#just straight up rich people propaganda i could not sit through it

[catastrophicgay]

has enough time passed for us to admit that red, white, & royal blue was the worst queer movie to come out this year

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Since we’re talking about Helm Hammerhand again in light of the latest War of the Rohirrim news, I’m gonna use the moment to unload my take (alluded to earlier this week) that Helm’s life and legend are a lot less heroic and a lot more ambiguous than they’re often treated.

The popular version of Helm is that he killed the troublemaking Dunlending upstart Freca with a single punch before leading his people through a combination war-famine-climate disaster and dying on their behalf as part of the effort. But that story misses a lot of the details and ignores the things that were very much Helm’s fault!

Let’s start with Freca. First of all, he was actually a Rohirrim, not a Dunlending. He claimed to descend from King Fréawine, and maybe you don’t believe him about that. Fair enough. But he both physically lived in Rohan – he had a stronghold near the Gap of Rohan – and was a member of Helm’s own royal council. So he was absolutely a citizen of Rohan, even if he perhaps had Dunlending heritage (as would many people who lived in the border area). 

Now, was Freca a jerk? It sounds like it! He was rich and influential and he “paid little heed” to Helm and only bothered to show up to councils when it suited him. Not great! And he eventually showed up to one such council “with many men” to seek Helm’s approval for a marriage between Helm’s daughter and Freca’s son, Wulf. All that suggests that Freca was an ambitious schemer who probably didn’t have good intentions and might have been an actual threat. But Helm’s reaction on that day was unhinged. He calls Freca fat, makes him sit around waiting before Helm will speak to him, “forces” Freca outside, sends Freca’s men away with the assurance that the two of them are just going to talk, then insults him again and sucker punches him to death before designating his entire family (“Who, us? We weren’t even there!”) as enemies of the kingdom. That seems…over the top?

Helm doesn’t have to like Freca’s proposal, but it wasn’t unreasonable — marriages of strategic alliance between powerful families are as old as time and often prudent. Helm could have just said no (though it would have been nice for him to check with his daughter because for all we know she was into Wulf!). Instead, he verbally and physically bullies Freca, lies to get him isolated and then straight up murders him. There’s no evidence this was necessary. Helm was on his home turf, surrounded by loyal men. Freca does nothing physically aggressive — he even waits as directed when Helm tells him to! — and he only gets verbally aggressive after Helm has already insulted him.

Helm could have played this much smarter and much calmer and avoided a whole lot of later heartbreak. Because when Rohan is invaded from the east 4 years later, guess who decides to take advantage of the moment to invade from the west? An army of Dunlendings led by Wulf! That results in Helm and the Rohirrim being holed up at the Hornburg for the Long Winter, where they all suffer grievously from war, famine and 5 months of snow and cold. Helm behaves admirably during this time, exhibiting courage and tenacity, and he suffers right alongside his people before dying in their defense. But he wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place if he hadn’t all but pushed Wulf into the Dunlendings arms by murdering his father and banishing the whole family. 

What I think ACTUALLY happened is that Helm was a total hothead who hated the fact that Freca had an independent power base and failed to show him enough respect as king. He was pissed off at the very idea that he’d have to make a concession to Freca’s power by uniting their families, and he probably felt threatened by the possibility that Freca or Wulf might usurp him at some point. So he committed cold blooded murder and then successfully ran a propaganda campaign to paint Freca and his whole family as foreigners to delegitimize them and excuse his own behavior. And as a result, he got a whole ton of good Rohirrim (including both of his own sons, Háma and Haleth!) killed during the horror of the Long Winter and ended up dead himself.

So I don’t know. That’s not very heroic! I’m open to having my mind changed. But he seems like he’s, at best, a MUCH more complicated figure than the Rohirrim remember him as. And, at worst, he’s kind of a dick.

[ilikewrite]

After - The Society FanFic Part 3

Sorry guys, this is going to be a long one! 

3.

Grizz wakes to the sound of a boiling kettle. For a split second, he believes he’s home. His mum is making her breakfast and that he’s late for school. Then reality comes flooding back as he’s greeted with the family photos of Cassandra and Allie hanging on the wall. His clothes are crumpled in a pile on the floor, whilst his blanket has been flung to the side. Clearly, he’d been tossing and turning all night. He sighs, unable to find the strength to sit up. He didn’t really remember falling asleep. He lay down and now he’s awake and it’s the next day.

He can hear the creaks throughout the house as others wake up and move about. Whoever is in the kitchen in shuffling their feet, closing cupboards as quietly as possible, making sure not to disturb anyone. It seems that no one else has left their rooms. What time was it? It’s daylight outside and with it being late in the year it must mean that it was quite late. He pats himself down, trying to find where he put his phone. Nothing. He scans the room and finds it on the coffee table. He debates the effort of reaching for it but knows that after yesterday, it’s probably best he check it. Sore and stiff, he grabs his phone and is immediately greeted with messages from The Guard and Harry. His stomach drops. The Guard were mostly welcoming him home, mentioning something to do with Campbell. The thought of that boy turns his stomach. How, after everything they knew about him, did they trust him? He notices Campbell’s name popping up in The Guards chat. He switches to Harry’s message, hoping it will lift his spirits. He knew it wouldn’t, and it didn’t. It was asking him and the others to come to meet them today to discuss the land they found. Grizz didn’t want to tell them shit. He went out under Allie’s plan. Allie had a plan for when they found land, these two didn’t. They’re going to feel in over their heads. In high school, Harry revealed in popularity, feeling important, being rich. He was nice enough, funny and liked to have a laugh but when it came to the world, he lived in a bubble. He liked to be the sun, the people around him are planets to him. When this world happened, Grizz knew he has struggled, struggled to understand that the rules from before do not apply the same here. The societal aspects of life that Harry had always enjoyed were thrown out the window. There was no time for it. Right now, it’s about survival and once we survive, we can thrive. Once we have a working community in place, Harry could go about trying to be a pompous twat again. Grizz ignored the message. He’ll get back to them later. He wants to see Allie, Will, Luke and… His heart skips a beat. Sam., He needs to see Sam. He doesn’t want to see Harry or Lexie until he’s spoken to everyone else. However, he knows that to get to some of these people he’ll have to see Lexie and Harry first. He groans.

