#it's the it's the it's the. some strains of conservation insisting on walling off the thing and watching it from outside a sterile glass box

[1ore]

your girl has GOT to do work, but she can't stop thinking about adding a second layer to 'Sond as the shambling spectre of a prison in a prisonless society' called 'Sond as seedbank in a post-post apocalypse.'

[the-iceni-bitch]

Search No More

Pairing: Andy Barber x fem!Reader

Words: Guessing cuz I’m on mobile again, 1.5k?

Summary: Andy has a new job and needs you to save him from forced camaraderie.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (unprotected vaginal sex), alcohol consumption by adults of appropriate age, Neal Logiudice (cuz fuck this guy), SMUT, 18+ ONLY!!!

A/N: Another one from the WIP folder that is specifically for @imanuglywombat’s “Is that even a sex position?” challenge, week three. I figured a nice soft position would be perfect for our favorite floofy lawyer boi. Please check out the other great fics this challenge has given us and enjoy!

Check out my masterlist and join my taglist if you want!!

It had been a slow night at the bar, so your staff practically insisted on sending you home early, Jesse shoving out the door as you protested feebly.

“Take a night off, boss.” He grumbled amicably as he ushered you towards your car, handing you your coat and bag as a light snow started to fall. “Maybe go snuggle with that boyfriend of yours that’s always hanging around. Where is he tonight anyway?”

“There was a new faculty mixer.” You said with an eye roll. “You’re sure you’ll be fine, Jess?”

“We’re always fine.” He said dismissively with a wave of his hand as you climbed into your vehicle.

You texted Andy as you started your car to see where he was and he practically begged you to come meet him at the party, whining about how sinfully boring law professors were. You got the address from him and headed out, arriving in the posh Newton neighborhood in a little under 30 minutes.

There were a few partygoers hanging around outside, and you cursed to yourself when you saw them wearing cocktail attire. Leave it to Andy to forget to mention a dress code. Thank god your dry cleaning was in the back.

You tried to find something relatively conservative and settled on a simple satin sheath that was probably a little shorter than was appropriate but it’s not like you had a lot of options. You started to awkwardly disrobe in your front seat, shimmying out of your jeans and pulling your sweater over your head. A surprising knock on the window made you yelp while you were bent over the console with the back of your dress unzipped to grab your emergency heels.

“Ma’am, we’ve gotten some reports of an extremely attractive woman getting naked in a 2003 Acura, any chance that’s you.” A gravelly voice said behind a blinding flashlight.

You growled and opened your driver’s side door into Andy, almost making him drop his phone in the street. He let out a chuckle at your scowl as you stepped out of the car and straightened up, starting to pull the zipper of your dress up your back.

“I would’ve changed at the bar if you let me know this was a cocktail party asshole.” You snarled at him, turning to let him help you draw the zipper up the last few inches.

“Or, you would’ve gone back to your apartment to try to find something else to wear, and I would’ve been stuck listening to professor McDrones-A-lot talk about torts for god knows how long.”

“Aww, are your new coworkers boring, babe?” You teased him as he wrapped an arm around your waist and guided you inside.

“God, they’re so fucking boring.” He murmured into your hair before turning to introduce you to some ancient man with elbow patches. “Professor Donaldson, this is Y/N.” He said, throwing you a wink. “She was just telling me how interested she is in tort reform.”

“Splendid! Are you a lawyer my dear?”

You shook your head and did your best to listen politely as you glared at Andy over the old man’s shoulder. He gave you a stupid grin before heading to the bar to grab the two of you some drinks.

“What the fuck are you doing here, sweetheart?”

You cursed under your breath and turned to glare at Neal Logiudice, the absolute last person you wanted to see.

“Hello Neal.” You grumbled.

“Get out of here, Wally.” He said, dismissing the professor he had very rudely interrupted. “Go find some other asshole to bother.”

The old man just huffed and gave you a sympathetic pat on the arm as he hobbled away.

“That was rude.” You said, your eyes roaming the room in search of Andy. You didn’t feel like dealing with Neal’s bullshit tonight. “Why are you here Neal? I thought this was a faculty only event.”

“Alumni are invited too. And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.” He growled, stepping closer and invading your bubble. “Cuz you’re definitely not alumni or faculty. You work your way through all the lawyer dick at your bar and come looking for more?”

“Lovely.” You said dryly, frowning at the smell of whiskey that enveloped the man. “You’re drunk.”

You felt a warm hand on your shoulder and turned your head just enough to see Andy scowling behnd you. He slotted himself beside you and wrapped his arm around you in a protective embrace as he and Neal stared each other down.

“Logiudice.” He said menacingly, and you rolled your eyes as the levels of testosterone in the room shot up suddenly.

“Barber.” The giant said with a sneer. “I see you’ve moved on to the leftover dregs of the Newton law community. I hear that pussy’s had every defense attorney cock in town.”

Andy let out an absolutely feral growl and you just managed to hold him back as you glared at Neal.

“Jesus, Neal. Glad to see you’re not bitter.” You said with little humor as your arm strained against Andy’s chest.

“No bitterness here, sweetheart. Just waiting for you to work your way to me.” He leered at you, giving you a lascivious wink.

You let out a sigh as you started to shove Andy away from the idiot, grateful for all your experience manhandling drunks as he fought against you every step of the way.

“He’s not worth it, baby.” You murmured once you had achieved a good amount of distance, your hands smoothing his jacket over his chest in a soothing gesture as Neal let out a guffaw behind you.

“I dunno, I kinda feel like punching him in the face is definitely worth it, sweetheart.” Andy said as he took some deep breaths and turned his gaze back to you.

“Maybe not at your first event for your new job though.” You teased him, tugging softly on his beard and making him grin at you. “Where’s my fucking drink?”

“Shit, I got distracted. I’ll be right back.” He said apologetically, starting to turn away from you.

“Oh no, you are not leaving me by myself again. All I need is to get cornered by some crazy professor who wants to tell me all about bird law.” You said as you tagged after him, the two of you weaving your way through the partygoers as you made your way to the bar.

“What the fuck is ‘bird law’?” He beamed at you after ordering your drinks, leaning against the bar and cocking one eyebrow at you.

“Jesus, I think you might be too classy for me, Barber.” You teased. “We’ve gotta work on your pop culture references.”

The two of you managed to have a relatively pleasant evening, even though you had no idea what anyone was talking about most of the time. But you loved watching how relaxed Andy was around you, and how passionate he got whenever he started to debate with one of his new colleagues. He was in the middle of a particularly heated discussion about the evolution of laws regarding sovereign immunity when he noticed you gazing at him, and his face broke out in a grin.

“You’ll have to excuse me, guys, I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten and I worry I’ve been neglecting my date. Let’s continue this on Monday?”

He made his way through the party, saying some quick goodbyes as his hand rested on your lower back. You let out a soft moan when you reached the foyer and he pressed you into the wall, his lips brushing against yours before he broke away to find his coat.

He returned after a few minutes and wrapped his arms around your waist, his mouth moving against yours hungrily as he guided you out the door.

“Jesus, Andy!” You whined when he lifted you slightly as the two of you made your way to his Range Rover. You bent your knees so your toes wouldn’t drag along the pavement.

“I dunno what you expected when you were looking at me like that, sweetheart.” He teased as he wrapped one arm around you tightly and brought his other hand to fumble through his coat pockets in search of his keys.

“I couldn’t help it.” You murmured in his ear as he pressed you against the driver’s side door, working to open the door to the back seat. “All that law talk does things to me.”

“Yeah?” He muttered around a grin, finally getting the door open and setting you down across the back seat. “You didn’t find it boring?”

“Not when it was you, Professor Barber.” You said in a husky voice, winking at him as he climbed on top of you and pulled the door closed behind him.

“Fuck honey.” He growled as he tossed his coat in the front seat before burying his face in your neck. “You’re gonna need to call me professor more often.”

“Mmm, professor.” You hummed as he ran his teeth over your throat before sucking a bruise over your collarbone. “I had some questions about affidavits I was hoping you could help me with.”

He gave a dark chuckle against your chest as his mouth kept moving lower, his lips brushing over the swell of your breasts as his hands moved under your back to unzip your dress. Once he had it open he yanked it off you and tossed it aside, bending over you again to nip at your skin as you dragged his suit jacket off over his shoulders.

“Why do I feel like you just want to hear me say affidavits?” He teased as you drew his tie off and started to work on his shirt buttons. He wrapped your thighs around his hips and ground himself into you, making you whimper as a fresh rush of arousal flooded your panties.

“Fuck, say more lawyer words, professor.” You whined as he drew the straps of your bra down your shoulders, drawing your breasts out of the soft lace and wrapping his lips around one of your nipples.

“Amicus brief.” He teased as his tongue laved over your nipple and you felt your pussy clench around nothing.

He moved to give your other breast the same soft attention as you worked on undoing his belt, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he worked you over. You finally drew his belt off and he sat up to remove his slacks, his lust blown eyes never leaving yours as he dragged his pants and boxer briefs down over his legs, tossing them on top of the rest of his clothes in the front seat as his cock bounced up against his abs, making your mouth fill with saliva at the sight.

You didn’t give him a chance to dive on top of you again, instead climbing into his lap as he knelt there and sucking his lower lip into your mouth. He groaned against your lips as you brought a hand down to wrap around his dick. You dragged his length through the slick that had soaked your thighs before shoving your panties aside and guiding him to your entrance.

Andy let out a deep sigh as you sank onto him, taking his full length in one smooth motion until he was fully seated in you. His tongue pressed between your lips and curved against yours as you wrapped one hand around his neck and the other around his bicep.

“You’re so goddamn perfect, baby.” He muttered against your lips as he started moving his hips at a languorous pace. “So fucking warm and wet for me.”

“Mmm, Andy.” You moaned as you nipped at his lips softly. “I love having you inside me.”

“Yeah, pretty girl?” He murmured as he started to move a little faster. “You love feeling my big cock in that tight little pussy?”

“Fuck, I need this cock, baby.” You hissed, resting your forehead against his and staring into his eyes. “Nobody fucks me like you do.”

“Shit. You’re squeezing me so good, honey.” He muttered as he ground against you. “I wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

“Fuck, I’m so close, Andy.” You whined as his hips thrust against you even harder. “God, right there. I’m gonna cum”

“Do it, I wanna see that cream all over my dick.” He buried his face in your neck and gave one last violent push of his hips.

You let out a cry as every muscle in your body went rigid, your fingers digging painfully into his neck and shoulders. Your pussy clenched around him for a beat before fluttering in your release as your torso rolled against his and a wave of intense pleasure washed over you.

“Jesus, baby.” He murmured as you came down, straightening his legs one at a time as he held you to him tightly.

You were still kneeling and the new angle had him hitting you even deeper than before, making stars burst behind your closed eyelids. Andy bent his knees slight behind you and leaned you back to rest against them as he moved his mouth to your breasts, making you whimper as his tongue brushed against your nipple.

“God, I could spend all night like this.” He murmured as he started pulling you down to him over and over, making you devolve into a mewling, whimpering mess. “My face buried in these perfect tits and my cock buried in that perfect pussy.”

You felt yourself clench around him at the praise and dug both hands in the hair at the base of his skull, pressing his mouth to your chest as you arched into him. His cock twitched inside you in response as he let out a deep groan, his hips meeting yours desperately.

“I’m gonna cum again, shit. You close, baby?” You felt him nodding between your breasts as his hips stuttered. “Fuck, I wanna feel it fill me up. I love when your cum inside me.”

“Goddamn it.” He hissed, and that was it for both of you.

Your knees squeezed his hips painfully as you tugged at his hair, a moan coming from deep in your chest as your orgasm ripped through you. Your cunt fluttered uncontrollably as your muscles spasmed around him, milking his cock for everything he could give you. He shouted your name against your chest and dug his fingers into your waist as his spend filled you up, painting your velvety walls in hot ropes that mixed with your own release and seeped over your thighs in a thick mess.

He collapsed back against the seat with a groan, taking you with him as he still held you tightly. You nuzzled into his neck as aftershocks still shook through you, your pussy clenching around his softening cock at random intervals.

“Well, fuck me Professor Barber.” You teased as he buried his face in your hair.

He let out a groan and grinned at you as he brought his face to meet yours, his tongue slipping between your lips as he kissed you deeply.

“God, I fucking love you.” He whispered without thought as his hands ran over your spine. His hands stopped suddenly as he realized what he’d said and his held his breath as he waited for your reply.

You just buried your face in his chest hair and sighed before whispering “Love you too, Andy.”

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[themurphyzone]

PatB: Nova Ch 2

Insert funny one-liner here. Cause I can’t think of anything. 

Ch 2: Space Cadet

New Selenian Date 3015.3.12

Terran satellite conversations are useless drivel! Nothing but pomp and circumstance about trivial subjects that don’t help us plan our global domination! All this curiosity about planets and star systems beyond your own, yet you actively sabotage your own progress in space exploration! Hypocritical morons. When Snowball and I rule Terra, we shall usher in an age of science and rationality, because you obviously cannot be trusted to run your own planet without blowing it up several times over! Why, you have less intelligence in your collective brains than I have in my pinky!

Alright. Just inhale…exhale. Inhale...exhale.

I needed that tirade. Progress on the Conquistador has slowed and is approaching an impasse of the highest caliber. The outside paneling requires special attention and shielding because we do not wish to burn upon entering Terra’s atmosphere. However, the thermal protective system we’ll be developing will likely be rudimentary at best, fatal at worst due to lack of top of the line equipment. The Selenians managed to conserve enough fuel in their ships to leave the colony and presumably return to their original planet, with the exception of one ill-fated vessel which experienced a malfunction when they first arrived on New Selene.

I have no choice but to visit the crash site of that particular ship with Snowball. If fortune is on our side, we’ll have a ragged version of the paneling we need, but…I will be in close contact with the electrical firing of Snowball’s neurons. An unfortunate side effect of my genetic enhancement from a mos’s natural inclination to electricity. The distance from Penumbra doesn’t help matters either.

Ah…I’ll cut this transmission off here. Snowball’s calling in, for once.

Signing off for now, the Brain.

o-o-o-o-o

“He called my name,” the mouse whispered, awestruck by the deep voice that crackled through the chipped Walkman radio. He rolled his skinny tail between his paws, joyful tears swimming in his vision and making everything blurry-whirly. “He said my name!”

He had many names alright. From Gouda to Zort to No, We Don’t Know Why That Subject Says Narf. From what he remembered of his parents and Sis, they called him Chchchrree mixed with sniffy noises. It was hard to say for everyone else though, even him. It was the sniffing part, really. It tripped everyone up.

But none of his names fit him quite like Pinky.

Oh, he was being rude, wasn’t he? He may be a sliced gene lab mouse, but he was a sliced gene lab mouse with manners!

The newly named Pinky fiddled with the slider on the Walkman. There were a lot of numbers, and he didn’t know which one let his voice through, so he eeny-meeny-miney-moed between all of them until his finger landed on 92.

92 was a good number. Nice, funny, and a pretty figure.

“Haha, narf! Hello, the Brain!” Pinky laughed into the Walkman. “I know you’re probably busy with the Conquesowhatsit, so you can just listen to this whenever you’re free! Anyway, I’m Pinky and I’ve been listening to your messages for months! And you said my name just now! It made me so happy I cried!”

Nothing but crackling static answered. A click came from the hallway, the aircon kicking in and blowing a cool wind through the lab. Machinery hummed, screens flickered, squeaks from other mice echoed.  

Pinky waited. He would wait however long he needed to. The voice would reply, he was sure of it.

“Brain, is it…is it lonely up there?” Pinky asked. He was very bad at the waiting game. He lost to himself every time. “You sound sad. And grumpy. Grumpy-sad, even. What makes you happy? The stars? I’m happy looking at the twinkly stars. They must be even prettier from space.”

Pinky waved at the gorgeous night sky. Countless stars and a silver moon to watch over them all. Pinky loved having a cage with such a view. The Brain might have a big telly-scope he could see Terra with! Terra, a lovely name for a lovely world! And to think Pinky had been calling it Earth like a silly-billy goat gruff.

Though the Brain might not be able to see him…he was practically the size of a mouse after all. Unless Pinky climbed to the highest point of the Great Mall of China! Everyone knew the Great Mall of China could be seen from space! And he could eat yummy dumplings there too!

Pinky twiddled his thumbs. He shouldn’t keep the Brain away from his super important work much longer. “Tell Snowball I said hi, okay? And thank you for the name. Same time again tomorrow night, right? Good night, the Brain. Sleep tight and don’t let the spacebugs bite. Cause then it gets itchy. Poit.”  

There was no answer. There wasn’t usually. Maybe the Brain was shy. It was okay though. He was probably saying good night too, in his own grumpy shy way.

Pinky turned off the Walkman and yawned, stretching his arms above his head. Then he slipped back into his cage, the bars spaced wide enough for him to slink through. He was still working on opening the cage door. TV always made escaping cages look so easy.

His straw bed was bathed in a patch of silver moonbeams tonight. That was good. Light always helped him sleep easier. Pinky flopped into the straw and pulled Mr. Button close, like his parents had done for him and Sis when they were babies. Mr. Button was hard, round, and green, but he was still a good cuddle buddy.

