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winifredsandersonsbitch · 5 years ago

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“My Babysittee’s a Vampire”

Spike x Reader, BTVS

Warnings: cursing, partial nudity, a little pain? but not necessarily violence. Possible spoilers.

Description: The reader volunteers to watch Spike at Giles’s house while the others do some sluthing, but nothing goes as planned. It turns out that vampires are very hard to babysit.

Spike swore that the chip in his head prevented him from hurting anyone, but you weren’t so sure. Giles decided to keep him chained up in the house for observation and that required someone to actually observe him. You volunteered.

You were still the weakest of the Scoobies, unfortunately (except for maybe Anya, but she got points for being an ex-demon). There wasn’t much you could do except get in the way of the monster fighting. But if you could be helpful by staying in and doing some homework, hey. You weren’t going to complain.

“What, Buffy can’t even be bothered to watch me herself, now that I’m all neutered?”

Spike was in a hell of a mood, seemingly forgetting that he had come to you and your friends for sanctuary. It probably didn’t help that Giles and Xander chained him up in the bathtub.

“She’s busy.” You were unsure of whether or not you were trying to comfort him or just get him off your back. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and stare at the bloody wall all night?”

“Mhmm.”

You were up against the opposite wall, trying—and failing—to get through the sociology chapter your professor had assigned that day. Everyone else in the gang seemed to ignore their homework entirely, except maybe Willow, but you needed a good grade. Your future plans extended outside Sunnydale. But that was only half the trick. You also had to convince Buffy to come with you.

Spike lapsed into silence as you took your notes, the concept finally clicking into place in your head after the third time around. You highlighted and underlined, drawing triangles to help you understand the ideas of hierarchy and filling up your margins with little asides that helped you contextualize. You didn’t even wonder if you should be worried about the vampire’s sudden quiet until his voice broke through your focus.

“Read to me.”

You dropped your pen, startled. He was staring at you intently, like how you imagined a lion might study its prey. Like everything else had faded from view and he was trying to decide whether or not to take his chances on the hunt.

“I-It’s just soc-sociology,” you stuttered, holding up the textbook for him to see. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“I like people.” Spike bared his teeth in a grin that you guessed was supposed to be charming or encouraging, but toed past the line to frightening. When you hesitated, he sweetened his voice, practically cooing, “Come on. What harm could it do?”

So you did. He never asked you to stop and explain anything or gave any indication that he didn’t understand, but you interjected your own learnings in anyway. You almost forgot that it was him you were talking to. Willow used to really value school, and she was still the smartest person you knew, but witchcraft was taking over her areas of interest and none of the others cared about this kind of stuff unless you were helping them with their own homework. It was nice to have a rapt audience, even if he was literally being held captive.

“Basically, he’s saying that social environment shapes how we act and react to situations. Like in the Stanford Prison Experiment.” Your eyes darted from the text to Spike, waiting for a nod or something, but he looked as much like a statue as ever. “Good people can be made to do bad things because of the pressure they feel, real or imagined, to follow the rules that have been set in their environment.”

You waited for him to tell you that you had been right before and he was bored, but instead he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. The chains around his midsection clanked against each other and you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even though your heart felt like it might beat out of your chest.

“What about bad people?”

Being around Buffy and the others, around so much supernatural for so many years, had made you into a person who could handle most things with a cool head. It was a required skill. You could freak out about the little things—tests, dating, work—though they seemed to matter less now than ever. But you couldn’t let the supernatural world scare you shitless unless you wanted to shut down completely. Your hands trembled where they grasped your book, but you kept your voice even. You forced your eyes upward to meet Spike’s.

“You tell me.”

——

You couldn’t run away from him, even though you were deeply and truly uncomfortable, so you excused yourself and went to the kitchen for a snack. You knew you shouldn’t leave him alone for too long, chip or not, so you sat down at the table and tried to catch your breath. You were counting down from one hundred when he started shouting about blood.

“It’s unfair,” he said when your frame filled the doorway, arms crossed, “that you get your snack and I don’t get mine.”

At this, his eyes raked down your body. You doubted that the gang would mind much if they came back to find him with a broken nose, but you exercised some hard-won self-control and dug your nails into your palms. Spike was smart and if he was working you up, it was probably for a reason. You treaded back to the kitchen and returned with a mug filled with some B negative that Giles had “borrowed” from the hospital’s blood bank.

“This is the last of the human stuff,” you told him with some satisfaction. “Next you’re drinking pig’s blood.”

You held the mug well away from you, willing your eyes to ignore the splatters on the rim from when you had poured it in. Spike cocked his head.

“Are you going to unchain me, or—?”

“I’ll get a straw.”

When you came back, he was slumped against the inside wall of the porcelain tub. You sat on the edge, held the mug up for him, and turned your head away, enough that you couldn’t see him take his first sip but not enough that he would notice. The sound by itself was almost worse.

“It’s cold.”

“I’m not running a hotel. You’re a hostage.”

“I’m a guest seeking asylum.”

You sucked in a deep breath. “Fine.” You couldn’t bicker with him any more. You needed this to be over.

You warmed it in the microwave, swearing the whole time, and brought it back with both hands wrapped around the mug to keep yourself from throwing the blood in Spike’s face. He smiled as if he knew what you were thinking and relaxed against the tub, tilting up only his chin so that you had to sink to your knees against the tile floor to get an angle that would work.

“I could get used to this,” he mused when he had finished. A few droplets splattered on your hands. You tried not to look at them and began soaping up in the sink.

“Don’t.”

“You know, love, Passions is on in twenty, if your watch is correct.”

You unclasped it from your wrist and wiped it off with a damp tissue. “Forget it.”

“I guess we could always read more from the textbook.” You caught his crafty smirk in the mirror. “You seemed to like that well enough.”

You sighed. “Will it get you off my back?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Fine.”

You crossed to the tub and tried to puzzle out how to lift him without breaking anything. Spike’s hands were bound in front of him by a separate set of chains than his body to make it more difficult for him to escape and give him some limited mobility. His back was flush up against the tub wall, pressed to the porcelain in a way that would make it difficult to pull him up from behind. There was a small amount of space in between his legs, as his feet had been spread to either side of the tap.

“Well?”

“Shut up.”

You stepped into the tub gingerly, easing over the high rim to stand in between Spike’s legs in the space provided. It wasn’t much, and you caught the fabric of his jeans under your foot at first, but you adjusted.

Next you placed your arms on either side of his chest right under his arms.

“Lift with me,” you said, and together you managed to get him to sit on the edge of the tub. “Okay, next—”

He straightened out, trying to stand before you were ready for him, overcompensating so he wouldn’t hit the wall nearest to him and then hitting you with the full force of his weight as he toppled forward.

“Fuck, Spike!”

He was so goddamn heavy. His chest pressed against your face, forcing your back to the wall where the tap caught you in the back of the lower thigh and tore the skin. You couldn’t shove him back unless you wanted him to fall out the back of the tub and onto the floor, possibly cracking his skull in the process. It was tempting, but your reputation as a babysitter would be shredded.

“This isn’t exactly comfortable for me either, you know!”

“Ouch. Ouch. Fuck. Okay, I’m going to push you back slowly. Try to keep your balance.”

But when you moved your leg to keep it from being pressed against the spout, you hit the knob for the cold water, which came pouring down over your heads.

Spike cursed so loudly the neighbors could probably hear. “Turn it off!”

“Stand up! I can’t turn it off with you all over me like this!”

He righted himself too quickly and fell backward back into the floor of the tub, sending his legs sprawling out beneath you. Your feet were knocked out from under you and you fell on top of him heavily, bruising your elbow and knocking your chin against his sternum as the water poured on.

“Fuck,” he whispered, unable to do anything else. It took you both a moment to adjust to the pain and you closed your eyes to your own idiocy.

“Did you hit your head?” you asked finally, reaching out a hand to the platinum blond mop that was now plastered against his skull.

“Turn. The bloody. Water. Off.”

“Okay, okay,” you huffed. He groaned as you sat up, spreading your legs to either side of his hips to steady yourself and keep from slipping in the tub that was slowly filling up. “But this was all you. You had to watch Passions.”

“You’re the one,” he grunted, “who volunteered to play babysitter.”

The shower head drenched you as you twisted and leaned back to flick the knob off.

“I’m normally good with kids, so I figured I could handle one whiny brat for a night.”

You were breathing heavily, your body throbbing from all the places you had scraped and bruised in the struggle. Spike didn’t look much better, although you supposed he had his super vampire healing or whatever. You weren’t worried about it. Your clothes, on the other hand...

“Now what?”

Carefully, you stood and stepped out of the tub. You avoided your textbook on the ground as you grabbed a towel from the cabinets underneath the sink and wrapped it around yourself.

“You can’t leave me here.”

There was at least an inch of water kept in the tub by the plugged drain. It would probably serve Spike right to sit there all night. You both knew that the others would find it funny rather than an exercise in abuse of authority.

“Take the chains off,” he said, switching his tone from murderous to honeyed. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“You can’t,” you retorted, before realizing you had proven his point. “I mean, if what you say is true.”

“Do you think I would be here right now if it wasn’t?”

You couldn’t. This was the setup for a disaster. Things like this always happened to you guys.

“Look, I could’ve hurt any of you before you chained me up. I didn’t.”

He did look kind of pitiful, soaking and lying on his back in the bathtub.

“Maybe you were playing the long game. And now you’ve decided it’s not for you.”

Your words made sense, but you were wavering. Maybe you had a death wish. You left the room for a moment and returned with the key.

“Your hands stay locked up.”

“Fine.”

You were all too aware how close to him you were now, to his mouth. You barely breathed when you stepped into his personal bubble and let the chains slide to the floor. His lips twisted as he looked down on you and before you could step back, his face contorted and he stretched his mouth open.

“Ow! Fuck! Bloody hell!” he cried, putting a hand to his head as you fell back onto the floor on your already sore ass, scrambling backward. “It was a joke!”

“Buffy should have staked you,” you spat, but you led him into the living room anyway.

The two of you were still dripping all over the carpet, but you ducked into Giles’s closet after re-hiding the key and brought out two pairs of pajama pants and a t-shirt.

As it was, you had to take the scissors to Spike’s shirt and throw it out. It was impossible to get it off with the chains on, though you gave it a shot anyway and ended up tangling Spike in it. It was kind of gratifyingly funny to see his head tucked in under the fabric as he struggled.

“You bloody witch!”

“Stop squirming!”

The pants were worse. He had to sit down in the armchair as you shimmied his soaked jeans off, leaving him only in boxers.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up or I’ll leave you like this.”

Getting the pajamas on was even harder. He had to stand up, support himself by leaning his hands on your shoulder, and kind of hop into the legs of it as you held them up. They were big on him, too, but you tied the drawstrings as tightly as you could, which meant having your hands near a very sensitive area for a few seconds. Ultimately, the pants still hung low on his hips, and you wrinkled your nose in frustration. When you pulled back, Spike had his lips puckered, stringently trying to avoid laughter.

“So you’re just going to leave me in damp knickers?”

“We’re all having to make sacrifices today. Turn around.”

You didn’t want to leave him again, not even for a second, afraid of the trouble he’d get up to on his own. You yanked off your own jeans and t-shirt, watching his back in case he disobeyed you, unable to ignore how muscled and lean he was.

Goddamnit, he really could kill you if he had half a mind to. You’d been training ever since you’d found out what Buffy was, but with school and a job, there was only so much you could fit in.

You wavered between turning around to unclasp your bra and staying in place to monitor him, but ultimately you decided it was safer to just hurry up and do it. You weren’t sure how much skin Spike saw when he went ahead and broke the rules, but it was more than you had hoped. You pulled the t-shirt over your head hurriedly, but Giles wasn’t necessarily a very big man, and it was decidedly short on you.

