgotten hunger, twinges like an old wound.

Near the top of the pile, there's a photograph, blown up to A4 size, of a book. The backdrop of an unremarkable desk, the cover itself blue backed, scuffed and foxed with age, the silver title decorated with florid curlicues: The Shipping Forecast and Other Nautical Curiosities. There's no author.

“What's this?”

“It's a Leitner,” Martin says. Not briskly, but straight-off the bat.

Jon pushes down several reactions with difficulty. Martin knows how he feels about Leitner. Martin wouldn't bring this to him, knowing what histories have left their scars on him, and beg for Jon to listen to him if it wasn't important.

“Go on,” Jon says, and nothing else.

“This book is currently in Archive Storage, where it's been for the past twenty or so years,” Martin continues. He's to-the-point now, direct, and Jon appreciates it. “Those are copies of all the statements I could find related to it, or people who have been in contact with it, and it makes up a fairly consistent picture of ownership and exchange for at least the past hundred and fifty years, records get a bit patchy before that.”

“Which Power?”

“The Lonely.”

That makes Jon look up. Martin's jaw is set for an argument but his voice betrays him.

“Tell me,” he says.

“The statements are all mostly the same. The book gets found or left as inheritance or in library donations, and some poor sod picks it up. Specifically, what happens is it renders people invisible when they read it.”

Jon blinks.

“... you're taking the piss.”

“No. Practical research did some basic experiments to test it before it was boxed up properly, they've – there's notes there, if you want to read in detail, but basically, you read a few lines of it, and you and whatever you're holding can't be seen. It wears off after a while, depending on how much you've read. The researchers went up to about a page.”

“There's a catch, obviously.”

“It's addictive to some people. Some of the people in the statements can use it once, get the heebie-jeebies then never touch it again, some of them can't shake the urge. The – er invisibility is more tempting to those vulnerable to the Lonely, or so the hypothesis goes. They read a little more, a little more and then, they're just gone.”

“So it's dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Then why? Why show me this?”

“If someone comes here,” Martin says, “If it's – if it's the Vast o-or the Desolation or even th-the Slaughter, we can't fight them. We can't, OK, we-we have nothing that we could fight them with. So we can't fight them, and we can't outrun them, and I don't think hiding under the bed and hoping they leave is going to do much either. The best we can hope for is that we have a few minutes grace courtesy of your magical eyeballs. And that would at the very least give us time, to get Lewis somewhere safe, get out of harm's way, to go to Daisy's or something.”

“And your great plan is that we use a Leitner to what, turn invisible and sneak away unseen?”

“I'm asking you at least consider it.”

“I have considered it and it's – it's a Leitner, Martin! You know how I – They're not toys, they're dangerous!”

“I know that! Of course I know that. But so is being unprotected! We wouldn't be using it for – it would be a last resort, nothing more. You can read the statements and the reports. I've read them all, over and over again, I-I've checked and doubled checked. As far as I can tell, the turning invisible is a temporary state.”

“For the right people. What about you?”

Martin does not meet his eyes.

“I wouldn't be using it.”

“...What.”

“I wouldn't – I wouldn't be able to,” he says. Quieter, self-conscious. “Much as I like to think that I'm – no. No, it'd be, it'd be too much of a temptation.”

Jon's tone has slipped flat and hard.

“So you're suggesting an escape plan that, what, doesn't include you?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Jon – ”

“No!” Jon wants to get up, to stand, to shake Martin by his ridiculous shoulders, because how dare he, how dare he. “No, how can you even ask me that?”

“Because I need to,” Martin urges. “Because it's not just us. Because if the worst happens, I need to know we have some way of protecting Lewis, that you could use that book to make sure he's safe.”

“And leave you.”

“I'm not the one they want.”

“I don't remember them being all that picky about hurting whoever was in their way,” Jon bites back, and he knows he's louder now, that his eyes are getting wet and his face hot. “You can't know that.”

“No,” Martin replies honestly. “No, I-I can't.”

Jon rubs at his eyes. The anger's boiled over and out of him at a dizzyingly come-down from furious. He listens, wondering if they've woken Lewis, but he doesn't hear the squeak of bed-springs. There's a wind picking up outside, and the cat twitches in sleep.

He doesn't feel angry any more. Just sick and scared.

“That's not fair,” he swallows, looking at the damp-blurred image of his husband's face. “That – that's not fair, to ask this.”

Martin's moved closer. Places his hand back over Jon's.

“I know,” he murmurs, and he sounds sorry, but that doesn't help either of them. “I know it's not. And if there was – was any other option, I wouldn't even think of suggesting it. But I'd, I'd like you to think about it. Please. For me.”

Jon leafs through the folders in his hands without taking any of them in. Martin strokes his back soothingly, and crowds in too close, not close enough.

“I'll read them,” Jon says eventually. Wetly and unhappily. “ The statements, reports, I-I will. For you. And if – and only if they seem legitimate – I'll come with you and have a look at the book myself. And that's all I can promise you.”

“Thank you,” Martin whispers, and presses his lips to the thinning crown of Jon's hair, Jon leaning back slightly against his chest. He clears his throat. “Basira's all for performing some more clinical tests on the book, if you wanted some more concrete validation.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Jon says, feeling too tired to enquire further.

They linger on the sofa for a while after Martin shoves the folders back into his shoulder bag.

“I better put the dishes away,” Martin says.

“Leave them. I'll do them in the morning.”

Their bedtime routine is closer and quieter. Usually Martin goes up first, and Jon watches the newspaper review or the tail end of a documentary, but tonight he trails after him as Martin checks all the plugs and double-checks all the locks.

Martin pokes his head into Lewis' room, even though they said their goodnights hours ago. Jon can't begrudge him the anxiety.

“Kicked all the blankets off as usual,” he reports back as they knock elbows in the bathroom, Jon's mouth full of toothpaste, passing Martin a water glass to take his statins. Martin dutifully swallows the pill before reaching for his own toothbrush. “He sleeps like you, arms flung out all over the place.”

Jon doesn't deny it.

Jon gets into bed first, and fusses with chargers and alarms while Martin gets into a t-shirt and boxers. He gets the light and Jon follows the sound he makes as he approaches the bed in plunging darkness, the disturbance of the covers. Jon immediately curls against his shape, tucking himself tight and buried against his chest.

Martin doesn't comment on how clingy Jon is, how he knots their legs together, clutches him over-tight. On how hot the bed is going to get, on how his arm will go numb quickly from the angle. His own arms come around just as fiercely. He tells Jon goodnight, that he loves him into his hair, and Jon whispers it back into the dark and the heat, and knows it's true to the bones of him.

Neither of them sleep all that much that night.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #fic #prompt fill

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songofsoma · 4 years

Text

Genesis

dear anon, sorry this took so long! i never look at @aldrck so if you ever have a writing request, feel free so send them to this account!

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles pairing: ava du mortain x cecilia beck words: 1,333 rating: general

prompt: “i could never forget you”

read it on ao3

Cecilia had never been one to be scared of death.

The concept of her own mortality was something she had faced from an early age due to the death of her father. Death had always followed her through life. It pressed its icy fingers against her throat to remind her that every breath she took could potentially be her last if she were not cautious. Especially in her line of work.

Her father had died an honorable man, protecting the very people he swore to serve—both human and supernatural.

She was following in his footsteps. A death protecting the ones she loved seemed like a worthy sacrifice. One she never feared.

Until she met Ava.

The vampire had walked the earth for over nine-hundred years. And she did it alone.

The very thought made Cecilia’s chest tighten.

And now here she was. Ava had tentatively gifted Cecilia her heart under the guise it would not be broken. Everything was fine at that moment in time, but what about in fifteen years? Ava would watch as her human lover’s hair turned grey and wrinkles settled into her skin.

Death was a persistent march. Being in love with an immortal would not halt it. For the Reaper’s scythe does not hear the pleas of the hopelessly in love. If that were the case, the word would be filled to the brim and the Hell would be barren.

Cecilia took a shaky breath and sank into the plushness of the warehouse sofa.

Glancing at the immortal in question, her heart clenched once more.

Ava had been around for so long and surely would live for many more years. The idea of her being alone once more terrified her.

She hadn’t noticed Cecilia’s stare as she was sucked into a report, idly running her finger around the edge of her wineglass. Her own wine-stained lips pursed as she quickly looked away as a glaze of tears began to seep into her vision.

Had Ava faced such dilemmas before?

She didn’t think so. But how could she ever be sure?

The vampire’s past could be a sensitive topic at times. That is the outcome of living in the harsh reality of forever. Ghosts of the past tend to lash out, clawing at one’s mind, begging to be set free.

Had there ever been someone else in her life?

Someone she just forgot about?

You would think, after so many years a person would simply let go of bitter feelings. It was a silent conflict raging in Cecilia’s mind. One that was just enough to draw Ava’s concerned attention upon noticing her unusually tense stature.

“Cecilia,” she began softly, her brows furrowed deeply in concern, “Is everything alright?”

She swallowed hard and refused to meet the emerald gaze trying to catch her own. “Sorry. I’m just thinking.”

Ava, being unsatisfied with the answer, set aside the files she had been perusing to give the girl her full attention. “I assumed that much,” she said dryly, a heavy hand was placed on her thigh comfortingly.

Cecilia sighed, her eyes squeezing shut.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Oh, Ava. Always so worried about finding a solution to any problem that was presented before her—so long as they were not her own personal demons.

She managed to smile through the traitorous tears threatening to spill over on to her cheeks. “Nothing you would be willing to do.”

“Pardon?” The reply seemed to have thrown her off.

Finally, she met Ava’s eyes. They were wide with confusion as her mind struggled to calculate Cecilia’s next move

“Have you ever been in love before this?”

“Where did this even come from?” She asked, sounding a bit exasperated at the sudden heaviness of the topic.

“That’s not an answer,” Cecilia pressed.

“No,” she finally said, “not like this. I have never…felt the way for someone like I do you.” The genuine nature of her voice hurt more than it should have.

It was Ava’s turn to question her.

“What brought this on? Have I done something to cause you to think differently?” The words were rushed and uncharacteristically panicked.

She shook her head quickly. “No, my brain just fell down a rabbit hole. A very unfortunate one, that is.”

The hand on her thigh tightened. “Tell me.”

Cecilia’s gaze fell to her lap. “I’m scared.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but she knew Ava would still hear.

Her grip loosened, only for her hands to cup Cecilia’s face. Ava’s eyes were always so clear, she could see right through them. They were sea glass melted down into pools she could drown in, beautiful but crafted from the harshness of the past.

“What are you frightened of?” Desperation was licking at every word, threatening the self-control she prided herself on. Although, it was proving to become less prevalent the closer she grew to Cecilia.

Her fingers curled around one of Ava’s hands still caressing her face, trying to coax out any troubles so she may squash them.

“What if you forget about me?” Cecilia’s voice cracked.

Ava’s brows furrowed in confusion. “My love, what are you talking about?”

The floodgates were open.

Hot tears spilled from her eyes. Ava’s hands were acting as a dam against her skin.

“It isn’t fair, you living forever. The time you spend with me is nothing, a meager few decades. You sit there and are forced to watch me wither away until I am nothing but the dirt you walk on for centuries to come.” Cecilia pushed away from her, standing up from the sofa they had been sharing. “There is nothing I want more than to spend eternity with you.”

Ava sat there driven speechless by the outburst.

“But from the attitudes exhibited from all of you, it seems like I’m the only one who has this opinion. I am selfish, incredibly so. I want to be by your side through it all. Most of all,” she paused, squeezing her eyes shut and taking a shuttering breath before beginning again. “I don’t want you to forget about me.”

The floor creaked beneath Ava’s feet as she stood. “Cecilia,” her tone was thick as she approached. Strong hands held her shoulders as she was wrapped in Ava’s heavy scent once more. A slender finger brushed across her jaw, waiting for their eyes to meet.

Reluctantly she complied with the silent plea. Cecilia couldn’t help it that she was an addict, high on Ava’s very presence.