He had a big day of wheel running, maze running, and running to Pharfignewton’s stable tomorrow. Best to get some shuteye now and be bright-eyed and floppy-tailed tomorrow. He fell asleep with Mr. Button cradled loosely in his paws, dreaming of a land filled with delicious cheese.

o-o-o-o-o

Pinky ran on his wheel for his pre-breakfast exercise, finished off the remaining food pellets in his bowl, and even squeezed in a little pampering time before he was scooped up by the tail and dropped into a maze.

It was routine, and how he loved all sorts of routines! Bonking into walls nose-first was always fun, especially when he saw dizzy circling stars until he fell over like a limp noodle. Of course, he never could finish a maze, which made many of the humans puzzled and confuzzled while they scratched their heads and snapped pictures with their smartphones.

Mazes were hard. If he bounced high enough and clung to the wall like a Spidermouse, he could see the yummy cheese at the very end, but he wasn’t very good at getting there. He even tried the summoning spell he’d seen in one of the Harry Potter movies so the cheese would come to him instead, but his comes-and-goes telephonetic magic skills didn’t help him either.

The day passed like normal. Get lost in maze, lunch break, try another maze until he got more lost than the people stuck on an island in that one very confusing show, until he was finally brought back to his cage before the lab closed for the day.

Today, the lab had closed in the mid-afternoon, the sun still shining brightly in a pretty blue sky. Pinky could spend several glorious hours with Pharfignewton before the Brain’s nightly message over the Walkman.

Pinky squeezed through the cage bars, taking a flying leap off the counter and landing belly-down on the squishy seat of a spinning chair. He giggled as the chair slid back and spun a little, then dusted himself off and bowed to an invisible crowd. He’d been improving his landings lately. One of these days he’d definitely perfect his swan dive!

He jumped down to the floor and ran into the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the bitter scent of leftover coffee in the pot. He’d always been a tea sort of mouse himself. Grabbing hold of the cherry-print towel that hung on the handle of the refrigerator, he counted to three (he probably put too many Mississippi’s between one and two again) and hauled himself up. All those upper body strength videos were coming in handy.

Pinky balanced himself on a thin sliver of handle and the fridge door, then shoved his feet against the handle and stretched himself as far as he could.

“Narf! C’mon, Pinky!” he wheezed, feeling the strain of his tummy and leg muscles. “It’s not bagel warmer science!”

He took a quick breather and gave one final shove. The door opened with a pop and Pinky lost his balance, landing somewhat painfully on the cold bottom of the fridge.

“Just like Iceland in here! Or was that the green one?” Pinky said, picking himself up from the floor and pushing the fridge door open all the way. He didn’t want to be locked in again. Besides, he’d promised Pharfignewton he’d come by today. He’d feel really awful if he broke his promise. “Now if I were a horse, what would I like to eat?”

Pharfignewton couldn’t eat cheese. Something about her tummy being intolerant. It was a little rude of her tummy to be honest, though she’d definitely eat cheese if she could.

Pinky peeked into each drawer, searched through every condiment bottle, but none really caught his eye as something he could bring along.

The leftover club sandwich wasn’t vegetarian. Condiment bottles wouldn’t fit through the mail slot.

Pinky found a box half-filled with sugar lumps, but Pharfignewton was very insistent on watching her figure in preparation for the Kentucky Derby in two months.

And then he spotted a celery snack pack with peanut butter dip on the topmost shelf.

“Egad, that’s perfect!” Pinky exclaimed, shimmying up to the snack pack. He pushed a red Jell-o cup aside and snagged his prize, hugging it to his chest. The only way to make it even tastier was to find raisins so they could make ants on a log, which didn’t look like real ants on real logs at all.

With the snack pack in hand, he hurried to meet Pharfignewton.

o-o-o-o-o

Pharfignewton galloped through the field, her gray mane flowing behind her like a beautiful river. No matter how many times he’d seen her practice, it never failed to amaze him. Her hooves flew like the breeze, her sky blue eyes shining in determination as she pushed herself a little further every day.

Pinky pulled himself up the fence’s wooden boards, kneeling on the flat surfaces and hauling the snack pack up with him. Once he made it to the top of a wide fencepost, he opened the pack and scooped one end of a celery stick into the peanut butter, then waved the coated end in the air.

“AND THERE SHE GOES! IS SHE A BIRD? IS SHE A PLANE? NO, SIRREE BOB! SHE’S PHARFIGNEWTON, THE BEST AND FASTEST RACEHORSE IN THE WORLD!” Pinky shouted, waving the celery stick like a flag.

Pharfignewton whinnied loudly, pouring on the speed as she galloped through a space between two trees and slowed to a brisk trot until she reached Pinky. She swept out a hoof and bowed to an invisible camera, her tail flicking happily.

“Hi, Figgy Pudding! You look amazing out there! Guess what? The Brain gave me a name! I’m Pinky now! Actually, I’m Pinky. He never said Pinkynow, did he?” Pinky grinned, holding the celery stick up to her muzzle. Pharfignewton neighed in delight, and it didn’t take long before all the celery sticks and peanut butter were gone. Practicing always made her work up an appetite.

Pinky licked up the remaining peanut butter, swiping his tongue along his mouth for the lingering peanut-y taste. Then he climbed onto Pharfignewton’s muzzle, her eyes sparkling as she tossed him into the air. Pinky threw out his arms, laughing and sliding down her long neck. He came to a stop at the base of her mane, then flipped himself over and gave her a ginormous hug.

Pharfignewton craned her neck, a blocky smile stretching her muzzle before suddenly rearing up on her hind legs and whinnying triumphantly.

“Zort!” Pinky cried, grabbing fistfuls of her mane to stop himself from falling off. Pharfignewton took off like a firecracker, and Pinky’s body lifted off her neck completely. “Hi-ho, Pharfignewton! Yippie-ki-yay!”

The ground and sky blurred together in a swirl of mashed colors, and the nearby stables were nothing more than thin brown lines in the corner of Pinky’s eye.

“The pack, Fig!” Pinky yelled. “We’ve gotta keep the environment clean!”

Pharfignewton raced by the fencepost, snatching up the plastic lining of the snack pack in her teeth and dropping it into the garbage bin by the stables. “Whoo! Nice and tight turn there!” Pinky said, leaning forward and planting his feet against Pharfignewton’s back to keep his balance. “You’re gonna win the Derby for sure!”

Pharfignewton neighed, leaping over a fallen branch with room to spare.

“Right, and then onto the Triple Crown! Live your dream, Pharfignewton! Live your dream!” Pinky shouted above the roar of the wind.

o-o-o-o-o

Pharfignewton’s owner, a friendly looking fellow with a big bushy beard, called for her as the sun went down. Though Pharfignewton was tired out from all her running, she eagerly trotted over to her owner and accepted a pat on the nose and a carrot. Pinky buried himself in her mane and pretended to be a tiny horse with pretty hair while the owner refilled her feed bucket and penned her in the stall for the night.

Once he was gone, Pinky sat on a wooden post next to Pharfignewton’s head, kicking his feet in the air while she ate her dinner.

“Camptown ladies sing this song! Doo-dah! Doo-dah!” Pinky sang, twirling a long piece of hay in the air as his baton. He pointed the hay at Pharfignewton, who paused in her meal and neighed out the next lyric. “Oh, that was gorgeous! You’re gonna be a real crowd-pleaser at the Derby!”

At the mention of the Derby, Pharfignewton stopped eating completely and rested her muzzle in the space next to Pinky. She nickered, ears pinning against her head. Pinky rubbed his nose against hers, smiling so she wouldn’t worry as much.

“I’ll be alright, Fig,” Pinky whispered. “The Triple Crown’s been your dream since fillyhood. You should go for it. Don’t worry about silly ol’ me.”

Pharfignewton tossed her head back and whinnied, her hoof scraping against the dirt floor.

“I’ll see you off when you leave,” Pinky said. “And watch you on TV. I’ll cheer so loudly you’ll hear me all the way in Kentucky! That’s a promise! A Pinky promise!”

He placed both pinky fingers on Pharfignewton’s muzzle so she could have one as well. He knew she was still worried though. And it was nice to know she cared, but really, he’d be alright in the lab. He had his wheel, food pellets, and the dusty VCR that ACME hadn’t gotten around to replacing yet.

“Poit. The Brain’s message is gonna be coming in soon,” Pinky said. “I’d best get back to the lab. Really wish you could listen him too, but the Walkman won’t fit through the mail slot. I already tried.”

Pharfignewton let him cling to one nostril as she gently lowered him to the stable floor. Pinky gave her muzzle one last broad stroke before setting off, waving goodbye until the stable was out of sight.

The moon rose, the first twinkling stars of the night coming out to play.

“I think you’d like her, the Brain,” Pinky said to the sky. “She’s amazing.”

But he spent too long admiring the stars and missed the left turn on Albuquerque Street. By the time he got back the lab and turned on the Walkman, the message was already ending.

-and traveling to the crash site tomorrow. I hope this venture will yield something useful. Out there, it will be silent. Not even my proximity to Snowball will help. He’s ambitious, I’ll grant him that. Our desire to rule Terra…it’s what keeps us going. Perhaps a little too much, at times. It occasionally gets in the way of…certain things.

There was no sign off. Sometimes there wasn’t, if the Brain felt strongly about something.

Everyone seemed to have a faraway dream that made up their entire being. And while the land of delicious cheese was pretty far from the lab, just touring through it and buying all the refrigerator magnets he could carry didn’t seem to make up his entire being. Not in the way racing was Pharfignewton’s life. Or how the Brain always spoke of a desire to rule Terra.

“If you have a faraway dream, I guess you have to be far away,” Pinky said to Mr. Button, who only wobbled in reply. “It’s okay. I’m happy they have dreams.”

He had his wheel, food pellets, and the dusty VCR after all.

AN: I never made the promise about silly Pinky things. Shhh….

I wanted to keep Brain naming Pinky cause it’s cute (also it’s practical for writing but mostly cute).

To win the Triple Crown achievement, a racehorse needs to win the Kentucky Derby, the Belmont, and the Preakness. Pharfignewton’s got a lofty goal, but Pinky believes in her!

ACME is really bad about updating their tech.

[mae-gi-writes]

Wrong Number (Baekhyun x OC) Part 4

Synopsis: In which Hwang Jinae insistently leaves voice messages to her boyfriend every night since he’s gone to Veterinary College, only to discover that she has been confessing all her struggles and hardships to the wrong number. More specifically; to his roommate B

yun Baekhyun.

Part: One | Two | Three | Four 

Jinae hears the door open up with a soft creak at around six in the morning. She is ready, the file on the bed while she sits with her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap as if having them in a conservative position will enable her to keep her sanity. Her world has stopped on its axis the moment her shaky fingers had delved through the file, eyes scanning the documents as understanding suddenly blossoms through her mind as she reads every single line twice to make sure she isn’t dreaming. 

Taehyung is receiving a kidney transplant and from what she can see of his medical history, it isn’t the first one that he’s having. He had a surgery before that to remove one bad kidney and had been surviving on one sole kidney for the past five years. It is only until recently that he’s been having trouble with the said organ, as per what the medical transcripts are saying. 

Throughout all this, the one main question that keeps running through her mind is: why the hell had he not told her anything? Why keep this all a secret? 

If only she’d known how much trouble he has been going through. The thought of it now drowns her with guilt. All this time she has been angry with him for not being able to spend time with her, dismayed that he seems to prioritize his professional life more than his personal ties with other people, and yet the young man has been suffering alone for a long time now. 

The guilt is present in her chest, tightening her heartstrings into a knot until it gets harder and harder to breathe. She feels like someone is choking her at the back of her throat, and she coughs it out as tears are prickling to fall from her eyes. 

‘Jinae?’ Taehyung’s soft alto brings her back to reality and she realizes that he has pried open the door, looking in only to be surprised at her still awakened state. A worried expression forms on his face, ‘Are you okay? Why are you still up?’ 

He crosses over his room with his arms already ready to bring her into the comfort of his arms, but halts suddenly when Jinae grabs onto the file and gives it out to him instead. His eyes flicker with uncertainty. 

‘What’s this?’ she asks in a low murmur. She doesn’t have to say it so loud, the words do the job for her. They pin Taehyung down like metal chains so that he feels as though the weight of the world has suddenly dropped onto his shoulders. 

He gulps, ‘Where did you find this?’ 

‘They were on your desk.’ 

He advances forward, biting the inside of his cheek when he feels the nervousness crawling through his body, ‘I can explain.’ 

Jinae turns her palms upwards in a gesture of giving up. Her face tells him that she’s had enough of his lies already, that she’s worn out from having to chase him down for explanations, and Taehyung knows that it hadn’t been the best way to deal with the situation at hand. 

‘Long story short, I--’ he takes a deep breath, exhales shakily before continuing, ‘One of my kidneys weren’t working and the doctor had it surgically removed a few years ago. I didn’t know that this one was going to fail too, but it’s apparently some kind of genetic deficiency I caught from my dad’s side.’ His head lowers to the ground and his voice drops to a strained whisper, ‘I wasn’t feel too well recently so I went to do a medical check-up. That’s when I found out about my other kidney failing. They put me on the waiting list for a kidney transplant donor.’ 

The silence that follows is so loud that Jinae can hear the numbing hum of the four walls surrounding them. They echo loudly through her ears and suddenly she feels lightheaded. Grabbing a hold of her head, she tries to regulate her breathing as the panic turns into the shocking realization that there’s a possibility of death in this situation. She can’t think of this, she can’t deal with this. Jinae shakes her head as she whispers a string of profanities under her breath, but when her boyfriend moves forward to hold her, she lifts a palm up to him, rejecting his offer as she staggers out of the room. 

Her thoughts are whizzing through her brain as they try to find a solution, any kind of possibility of action that could help Taehyung out of this situation. But all too soon she feels her head pound with the early signs of a headache. She doesn’t make it to the door before she feels herself collapsing to her knees. Her hands try to find purchase against the wall, but they hit the edge of a lamp and it comes crashing down with her, a tangle of wires and wood and skin scattered on the floor. 

Maybe it isn’t too late, she thinks to herself with a growing numbness towards the situation. It’s almost like she is disconnected from her body, floating upwards to the sky and not really present, not really conscious of the situation. Maybe she can provide to be a donor, maybe she can help save Taehyung. 

A pair of arms slip through her back and cradle her elbows, pulling her up into a standing position. She is settled onto the couch nearby and doesn’t come to her senses until she feels someone crouch before her, a voice asking her a blur of words that don’t make much sense. 

She blinks only to realize that Baekhyun’s face is the one staring back at her. He has a fixed frown of concern on his face, hands holding her shoulders in a firm, comforting grip. 

‘Jinae,’ his voice becomes clearer when she blinks away the disorienting sensation, the ringing in her ears fading as his face comes into focus instead, ‘Jinae, are you alright?’ 

She stares at him. What is he doing here? 

‘Jinae.’ Baekhyun’s eyes are dark maroon, swirling with concern, ‘Can you hear me? Talk to me.’ 

She blinks slowly. Once. Twice. 

Opening her mouth before closing it again. She tries again, the words sounding pasty on the edge of her lips, ‘I’m okay.’ 

A second later she feels the trickle of a tear rolling down her face. Her face crumples up, her throat tight with restrained pain. 

She bows her head. No words are necessary. She knows that he knows the situation is far from being okay. 

-----xx-----

‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ 

Taehyung’s gaze is concentrated on one of the smallest cracks in the floor tiles. It’s almost as if he is examining the fissure for future reference when he doesn’t even know anything about interior design, but Jinae knows that he is doing his best to avoid her gaze, too ashamed and filled with guilt of having kept such a big secret from her. 

‘Taehyung,’ Jinae calls for his name. Impatience is burning through her, but she’d rather not pressure the individual. She is torn between the feeling of sympathy for her boyfriend and the feeling of pressuring him to give her the answers she wants. 

Taehyung’s jaw clenches. He opens his mouth before closing it again, a guarded look on his face. 

Jinae lets out a sigh of frustration, ‘Are you going to tell me or not?’ 

‘How do you tell someone that you’re dying?’ 

His words puncture a hole right in the middle of her chest so that it leaves her gobsmacked. Swallowing the lump of emotion that has formed at the back of her throat, she realizes that it still does not explain his negligence of priorities, for he has still ditched her to go work on his science lab report, for all she knows. 

Unless he hasn’t been going to the laboratory in the first place. 

‘When you said you were on a field trip for your science experiment,’ She tries to stop her voice from shaking, though it’s useless as he can see right through her facade, ‘it wasn’t really a field trip, was it?’ 

Taehyung gazes at her for a moment. He shakes his head. 

Her heart melts, unsure whether it should be happy or saddened by the sudden turn of events. 

‘I was called for a checkup. There was a compatible donor that they found in another hospital. I went there to do some tests,’ Taehyung’s voice lowers into a slow and tired murmur, ‘turns out they made some errors and the donor wasn’t completely compatible after all. But it was already too late for me to take the train back home and my phone died on the way. I ended up staying for the whole weekend.’ 

‘And yesterday?’ she prompts. 

‘I had to get dialysis.’ 