“Spike,” you hissed. “Go watch TV.”

“Well, we’ve probably missed Passions by now. But our romantic evening doesn’t have to be ruined.” His eyebrow quirked suggestively and you balled up your wet jeans, aiming right at his face.

“Go!”

You almost took yourself out on the corner of the coffee table as you pulled on Giles’s only pair of pajama shorts. You had to roll the top down three times for them to sit at your hips without totally falling off. Spike watched you do it. You gritted your teeth and said nothing.

When the others came back, you and Spike were in separate chairs, your hair still drying.

Xander opened his mouth and then closed it, glancing back and forth between the two of you. Giles seemed disturbed, his right eye beginning to spasm as he spotted the piles of clothes on the floor. Willow stifled a laugh, almost choking on it. And Buffy’s fists curled like she was preparing to hit one—or both—of you.

Spike didn’t look away from the TV, although the corner of his mouth twitched. You dug your fingers into the chair’s arm rests.

“I deserve a raise.”

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #spike x reader #fanfiction

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lovecomedy · 5 years ago

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Fanfic recommendations nobody asked for

Those are my favorite wincest fic ever, just because. They are all complete. I’ll add the summaries together with my own two cents.

Consider the Hairpin Turn by cherie_morte. 27K Words

AU of 6x22: Sam's wall has shattered and the memories in his mind have splintered. When the Sam who remembers Hell tells him to go find Jess and be happy, Sam knows he can't stay while Dean needs him. But when the Sam from Hell says that Dean is already there looking for him, Sam leaves his memories of the pit behind to find him.

What he finds is a life he doesn't remember: a house that he shares with his brother (and has for years), a law career he thought he'd left behind at Stanford, and a relationship with Dean he never dreamed he could have. Life is almost too good to be true, at least until Sam begins to hear his brother's voice calling to him, begging him to wake up.

This is my favorite fic of all times. It’s beautifuly written. The way that it narrates Sam’s trauma of Hell is what keeps me coming back for more . Honestly it should be published as a book. Don’t worry, it has very happy scenes and there’s a happy ending

Welcome to the Neighborhood by ImogenPortchester. 2K Words

Dean thinks the new neighbors are interesting, but all is not what it seems.

Super short. Super heartbreaking.

Fics by leonidaslion

I mean first off, just read everything written by leonidaslion

Sing Your Hymns Like Angels In Defeat. 32K Words.

And Lucifer Fell for a second time with the burning brilliance of a star. The Flare shone in his wake, and darkness fell upon the land ...

Dean goes blind, and I love how it describes Dean’s stuggles with it. You feel like you’re blind with him. Really, really, REALLY well written. Should probably also be a book

Fumbling in the Dark: Love Advice For the Romantically Impaired. 72K

True Love really is blind...

It’s basically a character study of every single episode of the first 5 seasons, with a wincest twist. Slow burn. Holy shit, is it a slow burn.

Just Say My Name. 3K Words

Dean turns into a complete and utter nympho. It takes Sam a while to notice the difference.

Funny, lighthearted and porny

Hush. 2K Words

Motel walls are thin...

Discovery!kink. Sam and Dean try to have quiet sex while John is in the other room. At least, Dean is trying

Sam Winchester and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. 15K Words

Sometimes, you just shouldn't get out of bed in the morning ...

Fics by fleshflutter

Dark Side of the Moon. 20K Words

Cursed!Dean is deaf and blind. Sam deals.

The incestuous courtship of the antichrist's bride. 48K Words

Sam is trying to become the Antichrist in order to save the world. He has a small army of angels and demons, he has an adoring cult, he has a work of prophecy by Jack Kerouac, and he has Dean. Things are going pretty well until he accidentally signs Dean up as his Beloved Consort, a role that requires sex with the Antichrist on an altar. And that's when things stop going pretty well. Also, the soundtrack to the Apocalypse sucks.

I don’t like crack fics, but goddamn this one is FUNNY. You can tell a lot of thought was put into this freaking masterpiece

Captured by the Game by rivkat. 54K Words

AU. Azazel has given his favorite son a task: worm his way into the confidence of a hunter. It sounds simple, but Dean Winchester just might be more than Sam can handle.

It wasn’t real by NaughtyPastryChef. 1K Words

Sam is trying to explain to Dean where he was when Dean was stuck in purgatory. It starts with "I hit a dog" and then, suddenly, inexplicably, they both know exactly where Sam was.

Wonderful explanation for that arc in season 8 nobody can stand. Plus, time travel, which I’m always a sucker for

Backseat of My Brother's 67 Chevy by NaughtyPastryChef. 1K Words

Extended scene from "Baby". Dean's feeling proud of Sam's hookup until he hears that Sam tried to give that waitress his number. Uncharacteristically, he lets Sam force him to talk about it.

Bury My Old Soul, and Dance on its Grave by dreamlittleyo. 2K Words

Dean knows how far he can push Sam.

Antichrist!Sam and Consort!Dean. Codependent winchesters. Yeah

Graveside Blues by hunenka. 3K Words

He uses his body like a blanket, like a shield.

I like how protective Sam is of Dean here, and it deals with something I don’t see a lot such as the jealousy he would have of Dean’s bond with Amara

own it by orphan_account. 6K Words

But he's never going to be able to burn the image of Sam cradling one hand around the perfect curve of Dean's face, dropping the other to the cut of Dean's hip (made for fingers and tongues to trail down, to taste), walking Dean backward until Dean is flush against the wall and Sam is flush against him. This is something that can't be denied.

John finds out. Explores the wonderful trope of both Sam and his father being possessive of Dean, and being very antagonistical to each other. Dysfunctional family yay. Also very porny

Fics by astolat

Punxsutawney. 9K Words

* astolat thinks any plot worth doing is worth doing TWICE

This is the Mistery Spot plot, but a little different. Sam AND Dean wake up to the same day over and over again. So they talk.

Kings and Queens and Jokers, Too. 4K Words

"Yeah, you boys nailed that trickster real good," Bobby said, dry as dust.

People are acting weird around the brothers. Can’t really say anything else without spoiling it. Listen just do yourself a favor and read it.

options. 500 Words

Decisions, decisions.

Short and funny. Little bit porny

Desired. 2K Words

He hadn't even known about any of this himself until Sam found it, figured it out for him. He hadn't known how it was going to be.

So, smut. They have a better time when Dean is the one who asks for it

Rockabye Sammy... by AnotherWorld3111. 1K Words

Sam can’t sleep, so Dean tries to help.

Sam keeps hallucinating Lucifer. Dean is worried and protective of him. Porny

We Know Each Other As We Always Were by mickeym. 45K Words

In 1941, while the world is at war, Sam Winchester falls in love with his brother. They're young, they're in love, and in spite of the hardships of life around them, the world is a pretty good one for them. Until Dec. 7th, 1941, when Japan launches an air attack on Pearl Harbor, sending the US to war against Japan. Dean Winchester feels he needs to join the Army; needs to help fight the good fight and help save lives. He promises he'll return, but can he keep that promise?

GAH this is so romantic! It’s an AU, but I feel like they’re very in character. It feels like a novel

For The End of My Broken Heart by Wickedtruth. 59K Words

Dad's disappeared and Sam's left to pick up the pieces of his broken brother. Post Devil's Trap AU.

Very codependent Winchesters. Also John finds out.

here at the end of all things by remy (iamremy). 40K Words

AU from Season 12 onwards. The British Men of Letters win in the USA, and slowly manage to establish their bases and authority over the whole country. They also capture Sam Winchester and keep him prisoner for eleven months, experimenting on him regularly before wiping his memories so that he has no idea what has been done to him.

Even after Dean rescues him and they begin planning to get revenge once and for all, the niggling doubt at the back of Sam's head remains -- what did they do to him? Why won't his anxiety get better? And what is it that he's missing?

Ok you got me, this is gen. But the whole fic feels like a (good) Supernatural episode, it’s so realistic and canon-like. The relationship between the brothers is just like the one we see on the show, meaning desperately codependent and wincest in every subtext.

Fics by deadlybride / zmediaoutlet

What I like about @zmediaoutlet is that she takes the time to write everyone in character. It’s always as canonical as possible and it feels real

femme. 4K Words

Rummaging around the internet, Dean finds a kink he hadn't seen before; Sam explains, and demonstrates.

I love feminization, but unfourtunately there’s only one fic that does it right, and it’s this one

gratification. 2K Words

It's not a compulsion. Dean just likes it.

breña. 1K Words

Sam and Dean wait, knowing what's coming.

The night before Sam jumps in the box

not the good things, nor the bad. 20K

Dean wavers in a grey area between being taken and giving in.

Part of it started with the kinks series, but you can read this just fine without the other parts. It deals very beautifully with Dean’s thoughts regarding his bond with Amara and his sexuality

DeMille Has Nothing On Us by HandsAcrossTheSea. 13K Words

"Hey Dean - wanna film it?"

This is part of the Those Hazy Days I Do Remember series, but you can 100% read it as a stand-alone, no problem. Sam and Dean film each other and this has that season 1 vibe, of just two brothers on the road. It’s slightly OOC, just because of how touchy-feely they are. But that’s something I sometimes wish we could have on the show, anyway

How many floors to realize by Lazy Daze. 26K Words

AU from the end of It’s A Terrible Life, in which Zachariah decides to keep stringing them along a little while longer, because damn if they aren’t somewhat entertaining, right?”

Rabid by i-am-therefore-i-fight

Beautiful!! I love @i-am-therefore-i-fight‘s take on demon!dean. It’s different to what we’re used to. This fic is very angsty but has a happy ending

Bitten by a True Believer by kermiethefrog. 3K Words

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says. Flashes him a wicked grin, charcoal-eyes. The way he spreads out on Sam’s mattress, bare and offering himself up like Holy fucking Communion, drums heat under Sam’s skin, and he’s never sure if it’s arousal or anger when he’s faced with the demon. “Show me a good time, big guy.”

Another demon!dean fic. I like how even as he is a demon, he is still desperate for Sam’s attention

The Time Traveler's Brother by AmyPond45. 54K Words

Dean's life is turned upside down the night his mother dies. But that's also the night a mysterious grown-up version of Dean's brother first appears in his life. While Dean grows up, "Old Sam" is often there, especially when Dean's father isn't. As Dean learns what the future holds, he begins to question everything his father has taught him about who he is and what he is supposed to become. Can Dean find a way to save his little brother from his own future?

This is based on The Time Traveler’s Wife, which is my favorite book. Don’t worry, you don’t have to have read it to understand this fic

need against need against need by dollylux. 5K Words

Jack spends his first night in the bunker with Sam and Dean. (Jack POV)

Don’t worry, Jack just watches and ponders about the Winchester’ realationship

the centre cannot hold by orphan_account. 6K Words

Sam does not remember; Dean does. All Dean can do is watch, and mourn.

But then Castiel becomes God, and the world starts to break at the edges (and maybe that isn't a bad thing.)

It kinda becomes a character study, while the brothers deal with what happened during the Soulless!Sam period

The Last Temptation by bccalling. 1K Words

When Sam tells Mary about all the things he and Dean get up to in the dark, Mary wants in, and Sam sees his opportunity to make Dean’s every fantasy come true.

Mary shows up. Porny and very sweet

Angels and Demons by OhWilloTheWisp. 9K Words

AU angels and demons are animals. Sam was not happy when his owner, Ruby, left him boarded at a kennel. He was even less happy when he discovered an angel in the same facility. But his encounter with the angel will end much differently than anyone would have guessed. He may have never expected his mate to be angel, but now that's found him he won't let anyone keep them apart.