“You speak as if you are more selfish than I,” she said warmly, though her eyes were regretful. “It was I who gave into temptation. I am Eve and you are my apple laced with sin. I knew this, and yet,” Ava leaned closer, their noses brushing against one another. “I never expected sin to taste so divine.”

Cecilia said nothing as she waited for her to get to her point, trying not to allow the honeyed words to take over her train of thought.

“The thought of having you forever is tempting. I would love nothing more than to count the sunsets with you knowing that we could do it forever.” Ava’s hands slipped into Cecilia’s. “But is that what you really want? To become this? Immortal? A beast meant for destruction?”

“You are not a monster.”

This gave Ava’s lips the slightest of quirks. “You do not know the way I wish that were true. The point is, I could never forget you, mea vita. You are everything to me. My first thought in the morning and my last at night are always about you. If becoming a vampire is something you truly want, we can discuss it more. Your sole reasoning should not be me, though, love.”

She watched as Ava brought their intertwined fingers to her lips, kissing Cecilia’s knuckles gently.

“I love you.”

Ava met her gaze with a smile meant strictly for her. “And I love you, Cecilia, more than you shall ever know.”

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carelessgraces · 3 years

Text

ok so i started this last night, got distracted by having my heart ripped out, and then danced around it in the tags of a different post so here are those tags and here is a quick rundown of why astoria’s mother in her grishaverse au really... isn’t a good one and how that damages astoria in the long-term —

#(i was going to write abt her mother in this verse not really being a good mother and the way that astoria is let down)

#(first by the father - father-as-fjerda - and later by the mother and the way that this makes her both actively seek out validation)

#(especially validation from men in positions of authority & men who represent a threat to fjerdan values)

#(and actively reject anything that resembles family for as long as she can - because family means disappointment)

#(family means being let down by the people who are meant to protect you no matter what)

#(and the only way she finds family after this is by having a specific person reach out and pull her into it usually against her will)

— and i want to emphasize first and foremost that veronika isn’t a questionable mother because she’s raising astoria alone; she’s a questionable mother who happens to be raising astoria alone, and the way that this damages astoria could possibly have been lessened had astoria had another adult role model in her life during her childhood.

and i talked a little bit about fjerda as the father in this post, but essentially: asta does not have a father in her life and so she, like a lot of fjerdan children, look to fjerda as a parent and a guide. the nation represents the model of what a good man should be, and asta, who really doesn’t have any men in her life, looks to that for guidance. it’s an inversion of kaz’s “my mother is ketterdam. she birthed me in the harbor. my father is profit. i honor him daily,” in a sense: my mother is veronika. she gave me my power. my father is fjerda. i fear him daily. fjerda is her father; the drüskelle order is his arm; the ice court is his impenetrable study; and for asta, the ice, the water, is the only extension of his love.

and this is her first great disappointment: fjerda, her father, not only actively rejects her, but would destroy her if she drew his attention. asta learns from her mother to hide from fjerda-as-father: when you use your power, be subtle. when you use your power, be quiet, be cautious. don’t let anyone notice you, don’t let anyone catch sight of who you really are. veronika — herself straddling the line between tidemaker and heartrender, but with more skill as a heartrender than her daughter — teaches asta only a handful of things, but just enough that asta — becoming astoria — can put the rest together herself —

she can boil water for tea. she can speed or slow water, and move it in the ways that she wants. she can find the water in blood — and therefore she can boil the water in blood, she can slow or speed the flow of blood, she can halt it entirely to force a blood clot in a wound. she can locate the water in someone’s hair or clothing and wick it away ( wet hair and clothes are dangerous in a place like fjerda! better to stay dry! ), and therefore she can locate the water vapor in the air and manipulate that. shape it. redirect it. if she can move water, she can move ice. if she can move water, she can move it away from salt, and make sea water safer to drink.

over and over, veronika teaches asta the things that she needs to survive, without ever telling her what these things are; as a result, asta, though blessed with a fair amount of raw power, is horribly unprepared. she kills the first drüskelle by accident — her absolute fury at seeing her mother harmed inspiring her to lash out viciously — and she has to try and mimic that with the two drüskelle who hunt her next, and it’s a long shot. veronika thinks that if she simply never tells asta that she is in possession of something so desperately deadly, then she’ll never be found out for it.

and she could move. she is aware of the danger she’s in — her own mother and sister were killed by drüskelle when she was a young teenager ( as described here ), and she knows what it is to lose a mother, and to be on the run. her father and brother are in ravka, and she could go to them. instead, veronika refuses to leave; fjerda is as much hers as anyone else’s, she reasons, and while she’s not wrong, it does endanger a child who has a very limited understanding of her own danger. it’s more important for veronika to ensure that she gets her own revenge on fjerda — by remaining there, by remaining unmarried, by raising her daughter in the same tradition without shame or fear — than that her daughter, whose power manifests at a young age, is safe from the drüskelle.

and veronika’s anger is not a surprise to asta? if anything, it’s a constant companion. as much as asta learns to fear fjerda-as-father, she learns to try to look after her mother, whose anger and grief never quite leave her. so asta grows up fairly quickly, not simply to avoid detection, but to care for her mother. and veronika is, in other ways, a wonderful role model — independent, clever, self-sufficient — but she never fully wants to be a mother and so when asta comes, she almost expects asta to fill the role of sister more than daughter.

when asta is caught — because she, at nineteen years old, was so desperately lonely in her isolation that she told her closest childhood friend about what she could do, and he panicked and called for the drüskelle — the drüskelle threatens her mother first, suspecting that she is grisha as well and recognizing the surname. asta responds by lashing out when she sees her mother struck across the face, killing the drüskelle. her immediate response to this is to coach her own mother: tell the drüskelle who come looking for them that you didn’t know. i killed him, and then i knocked you down to escape. you don’t know where i’m going.

and veronika does it. veronika, overwhelmed by fear, agrees to asta’s plan, and she doesn’t follow her daughter, or offer to go with her. she reports exactly that to the drüskelle who come next, and she submits to testing by the amplifier only after she’s covered her wrist in parafin, and when she’s released she moves to elling under the guise of wanting to escape a place where her daughter lied to her for nearly two decades, in reality out of a deep sense of shame.

it’s some time before asta — astoria, then — is able to fully grasp the depth of how her mother let her down, but she feels so deeply guilty for bringing the drüskelle into their home that she finds it difficult to hold her mother accountable for such a betrayal.

#i. she had a marvelous time ruining everything. ( about )

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starlightsearches · 5 years

Text

Office Romance: Ch. 2 Seeing Red

General Hux and Kylo Ren have found themselves competing for the affection of a lieutenant aboard the Finalizer.

Masterlist

Series Warnings: Language, some violence, near-death experiences.

General Hux liked to believe that he was a reasonable man. He had worked tirelessly to gain the status he currently held, and he let nothing get in the way of his rise to the top. He saw greatness in himself, and felt that no one could take it away from him. Which is why it vexed him so that he would put all his tireless effort, his destiny even, at risk for a ridiculous, unrealistic, childish crush. And on a subordinate, no less.

He could not deny, though, that even as a subordinate, you were worthy of the admiration he felt for you. An incredibly vicious fighter, an intelligent and cunning strategist, and a loyal and competent soldier; all qualities that had been listed on your recommendation for your promotion by Captain Phasma. But if he was honest with himself, his admiration for you did not stem from the fact that you were an impressive soldier, although it was what first drew his attention. In fact, it is possible that he could have ignored your presence aboard the ship, even after your now-notorious brawl, if you hadn’t been so unfailingly kind to him, despite his less-than agreeable behavior. Bringing him coffee in the early mornings when you were stationed on the bridge, or meals to his office in the evenings when you hadn’t seen him in the mess hall, greeting him in the hallways, and putting in extra hours to help him complete all the inane tasks that came with being in charge. You were helpful, intelligent, funny, kind, brave and despite his accomplishments, he wasn’t sure if someone like you could ever want someone like him. He tried to get the ridiculous notion out of his head, tried to convince himself that he only admired your work ethic and that his ridiculous infatuation would fade in time. All the while wondering, in the dark, secret parts of his heart, if there wasn’t anything he could do that would grant him just a fractional amount of more time in your presence—a chance to prove himself worthy.

Lucky for him, Phasma had requested your promotion, which created a viable excuse for him to seek you out on so many occasions. Subtlety was a gift he had in spades, and it became increasingly easy for him to sneak bits of your time under the guise of professional business. It was not uncommon for you to find the general in your office, or near you on the bridge or the mess hall, asking you an important question about recruiting, or training protocols, or injury reports, and then ever so slightly shift the conversation towards the casual, the personal. Or on bad days, when he wasn’t feeling particularly subtle, he would rant about Kylo Ren, which at the very least if you didn’t find it interesting, you seemed to find amusing.

The only person who knew about his shameful little obsession was Captain Phasma. She had figured him out early on, and took an unseemly amount of relish in the fact that he was, by all accounts, smitten. And while it had been imperceptible to many others, including yourself, the captain found the changes that Hux underwent when in your presence fairly obvious and incredibly funny. He would wait around wherever you were, and then act so strange when you addressed him, standing so stiff and awkward that a swift kick would be all it took to put him on the floor. He was better now, Phasma conceded, almost acting like a human, but in terms of developing a close personal relationship . . . he had a long way to go.

And here Hux was again, in the captain’s office, lingering. “Isn’t the lieutenant supposed to in soon?” he asked, attempting an air of nonchalance. Phasma rolled her eyes; she was surprised he still chose to pretend when it was only her around, but refrained from teasing him.

“Not for a little while. She mentioned something about a training session yesterday.” The general didn’t respond to this verbally, he simply nodded, looking at the data pad in his hands as if he was reading something mildly interesting. Phasma rolled her eyes again, seeing that he wasn’t going to leave on his own. “Would you mind checking in the training room for her, and sending her here?” she asked, and watched as the corners of his mouth turned up into a stifled smile. “Of course,” he said, and then, catching himself, “since it’s on the way to the bridge.” Phasma snorted in response, but the general was already on the way out the door.

In the hallway, General Hux put on an air of confidence, but on the inside he could already feel the fluttering in his stomach. He tried to walk swiftly, but not too swiftly, towards the training room, thinking about what he might say to you.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in the captain’s office.”

. . . No, that sounds weak. What about “Lieutenant, you’re needed.” That could give me a chance to talk to her without others listening. And maybe I could even walk her down to the captain's office. But what if she needs to run back to her quarters first? She’d know I was going out of my way . . .

Hux’s train of thought was interrupted as he felt himself collide with someone, and the data pad in his hands slipped out of his grasp. “I’m so sorry, General!”

Ugh, Mitaka. Hux straightened himself to his full height, as the lieutenant grabbed both dropped data pads off the ground. “It’s alright, Lieutenant, excuse me,” he said, taking his data pad from Mitaka’s shaking hands, already moving again. But then Mitaka was following him, his quick footsteps echoing down the hallway. “I’m sorry sir, but while I have you here, it will only take a moment . . .” Hux stopped to listen, but he couldn’t focus on the inanities coming Mitaka’s mouth. He needed to go before you were out of the training room.

“That’s fine, Lieutenant,” Hux said, cutting Mitaka off, “we can discuss this more later, if you’ll excuse me.” The general continued on his way, not waiting for a response from Mitaka.

It was strange seeing him, now that Hux thought about it. He had assumed, initially, that Mitaka would be the one in the training room with you. The two of you were very close friends, which annoyed Hux to no end, and Mitaka’s hand-to-hand combat skills were miserable. Hux had spent more than a few mornings watching the two of you spar, trying with much difficulty to ignore the feelings of jealousy rising in him as you and Mitaka practiced various methods of blocking, feinting, and striking. Your hand on Mitaka’s bicep, gently guiding his arm into the correct position, the strong movement of your shoulder muscles as you demonstrated a new move, the sheen of sweat on your collarbone as you blocked Mitaka’s various punches . . .