Gwen pops up, head peering over the sofa staring down at him. He falls off the sofa. “Oh my god! I’m sorry!” Grizz sits up, rubbing his face. Gwen holds out a coffee. He takes it, purely to wake himself up a little. Gwen’s hair is slightly wet, she’s wearing a dressing gown that doesn’t quite fit her properly. Grizz hears the low hum of the washing machine. If he’d known a wash was going to be put on, he’d have given them his- “I put your other clothes in the wash, you should have something clean to wear today.” Oh. He smiles his appreciation. She moves to sit on the chair whilst Grizz slumps back onto the sofa. “So, what are we doing today?” The truth, Grizz didn’t know. He didn’t know what to tell her, or anyone else for that matter. However, he knew the others wanted to know his thoughts, wanted him to make this decision.

“Lexie and Harry want to meet to discuss the new land we’ve found.” Gwen nods, watching the steam from her coffee billow up into the air. It’s an uncomfortable thought having Lexie and Harry as the new Mayors. They’d grown used to Allie and her rules, but I guess, there had been Cassandra before as well. Grizz knew that had been different though. Allie had led the community for months and through so much more than what Cassandra had done. He hadn’t grown accustomed to Cassandra the way he had with Allie’s rule. Grizz was curious at Gwen’s uncomfortableness however, she wasn’t exactly Allie’s number one fan. He would have considered her to fall before Lexie rather than Allie. Gwen would be one of the ones he thought to love the change in the throne. Perhaps, it's due to the way they had entered the town yesterday. If it’d been less of a mob, with Allie and Will not in custody, maybe she would be more willing to be following Lexie. “Are you fine with what I said last night?” He cautious, neither of them are looking at each other. It’s obvious that the town essentially has two fractions. What they’re essentially doing right now is telling half-truths to protect themselves, to protect their own ideas. “You know, the plan of what we’ll tell people?” Gwen takes a moment, sipping the coffee silently before finally meeting Grizz’s gaze.

“Yes.” She pauses, contemplating her next sentence. “I think it’s the best option for now. The town doesn’t seem as stable as before.” Grizz nods in agreement. There was never comfortable stability in this town but the atmosphere in the air now is similar to that after the murder of Cassandra. It is unsettling. “Do you believe what they’re saying about Allie and Will?” She’s quiet, unsure of herself, of what she is saying. Grizz had to admit, he had no idea what they were saying about Allie and Will. He still had no idea what was going on.

The texts messages flash across his eyes and he picks his phone up again, Gwen raises an eyebrow. He scans through The Guard’s chat and see’s Luke’s message of Allie and Will being arrested for voter fraud. He laughs. Are they serious? Is Luke serious? Voter Fraud or not, the level of viciousness the crowd showed clearly suggested a more complex issue that Lexie and Harry were exploiting. Any idiot could see that. He passes, well, maybe not. Maybe because they’ve been away, their heads are clear of the propaganda that has happened during the election. Gwen’s watching him curiously, waiting for him to answer. He slumps, downing the coffee.

“No. I don’t believe it.” She nods and he continues. “She has made many difficult decisions, has helped establish some order, some sort of normal and made mistakes but I do not believe this.” He waves his hands about, frustrated with the community, his peers. “I think people don’t realise that no matter who is in charge, the hard work will continue, the hard work, confusion and life continues. Allie and Will were not the cause of that but Lexie and Harry are making them the scapegoats.” Gwen looks down, biting her lip. He gets it, she, like everyone else, have, at some point, been frustrated with the monotonous and prison-like feel of this place but that’s what needs to be done right now, that’s life now. They let themselves drift into silence for a bit. Gwen continues to sip her coffee, whilst Grizz plays with his now empty mug.

Helena enters the room, dressed, coat hanging off her shoulders. Her face is not pleased. She doesn’t bother to take her shoes or jacket off, instead strides towards Grizz. His eyebrows raise at the attitude emitting off her. “You all missed breakfast. A few of the workers who are not out of their minds are coming with any leftovers.” Both Gwen and Grizz stare, unable to give an answer, more seems to be going on with Helena but Grizz knows that she won’t share unless it’s on her terms. “Grizz, Harry said you haven’t messaged him back yet.” Grizz huffs, Helena rolls her eyes. “I know. But this is life now. We can’t help anyone if all our allies are behind bars.” Grizz shifts, uncomfortable at the thought. He doesn’t like the idea of being trapped. He wouldn’t be able to cope with such a thing; he wonders if Allie and Will feel the same. Grizz chucks his phone at Helena, she catches it with ease, he’s impressed.

“Tell them we’ll talk once I’ve seen Allie and Will. Alone.” It’s a bold move. He’s hoping their need for information is great enough he can speak to them, but Helena’s face hardens at his idea.

“Don’t be idiotic Grizz. That’s how we got here.” Not true. They came here on mystical busses that transported us to another plane of existence. Regardless, he knows Helena is right. Going straight in with a defensive attitude will lead to conflict. They need to play this smart, whether he has the patience for it or not.

“You know my thoughts. I said them last night. Tell them I’ll meet with them this afternoon. 3 o’clock.” He shrugs. He knows he wants to put this off for as long as possible to try and get his story straight but also so he can go to the hospital and see Sam. Since waking up, he’d put the thoughts of Sam to the back of his mind. It had been a constant hum in the back of his mind. When they first entered back into the town, he knew all he wanted to do was see Sam but that’s clearly not going to be so easy.

“3 is a bit late.” Helena is unsure as keeping them waiting all day will seem suspicious like he’s planning something but Grizz shoots her a look telling that on this, he will not compromise. “At least give me a reason for the time.”

“I’m visiting Sam, Becca and the baby. My group need to recuperate a little longer. Add what you like. You’re in charge of my phone now.” He didn’t mean to sound so demanding and exasperated but he was already done with all of the shit. It’s been six months of shit and just when things were on the up for him, this whole thing comes crashing down.

“I’m not your lackey. I have business at the church and my own responsibilities.” Yet she types the message, anyway and pockets his phone. “You’ve said you’ll be at the church at 3. I expect you to show up Grizz.” She walks to the kitchen, sorting through some stuff. Grizz glances over his shoulder and see’s the others have made their way down and were all relaxing. No one seemed happy but they certainly weren’t emitting the same energy as before. Grizz sighs, standing. He better get ready if he is planning on a trip to the hospital first. Gwen stands with him. He raises his eyebrows at her.

“I’m coming too. Moral support.” Grizz smiles and nods. It would probably be best. It’s going to be a long day.

*

Gwen and Grizz left the others in Helena’s care. They agreed to be as vague about the trip as possible and help Helena at the church until they knew what to do next. No one was happy but it was better than nothing.