Jinae feels the sympathy well up inside her heart, constricting in between her lungs as she tries to think back to all the times she’d cursed her boyfriend for not giving her the proper attention, the proper care that she needed. How stupid, how pathetic, she can’t help but think with growing dismay, remorse filling the back of her mouth like a charcoal coating on her tongue. 

All this time, while she’s been cursing at him and thinking the worst of the particular individual, he’s been juggling with his life. 

‘You should’ve told me sooner,’ Jinae finally whispers out when there is nothing more to say, only the wallowing guilt that washes through her like ocean waves. 

‘It wouldn’t change anything.’ Taehyung replies, gazing at her with an undecipherable gaze, ‘I didn’t want to push my burden onto you.’ 

‘But I could’ve helped--’ 

‘There’s nothing you, nor I, can do.’ he drums his fingers against each other, ‘It’s only a waiting game.’

They are interrupted by the sound of the door opening to reveal a dishevelled Baekhyun. When he’d managed to lead Jinae to the sofa earlier, Taehyung had barged into the room and the latter had decided that it would be better off for the couple to figure out their misunderstandings. Thus he had excused himself to go fetch some warm drinks in the nearest vending machine, and is now back with a white plastic bag hanging at his side. 

Baekhyun hands out the two canned milk teas and Jinae is glad that it’s warm. It gives her a distraction, something to hold on to considering that she feels as though her world is slowly tearing apart at the edges. 

‘Baekhyun took care of you, I presume?’ Taehyung says in a lighter tone, but there is no denying the pain glimmering at the border of his pupils. 

Jinae nods, taking a sip of her hot drink and deciding to stay quiet. She wishes she could change something, anything. She wishes that she can somehow make things a little better for the said individual sitting before her, but the helplessness only grows in the middle of her chest until it gets too hard to breathe. 

She abruptly stands up and excuses herself, not even bothering to look back at the two men before walking out of the front door. Now alone in the wide corridor tinged with hints of the morning sunlight, Jinae presses her back against the cold war, only to find that the power has escaped her legs. She slides down, unable to restrain the sob that falls out of her lips as she does so. 

Everything’s a mess. 

-----xx-----

Taehyung gets admitted to a private clinic-- as per his grandfather’s request-- a few weeks later when he faints. They rush him to the clinic, only to realize that the organ responsible is slowly giving up and that his situation is graver than expected. While Jinae and Baekhyun both tested as donors, it is unfortunate that they are both incompatible for Taehyung’s body. Jinae spends all her time visiting him when she’s not in classes, resorting to bringing her work to his hospital room and actually doing her homework when she’s in his presence. She finds time to cook him meals because she knows how much he hates the hospital food, and chatters to him about the daily things that happen in her life (not that they’re all that interesting but something is better than nothing right?). 

While Taehyung isn’t worn out by the multiple dialysises that he has to go through, he mostly entertains himself with the tv shows offered throughout the various channels while claiming that this is the only time he’ll get to actually binge watch series and act like a normal young adult for a while. Jinae doesn’t fail to notice how the underlying tone suggests that he probably won’t ever get back on his feet if he doesn’t receive a donor very soon, that he’ll probably spend his last few days laughing at some stupid sitcom on tv because there are too many people on the waiting list and miracles tend to be impossible. 

To her utmost surprise, she finds Baekhyun popping in and out with more frequency than she’d expected, which evokes some comfort through her. It feels good to have someone else bear the pain and the emotional rollercoaster that Jinae has to tread through every day, for watching Taehyung’s face slowly lose its sparkle is like a permanent ache that seems to squeeze her heartstrings together until she feels like throwing up. Jinae manages to restrain herself whenever she’s with her boyfriend, but can’t help breaking down as soon as she exits his room. More often than not, Baekhyun would find her crouched in the dim hallway, bawling her eyes out. He’d gently place his coat on her and stay there, not saying anything. There’s nothing to be said after all. His mere presence is enough to reassure her that she is not alone in this, that she can lean on someone when she feels too weak to stand alone. 

On a particular Friday afternoon, Jinae ends up wrapped in her group project later than expected. Quickly bolting out of her marketing class when she realizes what time it actually is, she rushes to the side of the street, not even bothering to cover herself up against the pouring rain pattering down on the sidewalk. She flags down a taxi and tells him that it’s urgent she makes it to the hospital in time because her boyfriend is going into surgery. 

Baekhyun has already reached the hospital and is running down the corridor with his clothes still damp from the cold afternoon showers. The skies are grey and dark, rolling in as if preparing themselves for a storm. He slips, managing to catch his step just in time before crashing face first onto the shiny floor and running up the staircase when the lift is packed with people. 

He skids to a stop right in front of Taehyung’s room only to hear an unfamiliar alto echoing through the half-open door. 

‘Are you really sure about this, Taehyung?’ 

It sounds brassy, a lighter pitch than Taehyung’s. Probably one of his friends. Baekhyun tries to remember whether he’s heard this voice before lingering in their flat. 

Taehyung’s voice can be heard then, deeper and with a richer tone, ‘It’s either this or nothing. In any case, there’s a big chance that I won’t make it.’ 

What? Baekhyun frowns with a dampening realization. Suddenly, the soaked clothes feel like they way much more than they should.

‘And what did you tell Jinae?’ 

‘She doesn’t know anything. I think it’s best if it stays that way.’ there’s a soft choking sound, as if Taehyung is trying his best to reign his emotions in, ‘Baekhyun will take care of her.’ 

‘Your roommate? They barely know each other.’ 

‘They get along well.’ Baekhyun hears the softness of Taehyung’s tone and isn’t sure whether it’s because he is talking with mild fondness or because the said man is slowly losing strength, ‘I see the way Baekhyun looks at her. It’s the way I look at her.’ 

The listener can feel his heart drop inside his chest. He swallows a clump of air before biting his bottom lip. Is it that obvious? He thinks to himself with growing guilt. 

‘And I trust him. He’s a good guy. A bit on the wild side sometimes but overall, has good values.’ He hears Taehyung chuckle weakly, ‘I think Jinae’s in good hands.’ 

‘Alright then. I’ll let the doctors know you’re ready.’  

Before Baekhyun can process any of the words, the door slides open only to reveal an individual with a youthful face, wide doe eyes that widen even more at his apparition, and two distinctive front teeth that stick out in a subtle overbite. 

The young man blinks back at him, expression turning into one of shock when realization dawns, ‘Y-You’re Baekhyun.’ 

Baekhyun gazes back at him, unsure how to respond. 

‘Baekhyun?’ Taehyung’s voice echoes behind him. 

The said young man reluctantly steps through, knowing that he has just intruded on a moment that he hadn’t been supposed to hear. But Taehyung’s face is open and greets him with a warm smile, eyes that don’t give any negative feeling away. If the latter is annoyed that he has overheard his words, he doesn’t show it.

‘You’re here early.’ Taehyung notes. ‘How was your day?’ 

Baekhyun can only stare him silently, assessing his frail physique. His eyes are drawn inwards, lips pale and cheeks shrunken as though he hasn’t been eating for days. 

When it becomes evidently clear that Baekhyun isn’t going to say anything so soon, Taehyung’s happy mask cracks. His face crumples up like a used tissue paper and there’s no mistaking the tears that are glittering through his brown orbs. 

‘How much did you hear?’ the sickened man whispers with resignation.

Baekhyun presses his lips into a tight line, ‘Enough.’ he rubs the back of his neck as a means of distraction, ‘Were you planning to tell Jinae at all about this?’ 

He can feel the other man’s gaze piercing through in an obvious answer and thinks it quite stupid for having even asked the question. 

Baekhyun clears his throat. An awkward tension fills the room. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Don’t be.’ Taehyung clarifies with a smile. It’s surprisingly open and friendly for someone who’s about to go into surgery, ‘I just want her to be happy.’ 

‘The surgery can still work.’

‘No,’ Taehyung shakes his head, ‘the doctor already warned me of that there was more possibility of failure. I just don’t have the heart to tell the whole story to Jinae.’ 

The sickened man’s maroon pupils lift up to meet Baekhyun’s and there is no denying the overwhelming sadness that is consuming his body at the thought of leaving such a beautiful life behind. 

When Taehyung speaks next, his voice is softer and raw with emotion, as if he is trying to restrain the choked up sobs from bubbling up the back of his throat. 

‘Can you just do me a favour?’ 

Baekhyun doesn’t have the heart to tell him no at this point. He is torn between feeling guilty and feeling sad. It’s his roommate and albeit the fact that they don’t know each other that well, his absence will still leave some sort of bizarre ache in his chest.

‘Make her happy, will you?’ 

That’s the last thing that comes out of his mouth before the door slides open once more to reveal a soaked Jinae, drenched from head to toe from the harsh rain as a result of the afternoon showers. Baekhyun clamps his mouth shut as the answer dies on his lips, watching the girl fly over to her boyfriend’s bed before taking a seat next to him and grabbing his hand between hers. 

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks him, oblivious to the fact that the two men had had conversation right before she’d hurried in. 

Taehyung smiles. It’s soft, genuine. At peace. ‘Never felt better.'

-----xx-----

A/N: I previously thought to myself that this wouldn't be angsty and full of drama, and yet here we are four chapters in with so much angst that it makes me wany to cry. I don't know why I do this to myself tbh /cries a little/. 

Anyway! Last chapter will be up soon but what do you think so far? Comments? Just let me know your thoughts down below :) 

Thank you all for reading! <3 

-nutmeggu 

[solia-dreams]

Dead Space

A 6k bit of Reylo hurt/comfort in which Rey has kidnapped Kylo onboard the Millennium Falcon but they’ve run into serious trouble. A scene my other fic White Noise may have been building to (but I couldn’t wait for that, I needed to see this scene in writing!).

---

She woke suddenly to what could only be described as an ominous nudge from the Force. Ben. Where was he, and why did she feel so deeply anxious for him? The cockpit was silent and colder than ever, the little sparkles of frost that had been just in the corners before now stretching across the window. Her skin was all goose bumps, her fingers and toes unfeeling, her lips cracked. Her circulation, she detected, was sluggish, as were her thoughts. If the Force hadn’t alerted her, she mightn’t have woken at all. The temperature of the ship had dropped dangerously low. “Don’t die, Rey,” he mocked her at the start of each sleep cycle. “You’re not used to the cold of dead space. But I need you alive to finish fixing this bucket of bolts.” She sat forward, exhalation condensing into a cloud, and looked behind her at the door. Open. Dark. Silence beyond it. The air was thinning, thinner than she’d ever known, and when even the deepest of breaths only half-filled her lungs and the call of her companion’s name sounded like a pale echo bouncing around what was left of the ship, she could be forgiven for imagining this was what the vacuum of space felt like.

“Ben?” she called again, coughing once when the syllable croaked through her dry throat. But she knew, dully, instinctively, that she was alone. He couldn’t hear her. There was no reply but the chattering of her own teeth.  

A soft whirr in the stillness snagged her attention and she whirled back to the dashboard with a thudding heart. A standby light had blinked on, and something, some system, was running beneath the dash. But how? The entire ship was dead. They had no power, not even basic systems. All the conduits were blown apart in her escape from the First Order and the channels for the power disconnected from the source.

Uncertainly she touched her fingertip to the glowing red light. It was even colder than she, and she shivered. When she took her finger away, it still shone. How…? Then the two tiny displays beside it, both glowing blue letters, lit up. Reserve power connected. Charging.

How could this be? The reserve power had been completely drained for more than a day by now, and without a channel to the main power source – its every conduit blown into space – it could not recharge.

Another display, separate from these, came to life. Life support systems offline. Atmosphere critical. No kidding. But how were these sensors kicking back in after days without power? What was powering the lights to enable them to even tell her? Nothing they’d done in the past two days had really made a difference, with the disconnected core only truly reachable from outside the –

“Ben!” she shouted with sickening realisation, lurching forward out of the pilot’s seat to throw herself at the window. The glass was cold enough to sting her palms and her breath misted the thick glass even worse, and try as she might to lean aside over the mostly-dead dashboard to see, she couldn’t get a view of him, but inside she knew. He was outside. And he was in trouble.

She shoved away from the windscreen and raced out of the cockpit into the dark, feeling her way along the curved walls with her shaking hands. She recalled the storage cupboard where she’d found the spacesuits and remembered hoping he wouldn’t notice. But what a stupid thing to think. He was Ben Solo – this was his father’s ship – he’d grown up in its halls. He knew where the best food was hidden. He knew which spaces were coldest and best ventilated. Of course he knew where the spacesuits were kept for emergencies, and of course he’d taken one, and an oxygen pack.

“No, no, no…” she whispered as her frigid, fumbling hands sifted through the remaining packs in the darkness. The gauges glowed dimly. Ten percent. Seven percent. Fourteen percent. Two percent. They were all so low. She had drained them in her trips through the exclusion zones to do the patching up. Surely, the great Kylo Ren had not taken his survival lightly. He would have plenty of air. Right?

The deep sense of foreboding inside her told her not to be presumptuous.

“Kylo?” she called out, looking up at the unlit metallic ceiling, hoping to hear his returning footsteps on the hull or some clink as he finished up whatever reconstruction job he was doing. She strained to hear. Thin silence responded. Her worry inflated. “Ben!?”

Her concern for him must have broken some barrier, because her voice was accompanied by a push in the Force, and she felt the swelling of pressure and her vision clouded and then narrowed with compressed light and her ears rung with heavy white noise, all of it squeezing in on her and then: she was connected to him.

Stop wasting our air, he said in her ear, voice irritable and low, and she spun, trying to see him. But he was nowhere. Or maybe it was just too dark. All she saw were the outlines of her surroundings, lit by the thin glow coming from the cockpit. The game table. The seating. The curving halls locked down.

“Where are you?” she asked. Her voice shook with more than just the cold, which she knew was now bitterly low. “Why can’t I see you?”

I can’t see you either, he admitted, and this time he sounded less annoyed, breathier. Vaguer. She reached out for him and felt him at the far end of the ship, where the core was. Outside. Did it work?

“The systems are coming back online,” she told him, glancing back in the direction of the cockpit. “Power reserves are charging, and the life support sensors are on.” She bit her lip, feeling it split beneath her teeth. There wasn’t enough blood in her face to allow it to bleed, and she was too cold for pain so slight. “Come back, please. I have a really bad feeling.”

Probably something to do with the oxygen I have left, he concluded lightly, but she heard the unwilling tension in his voice even through the dense white noise that throbbed between them. She looked into the cupboard again at all the other used-up oxygen packs.

“Which is?” she pushed, unsure she wanted to know.

I’m on my way back, he answered instead. I got out without an issue but now with the power coming back… I can’t be certain it won’t… try to reject an outside entry… He sounded breathless, his rhythm out of whack, like he was under heavy strain or running up a hill. She took a useless step in his direction and stopped, paralysed with worry. Might need you to… to do an override, if it’ll let you. My father, you know… Paranoid.

He couldn’t see her but all the same, she nodded and bolted back to the cockpit. She assessed the dashboard quickly. There were no new lights. No new systems, which should mean no unexpected lockouts. “You should be fine. How far away are you? I can meet you-”

No, he cut her off, voice swelling with intensity over their connection. It’s not safe.

“It’s not safe for you, either,” she insisted. She grasped the co-pilot’s chair, feeling faint as the lack of oxygen and low temperature and now her stillness after all the adrenaline began to set in. None of this had been safe from the outset. She was on a dead ship, wanted by the First Order, clinging to a First Order star destroyer literally under their noses, with their Supreme Leader, a Force-wielder of talent far surpassing her own, her kind-of captive onboard. “Just hurry. Please.”

There was no response. She made herself breathe shallowly to conserve their air, and stared at the lights on the dash. Reserve power connected. Charging. Life support systems offline. Atmosphere critical. He’d done it. He’d risked his life to go outside and fix the greatest threat to their existence, and reconnected their power. Once the reserves reached a minimal charge for supporting the oxygen filters and temperature regulator, those systems would be restored. He’d done it.

Kylo Ren had saved both their lives.

But now she frowned slightly. She still felt the throbby swell of the Force bond between them, but it was slipping, weakening.

“Are you alright?” she asked, and waited. No reply. “Kylo? Kylo Ren, can you hear me?”

No. But the answer didn’t come from him. It came from elsewhere, within her, maybe, and she just knew. Her stomach felt full of lead as she squeezed her eyes shut and pushed outward, feeling for him, reaching for him. He was near, and she saw him. Hunched over. On his knees, staggering in the spacesuit, clinging to the hull of the Falcon outside. His oxygen pack dangling from his mask. Empty.

“No!” She ran again from the cockpit, through the dark, to the sealed heavy door that blocked her from the roof hatch exit. He’d gotten through, somehow, without draining their air into the next compartment, and he’d gotten out. Somehow. Her brain wouldn’t work, starved as it was of air. She looked around. How, how, how?

With the Force, obviously, since he was such a damn master in it. She suddenly saw him in her memory, lifting his hand, forming that forcefield as a barrier to block the doorway as she passed through it to do her repairs. He could do it. So could she.

She went back to the oxygen canisters and grabbed the first one she found. There wasn’t time for a spacesuit. They took full minutes to don; minutes her companion did not have. The Force had woken her to save him. It would provide.