If it wasn’t Mitaka sparring with you, then who? It could be a Storm Trooper in need of more training, but wouldn’t Phasma had mentioned that?

Hux was still puzzling over the question when he reached the training room doors. He walked up, waiting for the traditional swish of the door to open, but it didn’t come. Strange, he thought to himself as he punched in his access code on the panel next to the door. If the door didn’t open automatically, then the room must have been reserved for a private training session. As the general, Hux had an override code for any locked door on the ship, but that didn’t change the fact that most of the ships’ personnel had no reason to request a private training session with you.

Who in the stars could it be? the general asked himself, as a brief sliver of panic slipped up his spine. He didn’t need to wait any longer to find out though, as he pressed the last digit on the keypad and the doors slid open.

No. It was worse than he could have imagined. The sight of you in Ren’s arms, his hand at your waist, the look on your face as you stared into Ren’s eyes . . .

He couldn’t help it. He was seeing red.

At the sight of the general in the doorway, you jumped from Ren’s arms, a strange, guilty feeling settling in your stomach. Not the ideal situation to be caught in by your commanding officer, but you hadn’t been doing anything wrong, necessarily. The moment had been charged, for sure—charged with what, exactly, you didn’t know—but maybe the general hadn’t noticed. You straightened up, taking another step away from Ren, just to be safe. “Hello General, do you need something?” you asked, taking notice as Hux schooled his enraged expression into one of cool indifference. That's interesting, you thought to yourself. It was no secret to anyone aboard the the Finalizer that the two men hated each other, but it normally the general’s anger was caused by Ren’s reckless behavior. What could Ren have done this early in the morning to to cause Hux to feel such rage? And why would he bother to hide it now?

“Pardon the interruption, Lieutenant, but you’re needed.” Hux said, completely ignoring Ren’s presence. You ran to grab your things, scrambling to assemble your bag. As you headed to the door, though, you felt Ren’s hand grip your wrist. “Thank you for your assistance today, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice low and soft. He didn’t remove his hand from your wrist, and it was warm and slick with sweat. The personal contact was foreign to be sure, but not entirely unpleasant. “We’ll meet on a regular basis for future sparring sessions,” the demand was punctuated with a glance towards the general, who was still standing in the doorway—a quick glance, but not outside of your notice.

“Of course, Commander Ren. It would be an honor,” you responded. That Ren wanted to train with you regularly was a bit of a surprise, but you would have to process it later. General Hux was still waiting.

Outside of the training room, Hux was looking for an outlet for his anger. You walked out into the corridor, a flush still visible on your face from your recent workout. Or from something else, the thought cut into his mind cruelly, and Hux felt his jaw tense in frustration. “I’m really sorry about that,” you said, gesturing to the now-closed doors of the training room, “I didn’t realize how late it was. Was there something you needed?”

Hux could feel his anger diminishing as he looked into your eyes. There was an earnest quality in your gaze that he had always admired, and when you were looking at him, he felt like the most powerful, most important person in the galaxy. But Ren’s presence in the training room, and whatever it was he had walked in on, still vexed him. Maybe you looked at everyone like that.

“Phasma asked me to remind you of your meeting.”

“Of course, sir, I’ll head there immediately,” you responded, but you made no movement towards the captain’s office.

“Was there something you needed, Lieutenant?”

“No sir,” you responded, eyes wide, “I only wondered, well, are you alright? You seem . . . tense.” You glanced away on the last word, avoiding eye contact, and Hux melted. It was not everyday that one of his subordinates showed concern for his well-being, and your concern meant the most to him.

“I’m fine, Lieutenant, but thank you.” Hux responded, as a small bubble of elation moved through his chest, stamping out more of the anger on its way.

“Because if you need help with anything, I’m always glad to offer my assistance.”

“Really, Lieutenant, I’m alright.” Hux reached out to lay his hand on your shoulder, but then thought better of it, pulling his hand back awkwardly to his side, “You should go to your meeting; Captain Phasma will be wondering where you are.”

You nodded in response, and then began walking down the corridor towards Phasma’s office when a stroke of bravery hit the general.

“Wait, Lieutenant!” he called, walking to catch up with you. “ I actually could use your help. The expense reports for the cycle are due tonight at midnight, and I have to wait as long as possible before I approve and submit them so that they accurately reflect our spending. It takes me a few hours on my own, but maybe with your help . . .”

“Of course, General, I’d love to,” you responded, smiling. “Would you like to meet me in your office tonight or . . .“

“My quarters might be more comfortable,” Hux interrupted, before he could stop himself.

Idiot! Moron! You sound like a lowlife! he scolded internally. Now you’d think of him as some pervert trying to corner you in his damn quarters. Hux paused his mental self-flagellation in an attempt to salvage the conversation. “If that’s alright with you. Whatever you prefer.”

“Your quarters would be fine, sir,” you said, and Hux felt himself go weak at the knees with relief. “I’ll be there at 21 hundred hours?” The general could only nod, still recovering from his terrible embarrassment. You hurried off down the hallway, on your way to meet with Phasma, and Hux was already beginning to feel the nervous anticipation that always came when he thought about getting to see you again. He’d just have to make it through the next few hours.

There was no way he’d be getting any work done today.

#armitage hux x reader #kylo ren x reader #general hux x you #my writing #office romance #armitage hux x you #kylo ren x you

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iwantthedean · 5 years

Text

The Division

Part Seven: The Past in the Present

Summary: Rookie agent Sam Campbell comes face-to-face with his past. Pairing: Dean x OFC Finley Word Count: 2175 Fic Warnings: Language, angst, canon-typical supernatural elements. Chapter Warnings: None, other than above. I think.

Masterlist

The crowd in the conference room was bigger than Sam had seen since coming to The Division. He had heard a variety of reports of the things that had happened a few nights ago — Cuthbert Sinclair’s assassination, Finley O’Connor going missing right after — but no one had yet offered an explanation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please.”

A man of short stature stood at the front of the room, hands clasped and waiting for everyone to quiet down. What he lacked in height, he seemed to make up for in presence. One look at him and Sam was certain he would have answers by the end of this meeting.

“Thank you.” The man let his hands drop, sliding one into the pocket of his neatly-pressed trousers. “I’ll cut right to the chase. My name is Mick Davies. In the wake of Cuthbert Sinclair’s assassination, I have been sent her by your British counterparts to manage The Division until one of you can be appointed to do so. You may see an associate of mine, Mr. Arthur Ketch, roaming around. You’ll be best interested to not start a conversation with him, just let him speak to you, or avoid him altogether.”

Sam frowned; no words of comfort? No respects paid to a man who had been the head of The Division for longer than Sam had been alive? Only quick, cold introductions — and, now, a picture of Finley O’Connor pulled up on the projector screen.

“Many of you will be familiar with this woman, but for those of you who aren’t, let me inform you. This is Finley O’Connor, The Division’s top recon agent. Two nights ago, she came back after drinks with colleagues under the guise of getting a file for a case. We believe that she took that opportunity to assassinate — execute — Cuthbert Sinclair.”

Sam glanced over at Benny. He knew that the vampire was relatively close with Finley, as much as she allowed others to get close, anyway. Other than the initiation fight with her, Sam didn’t know much about Finley. He did know, however, from the look on Benny’s face, that it was unlikely Finley O’Connor was the true culprit in Sinclair’s death.

“Going forward, we will be labeling Finley O’Connor an enemy of the state. Anyone who sees her should apprehend her and bring her back here immediately — dead or alive.”

A woman Sam didn’t know raised her hand. “If this is all American government business, why have you and your colleague come to maintain the status quo until further notice?”

Mick chuckled. “I suppose you wouldn’t all be Americans if you didn’t question authority, right? Ketch and I reached out as soon as word of the assassination reached the British Men of Letters, with whom we are associated. The government accepted, in light of the fragile work we all do. If that’s an acceptable answer for you, we’ll continue on with the briefing.”

Sam maneuvered his way over to Benny. “Benny — what is going on?”

Benny took a deep breath. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

Just under forty-eight hours later, the story was all over the news. Cuthbert Sinclair was dead and Finley O’Connor was being held responsible for his assassination. Sam sat with Benny at a bar many of The Division’s agents liked to frequent, sipping from a longneck and watching the reports on the television above the bar.

“Crazy, isn’t it,” the waitress commented, shaking her head and delivering another round. “That girl was in here the night it all happened. They say she left here and then went and killed that old guy — who does that?”

Benny and Sam exchanged an uneasy glance. When the waitress was gone with their empties, Benny leaned in to Sam.

“Something has to be done about this.” He took a deep breath. “I’m putting you on a tail, Campbell. I have an idea of where Finley might have gone.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah, you know, I don’t think — Finley told me herself that she has nowhere she would go when she needed to run. She could literally be anywhere.”

Benny chuckled and knocked back half of his new beer. “Remind yourself that you’re still learning, Sammy-boy. I’ve known Finley better than anyone for a really long time. She has people, even if she doesn’t want to admit it to someone she just met. Can’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to tell a newbie everything about here, immediately. She’s such an open book.”

“All right, all right,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. Benny’s sarcasm reminded him of when his older brother used to give him a hard time about things. “Where do you think she’d go? And how are we going to find the place?”

Benny leaned back in his chair. “Easier than you think.”

When Sam arrived at the place Benny had directed him to go, there was, of course, no answer to his pounding on the door. Reluctantly, Sam used the key Benny had provided him, and stepped inside the old, forgotten place.

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, taking it all in from the top of the staircase. He could see more as he descended the steps, and each new piece that came into view put his research-hungry brain further into overdrive.

After a few minutes of wandering the underground location, Sam’s mobile rang. He punched the button to accept the call, still looking in awe as he trekked through hallway after hallway.

“Did you find her?” Benny inquired.

“No, no one’s here, I don’t think. I’m guessing if they were, they would have dropped me by now.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Benny, what is this place?”

“Old Men of Letters bunker. Before Abaddon, before we were The Division. That’s been home base for her contact for a while now.”

“How’d they manage to get in?”

“They’re Legacies,” Benny replied, matter-of-fact. That wasn’t a term with which Sam was familiar, but Benny’s tone told him that the Q&A was over. “There’s someone they may be going to meet with. If I can track her, I’ll send you new coordinates. In the meantime, head east on the main highway. I’ll update you as soon as I can.”

Sam felt as though he was being sent on a wild goose chase, but he was here to follow orders. So, he got on the main highway, headed east, no clear destination.

When Sam finally caught up to them, Finley and another woman were breaking up a fight between two men. He couldn’t see the face of the other woman as she pushed a dark-haired man away from one with sandy, brown hair, but as he drove to a more isolated parking spot, the man Finley was now speaking to came into view.

Dean. His brother. Too many years had passed since the brothers had seen each other — since John and Dean had dropped Sam off at that boys’ home and had never come back for him. Sam had since stopped using Winchester as his last name, changing it to Campbell. In his mind, his mother deserved the honor of a continued family name; in his mind, she would never abandon him.

The first thing Sam wanted to do was get out of the car and pull Dean into another fight, but he was here on orders, he reminded himself. He would trail them as he had been instructed to do and leave his personal bullshit at the door. After Benny assured him there was no time to worry about conflict of interest, Sam did his best to concentrate only on the mission he had been assigned.

As the days passed and Sam continued to keep a close eye on Dean, Finley, and the other man and woman with them, his anger slowly faded away. He saw bits and pieces of the life Dean had been dragged away to with John. Dean hadn’t been old enough to have any sort of voice with their father when it came to decisions regarding Sam. Maybe it wasn’t fair to hold him accountable about that. Sure, Dean could have come looking for him after the fact, but for all Sam knew, Dean had looked for him and had come up empty. The longer time went on, the more Sam simply wanted to know his brother.

Now, it seemed the fugitives had nowhere else to go and nowhere else to turn. A call from Benny gave Sam the information he needed to relay to Dean and Finley, and came with a warning.