Grizz is nervous. His stomach is swirling and his hear is beating faster than it had when he’d asked Sam to kiss him. Gwen has suggested they stop off at one of the shops to get a present. The town was eerily empty. Those they did meet greeted them but didn’t do much else. He got the sense that those who support Lexie knew that Grizz didn’t. There is a children’s shop that has lain empty and untouched for months. No one thought to go near it, there had been no reason too. They weren’t babies or children. But now there is a reason.

They picked up as much as they could fit into a rucksack. Once Becca and the baby were discharged, he imagines rules about commodities will start to be put in place. It’s not going to be long before currency is introduced into the town, but for now, they can raid this shop and give them enough for a good start.

Grizz didn’t hate Becca and he certainly didn’t hate the baby. If anything, he was jealous that they have Sam. He’s definitely got mixed feelings about everything. He likes Sam but this whole situation is complicated. He doesn’t understand how they could work things out. Sam has a baby. That changes everything. Regardless, Grizz knew that right now he wanted to see him. He knows things are different now and he doesn’t want to be some secret in Sam’s closet, so he’ll keep his distance after today. But for today he wants to see him.

“What if the baby’s ugly?” Grizz’s eyes shift to Gwen as she babbles next to him. She’s surprisingly lifting his mood. She’s not asking him anything deep or personal, she’s just talking nonsense. It’s a nice change. “Like what if it’s really ugly.”

“It’s not going to be ugly.” Grizz sighs.

“All babies look like old men.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yeah, they do.” He laughs at her insistence on the matter. They continue to discuss what babies truly look like when they’re first born. It eases Grizz’s stomach slightly, they were just visiting friends. Their friend had a baby. That’s all. He and Sam don’t have any history. There’s nothing- He sees the hospital and falters in his step. Gwen doesn’t notice and he’s easily able to catch up with her. The nerves were back and firing through his body. This is going to be awkward.

Gordie is walking through the front door as the approach. He jumps as Gwen calls out to him. There’s a wry smile on his face. Ever since Cassandra’s death, he had never been the same. However, Gordie always tried his best to figure the puzzles out, make things better but he needs the right people around him for him to fully thrive. Allie let him have the autonomy, checked in on him and had meetings but left Gordie to be able to investigate and solve in his own way. Will Lexie and Harry allow the same?

“Can we see them now?” Grizz manages to hide his extreme nervousness for uncertainty. He just sounds like he’s unsure if now is the right time instead of the-man-I-fancy-just-had-a-baby-with-his-best-friend nervous.

“Uh, yeah, yeah!” They start to make their way in when Gordie turns on them and holds up his hands. His face is slightly contorted as he’s sorting out the wording of his next sentence in his head. “Just one thing uh,” he pauses, pursing his lips. Gwen and Grizz look at each other and then back to Gordie, waiting. “Can we not mention the whole Allie, Will thing?” Their mouths drop.

“Do they not know!?” Grizz’s voice comes across a little aggressive as Gordie flinches slightly. He straightens up, “Sorry, but what the fuck?” Gordie smiles slightly accepting the apology.

“Well, Sam knows but Becca doesn’t. We explained to Sam last night, but we just want some normalcy for Becca and Eden until we think she’s ready to head home.” He holds his breath, eyes flicking to both of their faces, trying to gather what they’re thinking. No one says anything, he lets out a breath and focuses on Grizz. “Sam was worried about you.” His heart squeezes. His mouth his suddenly very dry and struggles for words so instead, he just raises an eyebrow. “We didn’t explain things well last night, so it made it sound like you were hurt or something and then with the whole Allie and Will stuff, it just got a bit stressful, so he’ll be relieved to see at least one of you is fine.” He had been worried about him? The thought sends butterflies flying through his stomach and he desperately just wants to stride past Gordie right now, but he has to keep his cool.

“You guys need to work on your wording.” Gordie flashes a nervous smile before turning and allowing them through.

He can hear the faint cries in the distance. Gwen and Gordie have sped up, excitement filling Gwen. Grizz however, finds himself slowing. His limbs, chest and head heavy. He can hear the baby. She’s real. This is real. The cries quieten and he can hear the murmurs of voices, he assumes Kelly and Becca.

They turn a corner and Gwen squeals seeing the baby. She rushes forward with Becca’s face lighting up at the sight of them. Sam is laughing at Gwen’s rushed talking, his eyebrows raised trying to understand what she’s saying, it is too fast for him pick up on everything. That’s when he turns. Everything in Grizz’s world stops. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. Sam’s frozen too. Their last moment together playing on repeat in his head. The worry he’d felt as Grizz had wandered off into the unknown, afraid he’d never see that face again. The others haven’t noticed their sudden stillness. Becca is the first to address Grizz, she smiles brightly as she makes eye contact with him. “Grizz! Gwen says Allie and Will couldn’t make it because of election issues. Is everything okay?” He shakes his head, his hair falling in front of his face. As he pushes it back, he regains his composure and smiles.

“Honestly, I’m still trying to settle back in, I’m not sure what’s going on.” It’s the truth. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on. Becca nods pleased with the answer. Grizz awkward holds out the rucksack. Gwen rolls her eyes whilst the others just stare at him. “Uh. Gifts.” Becca looks to Sam to take it from Grizz but notices his malfunctioning brain and instead turns to Kelly.

“Sorry about him, I kept waking him up through the night. Just because he can’t hear, he thinks he can get away without having sleepless nights. Not on my watch.” Grizz emits a rather forced and nervous laugh. Gwen eyes him strangely as Kelly takes the bag off him. Gwen is given the baby. “Be careful.”

“I’ve got this, I used to babysit the neighbour’s kids.” In a rather hushed and cooed voice, she addresses the innocent child. “Hi, Eden. Aren’t you adorable?” She sits in a chair cooing at the child. Grizz’s eyes wander over to her. Eden, a fitting name. A pure untouched soul surrounded by chaos. She is beautiful. And so small. She makes a soft baby noise. Grizz could only describe it as a soft pop, nothing crazy but he finds himself smiling. This baby is going to be loved by everyone. He hadn’t realised he’d moved towards them until his hand was reaching out towards the child. He gently shakes her hand. Her fingers for a moment grasp his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Eden.” His voice cracks slight as he finds himself overwhelmed with emotion. So soft and warm and small. Such a fragile human. They have to do whatever it takes to protect this child.

A tear rolls down Sam’s face. Becca tugs at his top. “Are you okay?” She signs, not wanting to draw attention to the sudden emotional mess her friend had become. He nods. She frowns but doesn’t push the matter. Wiping the tears away, Sam finally finds his legs and walks around the bed. Grizz turns at the sound of footsteps and finds himself embraced by Sam. He doesn’t hesitate and pulls him in closer, their heads buried deep into each other’s shoulders. The grip each other tight and if they didn’t have a crowd both of them would have kissed the other by now. For a moment, it is just them. Grizz can smell the disinfectant and baby smell off Sam. Not his usual scent but all the same it was weirdly comforting whilst Sam basked in Grizz’s musk, the clean air from outside clung to him like he’s clinging to him now. Gwen breaks their moment.