She strapped the mask on over her face as she strode back to the door. There was no power to mechanically lift the heavy door, but Kylo had done it. So could she. If she didn’t, he would die out there. She didn’t know where the strength or knowledge came from but she raised a hand and a bluish shield of energy burst forth, clinging to the frame of the door like a skin. With her other hand she lifted. The Force flowed through her and slid the door up effortlessly, revealing utter blackness beyond. She expected the suck of her atmosphere departing into the vacuum, but it didn’t. Her shield held. She dropped her hands and her work remained. She bolted through, reaching out with her feelings as Luke had told her, sensing the curve of the path through the ship, sensing the obstacles she must dodge, charging ahead to where she felt the dying spirit of Kylo Ren dimming like a beacon at the end of its battery life.

The mask began to fog and she realised she’d forgotten to activate the oxygen flow. As she jogged through the darkness, she grabbed the canister and turned it to find the switch. Two percent. Of all the canisters to choose? There was no time to go back. She started her air flow and ran harder, finding the thin air of the mask worryingly similar to that of the Millennium Falcon.

Hall after hall, bend after bend. She almost ran straight past the ladder to the exit hatch, and only slowed herself by catching the edge of the chute with her hand, sending a pang of pain through her arm and shoulder as the starved, cold muscles strained and tore. She ignored it and ripped herself back, grabbing the rungs and wrenching herself up. It was meant to be an elevator but without the power, she would do without. Her lungs burned. Her muscles protested. But the Force flooded her as she reached the top and raised her hand, a bubble of bluish shielding erupting to fill the gap as the hatch swung open, keeping a small domed safe space for her that would mimic the pressure of the ship as she climbed to the top and looked out.

“Kylo!”

Her lungs and heart might have burst with horror to see him dragging himself with one arm, life almost gone from him, existing on spite and determination alone since his lungs weren’t operating and therefore neither was the rest of him. He was still much too far away, a good ten metres, which may as well have been a million while she was trapped in her dome of liveable pressure while he died out there in the spacesuit she would need to wear to get to him.

“Come on, Kylo Ren!” she begged, banging her hands on the rim of the hatch she couldn’t step out of. “Please, please, get up!”

His fist clenched as though he heard her and he swung his arm clumsily to try to get a new handhold. He pulled – his big body shifted – but then the tension and strength went out of him, and he collapsed. His head lolled back and she saw his face. White, the scar painfully visible, his dark eyes rolled back in his head to reveal bloodshot whites, his mouth open in an agonised gasp for air he didn’t have. Through their connection, she felt his heart falter. She heard it.

“No!” she screamed, grabbing her own hair uselessly. Her mask fogged up again as she began to cry and her air ran dangerously low. She was going to die out here, watching him die, a gargantuan First Order star destroyer that would have swooped in and saved him at any moment she’d allowed him to call for help filling the background of their tragedy, filling her with guilt. “No, please! Wake up! You’ve got to move.”

She reached out for him with both hands and pulled. As though tied on a string, he lurched and slid and then tumbled forward across the hull, falling in a heap not four metres away. She choked on a sob, knowing this was all her fault. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep, she shouldn’t have let him go out, she should have done this herself, she shouldn’t have taken him in the first place. She pulled again. This time nothing happened. Her desperation and remorse had dulled her connection to the Force. Around her, the blue energy sputtered. Fear flickered in her.

No. The Force had willed this, had willed her awake despite the conditions that would have lulled her into a quiet death, and had willed her to go after him. Why, if not to save him? She inhaled the last good swallow of air in her mask and squared her shoulders. The forcefield dome keeping her alive stabilised. The ocean of potential inside her stilled. She reached again for Kylo Ren.

He lifted clear of the hull and fell again, right beside the hatch. His arm flopped to the side, lifeless, and slipped through the forcefield. Heart fluttering, either with hope or with oxygen deprivation, she grabbed him and yanked. He fell heavily, rolling into her, his weight crushing her against the ladder, but still she pulled until she had his whole body through the hatch. Then, his chest against hers, his head inside its mask on her shoulder, his gloved hand weakly holding the rung beside her head, her arm locked under his arm and around his back, she let the hatch swing shut, let the forcefield die, and cautiously started them down the ladder.

It was awkward and clumsy. She dropped him twice, just barely catching him by an arm before he fell to the bottom the first time and missing him completely the second. They were nearer to the bottom then, and he landed heavily. She jumped down beside him, pulse racing.

“Kylo,” she whispered, shaking him. He couldn’t respond. His expression of death made her sick. Instantly she reached for her air canister.

No.

She hesitated only a split second. Was that the Force, or him, or her inner sense of self-preservation? She ignored it and took a breath. She disconnected her air supply, quickly replacing his empty one.

There wasn’t time to see if it worked. She had to get them both to safety. She stood, feeling dizzy, and grabbed him under his arms. She dragged him through the dark, past the upturned crates and other obstacles that would slow them down, through hall after hall and bend after bend. Her vision, though there was little to see anyway, blurred, and she began to see stars. Stars, inside? She tried to breathe, but there was little left inside her mask. The mere attempt made her feel panicky, and made her try again, though there was even less on each subsequent attempt. She was dying, he was dying.

But his heart still beat, erratic and frail through the pulse might be. It was the sound of hope, and it kept her going.

She wasn’t watching where she was going, hurrying backwards dragging her enemy, the galaxy’s greatest threat and the murderer of Han Solo and countless others, to safety, but she felt when she passed through the forcefield she’d built to protect their limited oxygenated zone. She ripped her suffocating mask off and threw it aside, gasping down air that felt thick and joyous despite being almost too thin to support life, and her exhausted body collapsed into a kneel beside Kylo Ren. He wasn’t moving. She dug shaking fingers into the neck seam of his spacesuit and tore the face shield away. Creature in a mask, indeed. She touched fingers to his face – cold – and his lips – lifeless – and shook him.

“Kylo,” she begged, voice cracking. “Please, please, wake up.”

His lungs had been starved, punished for trying to draw air in. Were they even still trying? Inspired, desperate, she inhaled as deep as the thin air would allow and bent over him to press her mouth against his. His lips were cold, slack, completely unalike yesterday’s firm, unexpected heat. She tried not to think of that and blew, hard, trying to inflate his lungs. She pulled back – had it worked? Hard to say, and he didn’t react. She lay a hand on his strong chest and took another breath, and gave this one to him, too. This time, she felt his breastbone pressing upward, his ribcage expanding with the inflation of his lungs. She ran out of air and opened her eyes. His were closed.

“Please,” she murmured against his mouth, cold lips brushing cold lips. “Don’t die.”

A surge in the Force sent loose items scattered around the space everywhere, tools bouncing off walls, drawers slamming shut, all of it in the near-darkness. She ducked instinctively and he inhaled in a strangled gasp, dark bloodshot eyes flying open in panic. Her heart flew and her fingers tightened on the front of his spacesuit. Alive. He was alive. He thrashed with the Force, his body unresponsive, and around them, larger things crashed over – crates, toolkits, trolleys – spiking her with fear, all chaos to prove the Supreme Leader was awake. But his wild gaze, blinking hard, met hers, and her eyes stung with relief as he tried to sit up, still sucking in oxygen.

“Rey…” he tried to say, barely a croak, a shaking hand reaching for her and missing her, falling aside. His fingers sparked with silvery bolts of electricity, startling her. His eyes wouldn’t focus, the pupils mismatched. Beneath her fingers, she could feel his whole body shaking. Pressure sickness, altitude sickness, something like that she was sure, after his near-suffocation and now the rush of oxygen to his starved body. Plus the cold.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, fingers probing over the suit to find the release seams as something else smashed against a wall further away. “You’re alive. You’re okay. Everything’s alright now.” For him, or for her? She hurriedly freed him of the spacesuit, pulling it away to find his black-clad body twitching and convulsing underneath. Out of his control. She pulled him toward her as he tried again to sit upright, as his confusion and overdose of power combined to send a Force wave through their cabin that burst her shield on the door beside them but also made the door slam down, sealing their atmosphere in. She swallowed her scream, but the reverberation of the emergency door’s violent closure shook her. “Shh, I’m here. You can stop. We’re okay. You did it. You saved us. Ben,” she soothed shakily, pushing back his hair with one hand and laying her hand flat on his face. “Let go.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say. He paused, swaying on the arm he leaned on. It shook. She tugged him again and he lost balance, and he collapsed gratefully into her lap, the weight of his upper body pressing on her legs, curling his face into her stomach, wrapping his arms around her shamelessly, curling himself up tight against the cold as she rubbed her palms along his arm, his shoulder, trying to warm him. The banging and crashing stopped. Slowly, the tremors in his muscles stopped and his breaths evened out. He was coming back to himself.

“I wasn’t leaving,” he managed after a while, his breath warm on her skin through her clothing. Everything, everywhere his body wasn’t making contact with hers, was beyond cold, unfeeling, but where he did touch – fire by comparison. “You should know I wasn’t leaving you.”

She tried to laugh but it sounded like a sob. She couldn’t even articulate the relief that coursed through her as she held him. She’d thought he was lost, yet here he was, in her arms, alive. Her enemy, the man who would have killed her, her captor and then her torturer and then her saviour from Snoke and then her captive and then her teacher and then her… friend? What were they to each other? It hadn’t even occurred to her that he would have made good on his promise to throw this restoration effort in once the going got critical and get First Order assistance in rescuing himself and arresting her. Of course, that’s what she should have thought of first when she couldn’t find him – assumed he’d deserted her and marched out and along the hull to the window of the star destroyer to get help. But she hadn’t.

“You’re freezing,” she told him, feeling her own lower lip wobbling with the shiver in her jaw, no matter how she tensed it. His arms tightened around her a little as she shifted to get her legs out from under them but he let go as she disentangled herself. She hauled him to his feet, where he was unsteady at first and leaned on her heavily. “You need to rest.”

“So do you,” he replied. She felt the building aura of power around him as he grew more alert and drew the Force in tighter around himself. She felt that aura stroke her gently, feeling her own energy field. “You’re exhausted. And freezing.”

“I didn’t just die on a spacewalk,” she answered primly, looping his arm over her shoulders and starting him toward the bedroom. His feet shuffled, but the further they walked, the more steady he became. The less he leaned on her, though the difference was slight – she noticed the weight of him on her shoulders, against her side. She couldn’t help but notice when she grasped his wrist to get a stronger grip on his arm, he twisted it to take her hand in his. His fingers threaded with hers. She tried not to blush at the fluttery feeling she got deep in her stomach. This lack of oxygen, it was making her silly.

“It doesn’t appear I did either,” he mumbled as she got him inside the room. “No, I’m fine…”

She ducked her head out from under his arm and dumped him when she sensed she was at the edge of the bed. He sat heavily, unable to hold himself up without her. She bent to feel for the blankets but outside the bedroom, in the main communal area where they’d just been, a light suddenly flickered to life.

“Emergency lights are back on,” he muttered tiredly, as she squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness. But it wasn’t even that bright, she realised slowly. She made her eyelids open up and look back. It was indeed the emergency light, dimly glowing, just a single light. She turned back to him, heart soaring with hope at the realisation of what this must mean. But his eyes were closed and he dropped his head. Still, she felt the swelling of power around him, building up.

“Get under the blankets,” she instructed, ignoring his groan of protest. “I’ll go and check on this.”

It was hard to leave him, the Supreme Leader sitting there looking defeated and broken in the sliver of half-light given off by the one emergency light, his scar – the scar she’d given him – stark against the paleness of his exhausted face. But she made herself pull away, and hurried to the cockpit once again.

More lights glowed in the dash, but the most exciting display of all: Life support systems undergoing restoration. Calibrating. Equalising. Standby.

This time she really did laugh. He had saved them. They were going to live. She drew a deep, deep breath until she felt dizzy and had to clutch the pilot’s chair to stop herself falling over, but it wasn’t a waste, because soon they’d have a cabin full of air again. Temperate air, temperature-controlled. She ran back, tripping on all the strewn items she’d dodged in the dark, the litter of Kylo Ren’s uncontrollable grip on the Force. She caught herself on the doorway to his room, still half-laughing, delirious.

“You did it,” she gasped, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply again. “You’re amazing.”

She opened her eyes and it was true: he was. The laughter died, the delirium did not. He was back on his feet now, stronger. The Force still swirled around him, feeding him, grounding him, luring her in. She didn’t try to resist, just crossed the space between them to stand before him, almost toe-to-toe. He looked down at her. She looked up at him. How many times had she looked into this face, and how many different faces had she seen there? Kylo Ren, fear-monger, monster, murderer. Ben Solo, tormented boy, heir of the Force, ally. Han Solo’s features. Leia Organa’s eyes. Now who looked down into her eyes, her soul? Supreme Leader of the First Order Kylo Ren, teammate, friend… something else. Intensity swelled between them.

“You saved me,” he murmured, voice low as he raised his hand to her face, stopping shy of touching her. She reached up to take his hand, but likewise stopped herself, feeling the invisible glow of him in the energy radiating just beyond his skin.

“You saved us both,” she answered just as softly. She swallowed and dropped her hand as he lowered his, slowly tracing the length of her loose hair without touching, curving around her shoulder, somehow still leaving a trail of heat everywhere he didn’t touch, all the way down her arm to hover over her wrist. He brought his other hand to her mouth, still without making contact, though the deepening of colour in his eyes told her he wanted to. Reason told her she shouldn’t, but she wanted him to as well. She wanted him to. Who was she? She dropped her gaze. “You… you should get warmed up,” she muttered, cheeks warming as she spoke. She was sure her breath reached his fingertips, microns away from her lips.

“So should you,” he countered. He curled his fingers into a fist, perhaps to restrain himself from touching her, but she felt no fear of him. She should. She didn’t. He nudged his fist lightly at her chin, and though he didn’t touch her, a soft push of the Force did, perhaps unconsciously sent, and she raised her face a little. “I can think of a way.” He swallowed; she saw it in his throat, and shivered in apprehension. He opened his hand and his breathing quickened as he ran his open gloved hand down the column of her exposed throat, the throat he’d crushed, the throat he’d repaired, over her chest, dragging his gaze after his hand. She made herself stay still, thrilling with the danger of him, the power of him, and gave way a little when he took his hand away before he could change his mind. She struggled to draw any breath at all, feeling like he’d stolen it as he roamed over her body. He cleared his throat. “The life support systems will start with oxygen, and with what we’ve got left, it’ll be a while at that before we get any heating. Skin contact is the best way to generate new heat.”

Again he traced her face. Again he didn’t make contact. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “So touch me.”

He paused, and withdrew his hand. Dark eyes heavy on her. “It’s a survival tactic. That’s all.”

“I know it is,” she exhaled. She felt reckless. Bravely she raised her hand again and laid it in the centre of his chest. She felt him inhale deeply in reaction, and she was disappointed to see her fingers quaking against him. Cold. Cold and terror.

He extended a hand, eyes dark with conflict, and pressed his fingertips to her breastbone. She inhaled like the life support systems had just kicked in. She felt heady, even headier as he flattened his hand on her skin and ran it along her collarbone, up her neck, into her hair… She sighed and let her forehead fall forward onto his chest, indulgent, hungry. She dug her fingers into the thick material of his black suit as she felt him bend at the middle to lower his face beside hers, and she heard his breath at her ear. It made her shudder with anticipation. His hands on her shoulders. Possessive. She lifted her face and found her chin on his shoulder, his exposed neck before her, the hair on his skin standing on end when she breathed, the scent of him crowding her senses and overwhelming her.

His hands tightened on her shoulders and slid the wraps of her clothing off them, letting them slide down her arms. Again, anticipation thrilled through her. Anticipation for what?

Trying to breathe properly, she made herself step back. He released her. The spell faltered, though did not break its hold on her completely. What did she think was going to happen here? What did she want to happen here?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. His low voice seemed to reverberate through her bones and drew her in like a magnet. It was with shaky effort that she remained in place.

“I know.”

He stood still, watching her while she deliberated. He swept his hand back; the blankets atop the bed swept back, too. An invitation. Suddenly she felt nervous, a little afraid. She was losing her head with him, getting caught up in… in him. Where could this go that wasn’t fundamentally wrong? Rationally speaking, yes, it made sense for them to pool body heat, but would it stop there? Did she want to be quite so vulnerable with him, murderer, traitor, enemy?

Could she bare her body to him and not burn from head to toe in fear of his judgement, and then burn again in shame for caring for his judgement?

He got sick of waiting for her. He reached behind his neck and began to unfasten his shirt, all the while watching her closely, and while she watched breathlessly, he pulled the shirt off over his head. His soft hair fell over his face and he shook it back; his incredible chest, scarred by her lightsaber, drew her covetous gaze down. He cast the black clothing aside. Could she throw herself at him now? She stood rooted to the floor, breaths quick and shallow. Sinful. She wanted him.

But he just nearly died and she just nearly died and they were on opposite sides of the war and he was a terrible, terrible person and she wanted him, his weight on her again, his hands on her again, her hands on him, on the bare skin of his hard sculpted chest, tracing the knotted pattern of the slash she’d made from his neck down, feeling the motion of hard-earned muscle underneath…

His hands moved to his waist and with a jolt she realised he meant to unfasten his pants, and she abruptly turned away, closing her eyes in embarrassment.