“When you go to talk to them, Sam, the blonde woman — you might recognize her. I don’t want you to be taken by surprise.”

Sam’s brow deepened into a frown. “I haven’t recognized her yet.”

“Once you’re up close — just listen to me, all right? You’re well aware there’s some weird shit that goes down in this world, and I’m not in the mood for questions. I wanted to confirm it before I said anything, but I have it on good authority that the woman traveling with your brother and Finley is Mary Campbell-Winchester.”

His mother. Sam had been watching her for days and hadn’t even known. Why would he suspect, though? Even knowing about all of the ‘weird shit’ in the world, nothing would have prompted him to imagine, even for a second, that the blonde woman was the mother who had died before Sam had the chance to form memories of her.

Sam ended the phone call with Benny and decided it was now or never. He left his own hotel room to go and knock on theirs, fully expecting to be hit at least once. Finley would be suspicious of every agent, Mary wouldn’t recognize him, and he didn’t know the other man from Adam. Dean was his only hope of recognition — and even then, there was no reason for them to believe that his intentions were good.

He had to knock several times before Finley opened the door. She grabbed him by the lapel and pushed him into the room. Prepared for such a visitor, Dean had pulled him into a chair and put a cocked gun to his head while the dark-haired man bound Sam’s hands and feet.

“What are you doing here?” Finley demanded, brandishing a gun of her own. “They’ve already sent people after me once, that didn’t end so well. What’s a rookie like you hope to do?”

“Help you,” Sam promised, looking her dead in the eye. “I’m here to help you, Finley. Benny sent me. Besides — you’re traveling with my brother and my mother. I have every reason to help you out of this.”

Finley’s eyes snapped to Dean’s. The older Winchester stepped carefully around to face their hostage. “Sammy?”

“Hey, brother,” Sam nodded.

The dark-haired man was still confused. “What’s he talking about? Dean, how many people from your past are gonna come out of the woodwork before this is all over?”

Dean worked quickly to untie the ropes binding Sam to the chair. He pulled his brother up to a standing position, and hugged him tightly.

“Thought I’d never see you again,” Dean admitted, choking a bit on the words. “Dad left you in that place — I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

With those words, Sam returned his brother’s embrace; his suspicions were confirmed. Dean had no say in the matter. The two brothers didn’t part from each other until the hotel door opened and shut again, and Mary Campbell-Winchester walked through with a bag of fast food in one hand and a pack of beers in the other.

“What’s going on?” she frowned.

Dean looked at Finley, then at Sam, then back to Mary. “Mom, this is Sam.”

Mary’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Sammy? You’re a little bigger than the last time I saw you.”

Sam chuckled through his own tears. “Yeah, just a little.”

“Oh, well, um …”

Mary was suddenly in a frenzy to set down the things in her hands. She rushed to her little boy and threw her arms around him. Sam had never hugged anyone so tight in his life. This woman who had carried him for nine months, had given him life … this woman he had only ever seen in pictures and dreams … she was here, and she was real.

“How did you find us?” Dean finally asked, breaking the silence.

Sam swallowed and sniffled, exchanging an amused glance with Finley. “I work for The Division. I’m still the new guy, so I haven’t been there long. In fact, this bruise still fading on my face? That’s from this one here.”

Finley blushed a little, realizing she had beat up Dean Winchester’s little brother. “It’s an initiation thing. He got a hit in.”

They all had a tension-easing chuckle about that, then sat down to eat the food Mary had brought and crack open the beers — and listen to what Sam came to warn them of.

Keep It Original: @ashleymalfoy @atc74 @melbrandes @smoothdogsgirl @illisea @ravenesque @spnbaby-67

The Division: @xtina2191 @itsallaboutthedean @roxyspearing @adoptdontshoppets

#supernatural #fanfiction #sam winchester #dean winchester #ofc #dean x ofc #dean winchester x ofc #finley o'connor #dean x finley #the division #part 7 #the past in the present #spnfanficpond #jelly fish #iwantthdeanupdates #iwantthedean's tag team #all my lovelies #that's my queue

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the-quiet-winds · 5 years

Text

Terrors Don’t Prey on Innocent Victims (part one)

no one asked for probably the darkest fic that @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts and i have ever written together, but here it is

serious warnings though: stalking, threats of violence, actual violence

[Part 1: Tell Me You Love Me]

it started off innocent enough.

katherine would find a couple comments on her instagram every day, saying that she’s beautiful and an inspiration and all sorts of nice words.

then, things started to feel weird. the fan, whoever they were, started to become more insistent, creepy and borderline malicious words popping up on katherine’s screen four to five times a day.

back when they were simple compliments, katherine would give them a like as a sign of gratitude, but as the messages got stranger she didn’t feel comfortable doing that any more. the fan, however, seemed to take issue with that.

“why are you ignoring me?” one comment reads. “i was only trying to tell you how special you are.” eventually, katherine blocks the account, but within the hour a new one had been created and was commenting asking why they’d been blocked.

it didn’t take long for jane to notice the shift in katherine’s demeanor. she stops posting as frequently on social media, specifically her instagram, and every time her phone lights up or makes a sound, she physically winces.

jane decides to rip the bandage off and ask her right away. she sits down on the couch next to kat, who is staring at her upside-down phone on the table with a nervous lip bite.

“hey, love,” jane says quietly. “what’s going on with you?”

katherine looks up at her, startled. “hm? oh, nothing.” her gaze darts back to her phone again and her leg bounces anxiously, and jane frowns.

“sweetheart, i know something’s up. you can tell me, kat.”

katherine looks from her phone to jane then back again, and her eyes are wide and nervous. she’s silent for a few seconds, an internal battle of whether to tell jane or not playing in her mind.

without a word, kat picks up her phone and opens instagram, before showing jane her DMs. that one ‘fan’ had sent messages on messages trying to get katherine to respond, some of them borderline sexual and creepy. by the time jane looks up from the phone, katherine is in tears.

“oh, love,” jane pulls her into her arms immediately. “love, i’m so sorry. have you reported them?”

“i’ve tried,” katherine half-sobs. “they just keep coming back.” jane keeps holding kat close, running a soothing hand over her back, but her mind is fiercely angry. how someone could send katherine these messages was beyond her, especially under the guise of being a fan. a wave of protectiveness rushes through her and she murmurs soft reassurance to katherine, already trying to think of ways to stop this person from messaging her daughter any more.

“it feels horrible,” katherine whimpers. “they won’t leave me alone.”

jane is outrageously angry, but keeps her touch soft and soothing and she strokes katherine’s back and hair. she delicately kisses the top of her head.

“we’ll sort this out, kitty-kat. i’m telling you,” jane murmurs, softly but firmly. “nobody’s going to harm you, not on my watch. and not on any of the other queens’ watch either.” katherine clings to her even harder, her tears flowing faster.

“you promise?” she asks, voice shy and childlike.

“of course i do,” jane promises. “i will protect you.”

unfortunately, jane is only human, and no one could possibly foresee what would come that night.

past midnight, when darkness blankets the sky, katherine is peacefully sleeping, but it doesn’t last very long. she is awoken by a loud crashing noise. even in the blackness, she could make out the broken glass on the floor and gaping hole in the window. in the center of the glass pile sits a brick, dark and red, with a message taped to it.

“you can’t get rid of me, kitty-kat.”

katherine can’t even find the voice to scream. instead, she just runs, runs to jane’s room and bursts in. jane, already waking up from the crash, immediately sits up at the sight of katherine.

“love, what’s the matter?”

katherine was obviously distressed, face pale and body trembling. she can’t speak, instead falling into jane’s arms and bursting into tears.

“shh,” jane hushes. “what happened?”

katherine can’t talk, tears and fear overpowering her entirety. jane simply holds her tight, running a hand over her hair in attempts to be soothing.

“what the hell is this?” aragon and cleves burst into the room, tailed by parr and boleyn. in aragon’s hand is some square thing...it looks an awful lot like a brick to jane.

with a heavy gulp and a shudder from katherine, she realizes that’s exactly what it is.

when jane reads the note attached to the brick rage fills her mind. she pulls katherine onto her lap and cradles her like a child, arms soft but with a face like thunder. this person, whoever they are, had gone too far. not only had they invaded their home, their safe sanctuary, but they’d used the nickname that should only be used to make katherine feel loved. a glance around at the other queens lets her know that they are just as furious as she is; they might not know the full situation but it’s still clear that katherine was being targeted by somebody, and nobody messed with katherine and got away with it.

cleves and aragon’s faces darken significantly at the realization. there’s something malicious going on that everyone can sense, even the calm and resolute parr is nearly shaking with anger.

“hush, lovey, hush now,” jane tells the shaking girl in her arms, trying to keep her voice soft and calm. parr quietly steps over and whispers in jane’s ear, “try to get her to sleep, then we can talk.”

the other queens leave the room to give katherine some space. jane keeps holding her, soothing her with gentle words and kisses to her temple while katherine sobs her emotions out. eventually, katherine is all cried out and her eyes start to droop closed from exhaustion. jane doesn’t want to leave her in the room alone, worried about katherine waking up afraid or even worse, the person coming back. however, she also wants to work out what’s going on and how to solve it, so she gently tucks katherine in to jane’s bed and creeps out, leaving the door open so she can hear if there were any disturbances.

when she reaches parr’s room, an interesting sight is awaiting her.

some of the low lights are on, illuminating the four queens in the room. boleyn and cleves are sprawled on the bed, scrolling through the multiple profiles of the person in question. aragon is pacing the floor, debating with parr if calling the police was a next step, while parr herself is at her desk on her computer, researching any similar events. she doesn’t know if she’s relieved or frustrated that there’s nothing to be found.

jane weakly leans on the doorway, katherine’s emotional outburst taxing her as well. “we’re not safe here,” she finally says. “she’s not safe here.”

“that’s why we need to call the police,” aragon nods. “it was bad enough when it was just online, but they’ve actually found where she lives.” parr sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“i want to agree with you, aragon, and i think the police should be told, but i don’t think it’s going to be enough. the only prosecutable thing they’ve done is vandalism, and that isn’t going to get them a sentence. we need to do something more to protect her.”

“none of the profiles comment on anyone’s stuff except howard’s,” boleyn chimes in. she shudders slightly as she scrolls down. “some of it is so creepy.”

cleves nods in agreement, uncharacteristically quiet. “there’s like 10 of them, all saying the same vile things.”

jane’s legs feel weak, her stomach sick, everything horrible and wrong happening all at once.

“there has to be something we can do,” she insists. “we can’t just wait for them to do something else.”

“but there’s nothing we can do right now, jane,” parr says quietly, staring vaguely towards her desk. “we just have to keep katherine safe as best we can.”

jane wants to go back to katherine to make sure she’s definitely alright; in fact, she wants to never let katherine out of her sight again. “i think we should go somewhere,” she says. “get katherine out of the house where they can’t find her.” her fist clenches with anger without her realising. “she deserves a place where she can be safe.”

“we could try,” parr says uneasily. “but if they find her again, i’m not sure what we could do after that.” she digs her thumbs into her temple and sighs. “god, this is so messed up.”

“you’re not wrong, parr,” boleyn calls from the bed, making a disgusted face at one of the comments. “listen to this, ‘you’re too talented for this group. maybe a solo career? or a duo, i’ll come too lol.’ what the hell?!”

aragon opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by a dog barking outside. their neighbor has a dog, a friendly bulldog named rufus, but he never barks. especially in the middle of the night. they glance out the window.

there’s a person standing in the deserted street, dressed in black from head to toe. their face is concealed in shadows, but there’s definitely something sinister.

“‘if you all want to talk, i’ll be waiting here,’” boleyn suddenly says. she shows her phone to cleves, where she had received a direct message from this particular person just a second ago.

“this could be a trap,” parr says evenly. “it’s the perfect way to get everybody out of the house and have katherine here alone.”

“...but it could also be a chance to find out who this creep is,” boleyn finishes the thought. “i don’t want to talk to some faceless stranger in the middle of the night,” she adds. “but it’s still an option.” one by one, they turn slowly to look at jane, who at this point is almost sheet white and leaning heavily against the doorway.