“I didn’t get a welcome like that.” Her sarcastic tone is followed by a laugh. “No, I didn’t, did I, Eden? Clearly, your parents have favourites. It’s like they forgot I went away too!” The baby voice she puts on breaks the tension in the room. Becca is eyeing them suspiciously but seems to let it slide as she watches Gwen with Eden, both laughing at Gwen’s ridiculous voice. Gordie has returned with notes, pulling Kelly aside. Sam and Grizz break apart but still hold onto each other, making sure they don’t disappear. Grizz is the first to let go and he sees a flash of panic across Sam’s eyes for a second, but he’d been practising this and wanted to do it.

“I told you I’d see you soon.” He mouths robotically whilst signing the gist of what he’s saying. Sam’s smile widens and a small laugh break from him. Grizz isn’t sure if this is because he did it right or he did it wrong. “Did I get it wrong again?” He turns to Becca who’s laughing as well. “I did, didn’t I? I’m trying!” Becca carries on a laugh and goes to sign when Sam cuts her off.

“No, you got it right, just a bit messy.” Sam and Becca exchange a look suggesting that he had gotten it wrong, but they didn’t want to tell him. Grizz is unsure of what to do now. He knows what he wants to do but it’s inappropriate.

“Well, are you going to open the presents or not? Grizz and I spent ages this morning picking stuff out.” Gwen’s exasperated tone helps move things along and Grizz swears she mouth you’re welcome to him as the attention is taken off him. Had she figured it out? No, Grizz is too good at playing it cool for her to have done that.

Sam settles back in his seat and Becca starts going through the rucksack. There are plenty of things in there that Grizz has no idea what they’re called but Becca squeals and shows them off to Sam super excited so he’s happy she’s enjoying them. There’s a pang in his stomach as he watches them interact, knowing that this was Sam’s life now. This is his family. And that this was Grizz, on the outside. The thing he hates and loves about Sam is his love and loyalty towards the ones he cares about. Grizz would never want it but Sam would never give up on his family, no matter how much he wanted Grizz. Sam would be loyal and staring at Eden now, Grizz wouldn’t want it any other way, no matter how much it hurt him.

They get to the end of the rucksack, Becca has said thank you over and over again but honestly, these would have gone to waste without Becca and Eden so it’s no problem. Gwen passes Eden seamlessly back over to Becca and jumps up from the seat. “Your go.” Gwen beams at him. Grizz confused just looks around at everyone. Becca is smiling at him, nodding. Then he realises.

“Oh, no. No. It’s fine. I’ll break her.” He holds up his hands standing back a little. Gwen, however, pushes Grizz into the chair. He has no choice in the matter apparently. Becca guides his arms as he takes Eden. She’s heavier than he expected but still feels like nothing in his arms. He’s never been so still. Becca and Gwen giggle as they watch him awkward hold her. “Is that good? Is she safe? I’m not hurting her right?”

“You’re doing fine.” Sam smiles as he says it. Grizz and Sam lock eyes and smile. This is weird but sweet. Eden makes a noise and he looks down at her. Her eyes are identical to Becca’s. She truly is a beautiful soul. Grizz’s heart is melting.

“She’s so small.” He gives another nervous laugh. This is slowly becoming his normal laugh at this rate. Everyone laughs alongside him. Eden starts to cry. He panics. “What did I do? I’m sorry, I’m sorry. No, don’t cry. I’m sorry. Help” He looks up to the laughing crowd. Becca takes Eden off him and hushes her slightly, letting her suck on her pinkie. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she just needs to be fed.” Becca looks at Sam, who nods. Gwen picks up the signal that it was time for them to go. She picks up the empty rucksack, hugging Becca and saying bye to the baby. Grizz gives a somewhat awkward half hug to Becca, afraid he’ll make the baby cry once more. Becca rolls her eyes. “You’ll see them out?” Sam nods. He shuts the curtain behind them as they head.

As they pass the desk, Grizz stops. Gordie raises his head, stopping the discussion he and Kelly were having. “We need to talk tonight. Can you come to Allie’s around 7? After dinner?” He nods. “I’m meeting Lexie and Harry this afternoon. I’ll debrief you later.” Kelly goes to speak but Grizz walks off. He doesn’t want to get into this right now. He needs to prepare for the meeting. He’s seen Sam. He’s made sure he's fine. Now it’s time to get back into the real world and try and sort it.

He reaches the door where Sam is standing waiting, breathing deeply taking in the fresh air. Gwen is nowhere to be seen. Grizz takes a moment to just watch Sam. His eyes are shut and if he didn’t know he was deaf, he’d be sure he’s listening to the world. Maybe he’s listening to what he thinks it sounds like? Is that a stupid idea? Grizz isn’t sure.

Sensing something, Sam turns to find a concerned Grizz staring at him. “Gwen needed a pee.” He nods but still doesn’t move closer. This is the first time they’ve been alone in a while. There’s a tension between them, he’s unsure if it’s a good thing or bad. Grizz walks closer to him, standing next to him. Sam hasn’t taken his eyes off him. They’re incredibly close.

“The book was helpful.”  He’s whispering. Something about right now is making everything he’s doing so loud. This right here needs to be contained. Just being here with Sam, alone, needs to be contained. Sam reaches up and touches his cheek, wiping a tear away. He was crying again. It really had been an emotional few days. Sam leans forward, standing on his tip toes, and kisses Grizz. It’s a gentle kiss, reminiscent of their first one. Grizz leans into it and Sam can feel his longing bubbling through him. It’s Grizz, however, that’s the first to pull back. He looks down, sniffing, not wanting to make eye contact with Sam, not wanting to say what needs to be said. Eventually, he looks up so Sam can read his lips. With certain words signed, Grizz bites the bullet and says what needs to be said. “I needed to see you. I really want you but you have a family. There is almost nothing I wouldn’t give to be with you but breaking up a family? No. I won’t do it. I care about you too much to make you do that.” Sam’s heart cracks with every word Grizz says but he understands and knows that ultimately he’s right. He made a commitment to Becca, to her, their, child. Biological or not, Eden is his and he needs to be there for her right now. That doesn’t mean this doesn’t hurt like hell. “I know you care about me, but you have to put everything you feel about me aside. I’m not being the hidden guy, I’m not…” He chokes, unable to speak anymore without crying his eyes out and he didn’t want Gwen to pop up and see that something is wrong. “Sam.” It’s all he can say. There’s enough emotion in that word to break a thousand hearts. There’s such a sad longing there. All they’d wanted was someone to share their life with, someone to see the best in them, someone to hold. Yet it was the wrong place and wrong time. A cliché but the truth.