Sam and Dean are kinda like animals here but there’s nothing sexual. It’s very sweet and romantic. Anna/Ruby in here as well

#wincest #fic rec #leonidaslion #fleshflutter #astolat #full house of wincest #bottom!dean #zmediaoutlet

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freewithyourtempo · 5 years ago

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Argue me tender, argue me true (pt. 4)

part 1 part 2 part 3

The lovely people who asked to be tagged @youarerageandserenity, @why-cant-people-just-think, @auri-moon, @starkqnthony, @starkxavier

Charles stopped, turned and stared.

The girl that was walking behind him almost dropped her tray in a poor attempt at dodging him. His abrupt change of route created a small pile-up in the cafeteria and quite a few complaints.

“What,” he said, “the hell?”

Lehnsherr put his chin on his hand and raised an eyebrow. “What hell?”

Charles stomped towards his group and slammed his half-empty tray on their table. “You cannot seriously be relying on Stanford’s experiment to sustain your ridiculous ideas about human behavior!”

Lehnsherr smirked slowly, more satisfied with every tooth uncovered. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“I do not eavesdrop,” exclaimed Charles, indignant. “It seems I automatically tune in your nonsense, that’s all.”

“Oh, if a scientific experiment doesn’t give the results you want it suddenly becomes nonsense, doesn’t it? Not very empiric of you, Xavier.”

Charles felt his own face crumple up. “Angel, be a dear and move on over, please. Thank you very much.”

He sat down right in front of Lehnsherr and puffed out his chest, ready to begin. “First of all, don’t you dare question my scientific approach, you maniac. Tons of psychologists have stated that that ‘experiment’ was biased and it has been proven time and time again that Zimbardo lied in his report about what actually happened there. He didn’t even publish his results in a scientific journal!”

He inhaled.

He could pinpoint the exact moment when Lehnsherr decided that that was a conversation worth having, because his eyes twinkled as he leaned forward and quickly shot back. “Haslam and Reicher replicated that experiment and obtained the same violent outcomes.”

“Not the same. The participants themselves admitted that their conduct was a performance influenced by Zimbardo and designed to obtain those results.”

“We know for certain that two of them didn’t act of their own free-will, but what about the other twenty-two participants?”

“Oh,” Charles commented, leaning against the seatback with his arms folded smugly. “That sounds scientific alright.”

Lehnsherr smiled at him, then, lower lip trapped under front teeth, and Charles felt as if someone had pushed him off the chair. The skin of his hands itched, and he had to repress the sudden urge to grab that face and claim that mouth.

“Please,” Sean’s weak voice came from the other side of the table, startling both of them. They attended History together, which meant he had witnessed a few dozens of those arguments. “Don’t you ever flirt in front of me. This is too much already.”

Charles frowned and Lehnsherr opened his mouth, but before any of them could actually reply, an exasperated chorus rose from the other students at that table. “They already are.”

It might have had something to do with the adrenaline of the argument clouding his judgment - it wasn’t his fault, it was like a drug to Charles -, but when Lehnsherr turned his head to stare at him with those eyes of his wide open and his cheekbones flagging red, Charles’ mouth moved on its own accord.

“I assure you,” he enunciated clearly, his own eyes never leaving Lehnsherr’s. “If I were flirting with him, he would notice.”

He then proceeded to wink at Lehnsherr’s stumped expression, steal a fry from his plate and leave. His departure was accompanied by catcalls.

Oh, he did love winning an argument.

Charles woke up abruptly when someone touched his arm.

He instinctively unleashed his telepathy to scan his surroundings, but it slammed against his head. He whined. Bloody collar.

“Wakey wakey.”

Charles slowly blinked and lifted his head from his crossed arms. His back cracked. “Lehnsherr?”

He was half lying on the table, his head propped up on his fist. Charles noticed that his long torso covered the whole distance between them. A smiling flap of uncovered flank stared back at him. “I wish I could say that you drool in your sleep.” Lehnsherr was unjustifiably disgruntled.

Charles looked away and saw his notes spread all over the table, then understood: he had fallen asleep while studying in the now deserted library. Around them, the lights were going off one after another.

Charles rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Past midnight,” Lehnsherr said, and stood up. “I was leaving when I saw you here. We’d better go before they close the doors.”

He was noticeably tired, his hair in disarray and the hem of his t-shirt crumpled. His later-than-five o’clock shadow glided on his jaw and across his long neck.

Charles thought he looked like the lead of a romantic comedy the morning after. He self-consciously carded his fingers through his own hair and cleared his throat. “Thank you, but I can’t. I need to finish these physic… Exercises.”

He blinked at the papers and dragged them across the table with two fingers. At the bottom, there was a circled number in a handwriting that wasn’t his.

He lifted his eyes and saw Lehnsherr scratching the back of his neck and looking away. His cheeks were turning red. “You had only made a calculation error,” Lehnsherr shrugged, as if it explained everything.

Charles felt his heart flutter. “I don’t know how to thank you, my friend. You didn’t have to.”

“It was no problem, really. Besides,” Lehnsherr smirked and became more self-possessed. “Who knows how long it would have taken you to solve these. You need to be as awake as possible to Candide your way out of my reasoning.”

Charles barked a surprised laugh, already half in love. “Have you really just used Voltaire to mock me. And past midnight?”

Lehnsherr didn’t answer, but smiled and collected his books. He looked at him one last time and moved towards the exit. “Goodnight, Pangloss.”

“Sleep well, Martin.”

I apologize if this part is a bit… nerdish. If anyone is interested in what Charles and Erik are bickering about, here’s Stanford Prison Experiment (better known as “The Lucifer Effect”) , and here’s Candide. (In the book, Pangloss is an optimist and Martin is a pessimist. Philosophically speaking).

#cherik #cherik fic #my fic #amt pt.4 #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #cherik!au #college!au #enemies to friends to lovers #bickering

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invisibletinkerer · 7 years ago

Text

Fic: 30 Seconds Later (chapter 4)

Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5 -- Chapter 6

Length: ~4000 words

AO3 link.

When Ford closed the bathroom door and turned the lock without another word, Stan could only hope he’d gotten through to him. He found himself leaning back against the wall next to the door and rubbing his temples. Ford was a wreck, that was for sure. But he’d fix that. If only he could have seen it and done something right thirty years ago—

He’d been a bit of a wreck himself thirty years ago. But that was no excuse.

Stan shook his head and pushed himself away from the wall, taking off towards the bedroom. Ford would be alright this time, he’d see to it. Ford was so – so goddamn young. He had all the reason in the world to get through this.

He figured it’d be easiest to give Ford Stan’s own bed for the night. Stan pulled his own sheets and pillowcases off and hid them in the closet before spreading some new linen on the bed – not necessarily neatly, but at least they were clean.

A selection of his brother’s old clothes was in a laundry basket in the corner next to the stove – he’d taken them out of storage and washed them last night when the kids were at the Northwest party. At the time it had been a nervous measure just in case – in case they still fit, and in case his brother needed something to wear temporarily. As it turned out, these were still the clothes Ford expected to own, so it was probably a good thing not all of them were still buried in mothballs. Included was a pair of plaid pajamas, which Stan threw on the bed.

And then there was the demon containment measure. Stan actually owned three pairs of police handcuffs, tucked away in different drawers, though only one of the pairs had its original key. He checked that the key still worked, then put that pair of cuffs on the bed too.

Looking around, Stan grimaced at the mess. Ford wasn’t in any position to judge, of course, and there really wasn’t any point in trying to tidy up, but it’d be best if the demon couldn’t get his hands on anything dangerous from the bed. He moved the bedside table off to the side, then did a circuit around the bed to take away any and all trash – Pitt cans, used napkins, a paperclip, a cracked cup – sheesh – from within reach, before he figured he was done.

When Ford emerged from the bathroom some twenty minutes after closing the door Stan was waiting for him. He’d picked up an issue of Gold Chains for Old Men that was lying around, flipping through it and wondering when in the world he’d ended up in that particular target demographic. Seeing Ford made Stan jump and conspicuously drop the magazine face down on the floor, though Ford didn’t seem to notice or care.

In fact, Ford didn’t seem to notice much at all. He remained unmoving in the doorway for several seconds, one hand on the doorframe for balance, eyes unfocused. He’d put his dirty clothes back on, even the coat, although he’d skipped the tie. The shirt was buttoned up all the way to his chin, and his hair was dripping wet. He hadn’t shaved, and he was still deathly pale, but his face was sort of ruddy from the hot water. Stan supposed the fact that he’d used hot water at all and not tried to shower cold was probably confirmation enough that he’d decided to accept the offer of sleep – which was good, because that one wasn’t negotiable.

“Alright,” Ford said eventually and straightened his back with visible effort. “Let’s do this.”

Stan nodded and motioned towards the bedroom, ready to step in and grab him if he started to fall over, though it didn turn out to be necessary. He still echoed Ford’s soft sigh of relief when they reached the bedroom and Ford sat down on the bed, allowing his shoulders to sag.

Stan threw the pajamas over his brother’s head. “Wanna change out of that outfit?”

Ford pulled it down into his lap and seemed to consider it, then shook his head. “Let’s just get this over with,” he said. “You tie me to the bed and I sleep while Bill is unable to move around.” His eyes flicked to Stan. “And you’ll release me again in the morning.”

“That’s the plan, yeah.” Stan showed him the handcuffs. “I figure that if I cuff one of your wrists to the middle rail of the headboard—” He pointed, “—you’ll still be able to turn in your sleep and whatnot, but Bill won’t be able to go anywhere with you. Sounds good enough?”

Ford didn’t reply except to offer his left wrist for Stan to cuff. When Stan touched his hand, it was trembling.

Stan took a deep breath. “At least take off your coat first,” he reminded his young twin. “There’s blankets if you’re cold.”

Ford nodded and shrugged the coat off, letting it fall in a heap next to the bed.

“And your shoes.” Stan couldn’t believe he was saying this.

There was a hint of a tired smile in Ford’s face – apparently he couldn’t believe it either. He did take his shoes off, then offered his wrist again. The smile disappeared in favor of cold determination. The kind of determination he wouldn’t need if he wasn’t scared.

“You do know that it’s okay, right? I’m not gonna leave you hanging.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be back to check in on you later,” Stan promised. “Or him, as the case may be. And if you need something, just yell.”

“If he talks to you, don’t listen,” Ford said. “Just – don’t.”

“I figured as much.” Bill had already talked to him through Ford once, by the portal, and that had been painful enough. He knew what was going on, now. He casually slid the cuff securely shut around Ford’s wrist. “Now lie down.”

Ford took a deep breath and put his head down on the pillow, his left arm raised to allow Stan to fasten the other cuff to the vertical headboard bar. When it was done he pulled his glasses off with his right hand and gave them to Stan.

Stan put the glasses away on the bedside table. “Well then,” he said, pulling a blanket over his brother’s body because he might as well, “See you later.” He went over to the door, muttering half-loud, “I can’t believe that I’m now the responsible adult between us.”

“Hah,” Ford said weakly from the bed. “Goodnight, Stanley.”

“Goodnight, Stanford.”

Closing the door behind him, Stan realized it was three in the morning and he had no idea what he should do with himself for the rest of the night.

After considering it for a moment, he shrugged and settled for the TV chair.

* * *

Stanford woke up gasping, his head on an unfamiliar pillow. Echoes of a rapidly fading dream flooded his mind with sensations of profound failure and loss, and for a moment he barely even remembered who he was.

Then he realized he must have been asleep.

Cursing and berating himself to all hells and back, he bolted off the bed – or he tried to, before being pulled back by his left wrist caught in something behind him, his shoulder twisting painfully as he’d tried to move further than the restraint allowed. For a terrifying moment he was convinced Bill had done this to him. He’d lost, everything was lost.

Then he remembered. He let himself sink back against the mattress, trying to breathe.