“i’ll go,” she says with as much conviction as she can muster. “cathy?”

“i’ll come too,” she answers. jane nods weakly to her, then looks to the other three. “stay here,” she commands, “keep each other safe. keep an eye on her and us. if anything looks wrong, call the police.”

“no one will hurt her. or us. that’s a promise,” aragon says.

jane nods again before leaving the room, followed by parr. she goes into her own room, where katherine lays asleep, faded tear stains on her cheeks. jane can barely hold herself together as she bends over and kisses katherine’s forehead. “they will keep you safe, kitty-kat,” she whispers so softly she can barely hear herself. “mama loves you.”

in an instant, her demeanor changes. she turns to parr, a dark fire in her eyes. “let’s go see what this bastard wants.”

the two leave the house, parr with some pepper spray tucked into her jacket pocket just in case. boleyn watches them out of the window, having promised to yell to the other two if it seemed like jane and parr were in any trouble.

the figure doesn’t move as they approach, and as they get closer they can see the person is wearing a mask. the hood of their jacket is pulled up over their hair, and they’re even wearing gloves; it would be impossible to identify them from their appearance.

“what a shame,” the person says as they approach. their voice is rough and decidedly masculine, but still young sounding. “the two irrelevant queens. it would have been nice to at least see aragon or boleyn, or even...,” he rubs his hands together with a demented glee, “queen kitty-kat herself?”

parr has to physically hold jane back. “you have no right to call her that!”

“calm down, sweetheart. i don’t want to hurt her.” his voice is light, jovial, even.

“you just want to do other vile things, huh?” parr snarls.

“not vile, never vile,” he says, with the air of someone explaining a very simple concept to a child. “no, an angel like her deserves to be appreciated properly by someone who truly sees how special she is.”

“and that someone is you, is it?” jane practically spits, her normally soft voice now unrecognizable.

“that would be correct,” the man says calmly. “we have a spiritual bond, you see. she might not know it yet, not with you poisoning her mind, but she will see the light one day.”

“you rotten, disgusting little cockroach!” jane yells, lunging towards him. parr grabs her arms and holds her back.

he tisks. “violent, are we? wouldn’t want sweet little kat caught up in all this anger, now would we...,” he pauses momentarily. “‘mum?’”

“don’t you dare,” jane hisses, almost managing to pull out of parr’s grip. “don’t you dare-”

“it’s actually quite cute,” he interrupts, and although they can’t see his face they can almost hear the smirk behind his words. “all this mother and daughter talk, i mean. as if you would ever be good enough for someone so beautiful and perfect, someone like kitty-kat.” his voice reaches an almost dreamlike tone. “tell me, is she just as perfect up close?”

“you don’t get to know anything about her!” jane hisses. “nothing! you deserve to rot in jail for what you’ve done.”

he feigns an offended gasp. “such hostility from such a kind woman. i hope you aren’t like this with kitty-kat. what’s that thing you always say to her?” his voice lowers to a soft whisper, so very like the one jane uses every time she says the words he then repeats. “mum loves you, kitty-kat. in this life or any other.”

jane freezes, completely still, and parr lets go of her arms in concern.

“how- how could you possibly know that?” jane says, voice faint.

“what kind of person would i be if i didn’t know everything there is to know about my kitty-kat?” he says, in a tone that sends a shiver down both of their spines.

“she’s not yours,” jane spits.

“not yet,” he shrugs. “but she will be, you mark my words.”

without parr holding her back, jane flies at the man, an uncontrollable rage overtaking her. she draws back her fist but he grabs her wrist, seemingly unfazed by her attack.

“hm, i think you’re going to have to break your promise,” he hums. his grip tightens on jane’s wrist enough for her to let out a quiet whimper of pain, and parr, who had been approaching with her hand reaching for the pepper spray, freezes, not wanting to make him hurt jane any more. “looks like mummy can’t protect kitty-kat after all.”

he pauses, and a malice fills his voice. the imaginary smirk fades, replaced by what could be thought of as a snarl. “i will be back, and kitty-kat will be mine. just you wait.”

he harshly releases jane’s wrist and she stumbles back. he turns to leave.

“you horrid bastard, you will never, ever touch her!” jane half-yells.

there’s a moment when everything is absolutely still. then he whirls on his heel, his hand rising and colliding with jane’s cheek, sending her down against the asphalt. he leans over her threatening.

“i’d like to see you try and stop me,” he growls. “stay out of my way, or i will kill you, jane seymour.”

then he runs off into the night.

———————————————————————————————————–

tag list: @percabeth15 @kats-seymour @qualquercoisa945 @jane-fucking-seymour @a-slightly-cracked-egg @justqueentingz @annabanana2401 @wolfies-chew-toy @broad-way-13@tvandmusicals @lailaliquorice @aimieallenatkinson @sweet-child-why03 @gaylinda-of-the-upper-uplands @funky-lesbians@thinkaboutitmaybe @hansholbeingoesaroundzeworld @anaamess@beeskneeshuh @prick-up-ur-ears@theartoflazy @justqueentwo @brother-orion @paleshadowofadragon @lafemmestars@beautifulashes17@jarneiarichardnxel@idkimbadwithusernamesandstuff @sixcago@mixer1323@boleynssixthfinger @aimieallen @elphiesdance@boleynthebunny@krystalhuntress @lupin-loves-chocolate @bellacardoza16 @bluify

#six the musical #six musical #jane seymour #katherine howard #catherine parr #anne boleyn #anne of cleves #catherine of aragon #julie and jess write #terrors don't prey on innocent victims #PLEASE read the warnings

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a-room-of-my-own · 5 years

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Authenticity & empathy: Meghan Murphy

Meghan Murphy is a freelance writer and journalist. She has been podcasting and writing about feminism since 2010, is the founder and editor Feminist Current, Canada’s leading feminist website and has published work in numerous national and international publications.

This is the text of the speech she gave at the 22nd meeting of Woman’s Place UK.

I’ve been thinking a lot about authenticity lately. We’re currently living in a culture wherein authenticity has been traded in for fakery. We support and reward virtue signalling and punish those who are real, those who tell the truth, those with integrity, those who insist on making political arguments based on critical thinking and what is right, rational, and ethical, instead of based on what is politically correct or popular.

I have a rather overzealous commitment to authenticity, which I think has played a sizable role in my insistence on pushing back against gender identity ideology and legislation. I know I have friends, or acquaintances, or friends of friends, or random internet followers with self righteous opinions who think maybe I should just back off of this. Or who claim I’m being ‘mean’ or unempathetic, because I continue to operate in reality rather than the fantasy land we’re told is the new normal, wherein black is white, up is down, and men are women.

But I see no empathy for women and girls on the part of trans activists, that is to say, those pushing gender identity ideology and legislation. What I see is bullying, threats, ostracization, and a misogynist backlash against the feminist movement and much of the work it’s accomplished over years.

I see no empathy for women who are now being forced to compete against male athletes in sport, essentially rendering women’s sport nonexistant, as they can no longer compete on fair ground, if forced to compete against men. I see no empathy for the female athletes speaking out against this reprehensible trend — instead they’re being smeared and threatened. I see no empathy for the lesbians being bullied right out of their own events and communities, as the LGBTQxyz+++ whatever movement does nothing to support them, and in fact seems instead to support the men pushing them around and hurling verbal abuse at them, simply for asserting that lesbians are females who are attracted to other females, not heterosexual men interested in playing around with lipstick.

We held an event in Vancouver earlier this month, addressing the issue of gender identity and kids, and our venue — the Croatian Cultural Centre — received so many threats they had to file a police report, hire their own security, and bring in the Vancouver Police Department to keep protesters off the property. They, for once, didn’t blame us — women, feminists — for the threats of violence sent their way, and rather asked, with disbelief, how it was us the trans activists were accusing of being ‘hateful’, while simultaneously verbally abusing and threatening violence against the venue’s staff.

Somewhere between 150 and 200 protesters showed up, and stood outside with signs saying things like, “Support trans youth”, “Love and Solidarity”, “Love trans kids”, “be careful who you hate, it might be someone you love” and “love wins.”

All this branding around “love” has been incredibly successful, of course. We — women fighting for women’s rights, people fighting for the truth, those of us who insist on acknowledging that biology is real, that females and males are real things, and that, no, there is no such thing as a “female penis” —have been painted as hateful, intolerant, and bigoted, despite the fact that we are the only ones engaging (or trying to engage in) respectful, civil, rational debate and discussion, and being shut down over and over again.

Despite the fact that WE are the ones concerned about male violence against women and how gender identity ideology and legislation will hurt women, as well as kids, who are now being sent down a path towards hormones and surgery that will destroy their bodies permanently, simply because they don’t conform to sexist gender stereotypes, it is trans activists who have positioned themselves as caring and politically correct, and us as cruel and intolerant.

As I was leaving the venue after that event, the stragglers screamed at me that I had blood on my hands. Which of course I do not, and which, of course, is incredibly ironic considering how many times I’ve been told I should be murdered on account of my belief that you can’t change sex, and that it is not possible to be ‘born in the wrong body.’

I see no empathy in trans activism for the girls who will lose scholarships and opportunities to boys who can easily beat them in athletic competitions.

I see no empathy for women and girls who don’t feel comfortable with naked men in their change rooms at the pool. I see no empathy for youth being put on hormones that will have a lasting impact on them, including permanent sterilization, all to accommodate adults who don’t want to see trans ideology questioned under any circumstances.

I see no empathy for the women and their children who will have nowhere to turn if their local transition house is defunded on account of a women-only policy.

I see no empathy for Kristi Hanna, a Toronto woman and survivor of sexual assault, who had leave her room at Palmerston house, a shelter for recovering addicts, because she was made to share a room with a man, and did not feel safe.

I see no empathy for the 14 female estheticians who were asked to give a male a brazilian bikini wax, then dragged to court when they declined, saying they only offered the service to women.

I see no empathy for the girls allegedly predated on by this man, who is being protected by our very liberal, very progressive society that’s choosing to put male feelings and desires above all else, under the guise of ‘inclusion’, and thanks to trans activism.

Women and girls are being told they may not have boundaries. That they may not say ‘no’ to men. And this is what we are told it means to ‘choose love’. This is what we are being told is ‘feminism’.

Trans activism says women may not define their own bodies as female. That we may not have our own rights, services, and spaces, that ‘exclude’ men. It says gender stereotypes are real and innate, but the female body is a social construction. It says that ‘woman’ is based only on adherence to or an affinity towards femininity, something feminism has fought against for years.

So much of what women fought for over the past century is being rolled back, and progressives are insisting we all shut up and take it, because it’s ‘nice’, and of course, women must always be ‘nice’, even if it means putting our lives, autonomy, safety, opinions, and rights aside.

NOTHING about the trans movement is progressive and nothing about it is feminist.

I brought up authenticity earlier on, partly because I am sick to death of this social media based culture wherein we put forth personas we believe our audience will like, modeling perfect faces, lives, and thoughts, which I find incredibly boring and depressing, but also because I see this devaluing of authenticity as having an incredibly destructive impact on political discourse, and certainly it’s manifested itself powerfully in the trans movement.

I don’t believe that, aside from a few exceptionally delusional or troubled people, a majority of the population believes it’s possible to change sex. I don’t believe that all these so called progressives look at a man we call him ‘she’, and believe he is literally a woman. I don’t believe all these people claiming ‘love wins’ and insisting women be more ‘empathetic’ as they give up all their rights and spaces, while these activists spout vile, hateful insults and threats at us, are really very loving at all.

I think people are not telling the truth. I think they are repeating mantras and going along with ideas and policies in order to appease their Facebook friends. I think they value social status a lot, and are willing to give up ethics and truth in order to be liked. And I think it’s pathetic. I think that these people are throwing women under the bus and even selling themselves out in the process, knowing that they’re spouting lies for virtual cookies and using us all to fake politics.