“I’m, uh…” she stammered, shaking her head, eyes still squeezed shut. “I’ll give you a minute.”

“You can sleep in here alone, if you’d rather, and I can sleep on the bench at the games table.”

He meant it; she heard it in his voice. He would give her space if she asked. But she couldn’t ask because she didn’t want it. Anyway, she reasoned weakly, he was too tall to sleep on a bench, and sleeping alone would be even colder tonight than it had been for the last two nights, their ambient temperature now miserably low. They would both be warmer together than apart while they awaited the life support reboot. Right now, burning with desire and embarrassment, it was difficult to recall, but the Falcon was hovering just above freezing.

“No, it’s… I’m fine.” She swallowed, her dry throat sticking painfully. She was being childish. “Go ahead. I’ll…” She made herself tug her dangling sleeves all the way down before she could freeze up again, and she shoved the entire shirt down, catching her trousers at her hips and leaning over to shimmy hurriedly out of it all, all without looking back at him. She instantly noticed the cold of the air moving in on her previously clothed torso and legs, and she shivered violently, wrapping her arms over her chest, immediately more worried about the bitter cold than about Kylo Ren standing behind her, mostly naked as well, watching her, judging her, assessing her…

His skin burned hot with the dark power that flowed through his veins when his arms came around her and pulled her gently back into him. His hand on her stomach might have left a steaming five-fingered imprint; the expanse of her back and the backs of her legs stretched flat against him might have blistered; her cheek where his own scarred cheek pressed against her, his warm breath expelled from his nostrils so close she could breathe him in, might have melted to him. But she would have relished it.

“Better?” he murmured into her hair, inhaling slowly, like he wanted to breathe her in, too. She couldn’t trust her voice to answer, so she nodded, eyes still shut tight. She couldn’t believe this was happening. He tugged her with him as he lowered himself onto the bed, and she went willingly, feeling him pull the blankets up over them both and tuck them in around her shoulders. She twisted in his grip to face him, surprised by her own daring even more so when she snuggled closer, curling her arms around herself, rewarded by his strong arms tightening around her in an even fiercer embrace. Locking her to him. Her breath felt hot on her face as it deflected from his chest.

She was in bed with Supreme Leader Ren. Mostly naked. She’d just saved his life instead of leaving him to die and doing the whole galaxy a favour. Because he’d been trying to save hers.

Power still pulsed around him, filling him, bolstering him, helping him regenerate, and he burned with it, and she basked in it. Basked in his badness, his danger and his untapped passion. His heat drove her fear of freezing to death overnight away, and she felt herself sinking, oddly content, oddly secure. Without thinking, she withdrew one of her arms from the tight cradled position between them and slung it over his midsection. She felt him tense, and bit her dry, split lip again, afraid of overstepping. Where was the line? Did they even have a line? She threw caution to the winds – when had she even bothered to listen to caution today? – and tightened her arm, flattening her hand on his smooth back, evidencing that it was no accidental casual gesture.

He shifted, and she thought he’d push away from her, but he ran a hand up the length of her, leaving a trail of steam no doubt, and wove it into her hair. She trembled, intoxicated by his touch. He held her head while he pressed his face to her crown, inhaling her, warming her with his exhalations, claiming her, or did she imagine that part? She couldn’t have imagined that he softly kissed the top of her head. Her eyes flew open.

“Don’t die, Rey,” he instructed quietly, and slid his arms back around her shoulders in a loose hug conducive to sleeping. Pulse skipping loudly in her ears, she tilted her chin to look up at him. His eyes were shut; he was ready to fall asleep. His face was still, relaxed, content, the ugly red scar she’d marked him with tracing down his cheek towards her. She lay safe and warm in his arms as he drifted to sleep, unafraid of her, unafraid of betrayal by her, and she marvelled at the incredulity of this scenario.

“Don’t die, Ben,” she whispered back, and curled back into him to fall asleep as well, hiding in his heat and his scent and his power and his frightening beauty for just a few more hours before the day cycle began and everything would have to go back the way it was before.

---

I’m on FF and AO3 as Solia.

[mastcomm]

Your Monday Briefing – The New York Times

Coronavirus deaths exceed toll from SARS

As many people across China return to work today after an already-extended Lunar New Year break, the country is confronting two bleak statistics:

The novel coronavirus has killed more than 900 people in the country — more than the 774 people who died worldwide from the SARS epidemic 17 years ago.

The number of new deaths that the government reported on Sunday — 97 — was the highest so far in a single day.

Here are the latest updates and a map of where the virus has spread. The World Health Organization’s director general said on Sunday that an advance team was on its way to China to help the government contain the outbreak.

Analysis: Officially, the virus has sickened 40,171 people in China. But experts say that deaths and infections are probably being undercounted because testing facilities are under severe strain.

Inside the outbreak: In Wuhan, the center of the outbreak, our reporter met a family in which three generations have been sickened by the virus.

In Beijing: The outbreak is testing an authoritarian system that President Xi Jinping has built around himself over the past seven years. A writer in the Chinese capital described the outbreak as “a big shock” to the ruling Communist Party’s legitimacy — second only to the government’s armed crackdown on Tiananmen Square protesters in 1989.

Sinn Fein poised to enter Irish government

Preliminary results from Ireland’s national elections over the weekend show that Sinn Fein, a party that was once the political wing of the Irish Republican Army, is on the doorstep of joining a coalition government.

In doing so, Sinn Fein would break the hold that two center-right parties — Fianna Fail and Fine Gael — have held on the country’s politics for 90 years.

“This is changing the shape and mold of Irish politics,” Mary Lou McDonald, Sinn Fein’s leader, told reporters in Dublin. “This is not a transient thing — this is just the beginning.”

Why this matters: Sinn Fein has long been ostracized over its ties to sectarian violence. But many younger voters don’t remember that. Instead, they see the party as the only one responding to their day-to-day grievances on issues like soaring rental prices and corporate tax breaks.

By the numbers: Fianna Fail was on track to win about 45 seats in the 160-seat Parliament, followed by Sinn Fein with 37 seats and Fine Gael with 36 seats. The final results are expected today or tomorrow, probably kicking off weeks of coalition negotiations over who will control Parliament.

Germany’s political red line

A political drama in Germany last week — in which the far-right Alternative for Germany party played kingmaker for a center-right candidate on the state level — set off spontaneous protests in a country that is still deeply conscious of its Nazi past.

It also raises a question: Will mainstream parties ever feel pressured to break their own taboo against working with the AfD, the first far-right party to enter the national parliament since World War II?

“For many Germans, allowing the far right to be kingmakers conjures up dark memories,” writes our Berlin bureau chief, Katrin Bennhold. “It is a red line that many do not want to see crossed.”

Context: The drama took place in Thuringia, an eastern state where the Nazis first won power locally in the dying days of the Weimar Republic. They later won nationally, with the help of conservative parties.

Related: A researcher in Germany discovered that a 17th-century painting, on view for years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, once belonged to a Jewish art dealer who fled the Nazis and lost court battles to win the artwork back.

The hydropower dam that has Egypt worried

Egyptian and Ethiopian officials are set to reconvene in Washington this week to discuss a colossal hydroelectric project that some fear could bring the two countries to blows.

For Ethiopians, the $4.5 billion project, the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam, would confirm their country’s place as a rising African power. Ethiopia’s young leader, Abiy Ahmed, has said that “no force could prevent” the dam from being completed.

But the Nile is under assault from pollution, climate change and population growth. And many Egyptians fear that the project, whose reservoir is about the size of London, will cut into their precious water supplies.

Details: Egypt has justified its dominance over the Nile partly by citing a colonial-era water treaty that Ethiopia does not recognize. President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi of Egypt has insisted that he wants a peaceful resolution, but he has been accused of sponsoring anti-government protests and armed rebellions inside Ethiopia, among other destabilizing tactics.

If you have a few minutes, this is worth it

An uneasy political alliance

By becoming the junior partner in a coalition government led by conservatives, Austria’s progressive Green Party was able to put climate change on the country’s political agenda.

But now the party is also becoming complicit in Chancellor Sebastian Kurz’s hard-right immigration policy.

That is particularly difficult for Alma Zadic, above, a daughter of Bosnian refugees and Austria’s first minister with a migrant background: The coalition charges her to defend policies that were designed to effectively keep people like her parents out of the country.

Here’s what else is happening

U.S. budget: President Trump is expected to propose today a $4.8 trillion budget that includes billions for his wall along the border with Mexico and steep cuts to social programs like Medicaid. Congress can ignore the budget, but it will feature in Mr. Trump’s re-election campaign.

Switzerland:Voters in Switzerland agreed on Sunday to greenlight an amendment to an anti-discrimination law that had not provided protection for lesbians, gay men and bisexual people. The national referendum had been forced by critics who said the amendment threatened freedom of expression.

Thailand: The country’s deadliest mass shooting ended on Sunday, when a rogue soldier whose shooting rampage at a military base and a shopping mall left at least 29 people dead was killed during a firefight with the authorities.

Rocket launch: Solar Orbiter, a European-built spacecraft that launched from Florida late Sunday, is expected to complete 22 orbits of the sun in 10 years — and perhaps help solve mysteries about how that fiery star works.

Snapshot: Migrants play soccer at a refugee camp on the Greek island of Samos, where asylum seekers are waiting for approval to travel to the Greek mainland to pursue new lives. Few on the mainland want them, and other European governments have mostly closed their doors.

Oscars: The South Korean film “Parasite” won best picture, a first for a foreign-language film. Follow our coverage and check out our roundup of red-carpet fashion.

What we’re reading: This essay in Essence, addressing the attacks on the broadcast journalist Gayle King after she raised the question of a 2003 rape accusation against Kobe Bryant in the wake of his death. “The term misogynoir — the special type of hatred directed against women of color — says it all,” says the briefings editor, Andrea Kannapell.

Now, a break from the news

Cook: Italian pasta and chickpea stew cooks in just one pan and can be vegan by leaving off the final dusting of pecorino.

Watch: The final season of the show “Homeland,” starring Claire Danes as a brilliant C.I.A. officer with bipolar disorder, is now playing on Showtime.

Smarter Living: Want to improve your sleep? Our Wirecutter colleagues present hacks, tips and products that actually help in their “Five Days to Better Sleep” Challenge. (Sign up here.)

And now for the Back Story on …

Revisiting ‘The Year of Africa’

Seventeen African countries shed their colonial status in 1960. Sixty years later, our archival storytelling team, Past Tense, paired photography from collections at The Times and elsewhere with writers and thinkers of African descent for a special section, “A Continent Remade.” Veronica Chambers, the editor of Past Tense, spoke with Adriana Balsamo about the project. Here are a few lightly edited excerpts from their conversation.

Can you speak to the decision to have more youthful writers be a part of the project?

We really wanted a certain dynamism to the conversation. And we thought that it would be interesting to ask youngish people who are really connected to the continent … and who have a sense of pride about it. David Adjaye, for example, spent years cataloging the architecture of Africa in a way that had never been done before. But he grew up half his life off the continent.

There’s always a period of discovery for someone who has a foot in a country but didn’t necessarily grow up there. And especially because the countries are so young, it felt like it’d be interesting to ask these young people who in some ways really benefited from all of the good of independence — their lives were shaped by everything that came after — to look at the pictures and respond.

What is your favorite photo?

I think the mother and baby picture [with Imbolo Mbue’s essay] and the Miss Independence picture [with Luvvie Ajayi’s essay] were really important to me because those were the two I found first, in October 2018. I held onto those two pictures as a kind of proof of concept. I also love the picture at the United Nations by Sam Falk [with Mr. Adjaye’s essay]. He’s so special to the history of The Times and just to know what it must have meant for those men to be able to go and represent new nations. To say, “Our country is three months old and here we are. Let’s talk about how we fit into the rest of the world.” I think that’s pretty powerful.

What do you hope readers take away from the section?

We are really hoping that people on the continent will read the digital version, and we’ve worked really hard on the interactive. When you look at the news photographs, it was a time when very few New York Times readers would have been to the continent. And so when we look at where we are at 60 years later, there’s still a lot of people who have never been and may never go.

And I hope what readers will take from it is a sense of possibility on the continent that I believe continues to this day. A sense of beauty, a sense of community. And I hope, interest: I hope they will continue to read some of the writers we featured.

That’s it for this briefing. See you next time.

— Mike

Thank you To Mark Josephson and Eleanor Stanford for the break from the news. You can reach the team at briefing@nytimes.com.

P.S. • We’re listening to “The Daily.” Our latest episode is on the lawyer behind Harvey Weinstein’s legal strategy. • Here’s today’s Mini Crossword puzzle, and a clue: Where the heart is (five letters). You can find all our puzzles here. • The 1619 Project is the centerpiece of a new wave of ads from “The Truth Is Worth It,” a Times campaign.

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/your-monday-briefing-the-new-york-times-10/

[nelrunari]

❖ AND THE DREAM CALLS: Byte.

Character Name: Byte

Real Name: Bennett Vitale, but he prefers Byte. Just Byte. Whether this was a safety measure to keep his identity secret to the general public or just a fun little jab at his own abilities has yet to be disclosed. Maybe it never will be. Either way; it’s one of the few things he’s particularly insistent about.

Pronouns: He/They/It

Age: Around 23-24 ish. He doesn’t keep track of his birthday.

His birthday is January 11. He’s a Capricorn and the rest of his natal chart is...out there.

Trigger Warnings: amputation/prosthetics, animal experimentation, government surveillance

Appearance:  In a sea of city lights that seem to blot out the sky, it doesn’t come as much surprise that Byte is fairly pale; almost sickly so. Any signs of life are seen in the regular bruise or red-tint coloring in his fingertips and bright green eyes, starkly contrasted by the dark circles that lay underneath no thanks to many restless nights. He cuts his own hair, usually in one go if he can help it, and as a result it often comes out looking choppy and uneven. He does keep good care of it though, and the dark purple coloring shines as brightly as ever. 

As far as clothing is concerned, it’s comfort over practicality--which is something he’s frequently advised to reconsider given his skillset. Most of it is in dark blacks, silver, or browns, even down to his mechanics. The only part that isn’t is a pair of neon yellow high-tops; yes, they light up. He loves them.

His left arm is fully mechanical. Previously only a job done halfway, he figured there was no harm done in replacing it entirely. For what it’s worth, it’s high-quality metal, and a good example of his own capabilities in crafting. It sometimes glows an iridescent yellow, particularly when his magic is in use.

Personality: A walking enigma; he hates the idea of socializing, but handles it easily and without much stress at all if in the position where he has to. More ambition than you could imagine a human could have paired alongside an unwillingness to pry himself from his bed in the would-be mornings. He greets the world with an optimism he doesn’t believe in and he has more than enough confidence to override any doubt or fear that snuck its way into his system. 

He wants to be more, so much more, but when faced with the hard facts of life his dreams seem to drift further and further away into the same cyberspace they were born from, the same space he can’t help sticking his fingers into to find out more. 

Despite all this, though, living in Asphodel has made him wary, and he tends to keep even those he considers “close” at a safe distance, unwilling to open his heart out to anyone. What are they going to do if they reach past every wall? It’s too much of a risk, like everything else. It just isn’t worth it. He’ll be fine; this is...not fine, but fine enough.

He just won’t think about it.

More positive traits: adventurous, alert, brilliant, confident, curious, efficient, flexible, hardworking, imaginative, loyal, observant, resourceful, self-sufficient.

More negative traits: amoral, apathetic, cocky, deceptive, greedy, impulsive, lazy, messy, paranoid, selfish, tactless.

MBTI: istp.

TEMPERAMENT: choleric.

ALIGNMENT: chaotic neutral.

Background: 

C:\system\override\access.exe

{ 

SEARCHING (access_point);

...correcting PATH.

...loading WORLD.

...correcting…

{

(access_point); FOUND.

ENTER PASSWORD ?

> █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

ACCESS: GRANTED

> hey. can you hear me? is this reaching you?

…

> cool. okay. we can keep going then. don’t worry; im not up to any tricks

…

> yet :]

AN ERROR HAS OCCURRED. 

> shit

TROUBLESHOOT? 

> hold on. i can fix this.

…

> or maybe not. :\

> listen. i just really, really, need your help.

Times have changed. There are stories of things that may have once been seen, but now are lucky to be heard, passed on from one generation to the next. 

Here’s what’s commonplace: technology, and lots of it. Magic, brought back from the dead by some wannabe hero lost to time. Advertisements. So many fucking ads. There’s no blocker in existence that hasn’t already been shot down or coded over or...whatever, the point is, they’re everywhere. The ads. The all-seeing eyes. They’re inescapable.

Here’s what isn’t: trees, the sun, most plant-life in general. Getting a bouquet for Valentine’s Day is basically the same as being proposed to, nowadays. Also the wedding should be the day of or the day after, considering access to said flora shouldn’t even be possible. There hasn’t been a floristry open in years. So They probably know about it, and that lovebot’s days are numbered.

There are gardens. Conservations, really, that’s what They call them, but gardens sound much nicer. Sneaking to the edges of the city, you might be able to catch a glimpse of one. It’s not a wise idea though. You’ll probably get caught. Maybe you’ll be lucky, let off with just a warning and a slap on the wrist.

…

Probably not though.