Stanley. Stanley the old man with the grey hair and the lined face and the unrelenting insistence that he trust him. As a result he was now stuck to a bed, and Bill had not been able to get to the portal or – yes, the rift. It was okay. It was fine. He had not doomed the world by succumbing to sleep. He was held prisoner, yes, but not by malevolence.

Surely not.

He sighed shakily, looking up at the blurry wooden ceiling, and tried to recall the dream. The fact that it was all but gone indicated that it had been exactly that, though – a dream. A mundane nightmare. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Bill’s mindscape visitations were different – they were always lucid for one thing, and tended to be almost as clearly recallable as real-life experiences. Once, not too long ago, he’d have been disappointed at having to deal with his own randomly firing synapses again, but now it was a relief. A dream that wasn’t real.

Ford stayed on his back and slowly felt his heart and lungs return to a more reasonable tempo. Only then did he reluctantly acknowledge the stinging pain. Being hurt was no surprise, of course – he was always in pain these days. Even the fact that his left wrist felt tender and raw was perfectly expected, no doubt the result of a struggle against the cuff during the night. Nevertheless, large swatches of his chest and abdomen hurt in a new way, and he didn’t like it at all.

Part of him simply didn’t want to look. If he didn’t look he could still pretend it was nothing. But he clearly remembered buttoning his shirt up after the shower last night, and just as clearly it was hanging open around him now, so that would have disproven the hypothesis that Bill had left him alone even if there hadn’t been any pain.

He groaned as he forced himself up to sit on the pillow with his back against the bars of the headboard. Looking himself over, he felt his stomach sink.

His torso was stained with red and brown and black from his abdomen to the left shoulder, blood in various stages of coagulation dripping slowly from a myriad of shallow cuts. Some of the cuts seemed to have re-opened when he moved, and probably when he’d tried to scramble off the bed, too. The edges of his white shirt were stained with blood.

And it wasn’t just random cuts. Bill had been... doodling. Ford’s skin was carved with a multitude of roughly equilateral triangles of different sizes, making an irregular pattern covering most of his stomach, chest and across to his left shoulder. Most of the triangles were plain, but a few included an eye, and even little limbs. The cuts were deep enough to hurt, probably to scar, but not to cause any real damage.

The message was crystal clear.

He could hear Bill’s unearthly laughter in the back of his mind, and he shuddered violently.

Ford forced himself take a deep breath. Then another. And a third, frantically trying to convince himself not to give up breathing altogether. He felt sick. Bill was trying to rattle him, and it worked – it always worked. He’d given his own bodily autonomy away, and he wasn’t going to be allowed to forget it. But for a moment he’d imagined – he’d hoped – that nothing would happen. That Bill couldn’t hurt him tonight. Of course Bill was going to pull something like this to prove him wrong.

He wanted to get up and pace the room. He wanted to hide himself under three layers of sweaters, never see his own skin again. The shower yesterday had been bad enough, but the older marks had never been so large, or so... pictographic. He was owned, and he’d stay that way for the rest of his life, and he knew that. He still had to fight.

He settled for using his available hand to close the shirt he was wearing. There were more stains bleeding through. He was shaking again, and he couldn’t stop.

It didn’t matter. It was completely inconsequential. Bill had been stopped from endangering the world, or even threatening anyone else. Stanford was only paying for his own mistakes. It didn’t matter.

He wished he knew where Bill had gotten his hands on a knife. None of Stanley’s drawers or shelves were reachable from his restrained position, and Ford’s bitten-down nails were hardly sharp enough to be responsible for these cuts. Of course, Stanley could have left some sharp object lying within reach on the floor.

Stanley could have done that on purpose.

He wouldn’t.

It would help if he could at least see the tool Bill had used, but he couldn’t. As far as he could make out of his immediate surrounding without glasses, there was nothing. And Stanley had placed his glasses out of reach on the bedside table.

How long had he been asleep? Bill must have had some time on his hands to do this. The stained-glass window was letting in more than enough light to see by, so it had to be past sunrise. Wasn’t Stanley supposed to check on him?

He tugged at the handcuff without thinking, hissing as he the hard metal frame of the restraint rubbed against his already raw wrist. He was trapped.

He’d agreed to this, too.

He was helpless.

Ford swallowed and pulled the blanket up around himself where he sat, struggling to arrange it around himself while only having the use of one hand. He wasn’t going to panic, he was not going to panic.

The journal. It was still in his coat pocket on the floor, just within reach. Getting it and the pen up on the bed one-handed was a bit of a fight, but one that he was able to win. He needed to finish the calculations he’d started last night on the temporo-spacial properties of the portal and the formation of the rift. Perhaps he could even deduce some of the rift’s more specific properties, making it possible to formulate some options for neutralizing it.

He had to do something.

Some time later – though he hadn’t managed to do more than confirm known facts and discard some of the more outrageous ideas that came to mind (don’t throw the rift into the bottomless pit: high risk of spacial paradox) – when the door to the bedroom opened, slowly and quietly, as if someone was trying to sneak inside without disturbing. Ford dropped the pen immediately, leaning back and pulling the blanket up to his chin, hiding the bloodstains.

A gray-haired blur stopped in the doorway, most likely to process the fact that Ford was obviously not asleep. “Stanford?” It was a question.

“Yes,” Ford said. “It’s me. But check my eyes and don’t take my word for it.”

Stanley came closer and did just that. Apparently satisfied, he sat down on the edge of the bed a few feet from Ford. “I didn’t expect you to be awake yet,” he said. “Did something happen?”

Ford blatantly ignored the question. “What time is it?”

“Nine-fifteen. It’s been six hours, kid – that’s not nearly enough sleep for the state you were in.”

Less than that, actually, considering that he’d been awake for a while, but still more consecutive hours of unconsciousness than he’d had in weeks. He’d take it. But— “Stanley, did you just call me ‘kid’?”

Stanley looked confused for a moment, then it seemed to hit him that he’d really done that. He leaned forward with his arms on his knees made a strange choking sound that might have been laughter.

Stanford watched it with some kind of emotion that he couldn’t name in the pit of his stomach. He was a grown man in his thirties – he shouldn’t be called ‘kid’ by his own twin. His own twin shouldn’t be of an appropriate age to call him ‘kid’. It was ridiculous, but it definitely wasn’t funny. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to reach out to his brother, but the cuff would have stopped him even if he did.

It seemed to take an effort of will for Stanley to calm down and straighten up. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, looking at the far wall. “Won’t do that again.” He turned back to Ford. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to try to get some more sleep?”

“No,” Ford said. He’d lost all will to sleep. Hopefully a few hours had done some good, at least. “I’d appreciate it if you undid the restraint.”

Stanley frowned, but nodded. “If that’s what you want,” he said, fishing out the key to the handcuffs from the pocket of his boxers and edged closer to Ford to get to his left wrist by the headboard. “But you’re still sleep-deprived, so don’t go disappearing anywhere on your own, okay?”

Before Ford could decide whether or not to reply to that, Stanley must have gotten a look at his wrist, because he gasped a curse and hastened to get the cuff off without another word.

Losing the restraint was like a terrible weight lifted off his shoulders. He had to resist the urge to get off the bed immediately just because he could. Instead he pulled his left arm up against his chest and watched his six fingers flex, feeling lightheaded.

“Shit,” Stanley was saying. “I’m so sorry, I should have realized—” He took hold of Ford’s arm again, looking at the bleeding, raw mark that encircled the wrist directly below the hand.

“Don’t!” Ford said reflexively, trying to pull away, but Stanley was stronger. The lightheadedness evaporated, replaced by a terrifying certainty that Stanley wasn’t going to let him get away—

“Easy, Poindexter,” Stanley said, letting go of his arm and raising both hands in a placating gesture. “You’re bleeding. I was just trying to take a look.” Ford realized he’d been tensing up like a bowstring, and his brother must have noticed. He wasn’t a prisoner. Stanley wasn’t with Bill, and he wasn’t like Bill.

Surely displaying a chafed wrist was less humiliating than wearing the cuff in the first place. “Look, then.”

This time Stanley barely touched him, but simply studied the wound with an increasingly steely frown. Ford hadn’t actually seen it properly himself before now, and he had to admit it looked ugly. He’d lost more skin than he’d expected.

“How could I be so stupid?” Stanley muttered. Then, louder, “Bill did this.”

Ford nodded silently.

“This is deliberate,” Stanley continued with an agitated gesture towards Ford’s wrist, as if the wound was an insult to him. “This isn’t just from tugging at it – he was doing this deliberately to hurt you.”

Ford huffed dryly. “That would be the assumption, yes.”

“And I didn’t even think of that possibility. Goddammit, Stan.” Stanley picked up the handcuffs and threw them at the nearest wall with a loud clatter. “Okay, this was a bad idea. Unless maybe we could wrap them in cotton or something... I don’t know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Ford pulled his left arm inside the blanket, too, wincing slightly when several minor wounds rubbed against cloth and each other. He was not going to mention the rest.

“Did he manage to do anything else to you?” Stanley asked, as if reading his mind. “I didn’t hear anything, and when I checked around five you were sleeping like a baby, but—"

“I’m fine,” Ford said with as much conviction he could muster. It wasn’t a lot. “The important thing is that he didn’t get anywhere near the rift.”

Stanley sighed. “If you were fine you wouldn’t be awake after six hours in the first place.” He grimaced. “Are you cold?”

“I suppose I am,” Ford said. It wasn’t actually a lie. It wasn’t the main reason he was balled up in a blanket, but it was a decent one nevertheless.

“Do you have a fever? Can demons cause fevers?” Stanley touched Ford’s forehead with a couple of fingers. “I have no idea. I’ll get a thermometer with the bandages for your wrist.”

“Is all that necessary?”

“You bet it is.” Stanley looked at him intently. “And afterwards,” he said, “I know exactly what we’re gonna do.”

“Oh?”

“We’re gonna have breakfast.”

Stanford chortled in spite of himself.

“And then—" Stanley pointed a finger at Ford, “—we’re gonna find a way to get that demon out of your head. And that’s before we worry any more about the end of the world. That rift is gonna last longer than you will at this rate.”

He sounded so earnest about it. Ford let his head fall backwards and stared at the ceiling, biting back the explanation of how that was impossible. “Have you kept any of my clothes?” he asked instead. “I’d like to change.”

“Yeah,” Stanley said and pointed towards the other end of the room. “I washed up a bunch earlier – they’re in a basket over there.”

“Good.” Ford motioned to get up, still huddled in the blanket. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Stanley hesitated, and for a moment Ford was afraid he wouldn’t agree to that, that he wouldn’t give him the privacy to get dressed, but after a moment he nodded. “Don’t take too long. I’ll be waiting with some first aid and pancakes,” he promised before leaving.

Stanford stared after his disappearing brother for a few moments before making an effort to collect himself. Dropping the blanket made him shiver, and he did not feel like looking at his body, but he could hardly ignore the cuts when moving at all made them protest painfully. He could feel barely-formed scabs reopening just from straightening his back. It was distracting, he could handle that.

Once he got to his feet he was also annoyed to note that the room was spinning around him, making him touch the wall for support until it passed. He’d slept; he should have been stronger.

His glasses were right on the temporarily isolated bedside table a couple of steps away, and being able to see – together with being mobile and unrestrained – did make him feel better, though. And while he might still be shaky, he did feel better than before. Slightly less clouded.

Bill could do what he liked to him; he still had enough strength to fight back.

Ford put Stanley’s laundry basket up on the bed and rummaged through it, moving stiffly as to not disturb the cuts too much. The clothes were a welcome bit of familiarity in the middle of a place that should have been familiar but wasn’t. Something in his house that was still his. They smelled clean, too. He’d almost forgotten what clean clothes smelled like.