“I wish it wasn’t this way.” Sam’s quiet words hit Grizz hard. He feels the air leave his lungs and the tears prick at his eyes. Much like his own anguish, Sam mirrors the emotions. They were sacrificing all of it before it could really begin but they know it’ll be worth it for the pure and innocent child that needs to be protected and cared for. Grizz rests his forehead against Sam’s, eyes shut, breathing in time with one another. Once more their lips touch, a final kiss. Goodbye.

They hear the door open. The two fly apart. Sam shuffling his feet, staring at them, hastily wiping a tear away. Whilst Grizz turns around, staring up into the clouds squinted as if he’d seen something, wiping his tears away too.

“I didn’t realise how long we were there. If we don’t leave now we’ll be late for…” Gwen trails off looking between the two. Eyebrows both raised, she is about to question it when Grizz locks eyes with her. She shuts her mouth.

‘Late for what?” Sam’s voice is hoarser than usual and Grizz has a feeling he’d rather just sign right now until his voice recovers but he didn’t have Becca to translate. Grizz glares at Gwen, who holds up her hands in defence. He swings his head towards Sam.

“A meeting with Lexie and Harry.” Sam’s face hardens. “Hey. Before you think anything, I originally didn’t want to meet with them until I’d seen Allie and Will but Helena pointed out that making demands could just throw more of us into the dog house, or wine cellar.” Gwen perked up at the subject of wine, Grizz gives her another glare. “Look, we’re going to be vague. I’m mainly going to ask about Allie and Will to see if we’re able to see them.” He lowers his voice slightly. “I’m not on their side.”

“What if they get angry and arrest you to?” Grizz had thought about it. He didn’t think it would happen, Lexie had seen how the town had reacted to Allie and Will’s arrest. He hopes she knows if she were to arrest more people, they’d think of it as a witch hunt and more than likely turn on her. He’s relying on her being smart enough to see these things. She was smart enough to run a smear campaign, she’ll be smart enough to see all this.

“I’d like to see them try” He gives a small laugh but Sam’s continued concerning gaze burrows deep and he leans a little close, hand on his forearm. He squeezes it. “It’s not going to happen.” He pulls back remembering Gwen is there. “Plus, I have Gwen here. She’ll protect me with her kind words and supportive attitude.”

“Eat a dick.” Gwen grins at him as she says it.

“Gladly.” Grizz returns the smile and focuses back on Sam. He doesn’t seem comforted but seems to have dropped the subject. “You focus on Becca and Eden. They need you right now.” He nods and they clasp each other in the friendliest hug they could manage but even then Grizz suspects it lasted longer than need be. Sam hugs Gwen goodbye and they part. Just as they turn, Grizz turns back once more. “You need to tell Becca.” Sam’s eyes go wild for a second and Grizz realises what he thinks he means. “About Allie and Will. About everything that’s going on out here.” The panic dissipates but it’s quickly replaced by a grave expression. The enormity of the issues happening around us is taking a toll, but Becca deserves to know what’s happening. She deserves to know what to expect, especially since she has a child now. Sam nods and enters back into the building. Grizz and Gwen make their way to the church. Today just will not end. 

[hungergames-fanfic]

The Reapings

Word Count: 2606

Today is reaping day. A boy and a girl will be chosen at the Plaza, in front of all of Panem, and be put to fight for their lives in an arena. The winner will bring riches and fame back home, or so that’s what president Snow says on the propaganda commercials. District 10 hasn’t had a victor in over a decade.

For the 4th Annual Hunger Games, daddy’s uncle Amos was chosen as a tribute, cause people still weren’t used to the idea of the games there were riots on the street. A lot people died in my family leaving only momma Bilmin and daddy alive, daddy was a newborn. My best friend Efrain’s daddy, who was just a little boy himself got shot but survived, a story Efrain loves to tell. While all of this happened, the government still took uncle Amos, who was sixteen at the time. Being all alone, mourning the death of her husband and family, momma Bilmin was forced to watch uncle Amos survive the games. He killed the most tributes, a goal some careers claim to wanna surpass, or so Efrain says they say, and came back home as that year’s victor.

With his wealth, uncle Amos bought miles of land and divided it into two with a road seven miles long making it a detour from Bloques, where the poor live, where momma Bilmin and daddy are from, to Littleburg, where the heart of District 10 sits. Here live the rich, where momma and her family is from, shopping centers, hospitals, the Mayoral building and more are located. Uncle Amos also purchased cattle, daddy says back then they only had two of every animal. Cows, goats, chickens, horses, pigs and even sheep, but we don’t have sheep no more. He also built momma Bilmin a pretty house on the land and then years later, before I was born, he killed himself.

No one talks about uncle Amos or watches the games at our house cause it makes momma Bilmin cry a lot. So much so that last night I could hear her from my room, so I spent the night with her. She hugged me until we fell asleep. This morning I woke up to the smell of a thousand types of food.

Cause momma Bilmin knows what it’s like to go to bed hungry, with our money, she cooks big pots of food and feeds those who flock to us. Usually, on the mornings she’ll hand out her famous honey walnut bread to those who walk past our road, but on reaping day, she cooks a grand meal. This year she’s baked bread and a cinnamon version of it, two types of rice, an orange one with tomato and basil that’s a little spicy and a yellow one, which is my favotire cause it has eggs, vegetables and beef, but I’m not eating meat no more. Not after I seen where it comes from. Momma Bilmin also cooked a big pot of beans with bacon and sausage a long with another pot of mashed potatoes and cheese. Enough to feed up to a thousand people or more if portioned correctly.

Cause momma is Mayor Sotto’s secretary, she’s all about appearance. Today she wears an elegant dark blue pantsuit. It makes her look so pretty daddy wont stop hugging and kissing her. She tells him to stop with a smile on her face and makes him wear a tanned suit, threatning with “you ain’t gettin’ any honey” if he wears his cowboy hat. Daddy takes it off so fast it makes me laugh. I watch them from the mirror, where I stand and stare at myself while momma does my hair.