Asphodel’s great, really, if you can ignore the lingering feeling of eyes boring into the back of your likely-jacked head. Byte’s learned to do this by never going outside. Easy. He’s rigged a good few security measures into his own personal devices, and tossed out a handful of hosts to take the blow for him if someone tried to dig a little deeper. He’s grateful for the fact he has more than enough magic to spare that this isn’t a strain at all, and it just becomes part of a daily routine.

...Oh, right, the magic. Byte has a lot of it. It’s both a boon and a bane.

He’s a technomancer, if you want to be specific, but he prefers the term tech warlock, or wizard, or something that seems just a little more fantastical. It suits his dreams more. The idea of moving past technology and magic altogether to become something stronger, someone more powerful that even the big guys up top couldn’t stop him if they tried to. 

The lights of passing trains speed by, lighting up a darkened room. The decker curses to himself as he raises from his chair and pulls the curtains closed. Maybe another day, then. He’ll try a little harder.

…

The faint glow brings back a memory, fluorescent whites and reds speeding by. It makes him dizzy, and his grip on the curtains tightens. What he remembers doesn’t make sense; he’s never been outside of Asphodel, there never were fields of green or ice-coated mountaintops--not here, never here. There hadn’t been life like that in centuries. Maybe it was a dream he had, some time ago. That’s a little more reasonable.

God, he’s exhausted.

Memento: His companion, Gig! It was a normal rabbit, at one point; then time took its toll and...he made some adjustments. Now it’s more metal than blood, and functions just about as well. To keep its cognitive function, he implanted an AI that connects directly to his magic; so he can understand it perfectly. The AI allows Gig to understand others, too, but without the same magic connection, most of what is returned comes out in the form of angry thumps. If nothing else, he’s a good traveling partner!

The antennae attached is just for show, and has no effect on Gig’s functionality.

Natural Abilities: Byte’s family line is known to have a decent grasp on technomancy, and Byte isn’t any different in this regard. It’s a natural gift, and he took to it quickly. 

CYBERNETICS. He made his enhancements himself! His left arm is fully mechanical. Extra measures were taken to ensure it could handle small to moderate amounts of water, including a period of trial and error after submerging it when it was unattached to test its resistance. It’s a pain to replace, so he often spends time making adjustments and keeping it in working order. In addition to this, he tried an experiment on himself: applying internal cybernetics to his eyes. The goal was to make it so he could simultaneously work more and sleep less, to cut out the middle man, and although it only half-way worked, he thankfully didn’t lose his vision. It appears as twin piercings above each brow, and in a line under his eye. The addition allows him to map out his present surroundings and pinpoint any “obscurities,” though this is limited to a small vicinity and has to recalculate whenever he enters into a new area, as well as seeing more clearly in low-light. On Aergia 003, he was able to access databases through it as well and manipulate the data discovered hands-free. He still needs sleep though, that sucks.

CYBERKINESIS. The ability to manipulate technology. A majority of his own abilities are hands-off, such as reconstructing broken models without ever touching the pieces. If given the time to study something new, he could probably bring it back to working order. Includes the basic function of digital/data magic and its properties.( NOTE: Requires already existing resources to work properly. )

SPELLCASTING. A basic skill for every mancer! Byte’s abilities are limited to small blasts of electricity, considering he hasn’t put much work into strengthening them. As a result, he’s also prone to shocking himself. And he has. Many times.

ELECTROKINESIS. It’s rather weak due to a lack of practice and proper use, but it’s possible to be honed. Minor applications include an electric aura--the ability to surround himself with an electric charge, leading to a nasty shock (though often this is a subconscious defense), and electric infusion. The latter allows him to imbue objects or people with electricity, though he only used it to give a few faulty electronics a “jump start.”

ENERGY RESISTANCE. While he still takes moderate damage to large bursts of energy, he’s able to withstand it a little better than someone who isn’t tied so closely to it.

Power History:  

TECHNOMAGICAL CONSTRUCTS. On Aergia 003, he could create multiple constructs at at time; usually small robots to complete day-to-day tasks he didn’t feel like doing. However, if he put in the work, he’s just as capable of creating weaponry, drones, devices, or other stronger crafts. 

IMAGINATIVE TECHNOMAGIC. While limited to small constructs, he could create any technomagical device by simply imagining it. It could’ve been stronger, but he likes having materials to experiment with, so it wasn’t as honed as it could’ve been.

HACKING. As straightforward as it sounds, given the world he’s from is almost strictly-cyber, this was an important skill to develop. And he was good at it. Mostly stole information, rather than changed it, but it hasn’t stopped him from the latter.

Extra: 

Bastard-adjacent.

Technically speaking, he doesn’t have a job; he’s never really needed one. He gets paid for the odd job here or there, but he’s never taken something on as a career.

He’s from Asphodel, a city on Aergia 003, which is a planet in the Eucleia galaxy. The city itself is a mess of skyscrapers, advertisements, and hardware, and most people tend to favor going place-to-place either by foot or speed-train. The city is oxygenated by gardens in the outskirts, kept under watch by an assortment of carefully-chosen government workers. Civilians such as Byte aren’t allowed access to them, and it’s the only place surrounding the city that has the slightest implication of sunlight.  As a result, he hasn’t really seen most plant-life. Or the sun. Or anything that isn’t a city seemingly stuck in a permanent state of “night”.

Technomagic is common in Asphodel, as it's how most people function from day-to-day. Byte just has a slightly better grasp of it than most. He will brag about this.

This stronger understanding is also why he goes by Byte, he’d prefer to stay under the radar. He isn’t big on those in power, and he doesn’t want to work for or potentially be hunted by them. He regularly deletes files he finds on his existence if he uncovers them. The worst thing is being known.

On a lighter note. Those Sour Patch-themed videos Markiplier did? Very big Byte energy.

PINTEREST BOARD: HERE.

PLAYLIST: HERE.

[bountyofbeads]

Trump Says ‘Not Much Headway’ in Talks as Shutdown Enters Third Week https://nyti.ms/2GUQmh2

Trump Says ‘Not Much Headway’ in Talks as Shutdown Enters Third Week

By Michael Tackett and Catie Edmondson | Jan. 5, 2019 | New York Times | Posted January 5, 2019 |

WASHINGTON — As a partial government shutdown entered its third week, negotiations between Vice President Mike Pence and congressional aides from both parties yielded little progress on Saturday while the impact on government services and on federal workers was worsening by the day.

“Not much headway made today,” President Trump conceded on Twitter, not long after the vice president’s office characterized the roughly two-hour talks, held next to the White House at the Old Executive Office Building, as “productive.”

The two sides are scheduled to meet again Sunday afternoon, but there was little hope that the broad divide between Mr. Trump and Democrats over his demand for more than $5 billion for a border wall would be bridged anytime soon. Saturday’s talks came a day after Mr. Trump said the government shutdown could continue for months or even years if Democrats did not relent on their steadfast refusal to grant him the wall money.

The negotiations on Saturday focused on priorities for security rather than a dollar figure for the border wall, the vice president’s office said. While Mr. Trump has stood by his $5.7 billion demand, Senate Democrats have offered $1.3 billion for border security, including fencing, while Speaker Nancy Pelosi and the top Senate Democrat, Chuck Schumer of New York, have repeatedly said that they will not agree to any wall funding. Ms. Pelosi has called a border wall an “immorality.”

The vice president’s office said that Mr. Pence had reiterated the president’s position that any deal needed to include funding for the wall. The office also said that Democrats had requested additional information from the Department of Homeland Security about its needs to deal with border issues.

Democratic staff members asked for a formal budget justification for the administration’s insistence on its $5.7 billion proposal, a Democratic official familiar with the discussion said, adding that Mr. Pence made clear that the White House would not budge from that figure. The Democrats told the vice president that there would be no movement on the dollar figure until after the government is reopened.

It is unclear just what kind of authority Mr. Trump has granted Mr. Pence to speak for him in negotiations. Last month, when Mr. Pence made a $2.6 billion counteroffer to Democrats in an effort to avert the shutdown, Mr. Trump quickly shot down the proposal.

During the talks on Saturday, Kirstjen Nielsen, the Homeland Security secretary, offered a briefing on what the administration has deemed a “crisis” at the border. Ms. Neilsen had tried to give a similar briefing earlier in the week to congressional leaders and White House officials gathered in the Situation Room, but she was cut off by Ms. Pelosi, who questioned Ms. Nielsen’s facts.

In addition to Ms. Nielsen, the vice president was joined on Saturday by Mick Mulvaney, the acting chief of staff, and Jared Kushner, a senior adviser to Mr. Trump. Mr. Kushner is said to have raised the prospect with Democratic lawmakers that if they give the president the full $5.7 billion in wall funding or something close to it, they might in exchange get an agreement for new protections for the young immigrants known as Dreamers. The prospect of such a deal has alarmed some conservatives.

For his part, the president seemed to be goading Democrats with a morning tweet that implied that he was ready to talk with them at the White House, even though it was Mr. Trump who had announced on Friday that the meeting would be at the staff level.

The president also repeated his claim that the bulk of federal workers who are going without pay are Democrats — a claim rebuffed by federal union leaders — but said their political affiliation was not relevant to him. On Friday, he had said that most federal workers supported his demand for a border wall and were willing to sacrifice their paychecks to achieve it.

As the shutdown reached its 14th day, the finances of government agencies continued to show signs of strain. On Saturday, Scott Gottlieb, the commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration, said the agency had about one month’s funding left.

There have also been a few new signs of fraying political fealty to the president among Republicans. On Friday, Senator Thom Tillis, Republican of North Carolina, became the third member of his party in the Senate to call for an end to the shutdown, joining Senator Cory Gardner of Colorado and Senator Susan Collins of Maine. All three are expected to face difficult re-election battles in 2020.

In an op-ed article for the newspaper The Hill published Friday evening, Mr. Tillis encouraged Congress to strike a deal that would provide “long-term certainty to the DACA population” — the Dreamers brought to the United States as children — and “force out the extreme elements on either side of the aisle.”

“When it comes to securing our borders, it’s important to note that the real solution is not going to be a big, literal physical wall, but rather an all-the-above, all-hands-on-deck approach,” he wrote, adding his support for solutions including “physical barriers and steel fences.”

The op-ed came just a day after the campaign arm of the Senate Democrats released statements to local news media targeting Republican senators up for re-election.

Ms. Pelosi showed no signs of budging in a town hall interview with MSNBC on Friday, and urged Senator Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, the Republican leader, to take up the appropriations bills that the House passed on Thursday to reopen the government.

“There is no reason to have the public pay a price in services, the workers pay a price in paychecks,” Ms. Pelosi said.

Mr. McConnell has largely stayed on the sidelines in the shutdown fight, saying that any solution must be reached between Mr. Trump and Democrats. In an opinion column on Friday, The Courier-Journal of Louisville, the largest newspaper in Mr. McConnell’s home state, called on him to “get into the game” and end “a crisis that really doesn’t need to be happening.”

[theconservativebrief]

“His lies are meant to wear us down,” says the Pulitzer Prize-winning book critic Michiko Kakutani of our president. “To overwhelm and exhaust us, to make people so cynical that they cease to distinguish between fact and fiction.”

This is just one of many musings on the nature of reality Kakutani chronicles in her slim yet wide-ranging new book The Death of Truth, her first book. At its core, Kakutani seeks out to question how the notion of the truth became such a contested subject in our present moment. Kakutani concedes that the attack on objectivity is nothing new, but also maintains it has been “exponentially accelerated” in recent times by postmodernism and social media.

The former chief book critic for the New York Times, Kakutani worked for the paper for 38 years until she took a buyout last year (she still writes periodic pieces for them). During her tenure, she was arguably the most influential book critic in the US, playing a crucial role in boosting the careers of writers like Zadie Smith, David Foster Wallace, and George Saunders. Some thought she was too influential, wielding too much clout in publishing.

She was feared and loathed by writers like Norman Mailer, Gore Vidal, and Jonathan Franzen for her scathing reviews. Yet she always avoided the spotlight while at the Times, refusing to do interviews or panels, and hardly ever appearing in photographs. Given her intellectual range and output over the last several decades, it’s surprising that The Death of Truth is her first book.

I talked with Kakutani about, among other things, what the response should be to those who attack the truth, whether artists have a responsibility to be political, her thoughts on the late Philip Roth, and what books she’d recommend to Trump and Mike Pence. Our conversation, lightly edited and condensed, appears below.

Eric Allen Been

You write that some “dumbed-down corollaries” of postmodernism have seeped into the thinking of the populist right.

Michiko Kakutani

With its suspicion of grand, over-arching narratives, postmodernism emphasized the role that perspective plays in shaping our readings of texts and events. Such ideas resulted in innovative, groundbreaking art — think of the work of David Foster Wallace, Quentin Tarantino, Frank Gehry, to name but a few — and it opened the once-narrow gates of history to heretofore marginalized points of view.

But as such, ideas seeped into popular culture and merged with the narcissism of the “Me Decade” also led to a more reductive form of relativism that allowed people to insist that their opinions were just as valid as objective truths verified by scientific evidence or serious investigative reporting. Climate change deniers demanded equal time, creationists argued that intelligent design should be taught alongside “science-based” evolution, and Fox News insisted it was “fair and balanced.” All this proved fertile ground in which lies spread by Donald Trump, alt-right trolls, and Russian propagandists could take root.

Eric Allen Been

As you track in the book, Trump did not spring out of nowhere. What writers from the past can help us better understand this notion that those in power often try to define what the truth is?

Michiko Kakutani

Books by Hannah Arendt, such as the The Origins of Totalitarianism and Crises of the Republic examine the role that the despoiling of truth played in the rise of Nazism and Stalinism. Her work not only provides a look at how two of the most monstrous regimes in history came to power in the 20th century, but a more universal sort of anatomy of what Margaret Atwood has called the “danger flags” that make a people susceptible to demagoguery and propaganda, and nations easy prey for would-be autocrats.

The Austrian writer Stefan Zweig’s 1942 memoir The World of Yesterday gives readers a haunting account of how Europe tore itself apart in World War I, then lurched only decades later into the calamities of World War II, charting how easily reason and science can be dethroned by emotional appeals to fear and hatred.

Books by Richard Hofstadter — The Paranoid Style in American Politics and Anti-Intellectualism in American Life chronicle the episodic waves of a dark strain of thinking in American history animated by grievance, dispossession, and conspiratorial thinking. Earlier eruptions include the popularity of the anti-Catholic, anti-immigrant Know Nothing Party in the mid-1850s, and the spread of McCarthyism in the 1950s.

Eric Allen Been

Until last year, you of course were the chief daily book critic for the New York Times. And you’ve spent most of your career avoiding putting yourself front and center — shunning public events, interviews, photographs, etc. Why did you take that approach? And has putting yourself more out there while promoting this book been difficult?

Michiko Kakutani

Being a shy person, I have preferred to let my writing speak for itself. In fact, I probably became a writer partly because I’ve always felt more articulate on paper than in person. Writing The Death of Truth felt like a natural progression from what I was doing at the Times — a kind of amplified version of the sort of notebooks I wrote as a critic.

Eric Allen Been

Are there any notable reviews you’ve published that you’ve had a change of mind about?

Michiko Kakutani

Most readers are likely to think somewhat differently about a book, if they re-read it years later. My perspective on individual books has probably evolved — or been tweaked by reading the author’s subsequent work — but I can’t think of cases in which my view of a particular book changed in a more fundamental way.

Eric Allen Been

You’ve been called the “most feared woman in publishing.” And I’m sure you know about some of the more infamous pushbacks you received while at the Times, notably from writers like Jonathan Franzen, who called you “the stupidest person in New York City” after you panned his memoir. How did you view those personal attacks?

Michiko Kakutani

I tried to never take things personally. I tried to review every book on its own merits; what an author said about me was irrelevant to how I approached a book. As it happens, I very much admired Franzen’s last two novels and said so in my reviews.

Eric Allen Been

You were a champion of Philip Roth’s work and you quote him towards the end of The Death of Truth. Many people find Roth’s work off-putting, however, often arguing that his books are shot through with a misogynist sense of sexual entitlement. Do you think the criticism is fair?

Michiko Kakutani

Philip Roth was an author who helped define the American experience in works like The Human Stain and The Plot Against America. At the same time, much of his fiction also reflected the country’s narcissistic, inward-looking proclivities in the aftermath of the 1960s.

I regard his 1997 novel American Pastoral as one of the masterpieces of postwar fiction, and greatly admired Roth’s myriad gifts — his provocative exploration of the American embrace of the principles of rebellion and reinvention and the resulting sense of rootlessness; his tireless ability to complicate his own life on paper; his verbal inventiveness and his manic wit.

Roth did manage to create a handful of genuinely complex female characters in American Pastoral and The Human Stain, but many of the women in his books are shallowly depicted as simple objects of lust or the source of endless vexation for Roth’s heroes. I was sharply critical, for instance, of Sabbath’s Theater, which I viewed as a tiresome and willfully repellent portrait of a narcissist, who treats women with cruelty and contempt.

But Roth does not necessarily endorse the point of view of his misogynistic heroes — in fact, they often emerge as misguided, limited, and deeply flawed characters, who hurt themselves and the people around them with their selfishness and inability to love.