He changed into clean pairs of boxers and pants, then shrugged his bloodied white shirt off. It was a lost cause anyway, so he bundled it up and used in a futile attempt to dab away some of the excess blood. It didn’t matter, he didn’t care about the blood – it was the markings as such that made him feel sick. What he needed was to get the whole mess out of sight. He picked a dark blue shirt and shrugged it on, actively ignoring a few drops of blood that leaked through while he buttoned it up. A soft brown sweater vest on top covered that – he patted himself down just to make sure. Even better – the basket contained his spare trench coat, and wrapping himself in that added yet another layer.

The journal went into the designated inside pocket of the clean coat, and the pen into his chest pocket. The blood-stained shirt and the rest of the dirty clothes went out of sight under the blanket, haphazardly thrown over the bed with its own stained side down. He put the laundry basket back on the floor and sat back on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair and sighing.

Stanley had promised pancakes.

#gravity falls #fanfic #paranoid ford #30 seconds later #forduary #or maybe i shouldn't tag it forduary anymore #whatever #stanford pines #stanley pines #twin paradox #it writes #this chapter contains blood #and depictions of bill's abuse of ford

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curlicuecal · 7 years ago

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Public Shame

As I mentioned, I recently read Jon Ronson’s book “So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed” and thought it made some very compelling points on the renaissance of public shaming in the age of social media. I was going to post my highlights, but then I realized I’d highlighted about 30% of the book, so instead:

I wrote down what I thought were some of the key, take-home points the book made, and pulled quotes from the book in no particular order for each of them. It’s still a wall of text, but feel free to wade in if you’re interested.

Again, I strongly recommend giving this book a read.

Public shaming is often motivated by a belief that one is Doing Good

Public shaming is about social conformity

Public shaming can make us LESS aware of viewpoints different that our own

Shame works because we are all afraid

Shaming others can bring out our own brutality

Shame leads to dehumanization and “death of the soul”

Shame leads to violence

Technology has strange warping effects on how public shaming affects us (and social media shaming can have longer impacts than we expect)

There is evidence that “De-shaming” may have more positive outcomes than shaming

quotes from the book supporting each point under the cut. (bolding mine, quotes by paragraph and in no particular order)

Public shaming is often motivated by a belief that one is Doing Good

“Social media gives a voice to voiceless people—its egalitarianism is its greatest quality. But I was struck by a report Anna Funder discovered that had been written by a Stasi psychologist tasked with trying to understand why they were attracting so many willing informants. His conclusion: “It was an impulse to make sure your neighbor was doing the right thing.”

“It seemed to me that all the people involved in the Hank and Adria story thought they were doing something good. But they only revealed that our imagination is so limited, our arsenal of potential responses so narrow, that the only thing anyone can think to do with an inappropriate shamer like Adria is to punish her with a shaming. All of the shamers had themselves come from a place of shame, and it really felt parochial and self-defeating to instinctively slap shame onto shame like a clumsy builder covering cracks.”

“She was also someone whose shaming frenzy was motivated by the desire to do good. She told me about the time 4chan tracked down a boy who had been posting videos of himself on YouTube physically abusing his cat “and daring people to stop him.” 4chan users found him “and let the entire town know he was a sociopath. Ha ha! And the cat was taken away from him and adopted.” (Of course, the boy might have been a sociopath. But Mercedes and the other 4chan people had no evidence of that—no idea what may or may not have been happening in his home life to turn him that way.) I asked Mercedes what sorts of people gathered on 4chan. “A lot of them are bored, understimulated, overpersecuted, powerless kids,” she replied. “They know they can’t be anything they want. So they went to the Internet. On the Internet we have power in situations where we would otherwise be powerless.”

[On the fallacy of the Stanford Prison Experiment:] There was a smoking gun, but it was something I hadn’t noticed. “The really interesting line,” Haslam wrote, “is I thought I was doing something good at the time. The phrase doing something good is quite critical.” — Doing something good. This was the opposite of LeBon’s and Zimbardo’s conclusions. An evil environment hadn’t turned Dave evil. Those hundred thousand people who piled on Justine Sacco hadn’t been infected with evil. “The irony of those people who use contagion as an explanation,” Steve Reicher e-mailed, “is that they saw the TV pictures of the London riots but they didn’t go out and riot themselves. It is never true that everyone helplessly joins in with others in a crowd. The riot police don’t join in with a rioting crowd. Contagion, it appears, is a problem for others.”

Public shaming is about social conformity

“We are defining the boundaries of normality by tearing apart the people outside it.”

“ The sad thing was that Lindsey had incurred the Internet’s wrath because she was impudent and playful and foolhardy and outspoken. And now here she was, working with Farukh to reduce herself to safe banalities—to cats and ice cream and Top 40 chart music. We were creating a world where the smartest way to survive is to be bland.”

““But there is a chilling of behavior that goes along with a virtual lynching. There is a life modification.” “I know,” I said. “For a year Lindsey Stone had felt too plagued to even go to karaoke.” And karaoke is something you do alone in a room with your friends. “And that’s not an unusual reaction,” Michael said. “People change their phone numbers. They don’t leave the house. They go into therapy. They have signs of PTSD. It’s like the Stasi. We’re creating a culture where people feel constantly surveilled, where people are afraid to be themselves.” […] “This is more frightening than the NSA,” said Michael. “The NSA is looking for terrorists. They’re not getting psychosexual pleasure out of their schadenfreude about you.”

“But the Stasi didn’t only inflict physical horror. Their main endeavor was to create the most elaborate surveillance network in world history. It didn’t seem unreasonable to scrutinize this aspect of them in the hope it might teach us something about our own social media surveillance network.”

Public shaming can make us LESS aware of viewpoints different that our own

“The tech-utopians like the people in Wired present this as a new kind of democracy,” Adam’s e-mail continued. “It isn’t. It’s the opposite. It locks people off in the world they started with and prevents them from finding out anything different. They got trapped in the system of feedback reinforcement. The idea that there is another world of other people who have other ideas is marginalized in our lives.”

“ We express our opinion that Justine Sacco is a monster. We are instantly congratulated for this—for basically being Rosa Parks. We make the on-the-spot decision to carry on believing it.”

Shame works because we are all afraid

“I’ve worked on dark stories before—stories about innocent people losing their lives to the FBI, about banks hounding debtors until they commit suicide—but although I felt sorry for those people, I hadn’t felt the dread snake its way into me in the way these shaming stories had. I’d leave Jonah and Michael and Justine feeling nervous and depressed.”

“ Psychologists try to remind anxiety sufferers that “what if” worries are irrational ones. If you find yourself thinking, What if I just came across as racist? the “what if” is evidence that nothing bad actually happened. It’s just thoughts swirling frantically around. But Lindsey’s “what if” worry—“What if my new company googles me?”—was extremely plausible.

“ “Growing up I was ashamed of everything… and at a certain point I realized that if I was open with the world about the things that embarrassed me they no longer held any weight! I felt set free!” She added that she always derives her porn scenarios from this formula. She imagines circumstances that would mortify her, “like being bound naked on a street with everybody looking at you,” and enacts them with like-minded porn actors, robbing them of their horror. “

“Years ago I might have thought it crazy that Donna had become so upset over such an innocuous article. But now I understood. I think we all care deeply about things that seem totally inconsequential to other people. We all carry around with us the flotsam and jetsam of perceived humiliations that actually mean nothing. We are a mass of vulnerabilities, and who knows what will trigger them? And so I sympathized with Donna. It seemed sad—given how Max and Andrew owed her so much—that as soon as she saw herself from the outside she felt ashamed, like the shame had snaked its way into her and there was no escaping.”

“A lot of people move around in life chronically ashamed of how they look, or how they feel, or what they said, or what they did. It’s like a permanent adolescent concern. Adolescence is when you’re permanently concerned about what other people think of you.” It was a few months earlier, and Brad Blanton and I were talking on Skype. He was telling me about how, as a psychotherapist, he had come to understand how so many of us “live our lives constantly in fear of being exposed or being judged as immoral or not good enough.”

“All of the shamers had themselves come from a place of shame, and it really felt parochial and self-defeating to instinctively slap shame onto shame like a clumsy builder covering cracks. “

Shaming others can bring out our own brutality

“ The common assumption is that public punishments died out in the new great metropolises because they’d been judged useless. Everyone was too busy being industrious to bother to trail some transgressor through the city crowds like some volunteer scarlet letter. But according to the documents I found, that wasn’t it at all. They didn’t fizzle out because they were ineffective. They were stopped because they were far too brutal. “

“I wondered: When shaming takes on a disproportionate significance within an august institution, when it entrenches itself over generations, what are the consequences? What does it do to the participants?”

“ I assumed that by lunchtime John would move away from shaming familiarization to other types of courtroom familiarization. But, really, that never happened. It turned out that shaming was such an integral part of the judicial process that the day was pretty much all about it. “

“Matthew’s role-play lasted fifteen minutes. His face turned as crimson as a rusted cargo container as he mumbled about corroded coils. His mouth was dry, his voice trembling. He was a wreck. He’s weak, I felt myself think. He’s just so weak. Then I caught myself. Judging someone on how flustered he behaves in the face of a shaming is a truly strange and arbitrary way of forming an opinion on him.”

“ it’s odd that so many of us see shaming how free-market libertarians see capitalism, as a beautiful beast that must be allowed to run free. “

“ But The Crowd was more than a polemic. Like Jonah Lehrer, LeBon knew that a popular-science book needed a self-improvement message to become successful. And LeBon had two. His first was that we really didn’t need to worry ourselves about whether mass revolutionary movements like communism and feminism had a moral reason for existing. They didn’t. They were just madness. So it was fine for us to stop worrying about that.”

“ ” Was he right? It felt like a question that really needed answering because it didn’t seem to be crossing any of our minds to wonder whether the person we had just shamed was okay or in ruins. I suppose that when shamings are delivered like remotely administered drone strikes nobody needs to think about how ferocious our collective power might be. The snowflake never needs to feel responsible for the avalanche. “

“Judge Ted Poe’s critics—like the civil rights group the ACLU—argued to him the dangers of these ostentatious punishments, especially those that were carried out in public. They said it was no coincidence that public shaming had enjoyed such a renaissance in Mao’s China and Hitler’s Germany and the Ku Klux Klan’s America—it destroys souls, brutalizing everyone, the onlookers included, dehumanizing them as much as the person being shamed.“

“It feels like they want an apology, but it’s a lie. […] It’s a lie because they don’t want an apology,” he said. “An apology is supposed to be a communion—a coming together. For someone to make an apology, someone has to be listening. They listen and you speak and there’s an exchange. That’s why we have a thing about accepting apologies. There’s a power exchange that happens. But they don’t want an apology. […] What they want is my destruction. What they want is for me to die. They will never say this because it’s too histrionic. But they never want to hear from me again for the rest of my life, and while they’re never hearing from me, they have the right to use me as a cultural reference point whenever it services their ends. That’s how it would work out best for them. They would like me to never speak again. […] I’d never had the opportunity to be the object of hate before. The hard part isn’t the hate. It’s the object.”

“ But I didn’t think any of those things were true. If punching Justine Sacco was ever punching up—and it didn’t seem so to me given that she was an unknown PR woman with 170 Twitter followers—the punching only intensified as she plummeted to the ground. Punching Jonah Lehrer wasn’t punching up either—not when he was begging for forgiveness in front of that giant-screen Twitter feed. “

This was especially true, he told me, because the onlookers had been so nice. He’d feared abuse and ridicule. But no. “Ninety percent of the responses on the street were ‘God bless you’ and ‘Things will be okay,’” he said. Their kindness meant everything, he said. It made it all right. It set him on his path to salvation. “Social media shamings are worse than your shamings,” I suddenly said to Ted Poe. He looked taken aback. “They are worse,” he replied. “They’re anonymous.” “Or even if they’re not anonymous, it’s such a pile-on they may as well be,” I said. “They’re brutal,” he said. I suddenly became aware that throughout our conversation I’d been using the word they. And each time I did, it felt like I was being spineless. The fact was, they weren’t brutal. We were brutal.