And I refuse to be used as some kind of stepping stool for empty headed, cowardly hipsters — these extremely privileged people who have fetishized oppression, but have no idea what marginalized groups actually face and deal with on a daily basis, because certainly it’s not ‘misgendering’ that is keeping people poor and vulnerable — who can’t be bothered to read, listen, or think before announcing, boldly, that women with actual politics, who actually understand history, and who are bold enough to take a stand against actual bigotry and oppression should be silenced, punched, or even killed.

The wrong side of history is an embarrassing place to be.

But unfortunately I worry that, by the time these people realize how much damage they’ve caused by going along with such a destructive trend, it will be too late. What does give me hope is all of you. This massive and growing movement of people standing up and saying ‘no’, we won’t take this silently and sitting down. This groundswell of people insisting on telling the truth, despite the fact that we lose friends, jobs, social status, and sometimes safety, for doing so.

And the more we keep doing it, the more will join us.

Meghan Murphy

20th May 2019

#Transgender #Gender #Gender critical #Feminism #Misogyny

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softersinned-arc · 3 years

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#(i was going to write abt her mother in this verse not really being a good mother and the way that astoria is let down)

#(first by the father - father-as-fjerda - and later by the mother and the way that this makes her both actively seek out validation)

#(especially validation from men in positions of authority & men who represent a threat to fjerdan values)

#(and actively reject anything that resembles family for as long as she can - because family means disappointment)

#(family means being let down by the people who are meant to protect you no matter what)

#(and the only way she finds family after this is by having a specific person reach out and pull her into it usually against her will)

#( mobile info )

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valeriemperez · 7 years

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oh, you know what else this Iris powers thing could be. just like some temporary one off- maybe Barry's powers were accidentally transferred to her or something. didn't that happen in an episode of Lois & Clark once? i remember an episode where Lois became Ultra Woman, lol. i could see them doing that, it would play into the whole We are the Flash thing

Yup, they might just make it an accidental transferring, or it might have something to do with Jay and Jesse’s visit in the previous episode. Either way, I doubt it’ll last much more than one episode. But I’m very excited for it!

So I initially thought that the person with ‘a mysterious connection to Henry Allen’ would just be Big Sir, but we already know him and the connection isn’t mysterious, so I’m definitely leaning toward it benign Dawn now.

I’m torn between those two options. I still think it could be Big Sir because the description came out before we met him, but I’m not sure why they’d want to keep his identity a secret instead of promoting Goldberg’s involvement. I hope it’s Dawn because that means we get more of her, but I need her to meet Iris already!

I have a suspicion (or probably just a strong hope) that Dawn ends up playing a role in getting Barry out of prison. My current theory is that she’ll go see Marlize and ask about him/them, under the guise that she was one of his students or something. But unlike everyone else, she’ll have the sense to record the conversation, then she can bring it to Iris/Cecile/the team. But then again, part of me thinks that they’ll keep her in the background for a bit longer instead.

Ooh, that’s an awesome idea! I’d love for her to be the missing piece of the puzzle that the Devoes couldn’t anticipate.

I saw some people speculating online that the “mystery girl” could be the Devoes daughter b/c he was writing the same language she was but that seems absolutely ludicrous to me. Is there any way possible you see that happening? I have to be honest that would be a hell of a twist & I would be so disappointed b/c I really want her to be connected to Barry & Iris.

That is absolutely ludicrous, but I guess at least they accounted for JKP’s race lol? She’s definitely not the Devoes’ daughter, though, don’t worry. When have The Flash writers ever purposely tripped us up like that? They follow through on the clues they leave out.

Omg is Dominic Joeciles future son? Which is why it was said in an upcoming ep that Cecile will be able to hear thoughts due to her pregnancy?

Nah, I don’t think so. Dominic would have to have time-traveled before even becoming a metahuman, which is unlikely. I still think Devoe is implanting “readings” in Cecile’s mind with Dominic’s powers. That or The Flash really wants everyone to become a metahuman lol.

I keep seeing reports online that TF ratings are slowly slipping & of course certain sections of the fandom are blaming IW, WA & CP. I really don’t know much about ratings can confirm if the ratings are indeed slipping & what do you think is causing this?

The ratings are slipping, but it’s definitely not Iris or Candice or WA causing it. I think the specific drop between 4.10 and 4.11 was caused by bitter disappointment in how the Trial turned out, but overall it’s just age and the general downward trend of TV.

To answer your question….ratings in general this year across the board on all networks have been down. Even football is down this year lol. People just don’t watch live TV anymore. CW itself as a network has been done all together which might have to do with them losing one of their largest affiliate stations in Chicago last year. Plus the flash is just getting older and this is what happens to older shows. All the shows have been hurting including BL that dipped down two points to a 0.6

You speak the truth to a large degree! Flash has still deteriorated faster than the other Arrowverse shows this season, but overall TV is losing live viewers period. Really quickly, if we take out the crossover, the ratings range has been:Supergirl - all 0.5s and one 0.6. Flash - one 1.1, two 1.0s, two 0.9s, three 0.8s, two 0.7s. Legends - all 0.5s with two 0.6s and one 0.4. Arrow - 0.5s with one 0.6, one 0.4 and one 0.3.

Haters will somehow blame the low ratings on Iris (They did in the past), just like they'll blame her if they catch the flu the next day.

Exactly.

People really hate parallels? Why? I think they’re cute!

Just cuz when someone doesn’t ship one of the options, they get annoyed by the comparison.

#the flash #the flash spoilers #anonymous #tatiana's thoughts #more asks under the cut #long post for ts

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franciscretarola · 5 years

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Abruzzo: Turn off the phone

(Photos by Kateri Likoudis Connolly)

Cathy and I stood at the edge of the piazza, a stone-paved square overlooking the San Leonardo pass between the Majella and Morrone mountains. The sun was setting behind us and the Morrone, giving the valley beneath an amber glow. Above the tree line across from us, the rocky face of the Majella turned magenta. We were in Roccacaramanico, a quasi-abandoned medieval town in Abruzzo's Majella national park. Riding a spur on the Morrone's eastern slope, the town is a cluster of stone houses built along and above one main street. Beyond the cars parked at the entrance to the village, where there are also some collection points for recyclables, there's little in the town that breaks the spell of being in the 13th century. Few people live here year-round. Shepherding and farming are not the prevalent activities they once were. Most villagers have moved elsewhere, many to America. Restored homes offer shelter to hikers and other park tourists. From spring to fall, there're almost always visitors.

The late June day had been hot, but the air was clear and cooled as the sun retreated. It was just before dinner, and the tavern that opened onto the square was preparing for business. A large, white Abruzzese sheepdog dozed next to us. A few older women sat at a table, laughing and exchanging stories in the local dialect. The woman who ran the tavern set their table. Happy voices and the clink of silverware. Rosemary and mountain grasses perfumed the air.

Not much else was happening. Or was likely to happen. The dying sun painted the mountains and the valley below. Breeze played in the beech trees. In the piazza, an ancient hospitality unfolded without fanfare or fuss at a single table. And it was perfection. Cathy and I shared a moment of comfortable silence, a privilege of a quarter-century of cohabitation. No need for words. Just our senses taking it all in. It helped that our sole link to the outside world (and often a conduit to hell), Cathy's smartphone, had died a day earlier. There was no way for anyone to disturb us. No way for us to try to capture the moment, Instagram it, frame it for the appreciation and approval of others. There was only the moment. And that’s the point of Abruzzo. If you just shut up, kill the internal narrative that constantly rates and tries to validate your experiences, allow yourself to be present in the moment, it might be just what you need. You can’t capture, package, or sell its gift. There's just its intrinsic value. Which is why it’s so difficult to explain the region's allure. Why marketing it is difficult and can lead to something like sin.

In the last few years, Abruzzo’s been pegged in outlets as the “next place in Italy to discover.” It seems to be taking a long time. But I’m all for the right people discovering my favorite part of the world. Abruzzo and our friends there need the right type of tourism, and, so, the right type of tourist. Which means how word gets out, what gets told, and who does the telling are critical. About these parts of the discovery process, I’m not all that sanguine. We’re not good at subtleties, nuance, or depth. We don’t even seem to want to be. So far, most reportage has been spotty, often perfunctory, and woefully incomplete. I fear it will create unrealistic and unreasonable expectations. Americans and other first worlders expecting some quaintly rustic but gussied-up Tuscan-style idyll will be disappointed and angry. That would be tragic. Abruzzo welcomes visitors warmly and sincerely, in generous ways that can humble, but makes very few concessions to them. It remains, mostly, for now, its raw, sometimes ramshackle, but (in my mind) best self. It’s kind of important to report its complex truths, as much as that’s possible, and to approach it without preconceptions.

We've been traveling in Abruzzo for over twenty years. We lived for a short time in the village of Assergi, part of the Comune of L'Aquila, Abruzzo's capital, beneath the Gran Sasso massif. We started out to find my paternal family, then to write a travel book on the region. The latter never happened. Instead, we opened Le Virtù, our Abruzzo-themed restaurant in South Philly, a neighborhood that was a landing point for part of the region's diaspora. Largely undisturbed in its core by major highways until the 1970's, one of Italy's most mountainous and rugged territories with over thirty percent of its whole dedicated parkland (there are four major parks- three national and one regional - and several wildlife reserves), Abruzzo’s kind of a sanctuary for traditions and ways of life that have elsewhere vanished. Ancient pagan rituals and celebrations, now under the guise of Catholicism, persist. Shepherds still roam the mountains with flocks of goats and sheep. Agriculture continues to be defined by small family farms and cooperatives. Local cuisine resists homogenization and profits from an ingredient pool that would be the boast of better known, more traveled destinations in Italy. The region, once the northernmost part of various southern kingdoms (ruled by, among others, Normans, Swabians, French from Anjou, Spanish from Aragon), represents a bridge between south and central Italy. Though culturally and historically tied to the kingdoms of Naples and the Two Sicilies, its geographic position means that, especially at the table, it shares a lot with its central neighbors. Saffron, truffle (black and white varieties), porcini, game, tomatoes, red garlic, mozzarella, pecorino, and peperoncino – ingredients spanning central and southern Italy - are all major players in the Abruzzese kitchen. Before we opened Le Virtù, Cathy and I organized small culinary tours - fifteen people maximum - of the region. We went to every type of eatery, from roadside, mountain arrosticini (lamb skewers) stands, mom-and-pop menu-less trattorie, and centuries-old, repurposed wooden fishing platforms to gastronomic temples of decadent excess. I've consulted with journalists working on pieces about Abruzzo for The New York Times, Food & Wine, Elle, and Saveur. We did a blow-by-blow account of one of our restaurant research trips for Food Republic. We could write up a Best-of tour of Abruzzo. Nature. Culture. Food. And you would have a spectacular trip. My problem is that you might not have really experienced Abruzzo.

A few years ago, a food writer friend of ours who also knows Abruzzo floated the idea of us putting together and following a comprehensive itinerary in the region for a major magazine. It would allow for the necessary time (Abruzzo's topography and challenging road networks make traveling in it time consuming and complicated) and include the "essential" places. From the mountains to the sea, we'd do the region right - or as close to right as was possible in a magazine feature. From the outset, we were aware of the limitations of the medium and any itinerary. But we knew and loved the region. We were the right people for the job.

At the outset, the magazine was gaga over the idea. Abruzzo was just then entering the “next place” conversation. We submitted our proposal. The magazine expressed its enthusiasm. And then everything went radio silent.