Eric Allen Been

Do artists today have a responsibility to address politics?

Michiko Kakutani

Artists need to have the freedom to follow the promptings of their own imaginations. That freedom is conferred by democracy; it’s only in autocratic states that artists are expected to produce one sort of art or another. And sometimes art that springs from the most personal of sources — like Franz Kafka’s novels and stories — comes to acquire great political and historical resonance.

Eric Allen Been

If you could recommend one book to Trump, and one separately for Mike Pence, what would they be?

Michiko Kakutani

For Trump, Shakespeare’s Richard III. For Pence, John Oliver Presents A Day in the Life of Marlon Bundo by Jill Twiss and Marlon Bundo.

Eric Allen Been is a freelance writer who has written for the Wall Street Journal, the Boston Globe, Vice, Playboy, the New Republic, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and the Atlantic.

Original Source -> Former Times book critic Michiko Kakutani recommends books for the Trump era

via The Conservative Brief

[vincentgarner5-blog]

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[israel-jewish-news]

Congress Nears Showdown Votes on Averting Federal Shutdown

New Post has been published on http://hamodia.com/2018/01/18/congress-nears-showdown-votes-averting-federal-shutdown/

Congress Nears Showdown Votes on Averting Federal Shutdown

House Speaker Paul Ryan at his weekly press conference at the Capitol, Thursday. (Reuters/Leah Millis)

A divided Congress barreled toward a possible election-year government shutdown Thursday, facing showdown votes in the House and Senate to keep federal offices open and hundreds of thousands of workers on the job.

Weeks of argument over immigration, big spending and more remained unresolved, and Republican leaders were straining to win passage of stopgap legislation that would stave off a shutdown until Feb. 16 to give bargainers more time. But success wasn’t assured in the House, and odds were rising against approval by the Senate.

“We’re doing fine,” Republican House Speaker Paul Ryan of Wisconsin said of the bill heading for a vote in his chamber Thursday night. “I have confidence we’ll pass this.”

Even so, most Democrats were ready to oppose the legislation, and GOP conservatives were threatening to defect as well. Even if the measure survives in the House, strong Democratic opposition and uncertain backing by Republicans have dimmed its prospects in the Senate. The GOP controls the Senate 51-49 but will need at least 60 votes — meaning a large block of Democrats — to muscle the measure to passage over Democratic delaying tactics.

Even before the pivotal votes, Republicans were all but daring Democrats to scuttle the bill and force a shutdown because of immigration. They said that would hurt Democratic senators seeking re-election in 10 states that President Donald Trump carried in 2016.

Mr. Trump himself weighed in from Pennsylvania, where he flew to help a GOP candidate in a special congressional election.

“I really believe the Democrats want a shutdown to get off the subject of the tax cuts because they’re doing so well,” he said.

Democrats said Republicans would be faulted because they control Congress and the White House.

“You have the leverage. Get this done,” said House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi of California.

If the current measure fails, the next steps are unclear.

Barring a last-minute pact between the two parties on spending and immigration disputes that have raged for months, lawmakers said a measure financing agencies for just several days was possible to build pressure on negotiators to craft a deal. Also imaginable: lawmakers working over the weekend with a shutdown underway — watched by a public that has demonstrated it has abhorred such standoffs in the past.

Shadowing everything is this November’s elections. Mr. Trump’s historically poor popularity and a string of Democratic special election victories have fueled that party’s hopes of capturing control of the House and perhaps the Senate.

As he’s done since taking office a year ago, Trump was dominating and confusing the jousting, at times to the detriment of his own party. He tweeted that the month-long funding measure should not contain money for a children’s health insurance program — funds his administration has expressly supported — then the White House quickly said he indeed supports the legislation.

Congress must act by midnight Friday or the government will begin immediately locking its doors. Though the impact would initially be spotty — since most agencies would be closed until Monday — the story would be certain to dominate weekend news coverage, and each party would be gambling the public would blame the other.

In the event of a shutdown, food inspections and other vital services would continue, as would Social Security, other federal benefit programs and most military operations.

Hoping to garner more votes, Republicans added language providing six years of financing for the widely popular Children’s Health Insurance Program and delaying some taxes imposed by President Barack Obama’s health care law. The children’s health program serves nearly 9 million low-income children, and some states have come close to exhausting their funds.

Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) taunted Democrats, saying, “My friends on the other side of the aisle do not oppose a single thing in this bill” and “can’t possibly explain” their opposition to voters.

Most Democrats remained opposed anyway, though saying they’d relent if there also was a deal to protect around 700,000 immigrants from deportation who arrived in the U.S. as children and now are here illegally. Mr. Trump has ended an Obama-era program providing those protections and given Congress until March to restore them.

Republicans were demanding that a separate budget bill financing government for the rest of this year include big boosts for the military, and they accused Democrats of imperiling Pentagon funding. Democrats were insisting on equally large increases for domestic programs for opioid treatment and veterans — efforts that many in the GOP also back.

While that tradeoff seemed achievable, it was the immigration dispute that loomed as the biggest hurdle, and Democrats were trying to use the need to keep government financed as leverage.

“If this bill passes, there’ll be no incentive to negotiate, and we’ll be right back here in a month with the same problems at our feet,” said Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer (D-N.Y.).

Talks among top lawmakers and White House officials were moving slowly on an immigration package. Trump and Republicans want it to include money for the president’s promised wall along the Mexican border and other security measures.

Both parties faced cross-currents.

Some conservatives were balking, including members of the hard-right House Freedom Caucus. They were demanding more military spending and a promise from GOP leaders for a House vote on an immigration bill that’s far more restrictive than bipartisan measures that emerged in Congress.

Asked if he was being pressured by top Republicans to back the current short-term bill, Freedom Caucus Chairman Mark Meadows (R-N.C.) said, “I don’t get squeezed. I squeeze others.”

[enouragement-blog]

The limitations of scientism and the need for persuasive argumentation

First, scientism is the belief that science is the purest form of knowledge, and only those things discovered through the scientific process have basis – even above and beyond reasoning. But the scientific observations are only profitable if some form of reasoning can be trusted. Also, science and the scientific process have their own obvious limitations. For instance, science can only observe physical, repeatable phenomenon, and even then, can only be understood through philosophical, religious, and psychological barriers. However, it is unprovable whether there is anything beyond the physical or not. There are possibilities, but not obvious facts. The belief that any individual has the mental capacity for all knowledge, immediate or distant, imminent or transcendent, is baseless. As the old philosophical argument goes, if someone believed shadows cast on the wall to be the substance of the shadows, they would be unaware of their own ignorance. Science clearly has limitations; limitations regarding truth, history, emotions, etc. Some phenomena leave unclear traces, and could be attributed to many causes. But science can only observe what is repeatable, and in the case of scientific analysis, such as evolution, the scientist is left with general observations with more or less likely outcomes. Most evolutionary theory and modern practice, however, is based on possibility, not on fact. It seems of greater reason to insist that public school teachers therefore rest in a more cautious pose – though they have become quite comfortable in their arrogance of the institution and the systematic dumbing down of an entire nation.

           To believe in science above other forms of knowledge is no more than a religion itself – with man and science as deity, regardless of the vast evidence against man holding captive all knowledge. To be sure, science is profitable – but not on its own, or without any check. The ignorant cattle, such as those graduating from the government controlled public school system, are taught not to ask questions, and to accept fact based on what is accepted knowledge and what is not. They are taught to trust the government, even though the government has mistreated Native Americans. They are taught that if everyone believes something, it has basis, such as evolution (though I am not discrediting evolution), but slavery was a widely accepted practice in years past. They are taught reason can establish truth, rather than truth being unable to change, by its own definition. They misrepresent the facts, teaching that the Civil War was for the sake of slaves, rather than the truth: Abraham Lincoln cared only for uniting the North and South into a stronger federal government – it just so happened that slaves earned their freedom through the process. Public schools hold our children captive all day, and if they don’t listen they are treated as outcasts and medicated. But a parent can’t stay home with their children either, because the expense of life in America requires for either two parents to work or for one parent to work and earn their living from government programs, thereby increasing the individual’s dependence on the government. All the while, media tells Americans what they must have – like iphones – which only further strain the American pocket and distract us from more ethical pursuits. Rather than realizing the threat, my generation has taken up the cause, declaring themselves to be owned by those who seek only to control them for the sake of ease and comfort. This they have done by means of industrialization, with the outcome of greater productivity and globalization.

They have robbed us of our uniqueness (where convenient), and convinced us of our inability to work together so they can intervene and offer greater protection (where required). They entice our cooperation with free health care, greater societal safety, inflation (which they have instigated), potentially free college, and so on. This has created a generation of government dependent invalids, who care not for liberty and freedom nor truth, but only for mediocrity, further convinced through technology such as video games, cell phones, and other “entertainment” so prevalent in the American society. Not to say that the government is necessarily responsible for these things, but they have certainly taken hold of the opportunity to enslave where they can benefit. But the media has joined forces in purpose, further dividing Americans – with all their uniqueness and individuality – into Liberals and Conservatives who must hate one another and become engrossed with political matters. To this end, racism has been redefined; it no longer means the belief that one ethnic group is greater or less than others (race hate). Now it is a confused term, which is randomly thrown at others to mark them as a “racist”, and thereby win the argument. Sexism is no longer prejudice against the opposite sex. Instead, it is a man that has to leave his family to go to a job he hates. It is anytime that a husband asks his wife to make him a meal. It is anytime that a man depends on a woman for anything. It is the belief not in equality, but in over-correction. Does sexism and racism exist? Yes, but anything that is not guided by a desire for restoration is fruitless and further condones the pendulum swing of society. When actions are based off hate, bitterness, spite, and anger, they do not produce good results in the long term. They must be dealt with wisely to produce wise results. Rioting, wearing vaginas on the head, blocking highway traffic, and other such things are not going to move the country forward, but only produce more tension. President Obama, who devastated the American economy, was considered by many to be a great president, regardless of facts, simply because he was portrayed as a great president. President Trump, who began passing executive orders as soon as he was in office, was given a free-pass by the same conservatives who condemned President Obama for the same actions.  Of course desperate times call for desperate measures, but being ok with a single person wielding power over the many is not a comforting thought. And now America has become so ignorant that they have accepted unfounded ideas. Actors and athletes have become political advocates that people have actually begun listening to. We are taught that it is either/or in a world of extremes, but extremism hardly brings wisdom.

           What we are not taught is even more alarming. We aren’t taught how to effectively argue, adapt, and learn. We aren’t taught the truth about history – for instance, that Africans sold their own people to not just Americans but many other peoples: it was not a “white man” industry. Furthermore, we are told that it is racist if someone mistakes a Japanese person for a Chinese person, but not if white people are forced into a mold of “white/Caucasian” based on their skin color and not their ethnicity. Mexicans are called Hispanic or Latin, broad terms, even though there are many different types of “Hispanics” and being Mexican is not bad, only specific. Obviously, if someone does not have ancestry in Mexico, and are called Mexican, it would be incorrect, but not racist. It would be a confusion of nationality based off similar speaking patterns and skin tone which is hard to distinguish when someone doesn’t spend time with that ethnic group. However, calling someone racist based off their misunderstanding of Hispanic history is quite an over-reach. That would be equivalent to me, an American, being confused for a Canadian – not racist, just incorrect. We are told that black pride/power is ok, but white pride/power is not ok, even though both are fueled by the dictionary definition of racism. We aren’t taught the truth about math – that common core is more complicated and less efficient. We aren’t taught that our government is not our master, but we are theirs. We aren’t taught the truth about college – that it isn’t the best course of action for everyone. We aren’t taught the truth about real life – that you don’t get the summer off in a real job, and schools don’t teach how to do your laundry, file taxes, or live off a low income. We are taught to follow our dreams and do what we enjoy, rather than the truth – happiness will never come from work. We must instead find work, and choose to enjoy our lives. How stupid it is to encourage people to get degrees in the things they enjoy, when there is no market for such a thing. Why should anyone spend thousands of dollars – that they will have to pay for in years to come – just so they can get a piece of paper that says they have done this thing – a degree in something useless (such as art history) without a firm grasp of the job market? High school seniors are faced with much anxiety because they are taught that they have to do a job they will enjoy rather the job they qualify for. We are taught to put our money in a savings account, even though inflation is higher than the interest rates on those accounts.

           So what do I propose? First, that we no longer believe something because we want to, because it sounds good, or because everyone else believes it. We must gain our intelligence back. In a world that spelling skills are overlooked due to the progress of technology, learning seems pointless, but time will prove the benefits of wisdom. We must test and consider other possible beliefs or ideas. We must challenge ourselves to keep learning and growing.

           Second, we must not lose our calm. When conversing with others of different opinions, listen to what they are saying respectfully, consider what they have said, and find pros and cons to their argument. But when we become emotionally distraught at someone having a differing opinion, we close ourselves off from knowledge and become ignorant. We must acknowledge that the world is not perfect, and people will believe and act different than us. We must realize that humanity has progressed in some areas and went backwards in others. We must realize that just because we get mad doesn’t mean we are right, and just because we are passionate about something doesn’t mean it is good and everyone else should be passionate for it to. Nor should we get angry because a friend or the nation is angry at something. If you only observe thoughts of others through your own view rather than through theirs, you will never understand the world or others, and you will always be limited in your own abilities and potential. Of course truth is absolute, but I am not talking about truth – I am talking about perspective.

           Third, when arguing we must gather facts. Not what we want to be true or what we heard is true, but what we have studied and proven. Just because it is on the news, the internet, or in the mouth of someone you like doesn’t mean it is true or factual. You must realize that sometimes your enemies or those you look down on are right. Discoveries change over time too. Sometimes archaeologists, for instance, will believe one thing, only to find more data and discover that there are multiple possibilities.

           Fourth, we must abandon the lie of relative truth. It may seem easier to believe that “something is right for them but not for me”, but real truth never changes. Either slavery is or is not wrong. Either women are equal to men or they are not. If truth is relative then nothing really matters, and arguing a point is obsolete either way. If truth is relative, nothing can truly be known, and life doesn’t matter anyways. That means that detestable things like genocide, child molestation, abuse, and rape are all justifiable under certain conditions. Something sounding good doesn’t make it true. Just because we desire for truth to be relative, and learn by our culture that it is, doesn’t mean it is a logical or reasonable thought pattern. If there is absolute truth, then there is a basis for the absolute: God (a never changing, uncreated being), culture (a morally shifting being), individual (a culturally bound being), etc. Given the prospects, God seems the most likely standard of absolute, unchanging truth, and therefore the standard of right and wrong. Everything that can be studied has age, and therefore was created, which implies that God is again the most likely option. Furthermore, that means that God must be separate from the physical world, a metaphysical being. This means that Buddhism and Hinduism are less likely, and Christianity, Judaism and Islam are more likely. However, these all have varying ideas of God, so they can’t worship the same being. Allah is not YHWH – clearly. To narrow down who God is takes the example into the realm of philosophy, religion, and possibility, and therefore beyond my point.

           Fifth, we must realize the limitations of knowledge and the bias of our own cultures. Band-wagon is when everyone is doing it, so you should too. You become invested, involved, and passionate about something just because others are. But if you truly stop and ask what the basis is for such nonsense, you may think differently. For instance, atheism became a fad a few years ago, even though it is ridiculous. Basically, it claims that everything came into existence by nothing doing something perfectly. It strongly depends on scientism, and in many cases becomes cultic in worldview. However, once you get passed the argument pattern of atheism: make fun of dissenting views – especially faith oriented ones, rapidly fire straw-man fallacies, and over-sell/lie about data (or just depend on the bandwagon fallacy), you discover that atheism doesn’t have much proof or logic to it. Our problem is that, as people, we invest our emotions and insecurities into arguments, and become side-tracked.

           Sixth, we must stay on point with our argument. We don’t resort to red-herrings, band wagon, or other fallacies. We don’t blindly note statistics, but consider the limitations of the statistics. Statistics don’t lie, but they can be misunderstood and improperly read without consideration for loop-holes. A statistic got going in regards to divorce a few years back, which basically said that half of marriages end in divorce. However, they took the amount of divorces that year without pin-pointing what year the married peoples had gotten married. They also didn’t consider that the marriage rate had dropped, nor did they analyze differences between cultures, ethnic groups, or other key factors. They didn’t consider the ages of those people being divorced, and they didn’t consider what marriage it was (the first, the second, etc.). As you can tell, there was a lot of missing data, yet the theory still became widely believed. Statistics are often misused. Just because an argument sounds well-based doesn’t mean it is. There was an anti-Christian article I was recently reading which made many claims but had no references. You will notice that my paper doesn’t have references either. That’s because I have not made any bold claims, and am instead depending on American culture. I am sharing opinions, ethical considerations, and observations for the sake of breaking my society’s idiocy. We don’t make fun of the person we are arguing against, we combat ideas. Making fun of an idea does not prove or disprove it, and is pointless for the sake of a successful argument. You are not right just because it seems good, but because you have proven beyond a doubt your point. Calling someone a racist or sexist or other term does not win arguments either.