“The justice system in the West has a lot of problems,” Poe said, “but at least there are rules. You have basic rights as the accused. You have your day in court. You don’t have any rights when you’re accused on the Internet. And the consequences are worse. It’s worldwide forever.”

“You turn around and you suddenly realize you’re the head of a pitchfork mob,” Michael said. “And it’s ‘What are these people fucking doing here? Why are they acting like heathens? I don’t want to be associated with this at all. I want to get out of here.’” “It was horrible,” I said. “All this time I’d been thinking we were in the middle of some kind of idealistic reimagining of the justice system. But those people were so cold.” The response to Jonah’s apology had been brutal and confusing to me. It felt as if the people on Twitter had been invited to be characters in a courtroom drama, and had been allowed to choose their roles, and had all gone for the part of the hanging judge. Or it was even worse than that. They all had gone for the part of the people in the lithographs being ribald at whippings. “I’m watching people stabbing and stabbing and stabbing Jonah,” Michael said, “and I’m, ‘HE’S DEAD.’”

Shame leads to dehumanization and “death of the soul”

“People really were very keen to imagine Jonah as shameless, as lacking in that quality, like he was something not quite human that had adopted human form. I suppose it’s no surprise that we feel the need to dehumanize the people we hurt—before, during, or after the hurting occurs. But it always comes as a surprise. In psychology it’s known as cognitive dissonance. It’s the idea that it feels stressful and painful for us to hold two contradictory ideas at the same time (like the idea that we’re kind people and the idea that we’ve just destroyed someone). And so to ease the pain we create illusory ways to justify our contradictory behavior.”

“Stop and Frisk: The Human Impact.” Several interviewees said that being stopped and frisked makes you “feel degraded and humiliated.” One went on to say: “When they stop you in the street, and then everybody’s looking … it does degrade you. And then people get the wrong perception of you. That kind of colors people’s thoughts toward you, [people] might start thinking that you’re into some illegal activity, when you’re not. Just because the police [are] just stopping you for—just randomly. That’s humiliating [on] its own.” … [Another said,] “It made me feel violated, humiliated, harassed, shameful, and of course very scared.”

“A shaming can be like a distorting mirror at a funfair, taking human nature and making it look monstrous. “

“ I suddenly remembered how weirdly tarnished I felt when the spambot men created their fake Jon Ronson, getting my character traits all wrong, turning me into some horrific, garrulous foodie, and strangers believed it was me, and there was nothing I could do. “

“I’d been taught that psychopaths had just been born that way,” he said, “and that they’d only want to manipulate you so you’d get them a reduced sentence.” He pictured them like they were another species. […] “The men would all say that they had died,” Gilligan said. “These were the most incorrigibly violent characters. They would all say that they themselves had died before they started killing other people. What they meant was that their personalities had died. They felt dead inside. They had no capacity for feelings. No emotional feelings. Or even physical feelings. So some would cut themselves. Or they would mutilate themselves in the most horrible ways. Not because they felt guilty—this wasn’t a penance for their sins—but because they wanted to see if they had feelings. They found their inner numbness more tormenting than even the physical pain would be.”

“These men’s souls did not just die. They have dead souls because their souls were murdered. How did it happen? How were they murdered?”

“The way we construct consciousness is to tell the story of ourselves to ourselves, the story of who we believe we are. I feel that a really public shaming or humiliation is a conflict between the person trying to write his own narrative and society trying to write a different narrative for the person. One story tries to overwrite the other. And so to survive you have to own your story. Or”—Mike looked at me—“you write a third story. You react to the narrative that’s been forced upon you.” He paused. “You have to find a way to disrespect the other narrative,” he said. “If you believe it, it will crush you.”

“I’d been thinking about a message that had appeared on the giant Twitter feed behind Jonah’s head: “He is tainted as a writer forever.” And a tweet directed at Justine Sacco: “Your tweet lives on forever.” The word forever had been coming up a lot during my two years among the publicly shamed. Jonah and Justine and people like them were being told, “No. There is no door. There is no way back in. We don’t offer any forgiveness.” But we know that people are complicated and have a mixture of flaws and talents and sins. So why do we pretend that we don’t? Amid all the agony, Jim McGreevey was trying an extraordinary thing.

“We kept walking—past inmates just sitting there, looking at walls. “Normal prison is punishment in the worst sense,” Jim told me. “It’s like a soul-bleeding. Day in, day out, people find themselves doing virtually nothing in a very negative environment.” I thought of Lindsey Stone, just sitting at her kitchen table for almost a year, staring at the online shamings of people just like her. “People move away from themselves,” Jim said. “Inmates tell me time and again that they feel themselves shutting down, building a wall.”

“I remembered a moment from Jonah Lehrer’s annihilation. It was when he was standing in front of that giant-screen Twitter feed trying to apologize. Jonah is the sort of person who finds displays of emotion extremely embarrassing, and he then looked deeply uncomfortable. “I hope that when I tell my young daughter the same story I’ve just told you,” he was saying, “I will be a better person …” “He is tainted as a writer forever,” replied the tweets. “He has not proven that he is capable of feeling shame.” “Jonah Lehrer is a friggin’ sociopath.” — Later, when Jonah and I talked about that moment, he told me he had to “turn off some emotional switch in me. I think I had to shut down.”

“It’s shameful to have to admit you feel ashamed. By the way, we’re saying the word feeling. The feeling of shame. I think feeling is the wrong word.” It may be somewhat paradoxical to refer to shame as a “feeling,” for while shame is initially painful, constant shaming leads to a deadening of feeling. Shame, like cold, is, in essence, the absence of warmth. And when it reaches overwhelming intensity, shame is experienced, like cold, as a feeling of numbness and deadness. [In Dante’s Inferno] the lowest circle of hell was a region not of flames, but of ice—absolute coldness.”

“Given all of this, you’d think LeBon’s work might have at some point stopped being influential. But it never did. I suppose one reason for his enduring success is that we tend to love nothing more than to declare other people insane.”

Shame leads to violence

[on an interview of random americans, finding that the majority of people have at some point entertained vengeance fantasies.] “Almost none of the murderous fantasies were dreamed up in response to actual danger—stalker ex-boyfriends, etc. They were all about the horror of humiliation. Brad Blanton was right. Shame internalized can lead to agony. It can lead to Jonah Lehrer. Whereas shame let out can lead to freedom, or at least to a funny story, which is a sort of freedom too.”

“Universal among the violent criminals was the fact that they were keeping a secret,” Gilligan wrote. “A central secret. And that secret was that they felt ashamed—deeply ashamed, chronically ashamed, acutely ashamed.” It was shame, every time. “I have yet to see a serious act of violence that was not provoked by the experience of feeling shamed or humiliated, disrespected and ridiculed.” […] For each of them the shaming “occurred on a scale so extreme, so bizarre, and so frequent that one cannot fail to see that the men who occupy the extreme end of the continuum of violent behavior in adulthood occupied an equally extreme end of the continuum of violent child abuse earlier in life.” So they grew up and—“all violence being a person’s attempt to replace shame with self-esteem”—they murdered people.

“And after they were jailed, things only got worse. At Walpole—Massachusetts’s most riot-prone prison during the 1970s—officers intentionally flooded the cells and put insects in the prisoners’ food. They forced inmates to lie facedown before they were allowed meals. Sometimes officers would tell prisoners they had a visitor. Prisoners almost never had visitors, so this was exciting to hear. Then the officer would say that the prisoner didn’t really have a visitor and that he was just kidding. And so on. “They thought these things would be how to get them to obey,” Gilligan told me. “But it did the exact opposite. It stimulated violence.”

Technology has strange warping effects on how public shaming affects us (and social media shaming can have larger and longer impacts than we expect)

“According to Google’s own research into our “eye movements,” 53 percent of us don’t go beyond the first two search results, and 89 percent don’t look down past the first page. “What the first page looks like,” Michael’s strategist, Jered Higgins, told me during my tour of their offices, “determines what people think of you.” As a writer and journalist—as well as a father and human being—this struck me as a really horrifying way of knowing the world.”

“ What had begun as a schadenfreude-motivated Phineas Upham Google alert had led Graeme into the mysterious world of “black-ops reputation management.” The purpose of the fake sites was obvious—to push reports about the tax-evasion charges so far down the search results that they’d effectively vanish. Nobody had heard of the European Court of Justice’s “Right to Be Forgotten” ruling at that point—it was still two years from existing—but somebody was evidently fashioning some clumsy homemade U.S.-based version for Phineas Upham. “

“ I told my dining companion, Michael Fertik, that he was the only person from the mysterious reputation-management world who had returned my e-mail. “That’s because this is a really easy sector in which to be an unappealing, scurrilous operation,” he said. “Scurrilous in what way?” “A couple of them are really nasty fucking people,” Michael said. “There’s a guy who has some traction in our space, who runs a company, he’s a convicted rapist. He’s a felony rapist. He went to jail for four years for raping a woman. He started a company to basically obscure that fact about himself, I think.” Michael told me the name of the man’s company. “We’ve built a data file on him,” he said. “

“Man, remember Justine Sacco? #HasJustineLandedYet. God that was awesome. MILLIONS of people waiting for her to land.”

“ And so the worst thing, Justine said, the thing that made her feel most helpless, was her lack of control over the Google search results. They were just there, eternal, crushing. “It’s going to take a very long time for those Google search results to change for me,” she said.

“and, in response to a small number of posters suggesting that maybe a person’s future shouldn’t be ruined because of a jokey photograph, “HER FUTURE ISN’T RUINED! Stop trying to make her into a martyr. In 6 months no one except those that actually know her will remember this.” [did not turn out to be true.]

There is evidence that “De-shaming” may have more positive outcomes than shaming

“Knee-jerk shaming is knee-jerk shaming and I wondered what would happen if we made a point of eschewing the shaming completely—if we refused to shame anyone. Could there be a corner of the justice system trying out an idea like that?”

“If shaming worked, if prison worked, then it would work,” Jim said to me. “But it doesn’t work.” He paused. “Look, some people need to go to prison forever. Some people are incapable … but most people …” “It’s disorienting,” I said, “that the line between hell and redemption in the U.S. justice system is so fine.”

“This has been a book about people who really didn’t do very much wrong. Justine and Lindsey, certainly, were destroyed for nothing more than telling bad jokes. And while we were busy steadfastly refusing them forgiveness, Jim was quietly arranging the salvation of someone who had committed a far more serious offense. It struck me that if deshaming would work for a maelstrom like Raquel, if it would restore someone like her to health, then we need to think twice about raining down vengeance and anger as our default position.”

“Throughout the 1980s, Gilligan ran experimental therapeutic communities inside Massachusetts’s prisons. They weren’t especially radical. They were just about “treating the prisoners with respect,” Gilligan told me, “giving people a chance to express their grievances and hopes and wishes and fears.” The point was to create an ambience that eradicated shame entirely. “We had one psychiatrist who referred to the inmates as scum. I told him I never wanted to see his face again. It was not only antitherapeutic for the patients, it was dangerous for us.” At first, the prison officers had been suspicious, “but eventually some of them began to envy the prisoners,” Gilligan said. “Many of them also needed some psychiatric help. These were poorly paid guys, poorly educated. We arranged to get some of them into psychiatric treatment. So they became less insulting and domineering. And violence dropped astoundingly.” […] “[The new governor] said, ‘We have to stop this idea of giving free college education to inmates,’” Gilligan told me, “‘otherwise people who are too poor to go to college are going to start committing crimes so they can get sent to prison for a free education.’” And so that was the end of the education program. [..] Only a handful of therapeutic communities inspired by his Massachusetts ones exist in American prisons today.