Momma’s made me wear a pink dress with itchy white socks and shiny white shoes I only use when I wear dresses like this. She makes a braid from the top of my head to the back, turning it into a low pony tail and adds a big bow to it. I hate the way I look. Can’t even go out to play when I’m dressed like this. I stare at my reflection wishing I could dress myself. I wonder what i’d chose if I were allowed. Then again, i’m only ten years old and can’t take a bath without supervision.

“Oh, my Dora you look so precious”, momma says kissing my cheeks. I don’t think I look like her, her skin is lighter than mines, but I do have curly hair. The curls aren’t as coily as hers though, just a little thicker in shape. I don’t look like daddy or momma Bilmin either, daddy is too dark skinned and his hair is straight, he looks like momma Bilmin but her skin is as brown as mines. Her hair is just as straight as his, too.

“Miss Esperanza”, Vano, Efrain’s cousin, knocks on the door frame. He clears his throat and takes off his hat showing off the waves on his hair. Unlike most days, him and Eddy, Efrain’s older brother, are dressed presentable and clean, that’s cause they’re both still eligible to be a part of the reapings. “We ready to go”, he says.

The reapings don’t start until one in the afternoon, but cause momma needs to be at work early, momma Bilmin will be feeding people and the boys have to sign up, we’re leaving early. Daddy’s gonna stay behind though, says last year someone stole a couple of chickens while we was in Littleburg.

The ride to the Plaza is boring and takes a lot longer than usual. The roads and highways are packed with new and old vehicles, run down wagons that look like they gon lose a wheel on a bump and horses carrying up to three people. Everyone wants to get there before noon since the peacekeepers are a lot more abundant and meaner on this day. Sometimes they break into homes in search for those that haven’t left yet and beat them out on the streets as a warning for others to hurry up. At one point, on the road we see a man getting frisked while his wife screams at peacekeepers tryna hold her back. This day is stressful as it is, peacekeepers always make things worse.

When we arrive to the Plaza, momma gives me a kiss on the cheek before leaving. She always asks if I wanna go inside the Mayoral Building with her cause there’s air conditioning but I like to stay with momma Bilmin, she doesn’t tell me to shush and sit every five seconds.

Left with just her while the boys go and sign up, I make sure to keep momma Bilmin safe. There’s always somebody ungreatful. Next to our wagon, people form a long line on the sidewalk waiting to be handed a plate of food, I help hand forks.

“Ain’t that some shit, Bilmin!”, an old man stands a few feet away eating some of the bread she’s made. “The youngin’ look just like’em”, he laughs. Momma Bilmin doesn’t look at him, she clears her throat and nods. I’ve seen this look on her before, she wants to cry. Mad at him, I scream “go away!”, he just laughs. “Same attitude too!”, he blurts outs in a laugh that turns into a gross cough.

“Come on, John, move along”, another old man says. A plate in one hand, pulling on the gross old man’s shirt with the other.

“Hey, I lost my Isabella to the games too, we’ve all lost family. You ain’t seen us cryin’ when they names be mentioned. Besides, all I said was the little girl look like Amos”, he goes on but the other man pulls him away. Too late, though. The damage has already been done and momma Bilmin has tears rolling down her face. Is that why momma Bilmin cries when she looks at me? Cause I look like her baby brother?

“When I get bigger I’m gonna beat him up”, I tell her whilst giving her a tight hug. I hate it when she cries. It’s not fair cause she doesn’t deserve to be sad.

She smiles at me, gives me a kiss on the forehead and stares for a little too long before her upper lip starts to quiver and more tears roll down her face. This happens a lot around this time, too. It just takes one look and I make her cry. I wish I could change my face. “Please don’t cry momma, I’m sorry”, I apologize wishing I could stop making her so sad. She rubs my back, wipes her tears and keeps on feeding everyone.

People come and go, they wish us blessings, some cry with thanks and others give us little gifts like handmade jewelry, pretty clothes or micellaneous items. None get my attention like this one though, it forms a big smile on my face the second I spot it. Like a trade, a woman hands momma Bilmin a black, fluffy puppy. “Issa boy, gon grow real big, Geller keepin’ the momma and she real good at guardin’ the house”, she informs. “Polomir need himself a guard dog, been hearin’ ’bout a lot of coyote attacks lately. If anythin’ it’ll eat it and not y’all’s cattle”, she chuckles. Momma Bilmin laughs and denies the pup but the lady wont take it back. She giggles when I beg to please keep it. “Listen to the baby, Bilmin, don’t deny me my gift to you”, “oh, alright, fine. Just don’t let’em near the pots of food”, momma Bilmin snaps a me.

By noon, through intercoms placed in every corner, poles, buildings and trees, we hear Mayor Sotto ask those eligible for the reapings that they have an hour to sign up. This makes a lot of teenagers scatter towards the Plaza, only a block away from where we’re stationed.

In the distance, on my skittish horse, Milk, I spot daddy galloping through the crowded road tryna get to us. Excited to show him the puppy, I hold it in the air and jump.

“Hey Isa!”, I hear an old familiar voice, “that your dog?”, Efrain asks. Seeing him walk towards me with his family makes me so happy I almost fall off the wagon but Jenae, his aunt gently pushes me back. “Careful, Isadora”, she warns helping Efrain and Abie up here with me. Compared to the last time I saw him, pale and near death, skinny and weak, he looks a lot better. “Been back outside playin’ with everyone on the block, Wendy was askin’ ‘bout you and Arielle. Says y’all ain’t go to school yesterday”, he says almost like he’s asking why. I wave my hand in the air, showing off my now dirty yellow cast, I don’t give him the same “it hurts” lie I give momma. I don’t wanna lie to him, so I let him assume on his own. Besides, I don’t wanna tell him about Ari and me not being friends no more. Instead I show him my new puppy, who I’ve named Bean cause he ate all the beans that spilled out the bean pot.

The name makes Efrain laugh. “I’d name him Edwin cause that boy’s hair just as shaggy”, he says. This makes me laugh cause it’s true.

Just like me, Efrain is dressed his very best. Although his clothes are too big for him and practically sun bleached, comapred to the rest of his hand-me-downs, he looks sharp. His curly hair has been bathed in oil making it look wet and shinny, his big gray buttoned long sleeve has been tucked into his brown pants held by red suspenders. His cousin Abie, who’s a year younger than us, wears a gray buttoned up long sleeve too, on her waist she wears a red belt that matches Efrain’s suspenders. Her curls, a lot finer than his, are also oily and shinny in the sun, slicked back with her baby hairs forming waves on her forehead. “Momma thought it be cute if we dressed the same”, Efrain says.

“I look cute”, she snaps, “you look like you need more sun”, she rolls her eyes. Her momma pinches her shoulder. Efrain chuckles.