Several months later I received an email from a journalist who was working on an assignment about Abruzzo. He needed help lining up the right people to interview about the region's culture and history and wanted some additional info on a couple of its core traditions. I asked which magazine had hired him. It was, of course, the one we'd given our itinerary. He was cagey about giving up details of his own trip, but eventually had to reveal enough to allow me to arrange things for him. His tour would be abbreviated, but it included spots from our itinerary. Was I angry? Yeah. But he seemed a nice enough guy, maybe with no idea about what'd transpired, so I - with the blessing of our friend - opted to help. He'd no knowledge of the region, the distances he'd be traveling, or the nature of the topography and roads. He needed a translator. The trip our friend and I'd planned had been honed to seven days (and we were still uncomfortably conscious of all the things we'd be leaving out). He’d allowed for less than half that time. The article came out, and to some fanfare. And it missed the point. Entirely. Truth is, most likely, ours would've too. Though we'd have gotten closer to the genuine article. It's somehow important to know enough to know what you're leaving out, what can't be adequately expressed or described. Even just to know what you don't know. One of the things that formed the core of this guy's piece, and that I'd set up for him, an interview with an aristocratic academic, an expert on the region's history, culture, and cuisine, was especially illustrative of the issues confronting any travel writer visiting Abruzzo for the first time. The professor made for great copy. Eccentric visually and personality-wise, he could wax for ages with unquestioned authority about the region. He was spectacular. But in a lot of ways, one would get a better read on Abruzzo's character and (sometimes grim) realities by talking to some laconic guy on a tractor, a woman wielding a sickle in a field, an old man carrying a bundle of kindling for his fireplace, or a sun-beaten dude tending his flock. Maybe even just a woman taking the orders AND cooking the food at her little trattoria.

The problem is, it's difficult to make the real stuff not sound a little sad. Because, in a way, it is. Anything truly complex and beautiful will contain melancholy elements. Adults should know this. Every beautiful thing - past, present, and future - is imbued with a kind of nostalgia or knowledge of its (or our) ephemerality. What you experience in Abruzzo, regardless of its very real vitality and beauty, is something that is endangered by the 21st century, something that is - in part - in decline or dying. The stuff that persists is kind of magical and occult in a century that seems bereft of meaning or values. But it’s in peril. Over its history, Abruzzo has endured earthquakes, war, endemic poverty, mass emigration. They’ve all left a mark. To be in one of Abruzzo's villages or in any of its parks offers exposure to things - rhythms, ways of life, connections to nature, a sense of community - that are essential, sustaining, deeply human. The sadness of history, the cruelty of commerce and nature, are also everywhere evident. It does the soul good to experience this totality. A visitor realizes that her very presence could be part of the problem. But also - if she’s open to experience and treats the region with respect and doesn’t impose ridiculous and shallow expectations - possibly part of the solution. It's nearly impossible to capture this in a genre at least in part focused on first-impression narratives and/or glossy hyperbole. Abruzzo can’t be truly presented in an Instagram feed or its journalistic equivalent. But maybe that type of wide-eyed "discovery" is just what most magazines want. Maybe these well-meaning, ignorant, gob-smacked purveyors of “WOW” are the right people for the job and this age. They won't bore you with the complexity, the multifaceted, unvarnished, and not all-bright-and-smiley truth. They will fill you with the need to have (purchase?) "experiences," to validate your existence. I don’t think that serves Abruzzo. Or the reader, for that matter. It won’t prepare her for the real experience or give her an idea of what essential things she might find there, and how to discover them. It’ll just create unrealistic and kind of rote expectations. Reportage and promotion of Italy suffer in general from shallow, romantic portrayals. Abruzzo’s impressive, moving, and - I think for what ails us - important. But it’s not particularly romantic. And I’m guilty of advancing some of this horseshit.

Somewhere along our 20-year timeline - for a short time, but still - I started "seeing" Abruzzo in terms of "wow factor." When we decided to marry our fortunes to Abruzzo - first with a never-produced book, then with small culinary tours, and finally with Le Virtù - it was inevitable that, to some extent, I'd commodify the region and its beauty. In the selling of something, regardless of how earnest the seller and heartfelt the sell, there's some reduction, some packaging that simplifies the truth. A gloss gets applied. I've played up Abruzzo's natural and man-made beauty and waxed poetic about meals and the people we've met - to attract journalists, to sell tours, to draw customers to our restaurant. I created an attractive, pleasant veneer. This was partly a product of the industries we’ve worked in and how they’re marketed and portrayed. TV shows, social media discussion, and journalism about travel, food, and restaurants have long been plagued by an obsession with "wow," presentation, and romantic imagery - the winemaker pensively walking among his vines, the chef intensely inspecting produce at the local market, the choreographed dance in the suggestively lit dining room. As opposed to a window on culture, a soulful gift, and congress with an actual community (things Abruzzo and southern Italy offer in spades), restaurant culture, in particular, and our expectations of it have too often veered toward the performative, the attempt to "blow the mind," present a seamless, theatrical experience. I find it all kind of empty, regardless of how impressive the show. Eating in Abruzzo very often affords you the chance to have real contact with the culture, to meet and talk to the people making and serving your food, and to really get to know who they are, what makes them tick. It’s a window on what life’s like, what these people value, deal with, do. Asking questions - or being asked questions- that break down the wall between diner and restaurateur is how we came to truly know the region. Some of the frankest, most revealing discussions I’ve had about life in Abruzzo - not just restaurant-related stuff, but the day-to-day struggles, cultural values, and current events - have happened at tables in the region’s trattorie and ristoranti. Being open to this kind of exchange is essential to knowing the place. If that’s what you’re about. These days, you can eat well almost anywhere. Travel’s about something deeper. But some travelers, including some journalists, refuse to go there. And, so, their experiences and impressions lack depth. We were sitting at a little place in San Vito Chietino, along Abruzzo’s southern coast, as guests of our olive oil rep. The trattoria, built into a centuries-old, vaulted, brick, ground-floor space, was just steps off a pebble beach. From our table, we could hear the waves break and retract through the clicking stones. The food was simple but perfectly prepared. An array of lightly battered fried fish to begin, followed by a soup of tacconcini - small squares of pasta - in a tomato and red pepper broth flavored with the local granchi, tiny crabs cooked whole. Too small really to break open for their meat, they infused the broth with a sweet, rich flavor.

After the pasta course and before the arrival of our secondi, the restaurant owner, a short, solidly built woman in her mid-50's, approached the table to check on our progress. The rep, a sharp-witted guy who'd traveled the world from this area to sell his olive oil, asked her about business. And she told him. No filter. She let loose a restaurateur's laundry list of laments. It was an uncensored exchange between members of a closely linked community. Hand gestures, facial expressions, modulations in volume, angry in parts, wickedly funny in others. Fishermen, winemakers, farmers, all her purveyors (remember she was saying this to someone who is also HER olive oil rep), and customers were unreliable, unreasonable, obtuse, and getting on her last nerve. When she walked away, he looked at us sheepishly. He hoped our host hadn't been too familiar, honest, free with her words. But after traveling in Abruzzo for decades this was nothing new for us. He was relieved. A few weeks before, he told us, he'd been escorting a New York Times journalist around the region. The writer was put off by the regional lack of filter, the informality and familiarity of many restaurateurs and servers. Sophisticated, professional detachment was apparently an essential part of how he judged a dining experience. It was what he expected.

I can’t express how far up his own ass this Times guy was, and how tragically wrong for this assignment. Why travel at all if your mellow gets harshed when the local character doesn’t conform with your staid and, frankly, ignorant expectations? Is this the kind of intrepid correspondent that will bring us any true picture of the world beyond our experiences? This was a guy who maybe should never roam beyond small sections of Manhattan. He sure as hell wouldn’t cut it in most of South Philly. It’s important who gets to tell us these stories. Over ten years ago, we took a friend of ours, Toronto-based, early modernist historian and author Mark Jurdjevic, to a tiny trattoria in the village of Ofena, just under the Campo Imperatore high-mountain plain in the Gran Sasso National Park. The woman who ran the place was a friend of ours. The trattoria was in what had been her childhood home. Her cucina was simple but elegant, using the best of the local ingredients - the potent saffron from the nearby Navelli plain, black truffles and wild herbs from the surrounding mountains, Santo Stefano di Sessanio lentils (small, dark, and for my money more flavorful than their counterparts from Castelluccio in Umbria), porcini, red and black ceci, and cicerchie (kind of misshapen, meaty, ceci-sized beans). Six or seven years earlier, Cathy and I’d stumbled on the place while exploring the village. The dining room walls had been painted by our friend’s artist husband in a riot of swirling greens, golds, and earthy reds. It was like dining inside a Van Gogh or Monet. Our first meal there included an antipasto della casa that might not have ever ended if we’d not cried “uncle.” Local pecorino cheeses, salumi, bitter greens sautéed in garlic and hot pepper, frittata, coratella (bits of lamb and lamb offal fried and browned in oil with garlic, white wine, salt, pepper, and some herbs), and grilled vegetables all arrived in turn. The most unusual item was a plate of lightly battered and fried lamb’s brains. They were creamy, almost like custard, with a mildly sweet, subtle, and elusive flavor. Not like anything I’ve had before or since. This visit with Mark, who’d used his genius for writing proposals to earn two years of study in Firenze, was my attempt to give him an authentic taste of Abruzzo, a change of pace from what he’d been daily experiencing in Tuscany. In so many ways, the meal delivered. Its events are apparently seared into his memory. I emailed Mark to tell him I’d be writing about this. And he responded in seconds: “Precise memory: fresh pasta alla chitarra (bright yellow - brighter than I've ever seen - the eggs, right?), saffron, slightly roasted cherry tomatoes, with a basket of chilies on the side. I think we grated some pecorino on it. It was one of, if not the, most satisfying pastas I've ever had. I came home (to Firenze, where he was then living with his wife and daughter) with a bag of saffron and tried to re-create it about ten times. It seemed so simple that it should be easy. Every pasta I made was certainly enjoyable, but not the same.

“Vague memory: Cathy had talked about an endless appetizer parade. The parade was considerably smaller than she had experienced the previous time, which we attributed to the fact that she (our friend) was with us in the dining room weeping and venting, rather than in the kitchen where such parades start. I remember some fried polenta with braised mushrooms and a stewed pepper dish, slightly spicy. Pretty sure secondi were grilled, split salsicce.

“Most I remember the outpouring of pure, unmitigated grief, combined with my shame and guilt that every ten minutes or so I would wonder if she was going to get her shit together and cook me some more food.” During the previous winter, then just ended, our friend’s father had fallen gravely ill - I don’t remember the malady, but the situation was hopeless. Winters in Abruzzo’s hinterlands can be extreme, Jack London-level stuff. Meters of snow. Howling winds. Wolves. The trifecta (though the third element never actually hurts anyone). The condition caused the father terrible pain. But the town’s remoteness and the snowfalls that sometimes blocked the roads made caring for him impossible. The travelling doctor couldn’t get there. So, there were no pain killers to lessen his suffering. His wails filled the house for days before he died. In Mark’s words, “…she was grabbing your forearm with both hands as she wept-spoke the details.” In the summer of 2011, several years later, Cathy and I dropped by the village of Santo Stefano di Sessanio, in the Gran Sasso National Park. It was two years after the April 2009 earthquake that’d nearly destroyed L’Aquila, Abruzzo’s capital city, and damaged and traumatized the surrounding towns that were part of the “crater” around the epicenter. Santo Stefano was one of these. Last time we’d visited, three months after the quake, most of the town - a fairytale-like, medieval jewel located, like Ofena, just beneath the Campo Imperatore - had been inaccessible. We were anxious about what we’d find.