#shame #curlicue has opinions #shunning #purity culture #redemption #rehabilitation #1k

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gyrlversion · 5 years ago

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Cory Booker Unveils Plan To Free Thousands Of Federal Prisoners

Sen. Cory Booker’s (D-N.J.) presidential campaign on Thursday unveiled a plan that would grant clemency and early release to thousands of federal drug offenders “serving unjust and excessive sentences.”

Under the plan, Booker would “initiate” the clemency process for roughly 17,000 federal prisoners on his first day in office and set up a bipartisan panel that would “operate with a presumption of a recommendation of clemency,” though screen out certain individuals who may “pose a threat to public safety” based on the details of their cases or their prison history.

Booker’s plan, the Restoring Justice Initiative, focuses on three categories of prisoners: those serving primarily for marijuana charges; those who would have had shorter sentences if they were sentenced after the passage of the First Step Act, a law signed by President Donald Trump that offers some limited prison reforms and gives federal prisoners a chance to earn more days off for good behavior each year; and those who have longer sentences due to the sentencing disparity between crack and powder cocaine.

“The War on Drugs has been a war on people, tearing families apart, ruining lives, and disproportionately affecting people of color and low-income individuals — all without making us safer,” Booker said in a statement. “As president, I will act immediately to right these wrongs, starting by initiating a clemency process for thousands of nonviolent drug offenders who have been handed unjust sentences by their government.”

President Barack Obama commuted the sentences of more than 1,700 federal prisoners over the course of his presidency. But Obama’s clemency initiative, which worked through the Justice Department’s Office of the Pardon Attorney, faced some bureaucratic hurdles that blunted its impact. Booker’s plan includes the formation of an executive clemency panel, which is intended to “revamp and streamline the clemency process.” That panel, set up by the Office of the White House Counsel, would largely remove DOJ’s Office of the Pardon Attorney from the process.

Congressional Quarterly via Getty Images

Sen. Cory Booker unveiled a plan Thursday that would grant clemency and early release to thousands of federal drug offenders “serving unjust and excessive sentences.”

The Restorative Justice Initiative is the latest of Booker’s criminal justice reform policies. Last year, he sponsored the First Step Act, which passed the Senate in 2018 on a vote of 87-12. In March, Booker introduced the Next Step Act, which tackles police violence and racial profiling, reintegration for former prisoners and sentencing disparities.

For Booker, one of three black senators, the issue of criminal justice reform is personal. In an interview with BlacKkKlansman director Spike Lee last fall, Booker talked about his own experience being racially profiled while he was a student at Stanford University.

“I remember at Stanford just being pulled over surrounded by numerous cops all around my car, screaming at me,” he said.

“And then after it was all over, sitting there sort of holding my steering wheel, shaking, worrying that I was going to get … God knows what — anywhere from arrested to shot,” he added. “I remember taking my hand off the steering wheel once to scratch my head, or something like that, and just getting screamed at.”

Trump has used clemency in a much more limited capacity than his predecessor, often using the power when celebrities lobby him to do so or based on segments he has seen on Fox News. His pardons have also circumvented the traditional process through the Justice Department.

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addictionfreedom · 6 years ago

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Dual Diagnosis Treatment Models

Contents

Faster breast cancer

National practice guideline

Motivational enhancement therapy

Treating patients suffering

Years. patients previously required

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knownshippable · 8 years ago

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Philip Zimbardo’s PLAYERUNKNOWN’S Murder Island

Before I know it, I’m airborne. The cargo plane glides on above me, spewing avatars from its tail-end at an alarming rate. As I look around, I see a cluster of buildings off to my right, so I point my character towards them and go into a sharp dive, hoping to be the first to hit the ground, and hoping the buildings are passed over for more obvious targets. My parachute opens. I look around, and much to my dismay, see a parachute already below me. I curse.

He hits the ground before my character does, on the opposite side of a moderately sized, two story house, so the second I touch down, I dash for the front door, it flies open, and I freeze. He’s standing there. In his right hand, I see a dark shape, contrasted by the light of the open doorway behind him. He freezes too, but for a second less. I see his gun raise. It levels at me. He fires, twice. I’m hit, but already running for a room hoping to find anything. A weapon, a flak vest, a frying pan.

Yes, a gun!

He’s in the door as I grab it, and before I can move, he fires twice. I’m hit.

Silence as the now-familiar text appears on screen.

#82/95. Better luck next time!

That's PLAYERUNKNOWN’s Battlegrounds, distilled down; loud, brutal and usually short. It's a third/first person competitive survival shooter in name only, since you're really only “surviving” other people.

L’enfer, c’est les autres.

The formula isn’t anything new: the eponymous PLAYERUNKNOWN was behind the Arma mod, which is exactly this game. Others have also attempted the formula, but this is the first attempt that has seen any sort of groundswell outside of survival game circles.

For the uninitiated: Players skydive onto an abandoned island bristling with ruined buildings containing weaponry (and weapon mods), armor, vehicles, and Red Bull with one goal: don't die.

This, in practice, is much easier said than done.

Airstrikes on random parts of the map are a regular occurrence, other players can be lying in wait anywhere, and if that wasn’t enough, every few minutes, an ominous blue wall of electricity contracts ever inward, draining health every second you aren't inside it. Last one alive wins.

It’s about ninety percent, Battle Royale, minus the bomb collars, and minus Beat Takeshi (which is a major point against the game).

Battlegrounds is by no means the best game this year. Given how strong a year it’s been already, that might not be much of a surprise. Like any early access game, it boasts a farmer’s crop of technical issues and suffers from a severe lack of polish. But despite itself, I can’t stop playing it. More than anything else this year, it changes me into a different person every time I play, and I can’t get enough.

Playing it is nothing like it sounds on paper. If it sounds fairly run of the mill, it’s not. There’s something indescribable about being holed up in some run-down house, hearing footsteps outside just knowing that someone is going to roll through the door to your left at any second.

An inability to find a good weapon is part of it, but the sound design lends credence to the tension here.

Gravel crunching under footfalls, doors opening inside houses, or the sound of distant gunfire like thunder, rolling towards me as I cower inside an attic, listening to the constant drone of flies around me.

There is a sort of weight to every encounter. I still remember my first kill, cringing as the sharp crack of my shotgun echoed through my headphones, my would-be attacker crumpling at my feet like a puppet with its strings cut.

A game you can write stories about doesn’t come along every day. There’s a certain quality to clockwork systems when everything suddenly falls into place and just works.

But what's amazing is that it all gets easier.

By my fifth or sixth match, I'm waiting patiently in a house and cooly unload a dozen rounds through a ruined wall as someone peeks their head in.

I’m lining up headshots, and firing on instinct. Without a thought, I’m stealing a car as someone gets out to try and find me, and as I pull away, I see the two crossbow bolts I fired at its original owner sticking out of the trunk.

Yet in real life I'm not remotely a violent person. I’m not even that big on survival games. That’s not to say that I’m being desensitized to real violence.

But maybe there’s some truth to Zimbardo’s Stanford Prison Experiment.

Or maybe there’s just something here that makes people want to tell a story.

#video games #battlegrounds #survival #playerunknownsbattlegrounds

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deniscollins · 6 years ago

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Free Cash to Fight Income Inequality? California City Is First in U.S. to Try

In Stockton, CA, one in four adults lives in poverty. If you were responsible for a government program that provides income subsidies to qualified applicants, would you: (1) stipulate how money must be spent as is usually done or (2) deliver regular payments of $500 a month without restrictions so that rather than filling out forms and waiting to see case workers, people can devote their effort to looking for work, gaining skills or spending time with their children? Why? What are the ethics underlying your decision?

This town in California’s Central Valley has long functioned as a display case for wrenching troubles afflicting American life: The housing bust that turned Stockton into an epicenter of a national foreclosure disaster and plunged the city into bankruptcy. The homeless people clustered in tents along the railroad tracks. Boarded-up storefronts on cracked sidewalks. Gang violence.

Now, Stockton hopes to make itself an exhibition ground for elevated fortunes through a simple yet unorthodox experiment. It is readying plans to deliver $500 a month in donated cash to perhaps 100 local families, no strings attached. The trial could start as soon as the fall and continue for about two years.

As the first American city to test so-called universal basic income, Stockton will watch what happens next. So will governments and social scientists around the world as they explore how to share the bounty of capitalism more broadly at a time of rising economic inequality.

Will single mothers use their cash to pay for child care so they can attend college? Will people confronting choices between buying school supplies or paying their electric bills gain a measure of security? Will families add healthier food to their diets?

Basic income is a term that gets thrown around loosely, but the gist is that the government distributes cash universally. As the logic runs, if everyone gets money — rich and poor, the employed and the jobless — it removes the stigma of traditional welfare schemes while ensuring sustenance for all.

That a city in California has made itself a venue for the idea seems no accident. The state has long tried fresh approaches to governance. Ahead of the state’s political primaries in June, much of the conversation has centered on concerns about economic inequality.

The concept of basic income has been gaining adherents from Europe to Africa to North America as a potential stabilizer in the face of a populist insurrection tearing at the post-World War II liberal economic order. It is being embraced by social thinkers seeking to reimagine capitalism to more justly distribute its gains, and by technologists concerned about the job-destroying power of their creations.

In various guises, the idea has captivated activists and intellectuals for centuries. In the 1500s, Thomas More’s novel “Utopia” advanced the suggestion that thieves would be better deterred by public assistance than fear of a death sentence.

In more modern times, Milton Friedman, darling of laissez-faire economics, embraced the idea of negative income taxes that put cash in the hands of the poorest people. The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. advocated “the guaranteed income.”

Dr. King’s legacy has currency in Stockton, which is now led by a history-making mayor, Michael Tubbs. At 27, he is the youngest mayor of a sizable American city, and the first African-American to hold the job here.

Mr. Tubbs grew up in South Stockton, where payday lenders and pawn shops exploit the desperation of working poor people. His father was in prison for gang-related crime. His mother worked in medical customer service and struggled to pay bills, relying on welfare and food stamps.

His mother kept him inside, his nose in his school books, fearful of the pitfalls beyond the door.

He recalls standing at the mailbox tearing open a college acceptance letter while police cars massed down the block, lights flashing, as a neighbor’s son was arrested for dealing drugs.

Many of the adults around him were juggling multiple jobs, yet still living under the tyranny of unpaid bills.

“People were working themselves to death,” Mr. Tubbs said. “Not working to live a good life, but working just to survive.”

He enrolled at Stanford University. In his high school yearbook, friends scribbled congratulations for his having “made it from here.”

He was an intern in President Barack Obama’s White House. After graduating from college in 2012, he taught ethnic studies, government and society at a charter high school while serving on the Stockton City Council.

On the same day that President Trump was elected, voters in this city of 300,000 people put Mr. Tubbs in charge.

Working but Struggling

Forged as a supply hub during the Gold Rush of the 19th century, Stockton evolved into a center for migrant workers who toil in the fruit and vegetable farms of California’s Central Valley.

By the new millennium, it had become a bedroom community offering affordable homes for people who worked in unaffordable places like San Francisco and Silicon Valley, as far as two hours away.

The crash in housing prices played out savagely here. The local unemployment rate reached 19 percent in early 2011. Stockton descended into bankruptcy.

As Mr. Tubbs took office, nearly one in four local residents was officially poor. The median household income was about $46,000 — roughly one-fourth below the national level. Only 17 percent of adults 25 and older had graduated from college. People were perpetually vulnerable to mundane calamities like auto troubles that kept them from getting to work.