Next to the wagon, on the street, Efrain’s daddy and momma, who came in her wheelchair cause people gotta be literally dying for them to be allowed to stay home, linger whilst talking to daddy who looks very uncomfortable. While her husband Otto helps momma Bilmin hand out plates of food, Jenae laughs and constantly puts her hand on daddy’s arm.

On top of the Mayoral Building sits a large television screen, it turns on to show a blue image. It slightly rocks back and forth but doesn’t fall. In patterns, all the other televisions around the area start to turn on too. The one above a one-floor shop turns on to show the same blue, another standing on a pole at the corner of the street turns on to show blurry images that turn clear. On the side of a big, wide complex building, a holographic image shows the same, from this one, I watch. On it, Mayor Sotto waddles up to the microphone. He’s short, balding and wears a suit too big for his own good. Behind him stands momma looking ever so pretty. Next to her is Tate Langdon, our only victor. He wears a black suit jacket and jeans with a black cowboy hat that matches. Next to him stands Jai Ngyuen. He’s from the Capitol and wears an all white suit that makes him shine bright. His hair and eyebrows are just as white along with his make up. “Goddamn clown”, I overhear Otto say under his voice.

Clearing his voice, Mayor Sotto begins. He dictates the same story from every year, I recognize it cause its one we read in our history books at school. He explains how Panem came to be, mentions the dark days, uprisings against the Capitol, District 13’s obliteration and the start of the Annual Hunger Games. The camera zooms in on Tate, who the mayor mentions as one of our victors along with “and may he rest in power, Amos Wyetka”, he reminds us of uncle Amos like he does every year. Through the crowd blinded by the sun, the camera goes on and on as if showing off our thousands of possible tributes. Once the mayor is done talking, he wipes the sweat off his shinny bald head with a hankerchief and stands next to momma. I glare at daddy who has a smirk on his face while watching the screen.

“Happy Hunger Games!”, Jai’s shrill voice makes the microphone screech. “And may the odds be ever in your favor”, he shakes his head and raises his arms excitedly. Giggling, fixing his tie, he smiles wide showing his perfect teeth. People in the crowded streets look at each other, some shake their head, others murmur to one another. Daddy turns to look at Efrain’s dad and both chuckle nodding their heads.

On stage, Jai walks over to a glass ball containing the male names. Like every year, he plays shuffling the papers, taking a lot longer than he should. Raising his hand in the air to show the folded piece of paper, two more fly out and fall to the ground. He picks them up, dances with and spreads them in his hands, choosing the middle note. Excitedly he practically skips back to the mic and opens it. Clearing his throat dramatically, he calls out the name of this year’s male tribute.

“Eduardo Oxoro”, Efrian’s oldest brother.

[doom-dreaming]

Hunting Ground

@bettersafethandicks here you go, another one of many gifts, I’m sure. and also for that one anon who keeps suggesting things you know who you are

WARNING: HEAVY GORE, do not read it if you don’t like the idea of being eaten alive

(Read it on Ao3 here!)

******

It wasn’t hard to find a nearly-deserted bar on Pandora. Bars outnumbered pretty much every other type of establishment and the...thin population assured that none of them would be busy. The trick was finding one that served marginally-palatable drinks. But that wasn’t your goal at the moment. You didn’t even particularly care that this bar—Hunting Ground (weird name for a bar, but hey, Pandora)—seemed to be semi-lively. You just wanted a drink.

You stormed up to the counter, slid a few bills across it, and muttered “strongest” to the haggard man behind it. The clear concoction you received in return smelled like battery acid and burned twice as bad. It was perfect. Life on this shithole planet was always terrible, but today had been a fucking disaster. You were prepared to drink yourself to death if that’s what it took to forget it. Two-thirds of the way through the bottle and that was looking feasible.

Apparently the universe had other plans. The sound of the door stopped you with the bottle halfway to your lips. Normally, something like that wouldn’t have even crossed your radar, but the effect it had on the rest of the patrons was what piqued your curiosity. You heard someone to your left start to whisper, “Is that—” before they were immediately silenced by somebody else at the table. Slowly, the previous conversations resumed, though they were almost drowned by the clink of chains and the hollow sound of heavy boots against the metal plate floor.

“Usual, Carlton.” He spoke before you saw him, but you’d know that husky, commanding voice anywhere. Their propaganda had spread through every media outlet across the planet.

The bartender gave a brisk nod and reached under the counter. You tried not to stare as the newcomer leaned up against the edge of the bar, close enough for you to reach out and touch, if you’d dared. Which you didn’t. The Children of the Vault were...an interesting group. You’d thought about joining, once, then promptly talked yourself out of it, reasoning that you could keep an eye on the infamous Calypso Twins without subjecting yourself to...whatever they did inside that stronghold. Still, the siren siblings were fascinating beyond belief and you watched them from a safe distance. Until now, that was.

It wasn’t all that strange really, to see him here. There was a COV base close by and you guessed he had to bounce from location to location and check in, if only to keep up appearances. Still, this didn’t seem odd to anyone else in the bar—

The bartender (Carlton, apparently), placed a disarmingly simple-looking cocktail down in front of Troy, receiving a nod of approval as payment.

—and Troy was here often enough to have a ‘usual,’ whatever it was. Didn’t look like anything you’d ever seen. Thick, dark red, salt rim. Or maybe sugar. You couldn’t tell.

“New around here?”

It took you a minute to realize you were the target of the question. “Uh—” You swallowed, your throat suddenly feeling tight. “—y-uh...”

He slid up onto the barstool next to yours, distant amusement in his eyes. “’Cause I’m good with faces...” He knocked his drink back in one gulp and motioned for another. “...and yours ain’t familiar.”

You tried not to stare as he swiped his tongue around the edge of the glass, but holy shit, you’d never seen a tongue that long—

“Sugar.” He winked. “Carlton, another round for the newbie, here.”

You found your voice long enough to start protesting. “Oh, no, it’s—”

He waved you back into silence. “Everything’s free so long as I’m here.” He gave you a wide grin and your heart jumped as you swore you saw fangs. You blinked and the smile was gone, replaced with a coy smirk. “Might as well enjoy it, no?”

You nodded. Shrugged. You knew the twins were charismatic, but you’d never expected this level of...charm. Maybe this day would end on a good note, provided you didn’t do anything stupid. Compelling as he was, Troy Calypso was still highly dangerous and there were warning bells going off in your head—though, admittedly, they were getting quieter.

“So what brings you out this way?” He murmured his thanks when Carlton set the new drinks out. "Curiosity? Necessity?” His ice-blue eyes studied you over the rim of his glass as he took a much more conservative sip.