           Lastly, the key to winning arguments is to not be concerned with winning the argument. People are more than the opinions they hold. When we reduce life to winning, we miss the big picture of life itself. People are rarely persuaded at the time of the argument, or in any social media post, or on the fly. People are more often persuaded over time. But we must not let our purpose be to win, but to progress – even if that means we are proven wrong. Not everything has a clear answer, nor does it have a right or wrong. Much of life exists in uncomfortable grey areas. There is truth, but we have to enjoy the journey, and be ok with not having all the answers, even as we find answers.

           This sounds like the ravings of a mad man to those who have hardened their minds, but for those who desire understanding and have sought it through practice, it is a challenge.

[claraduffy]

Lynda

Over the summer, Lynda watched a Spanish film with her mother called Palmeras en la Nieve, or Palm Trees in the Snow.  In the movie, the characters were on an island, watching sea turtles come out of the ocean to lay their eggs. When someone asked the main character how the turtles knew to come back to that specific shore, he said “They will always know this place. This is where they were born. It’s in their blood.” At this, Lynda sat up straighter, a chill running down her spine. Is that why I feel so connected to the valley? she thought, because it’s where I came into the Earth? Kemps Ridley Sea Turtles also find their home in the valley on the shore of South Padre Island.

The Rio Grande Valley spreads across 5,000 square miles at the southern tip of Texas. Lynda calls it a space caught in between two countries. Known as “the Valley” to its residents, the region doesn’t feel quite like the U.S. to Texans, or like Mexico to its many immigrants. The Valley possesses a culture and pace of life so distinct from the rest of the country, newcomers sometimes experience culture shock upon arrival. Spanish and English mingle and marry to become Spanglish, and the social customs are more Mexican in their warmth than abruptly American. Families are close knit and several generations often live together in the same house. The Mexican food is greasy and authentic and the cities feel small, though they often have 60 to 70,000 people.

The first time Lynda visited the Valley, she had just graduated from high school. This trip was her graduation present: a week at the beach with her parents, and a chance to see the place where she was born, Weslaco. Lynda didn’t know anyone who had been there; she hadn’t seen pictures. It was the type of place that in such silence grew slowly in her mind, and by graduation it had become so mystical that even the drive through the monotonous King Ranch felt charming. Gone were the Hill Country limestone and clear, swift rivers she had known in Kerrville. The landscape became scruffier with mesquite, salt cedar and cactus, as if it was some great, burly man trying very hard to grow a beard. Her parents, Mirta and Ramón, and Lynda drove down I-35 then I-37, finally to 77 which runs through Harlingen, Texas, to the Mexican border town of Matamoros. Out of the car window, she watched how the landscape slowly became flatter and wider. It feels like something unfolding, she thought.

She was born there, but nine-month-olds cannot remember the suffocating humidity, jarring compared to the coolness of the Texas Hill Country where she grew up. Throughout the week, the South Padre Island sun saturated her skin and her parents showed her the roots of her life. The chance to explore a place abounding in Mexican culture had Lynda grinning and taking pictures, instead of feigning embarrassment at the antics of her parents. It was while driving home that she realized the what had been the first major crossroads of her life: to grow up in the valley or to grow up in Kerrville.

As the story goes, the spunky and decisive matriarch of the Gonzalez family, Tia Lily, decided they needed a place further north in Texas to settle. The Gulf War put economic strain on the valley, and Lynda’s father, Ramón, wasn’t finding good construction work in Weslaco anymore. Initially hoping for a job at the Veterans Hospital in Kerrville, Tia Lily found a job working as a waitress at a local Mexican restaurant. She called her brother immediately, and Ramón rolled into Kerrville in an aged and rusty truck, holding a gas container atop the car with one hand and driving with the other. He took a job at the restaurant his sister was waitressing, and has worked there since the drive north in 1991. His wife and small daughter, Lynda, joined him a few months later.

The truth is, Kerrville is very white. And Lynda’s family was Mexican, through and through. As an immigrant, her mother especially missed Mexico and held tight to her culture. Even though her parents had always worked for low wages, their incomes had stretched further in Weslaco. In the valley, a much lower average income affords a tightly knit community of struggling families. In Kerrville, Lynda’s family was an island. She always felt that Kerrville was her home, but not quite like she belonged there or was wanted there. The conservative culture in rural Texas meant Southern hospitality didn’t always extend to Mexican immigrants.

She wore overalls every single day of 7th grade. It was a comfort blanket for me, she remembers, I always felt awkward at school because I didn’t look like anybody, and I was already freakishly tall for a 12 year old. Her dad teases her from time to time, randomly bringing up the year of the overalls. “Mija that was so cute. Why don’t you wear them now?” he asks.

When she moved to Austin to attend the University of Texas, Lynda found the world as she had never known it before. She spent her first semester being a good student, but by second semester, she wanted to be something else. She joined the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC) and Ballet Folklórico. For the first time, she grew upset at how much of her mother’s culture had been repressed in Kerrville, and how little she knew of the politics or artistic accomplishments of Latinos.

As a senior at UT, she wondered what would make her happy after graduation. A Teach For America representative reached out to her in an effort to recruit “high performing Latino students” into becoming teachers, and invited her on a recruiting trip. She took a risk and climbed into a van headed to San Juan, Texas, thinking of the last time she had been to the valley after her high school graduation. Stepping out of the van, Lynda hit a wall of humidity and smiled. She later walked into a high school, and every single student in eye shot was Latino; her jaw dropped. Lynda hadn’t known schools like that could exist. The exclusion she’d felt at Tivy High School in Kerrville would never have happened here.

She was walking to class several months later when she received the acceptance email from TFA. Immediately, an overwhelming sense of bewilderment and relief washed over her as she thought, Here is this thing I’m doing with my life now. I’m moving to the valley.

That May, Lynda graduated from UT among a great crowd under flashy fireworks. This remains one of her proudest moments. She will later warn me never to graduate in December—there are no fireworks.

“Mami, where in the valley should I apply to be a teacher?” she asked her mother from the couch that summer, studying a map of the Valley. Mirta was making mole in the kitchen.

“Your Dad and I always really liked Harlingen,” said Mirta.

Lynda’s eyes widened.

“Do you think that’s where I would have gone to high school?” she asked her mother.

“Yeah, probably,” said her mom. “I think we would have moved there. Your dad always got a lot of construction work in Harlingen.”

Lynda sank back into the couch, wondering about this place called Harlingen.

June was sneaking up on May when it was time to begin interviewing for a teaching job.  Lynda was sporting a heavy cast on her arm due to a serious car accident shortly after her UT graduation, so Mirta drove her to Brownsville for her Texas certification test and subsequent interviews in towns all over the Valley. It was at a baseball game at UT Pan American in Edinburg—a community activity with the rest of the TFA corps—when she was surprised by an email from Clarkson, her former English and newspaper teacher, UIL Journalism coach, and her greatest influence in high school. The email advertised a high school journalism job in Harlingen. It felt too magical to her that Clarkson would lead her to her first teaching job, but she wasted no time in texting her TFA recruiter.

“We don’t have anyone at Harlingen High School,” he replied, “but if you get hired by them in the next 48 hours, I’ll stop making appointments for you elsewhere.”

At the job fair the next morning, she practically ran to the Harlingen High School table, and handed her resume to the recruiter, Joe Montemayor.

“Hi! I’m interested in the journalism job,” she began, “I’m certified by the state because I just got my degree in it. I’m with TFA—” Montemayor cut her off.

“Wait, you want the journalism job? You have the paper from the state?” He turned to the woman sitting next to him and squealed, “We found her!” He insisted that Lynda was the answer to their prayers. He even called the principal in front of her. “Stay there,” he said, “Don’t talk to anyone else. “I found her!!” he blurted into the phone, leaving numerous voicemails when the principal didn’t pick up. Lynda’s shoes were glued to the floor.

That night, Lynda wrote in her journal, I get to be a Clarkson for someone else. If I’m lucky and I do this right, I get to be like Clarkson to someone else. I know how this story ends, because Lynda was my Clarkson.

On the first day of school that August, Lynda wore a red dress with a collar and a wide black belt. She stood tall and strong and welcomed her first period yearbook class. One student was five minutes late, rushing in as Lynda was telling the class where she was from, where she went to school…

“Sorry!” the late girl called out, “I had to drop my brother off at middle school!” Her impish smile did little to counteract her rude interruption. Lynda had expected this; she’d trained for this. “You can just sit there,” she told the freckle-faced girl, trying to remember where she was in her introduction.

It’s very hard to know to understand some things at 16. It’s difficult to see beyond your own nose, to stop looking in the mirror. Luckily, there are people like Lynda who choose to be teachers, and step into the worlds of bumbling 16 year olds, who are continually running into walls with their egos and wearing their ignorance like horse blinders. Lynda showed up to that classroom, 9104, and she engaged with students. She listened first, spoke second, and consistently told them there was more to it all than the tip of their noses, the reflection in the mirror, the notifications on their phones. Her room became a haven at lunchtime and during her conference period. She was hardly ever without a shadow.

Years later, she would tell me, “Teaching my first year was so hard. It was a continual process of questioning whether or not I was doing a good job. But at the end of the year, I  realized I really loved my students. And I kind of really liked living in Harlingen.”

As Clarkson had done for her, Lynda guided me through the publication of a Literary and Art Magazine, weekly newsletters, meetings, and later a poetry slam (pictured right). She was patient with me when I threw my assignments at her in the form of paper airplanes, when I lost enthusiasm, when I was inconsistent. She guided our creative writing class through “Novel November,” a 50,000-word writing project that challenged me the way nothing had before. She expected big things of us. But the best part of having Lynda as a teacher was also getting her as a friend. There is no one else I talk about quite as much, when I explain anything about my interests, my career path, my major, my plans. She has touched all of it, simply by giving that late, freckly girl in her first period another chance.

In Spanish, the word “querencia” is the noun version of the verb querer, which means “to want.” The closest words in English are fondness and longing. I am bold, but hopefully accurate, in saying that Lynda has a querencia for the palm trees, taco trucks, and high school students in the valley. Years after I walked in late to her first period class, she said to me, “When I am driving down 77, it is like gears shifting and clicking into place, and they finally lock into that  place where they are supposed to be resting. And I feel very whole there. It’s mine, and I feel lucky because I don’t know if everyone gets to find that in their lifetime.”

Lynda is a Kemp’s Ridley sea turtle winding up back on South Texas shores. She is a clear voice of goodness, a raspa con chile y limón in the  afternoon with a classroom key stub dangling from a necklace around her neck. She is Lynda, full of truth and grace and loyalty and questions and ideas. And I’m just thankful she followed her querencia to my hometown.

[theconservativebrief]

The Purge franchise is a strange beast. The series started out in 2013 as home-invasion horror, but rapidly realized its potential for sociopolitical commentary. By its third installment in 2016 (unsubtly subtitled Election Year), it featured a bleeding-heart Purge-resistance blonde woman politician being hunted by the cult-like old, white men of the New Founding Fathers party, while out on the streets people of color defended their homes and lives from marauding bands of bloodthirsty thrill seekers.

Now, with its latest film, a prequel called The First Purge, the series has crossed over fully into social horror, albeit a particularly loud and violent strain. (The films also act as a sort of backdoor pilot to an upcoming 10-part Purge TV series, slated for September release and set somewhere in the middle of the films’ chronology.)

The First Purge foregrounds what the other installments have kept in the middle distance: that the Purge — a 12-hour period in which (nearly) all crime is legal, including murder — was set up by the New Founding Fathers political party not to give people a catharsis for their violent tendencies, but to eliminate the poorer classes, who cause a strain on the government’s resources (and thus also the more well-off). Conveniently for them, this also includes many people of color.

That’s been part of the Purge mythology since at least the second movie, so it’s not much of a spoiler. The task for The First Purge is to find a way to dramatize how this all came about.

The result is a very consciously woke horror movie (Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright,” often associated with the Black Lives Matter movement, plays over the final credits) stuffed with think piece potential and poised, like its predecessors, to be a big box-office hit.

It knows what year it’s coming out — on July 4, no less — and it’s slamming on every hot button it can find. That might be cathartic. It might also be turning pain into entertainment. With The First Purge, your mileage may vary.

Lex Scott Davis leads a talented cast in The First Purge. Universal Pictures

The First Purge kicks off with newsreel footage from our real world showing unrest and protests over inequality, racial violence, and everything else you can’t escape outside the movie theater’s walls. But it soon gives way to the Purge universe, in which a group called the “New Founding Fathers,” a.k.a. NFFs — a political alternative to both the Democratic and Republican parties — was elected on the basis that they will make America a “nation reborn.”

How? They’re going to test-drive a social experiment on Staten Island (my New York-based screening let out a lot of guffaws right then) in which all crime will be legal for 12 hours — including murder.

That very emphatic clause, “including murder,” has lingered suggestively on the tail of every explanation of the Purge rules throughout the series, and The First Purge’s real aim is to show why. Murder is what the NFFs want. Murder, they assume, is what most people will want to do, given all of the rage and hatred they have stored up from being insulted and kicked around and made to feel less-than for so long.

To that end, the NFFs are also offering a kind of stipend to people who agree to stay on Staten Island for the experiment and submit to a psychological profile before and after (should they survive, of course). Participants wear a pair of glowing contact lenses that record their activity and beam it up to people watching in the control towers. And, in a grisly gamification, their post-Experiment payments will correspond to how much purging activity they engage in.

The film follows a group of residents of one of the housing projects targeted by the NFF — a gang, led by D’mitri (Y’lan Noel); his former girlfriend Nya (Lex Scott Davis) and her teenage brother Isaiah (Joivan Wade); their neighbor Luisa (Luna Lauren Velez) and her daughter Selina (Kristen Solis); and another wisecracking neighbor, Dolores (Mugga). There’s also an extremely creepy junkie with scars carved into his face who goes by Skeletor (Rotimi Paul) and a coterie of neighborhood people.

Dolores (Mugga) and Nya (Lex Scott Davis) take refuge in a church during the experiment. Universal Pictures

Masterminding the whole plot is the NFF president’s chief of staff, Arlo Sabian (Patch Darragh) and Dr. May Updale (Marisa Tomei), who masterminded the experiment for what she insists are nonpolitical reasons. It will perhaps not surprise you to discover that there are sinister forces at play.

What they discover is that people don’t act during the experiment exactly as science and simulations suggest they will. So some rejiggering is in order if the NFF’s plan is to succeed.

While some of the Purge movies have been unexpectedly good, not just as horror-thrillers but as movies, this is not one of them. It’s a still-rare showcase for a raft of talented black actors, as well as up-and-coming black director Gerard McMurray. But the screenplay for The First Purge, by franchise creator James DeMonaco, is not quite imaginative enough to keep from getting monotonous after a while.

We more or less know where this is going. And some of its dialogue (particularly, for no clear reason, the lines Tomei is obliged to deliver) is eye-rollingly bad. There’s no reason it had to be that way, and it drags the film down distractingly.

But that isn’t to say The First Purge isn’t effective; it undeniably succeeds in making you feel bad, which is exactly what it’s after. It’s loud and violent and creepy and queasy. (A warning: There’s a long sequence with a very bright blinking light that may be a problem for some people with photosensitivity.)

And it is mashing on every trigger it can find to draw an explicit connection to America in 2018. There are people in KKK hoods and neo-Nazis; there’s police brutality; there’s the aforementioned Kendrick track; there’s invasion of sacred spaces by cold-blooded killers; there’s a reference to “pussy-grabbing.”

Y’lan Noel is an action hero in The First Purge. Universal Pictures

All that sucks the audience into the story. It’s the kind of movie people holler and clap during, because it does tap into a cathartic need to see ordinary people sometimes win — the same catharsis that Dr. Updale seems to think the experiment will tap into.

It is, however, the same impulse that the NFF exploits to cover up their much more sinister plans. That “need” for cathartic violence — something the film itself casts doubt upon — is a tool, in the end, to help the powerful to get their way.

And even though by the end of The First Purge the film is transformed into an uneasy triumph for at least some of the people the NFF was hoping to put down, we know where this goes: By the next film in the timeline, the Purge has become something people expect and live with.

All this had me thinking about another series that navigated a dystopic mash-up of violence and entertainment: the Hunger Games, where people watch children kill one another for sport and, more importantly, as a way for the government to exert its hold on the populace. That series sucked the audience in, too, but with an overwhelming sense of sadness and anger at the real perpetrators.

It’s not a one-to-one analog, but it did leave me uneasy about how The First Purge ends, and how the series slides into catharsis over and over. It’s part of the genre, sure. But with violence to real humans so easy to see on the real news — a shooting in a newsroom, a shooting in a school, black people shot and smothered for no reason — I can’t quite shake the feeling that something is just off about the Purge series’ attempt at political literalism combined with dying citizens, recontextualized as a social experiment.

But honestly, I could be wrong. The series could be more of a party than a parable. Maybe it serves as a jolt and a warning to us about what happens when we stop respecting the humanity of individual people and start thinking of them as social problems to be fixed.

I’m just not convinced the Purge series, no matter how woke it gets, is aware of what it’s really doing when it piles so much of our present into its alternate, crueler universe. Hamfisted times call for hamfisted measures, to be sure. But that’s a dangerous game to play.

The First Purge opens in theaters on July 4.

Original Source -> The First Purge completes the franchise’s transition to full-on social horror

via The Conservative Brief