“Poverty is the biggest issue,” the mayor said. “Everything we deal with stems from that. There’s so many people working incredibly hard, and if life happens, there’s no bottom.”

Once he took office, his staff recommended basic income as a potential means of attacking poverty, one that was starting to gain traction around the world.

In contrast to government programs that stipulate how money must be spent, basic income is supposed to deliver regular payments without restrictions. It amounts to a bet that poor people know the most appropriate use for a dollar better than bureaucrats. Rather than filling out forms and waiting to see case workers, people can devote their effort to looking for work, gaining skills or spending time with their children.

On the other side of the world, Finland was starting a pilot project. Just down the freeway in Oakland, the start-up incubator, Y Combinator, was conducting a trial. The Canadian province of Ontario was preparing for an experiment. A nonprofit organization, GiveDirectly, was giving cash grants to poor people in rural Kenya.

All of these trials confronted various forms of skepticism, bringing warnings that unconditional cash would replace paychecks with the dole. Finland recently opted not to expand its basic income experiment.

In the United States, a program supplying $10,000 a year to every American would cost $3 trillion. Even some proponents of expanding the social safety net oppose the idea, fearing it would siphon money away from existing programs.

Still, as the traditional promise of work breaks down, unconventional ideas are emerging from the political margins to gain a serious airing.

At a conference in San Francisco last spring, Mr. Tubbs was introduced to Natalie Foster, a co-founder of the Economic Security Project, an advocacy group formed to advance the concept of universal basic income. The project included Chris Hughes, a Facebook co-founder.

Within the Silicon Valley crowd, basic income had become a fashionable idea for addressing collective angst over the social consequences of technology. The masters of innovation were becoming stupendously rich via creations poised to make working people poor, replacing human labor with robots. Basic income was posited as compensation.

The Economic Security Project was keen to demonstrate another aspect of basic income — its potential to help communities facing problems in the here and now. It was shopping for a city that could serve as staging ground.

“It’s important that people see this as possible,” Ms. Foster said. “Cities are laboratories of democracy.”

Stockton was diverse, with more than 40 percent of its residents Hispanic, some 20 percent Asian, and 14 percent African-American. More than half of the working-age people in surrounding San Joaquin County earned the minimum wage. The city was in the hands of a social media-savvy mayor who could help spread the word.

Ms. Foster’s group agreed to deliver $1 million for a new project — SEED, for Stockton Economic Empowerment Demonstration.

The sum was nowhere near enough to finance universal anything. It would not cover the basics of any critical need.

Still, it could produce a glimpse of what a guaranteed cash program might look like.

The city commissioned artists to paint murals in the center of town, celebrating basic income as the next phase of the civil rights struggle advanced by Dr. King.

Who Deserves A Hand?

As city leaders formulate the details of the project, they are wrestling with a foundational question: Are they running a legitimate social science experiment, or engineering a demonstration of basic income’s virtues?

The answer directs how they distribute the cash.

If it is primarily a display, then only the most responsible people should be given cash. But if it is about science, the money must be dispensed more randomly, with the likelihood that some people will waste it on drugs.

At a meeting at City Hall, the SEED project manager Lori Ospina urged that the program be designed to yield valid scientific data. That involves choosing participants on the basis of narrow demographic criteria — perhaps their age, their race, their income.

But that approach could expose the city to charges that the program is not inclusive enough. “The trolls I’ve been dealing with on social media and in real life have very racialized views of how this is going to work,” Mr. Tubbs said. “As the first black mayor of this city, it would be very dangerous if the only people to get this were black.”

He wants to select participants who are most likely to spend their money wisely, generating stories of working poor people lifted by extra cash.

People like Shay Holliman.

As a child, her mother was incarcerated. She was raised by her grandmother, along with nine other children. They crammed into apartments full of cockroaches, moving from state to state to stay ahead of the bill collectors.

She had a baby. She worked at McDonald’s, but she lacked reliable child care, making the job impossible. She could not pay rent on her $600 a month welfare check.

One night, she found herself walking the Stockton streets, her infant daughter in a carrier against her chest, pulling two suitcases full of everything she owned.

Taking shelter with a sister consumed by drug addiction, she fell into a vortex of violence. She served 11 years in prison for killing a man who she said had attacked her sister.

She emerged with a problem that confronts many people in Stockton: She was eager to work, yet she was vulnerable to criminal background checks that deny jobs to convicted felons.

She worked inside commercial freezers and as a driver. Recently, she took a job at a nonprofit that helps people released from prison set up lives on the outside.

“I’m finally living my dream,” she said.

In some quarters, the basic income experiment has provoked talk that free money will prompt people to ditch work.

“Oh, my,” said Ms. Holliman, who still carries credit card debt of more than $500 and does not earn enough money to regularly buy fresh fruit. “When you’re struggling, you’re going to rush and pay your bills.”

Stockton’s trial is meant to deliver examples of that sentiment, challenging the notion that people needing help have not tried hard enough.

“It’s about changing the narrative around who’s deserving,” the mayor said.

#Income Inequality #Basic Income #Stockton

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slackerfilm-blog · 7 years ago

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Philosophy in Film Journal

Crime and Punishment

As we began to explore the topic of crime and punishment, I was incredibly interested in Ethan Nadelmann’s TED Talk about his argument against the war on drugs. Nadelmann’s argument makes the case that we need to end the war on drugs now and that we must find a way to live with drug use where it causes the least amount of harm to society, while in some cases it might even result in benefits. I agree with Nadelmann and believe the war on drugs has had mainly negative effects on society and we should decriminalize all drugs. Some of these consequences range from murder and chaos in Central America to the global black market being estimated at 300 billion dollars. Like Nadelmann states, there has most likely never been a completely drug free society in history and drugs are used in all sorts of ways from treating pain to even religious purposes. Instead of focusing on this idea of absolutely abolishing drugs from society through criminalization and law enforcement, we should be focusing on bettering society through healthcare and trying to have a positive relationship with drugs.

Another major aspect of Nadelmann’s argument that agree with is that discrimination is why some drugs are legal and others are not. Nadelmann explains that illegal drugs are usually associated with minorities, while legal drugs are usually perceived to be used by the white population. One example that Nadelmann incorporates into his speech is in the late 19th century the principal consumer of opiates in America were white middle aged women. But as Chinese immigration continued, the Chinese populace began to be associated with this drug and the first drug prohibition laws began to arise in the West. One other aspect is the example of White versus African American cocaine use. While the White community tends to use powdered cocaine and African Americans tend to use crack cocaine, the incarnation and sentencing rate is not close to equal. African Americans tend to on average received more time for smoking crack cocaine than Whites do for sniffing powdered cocaine. These examples of racism and drug laws are great representations of a huge issue with the war on drugs.

The war on drugs in its current state is not only an economically feasible way to deal with this societal problem but also is a hazard to public safety. Drugs themselves are a global commodities market and this is not going to be changed anytime soon. At the moment, the war on drugs is mostly concerned with supporting incarnation, law enforcement and criminalization. If this approach was changed into putting a majority of the funding into regulating and research of these criminalized drugs this would not only generate revenue it would also cut down on crime, the black markets and public safety. Portugal for example nobody goes to jail for possessing drugs and the government has treated addiction as a disease issue. While in countries like Britain and Germany Heroin addicts can get pharmaceutical heroin to help them. In these countries, crime, incarnation, overdoses decrease, while general health and wellness increase and taxpayers money so more helpful services. Controlling and regulating the markets would not only be a benefit economically but also would cut down the crime that surrounds the global black markets of drugs.

Free Will, Fatalism, and Science

While we began our discussion on Free Will, we looked over a number of scientific experiments in neuroscience, psychology, and the social sciences that purportedly suggest that free will does not exist. The one that stood out to me the most was The Stanford Prison Experiment. This experiment put on psychologist Philip Zimbardo, choose a select group of volunteers to play the roles of guards and prisoners.

To begin the experiment Zimbardo chose the most stable individuals who volunteered which already makes the results intriguing. The volunteers who were chosen to be the guards exceeded Zimbardo’s expectations and transformed into authoritarian figures. The guards psychologically abused the prisoners throughout the length of the experiment. It is very interesting how given a situation where these volunteers have all the power and a uniform they could take on these power crazed personas. While the experiment even took a toll on Zimbardo as well. He took the role of the superintendent of the prison and even though the guards were abusing the prisoners he let it go on. These ramifications from this experiment support the idea of Situationism. Situationism involves how people behave given the circumstances they are in. In this case the guards molded into their new positions power. Another instance that supports this argument was the awful torture that went on during the Iraq War in Abu Ghraib. In this extreme case American soldiers systematically tortured Iraqi prisoners through both psychological and physical avenues. Zimbardo himself became involved and The Stanford Prison Experiment was incorporated as a model to explain the horrendous events that occurred.

On the opposite side, the many of the volunteers who were chosen as prisoners gave into the abuse. To avoid further possible abuse they would just obey whatever the guards would say. Even if it was humiliating or degraded their fellow prisoners. The prisoners passiveness made their situation that much worse because the guards would push the abuse farther and farther each time. Like the guards, the prisoners embraced their roles in the situation and made a strong case for Situationism. With that being said, Situationism provides an argument that we do not have free will and our actions are merely a work of the circumstances we are in. Zimbardo's experiment supports that claim illustrating that even the most stable of the volunteers developed extreme personas due the situation they were put into.

Meaning of Life

For this section of the meaning of life, I was particularly interested in Cypher’s Choice and the thought experiment that results from it. Cypher is given a choice to either to stay in the real world or just live his life in the matrix as someone important (an actor) and he chooses the later with no recollection of his previous experiences. While on the other hand chooses the opposite to stay in reality. I personally believe I would choose the

same as Neo. I think life has more meaning through your own experiences, hardships and struggles. When I say that I mean real and genuine experiences not just the illusion of the veridical experiences you receive while inside the machine. Living your whole life in this ‘Experience Machine’ is not as authentic as living and having true and real experiences. It is especially not as meaningful if everything you experience in the machine is pleasant and enjoyable. To really understand and feel the human experience, I believe you have to go through both the negative and positive in life. Nozick’s quote “we want to do certain things, and not just have the experience of doing them” builds on this argument against the ‘Experience Machine’. I would way rather work hard as blue collar individual and just make it by, then live as a famous celebrity in the ‘Experience Machine’.

When it comes to the idea of whether or not we are aware that we are in the matrix, I believe it does and it does not. It is a tricky situation because for all we know we could be in the matrix right now and nothing I am writing is truly authentic. If it is the case that we have no idea we are in the matrix, then Cypher seems to sound more sensible “Ignorance is bliss”. Also if we are aware that none of this life is reality in the machine, that makes Cypher’s Choice even less authentic. Cypher wants to live in the Matrix even though he knows it is not reality, unlike the rest of his team. His quote while he is eating the steak with Agent Smith really emphasizes his point of view. Whether or not we are aware we are in the ‘Experience Machine’ makes the decision more problematic and adds another layer into this discussion.

Cypher’s Choice has a lot to do with authenticity. Sartre's quote “To be is to do.” really makes a strong statement about the human experience that I strongly agree with. Living your whole life from inside your mind without even accomplishing yourself makes everything you experience unauthentic and unreal. Even if the ‘Experience Machine’ is programmed for you to go through hardships or struggles and not just positive experiences that still does not make it anymore real. Even if you achieve way less then what you would have in your mind in the machine, at least your life would have been authentic. Adding to this, if you live through the ‘Experience Machine’ you forfeit your free will. Which is just another aspect of the authentic human experience that you lose if you make the same decision as Cypher.

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atinyglow · 7 years ago

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PUBG Mobile Hack - Get 99,999 Free Battle Points for Android/iOS 2018

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbo4bFm9qMA

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