An enormous crane hovered above the space where the town’s signature central tower, a crenulated lookout built by the Medici, had stood. It had toppled during an aftershock. Metal and wooden bracing secured many of the buildings in town, but some of the shops and eateries were open. We passed one of our favorites, Tra Le Braccia di Morfeo, and were happy to find it ready for business. Looking in from the street, I could see the owner/operator, Francesca, seated at her bar reading a newspaper. We’d not seen her since the quake. We’d known Francesca for over five years. During our many visits (including stops on our tours), she’d always been welcoming, but kind of reserved, professional. Not this time. We entered, and her face beamed with delight. She embraced each of us in turn. “Volete mangiare? Spero di si!” (You want to eat? I hope yes). A familiar and welcome meal of rustic specialties followed. First salame aquilano - firm, tightly packed and flattened, and spiced with salt and pepper. Then liver sausage, house-cured, thick-cut, mountain-style prosciutto, capocollo, pickled zucchini, and local aged canestrato pecorino. For my primo, I went with the zuppa di lenticchie, made with the town’s prized lentils. Cathy devoured a robust casareccia pasta served with tomato, shaved pecorino, and fresh peperoncini (chilies), which she cut over the dish at the table with scissors. We washed it down with a bottle of local cerasuolo, Abruzzo’s deeply-hued, full-bodied rose’ made with the Montepulciano grape. It was all almost normal. Sated, content, and ready to nap, I still wanted to talk to Francesca, hear how it was going. So, I asked. And Francesca, who understood that I wasn’t expecting bullshit, opened a can of verbal whoop-ass. "Male, molto male," she began, then launched into a blistering oratory that, though economical, took no prisoners, and built in intensity:

“Besides the first few days, they've done nothing. And they won't allow us to do anything ourselves. Have you seen L'Aquila? It's almost as it was right after the earthquake. Two years. Two goddamn years, and they've done nothing and are doing nothing. Where did all the money go? They brought the G8 here, the idiots-” Berlusconi, who unsurprisingly botched the recovery, had moved the 2009 conference from Sardegna to L’Aquila to highlight the damage for world leaders – “for a show. A show for whom? Lots of talk and promises. And now? How do we survive in the park with L'Aquila left in ruins? They don't give a damn about us, we who live by the park, work with nature. How are we supposed to survive?”

Francesca - blond, sharp-featured, slight of stature, but as solid as a foot soldier - seemed about to splinter into a thousand pieces, her body unable to contain her rage. She seemed indifferent to the effect of her rant on the other two couples, both Italian, in the dining room. Cathy and I sat in silence and listened. It's all we could do. She finished and apologized, but this is what I’d asked to hear: the truth. Her goodbye was as warm as the welcome. She grabbed my hands, kissed me on each cheek, and we walked out nourished but without illusions.

While I might be able to paint a soft-focus, alluring picture of experiences in Abruzzo, I’m permitted no easy fantasies about an idyllic life nestled in the very real, spectacular beauty of Abruzzo’s mountains. Under certain circumstances, the scenery can kill you. For each one of these moments (and others) of unvarnished and uncomfortable truth, I can name hundreds of unmitigated joy: family dinners gathered around a table covered in steaming polenta and ragu’; eating grilled lamb and drinking wine on the Gran Sasso mountain under a canopy of stars; restaurant meals ending with uncounted rounds of house-made digestivi brought to the table by the chef/cook, who then sits down with us; sharing a table under a pergola overlooking grapevines and olive groves with winemakers who drove up to the meal on their tractors; gargantuan feasts lasting hours with course after course in gastronomic temples helmed by master chefs. All these episodes unspool in my mind in a gilded light, like childhood memories. But all of them are also informed, made more special and precious, by an understanding of how delicate and precarious the whole thing is, how bad things can go, and how hard life in these mountains can be. Because Abruzzo and its people aren’t just battling the natural elements, the ageless challenges of mountain living, farming, and shepherding. They’re fighting the 21st century, it’s suicidal indifference toward the ways of life that still survive in Abruzzo. To incompetent and often malfeasant government and a dysfunctional national economy, add the relentless drive of mindless development, the dingbat unconscionable belief in unending capitalist expansion. The lucre-worshiping swine driving this discredited idea of progress have pushed to drill for oil along the region’s pristine southern coast, risking to forever destroy a stretch of the Adriatic where the beaches are “Bandiera Blu” (“Blue Flag,” judged perfect and clean for swimming and, obviously, marine life). They’ve tried to build biomass centers in the Comune of L’Aquila, near the very epicenter of the 2009 quake. Others, with the support of corrupt governments, have tried to open the region to fracking. Fracking. In Abruzzo. One of the most infamously seismic regions on a peninsula prone to earthquakes. Where the capital city and its surrounding towns all still bear the scars of recent quakes. And yet the desperate desire for profit has some suggesting an activity that exacerbates the issue. It’s madness. And, of course, we have the fools who think that paving over parts of the national parks is the path to economic viability. To create what? Office parks? Industrial zones? Take Abruzzo’s greatest asset, the element that’s earned the region the title as Europe’s greenest, the very thing that - for the health of the planet, for our own survival- we need more of, and bury it in macadam and reinforced cement. The bloody punishments I’d like to mete out to these greedy, soulless bastards are beyond my powers of description. But that they are criminals, much worse than common thieves, I’ve no doubt. So what the hell am I trying to say? Well, with certain caveats, I urge you to go. Again, Abruzzo needs – desperately - a discreet tourism comprised of people capable of appreciating its unpolished treasures. The salumi, cheese, olive oil, and wine producers, farmers, artisans, medieval borghi, towns holding on passionately to traditions, and national and regional parks need an infusion of dollars and euro to survive. We might be in late-stage capitalism, but commerce still - unfortunately, in my opinion - feeds the sheepdog. Just don’t expect or exclusively seek out destinations that have cracked the code regarding what it is Americans and other high-end travelers want. Go with an open mind, a desire to experience rhythms and activities outside your normal comfort zone. Driving, staying in small towns, hiking, just looking out of your fucking hotel window will expose you to scenery of indescribable beauty, but - as much as you can - don’t experience it all through the 3x6-inch aperture of your phone. You won’t capture it, and in the trying you’ll miss really seeing and being present for it. This also goes for village life. Try to slow down and adopt the local pace. Turn the damn device off and be in the moment. Listen. Sit quietly in the piazza. Sta zitt’! You’ll be enormously rewarded. Abruzzo’s quiet can fill your head and heart in surprising, ineffable ways. As far as dining goes, by all means - if you’ve the urge and requisite scratch - go to Reale, Niko Romito’s 3-Michelin Star restaurant in Castel di Sangro, his hometown. It’s a remarkable place highlighting some of the region’s best ingredients. Located in a re-imagined and augmented farmhouse with vast, white, spartan interiors, nothing distracts from the food. And the cooking’s ballsy as hell. His spaghetti cooked only in the liquid drained from local tomatoes is revelatory. So simple, like much of his cuisine, it leaves nowhere for a chef to hide. It’s a worthwhile experience. But not a typically Abruzzese one. For that, you’re more on target at a tiny, menu-less trattoria being served by the cook’s adolescent daughter or at a roadside arrosticini shack. Hole-in-the-wall joints and simple family trattorie are probably the most illustrative of the regional character. Abruzzo, after all, is a region of working people, farmers, and shepherds. You will eat well in these unheralded places, too. And if, by some fortuitous twist of fate, you find yourself in some grandmother’s kitchen watching her prepare a simple, mid-day pranzo, you’re as close to the regional soul as you’ll ever be. You’re in fucking heaven, in my opinion. But if chef-driven stuff is what floats your boat, there’s more than just Romito’s joint. For just a few examples, try Daniele Zunica’s place in Civitella del Tronto, the Moscardi’s Elodia in Camarda, Villa Maiella (1 Michelin Star) in Guardiagrele, L’Angolino da Filippo in San Vito Chietino, La Bandiera in Civitella Casanova (1 Michelin Star), La Corniola in Pescocostanzo, and the relatively new Anima in Introdacqua. All these places (and some others) offer varying degrees of the high-end dining experience some people seek. More importantly, they’re all deeply rooted in the region and their communities, and usually the products of generations of family tradition.

And then there are the less formal places, where Cathy and I most often satisfy our jones for the real deal, where we find the rustic stuff, prepared with understanding, imagination, high skill, but little fuss: Clemente Maiorano’s eponymous restaurant (Michelin Bib Gourmand) in Sulmona; the simple elegance of Sapori di Campagna, just outside of Ofena; Zenobi, in Colonnella, in Teramo province’s Controguerra wine country (where you’ll also find Emidio Pepe’s famous winery); La Sosta in Torano Nuovo, also in the Controguerra zone; Convivio Girasole and La Bilancia in Loreto Aprutino; La Font’Artana in Picciano; La Taverna de li Caldora in Pacentro; and too many others to list here. It’s harder to eat poorly in Abruzzo than it is to eat well.

There are also places where a tourist can book a room, embed, and drink and eat up some actual familial experience. For example, Nunzio Marcelli’s La Porta dei Parchi (which has an “adopt a sheep” program, in which your money pays for the upkeep of a sheep through the year and, in return, you receive cheese and other products) and Gregorio Rotolo’s Valle Scannese, the farms from which we source most of the cheeses used at our restaurant and situated at opposite ends of the Sagittario gorge WWF Reserve. Both are family concerns continuing centuries-old farming and pastoral traditions and producing artisanal products to boot. They ain’t pretty in a postcard way (the farms, that is…the surrounding countryside is crazy beautiful), but they’re real, and they’re doing things the right way. You can even volunteer at La Porta, helping them tend the fields and learning how to make cheese. There’s Pietrantica, on the Majella in the tiny village of Decontra, where Marisa will cook you the true cucina povera (often employing rare indigenous grains like solina). Her husband Camillo, an expert mountain guide, can take you into the mysterious and beautiful Orfento canyon where you’ll visit the caves of brigands, shepherds, and medieval hermits, including hollows used by Pietro da Morrone, who became Celestino V, Abruzzo’s only Pope. If you’re lucky, Camillo’s dad Paolino, who lived his life on the Majella, survived German occupation during WWII, and wrote a book of his experiences as a farmer and shepherd, will sit down at dinner with you and tell stories from a past that, in Decontra, doesn’t seem all that long ago.

Finally, if you’re a tourist or a journalist, give Abruzzo the time it deserves (especially if you’re the latter). Or at least as much time as you can give. Speed-dating the region, as many seem to do, driving in from Rome for or a few hours or a day, can make for missed opportunities and shallow observations. You can have a great experience spending a day in Abruzzo. You’ll eat and drink very well, see some extraordinary countryside and wilderness (at least from your car), and maybe encounter some singular, artisanal products. But you won’t have “discovered” or understood the place, allowed it to penetrate your consciousness. It’s only a couple of hours from Rome, but often seems a world away. Abruzzo, particularly - but not exclusively - in its mountains, offers lessons about community (no one survives without working together), hospitality (warm, heartfelt, often unguarded), and living or trying to live in harmony with nature. And that last one is, I think, pretty damn important. A lot of us talk a great game about doing the right things, supporting sustainable farming and the natural and humane production of our meats, reducing our footprints, etc. We are conscious of climate change and advocate for policies to ameliorate the (possibly already hopeless) situation. In Abruzzo’s parks – where there are still wolves, Italy’s largest bear population, chamois, and dozens of other species hard to find elsewhere on The Boot – humanity’s attempts to live in concert with nature are very much on display. It’s also a battleground, because not everyone’s on board and some territory’s in danger or already lost. But the lesson you learn - if you bother to look and take the time to talk to the people courageously engaged in the fight – is that doing the right thing is rewarding but also fucking hard. Life in Abruzzo’s mountains can seem beautiful. But it’s not luxurious, idyllic, or comfortable. It’s a daily struggle, and maybe a window on how we’re all going to have to attack the problems and forces threatening our survival. No, we don’t all live in the Apennines dealing with limited and shitty roads, crazy weather, the gifts but also indifferent cruelty of nature, and the constant plotting of avaricious, malfeasant agents of “progress.” But, if we’re going to try to turn around and right this badly listing ship, we’ll have to make sacrifices, bite bullets, do without, bloody some noses, and work our asses off. It’s an uncomfortable fact. And a scary one, if you really consider it. Abruzzo is a place that shows us – vividly, vibrantly, and without gloss – that doing the hard work is worthwhile, that the intrinsic values of seeking harmony with our surroundings far outweigh any shallow luxury. Learning that lesson is worth your time.

#abruzzo abruzzese southernItaly travelinItaly levirtu levirtuphila lifeinabruzzo Italy

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