You tipped back the rest of your first drink. “Mm—just passing through.” It wasn’t a lie, not technically. You had a few things stashed nearby that you needed to pick up, but once that was done, you’d be on your way out again.

“Lucky chance, then, coming here tonight.” Again, he flashed that dazzling grin and you knew you saw sharp teeth. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister, but sometimes she can be a little...clingy. Nice to get away. Meet new people.” He slung his arm around your shoulders and clinked his drink against yours.

You mirrored his smile and reached for the new bottle in front of you. He was surprisingly easy to talk to. You figured he’d be...cold. Aloof. Superior. But all you felt was warmth. Or maybe that was just the alcohol.

It could have been an hour, it could have been a day. All you knew was that Troy’s arm made a surprisingly comfortable pillow and you were laughing about something as if the two of you were long-lost friends. His laugh was deep and rich and you wanted to listen to it forever. There were three empty bottles on the counter in front of you. He still hadn’t finished his second.

“Nn then whad’ya do?” you slurred.

He poked a bright red cocktail sword toward you. “I flipped her off and did it anyway.”

You broke down into a fit of giggles. His own laughter rumbled in the background. You’d been right. This was so much better than what you’d planned on doing. At least you were having fun. Who knew Troy goddamn Calypso would be such a great drinking buddy? You moved to sit back up, but over-corrected and almost went sliding off the other side of your barstool. Troy caught you. You barely felt his cold metallic fingers against your skin.

“Easy there...how ‘bout we go...”

His voice blended into the background noise of the room, but you let him lead you away from the bar, through a door. It was much darker here—wherever you were—and you were grateful for it. Without the lights swimming in your eyes, you could see some sort of couch or bench against the wall ahead of you. You sank bonelessly into it when he released your arm.

“Lay down...” His hands were on you again, pressing at your shoulders, guiding you onto your back. “Good...” He made a sort of funny huff. It might have been a laugh. “You sure can hold your liquor, huh? That shit woulda knocked me flat on my ass.”

A strange sound left your lips, but you didn’t care. The couch was soft and warm and— Suddenly, he was over you, on top of you, one knee on either side of your hips. You felt like you should probably be trying to get him off, but all you could do was lay there.

“You were an easy mark,” he muttered. “A little disappointing, if I’m being honest.”

Mark? What—? You tried to bring your arms up, to push him, to do anything, but you felt as though you were moving through slag.

He just sighed and pinned you down. “Too drunk to put up a fight...” He leaned closer, pressing his lips to your neck, right against your pulse. You laid there, stiff, your moonshine-marinated brain working sluggishly to make sense of it all. After what felt like an hour, he pulled back, grinning. He wasn’t trying to hide it now. Every visible tooth was filed to a deadly point, his canines so much longer than what you remembered from the bar. “You’ll still taste good though.”

It all happened in slow motion. You could see it, but you couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. Something under his skin shifted and you watched in mounting horror as his jaw split, revealing more teeth than you expected; you weren’t sure if there was more than one row or if you were still seeing double. Each of them was either razor sharp or roughly serrated, glinting in the low light. You’d been stupid to let your guard down, to get comfortable, you knew he was dangerous—

The pain cut through the fog, but only after a few seconds of delay. His teeth were already clamped around your neck by the time you managed to force out a broken scream. Your voice gurgled as blood welled up into your throat. This was it. You were going to die. Devoured by this cannibalistic freak of a siren— Heavy cold seeped into your body, moving from your neck to your chest, creeping steadily downward. By the time he pulled away, all you wanted to do was sleep.

“Hhnn...” He licked the blood from his face with that too-long tongue, then snapped his jaw back into place. “Fresh is so much better than that old, stale shit Carlton keeps for me.” His voice sounded different. Rougher. You swore you heard some kind of purring.

All too clearly, it clicked. His drink hadn’t been a cocktail. It was just...blood. He wasn’t drunk. He’d been hunting. And you were the prey. You wanted to vomit, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t even feel your own body anymore. Small blessings, you supposed, given what came next.

His teeth sank into your stomach, straight through your shirt. The only thing you felt was a slight pressure; the paralysis distorted your ability to link any part of your body with any sort of sensation. It was interesting, in a morbid way, watching yourself be torn apart. It almost felt like you were watching it happen to someone else. He ripped and tugged like a feral, ravenous animal, pulling out flesh and organs, swallowing them nearly whole. Every once in a while, he’d come up for a breath, his whole face dripping red. His eyes would lock with yours, just thin rings of frigid blue around wildly-dilated pupils. That wasn’t even the worst part. You still saw humanity when he looked at you. You saw cold, stark pleasure. He grinned. It was nightmarish, too wide, too many teeth. This wasn’t just some base necessity, he was...enjoying it.

You spent an eternity lying there, growing colder and colder, a thin film of black dancing at the edge of your vision. Dying was a funny thing. Half of your brain resigned itself to the inevitability, but the other half still hoped no matter what that you’d somehow walk away from it. Rationally, you knew you weren’t going to leave the bar alive. He’d moved up to your ribs, gnawing the strings of muscle from them. You couldn’t even feel pressure anymore. You were just floating, completely detached from everything, waiting for the darkness to take over. It seemed like he was slowing down, now that he’d taken the edge off his hunger.

You would’ve laughed, if you could’ve. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined going out like this. Pandora was a deathtrap, but this was just so...bizarre... You watched through glassy eyes as he settled back, licking the last of the blood from his dripping jaws. After a minute, he stood, walking back toward the door you’d come through. You heard faint conversation before it closed behind him.

“...better?” The bartender. His name slipped your mind.

Troy laughed. “Yeah.” He sounded almost giddy. “Made a fucking mess, so...have fun with that. I’d get in there quick if I was you, save the heart...”

Huh, you thought as your vision faded to blissful black. The name of the bar makes sense now.

****** Tag List: @nikyri-reaper @undxsclosxd-desxres @venatoris @ayilachan @tricerathotss @clockworkrobotic @afterthedreamer @corpseyb0nes @mischiefsilvertongue @marigold-magpie @vanderlinde-exe @xgay-edge-lordx

[nitewrighter]

Could we have a Marsey drabble por favor?

Marti watched the muscles in Seye’s back shift as he bent over the worktable, goggles over his eyes and several small screws pressed between his lips as he worked. A large bandage was splayed across his ribs, stretching around his side, and his right arm was also smattered with a mosaic of bandages over the points where the burns from his own gauntlets had gotten him the worst.

“You need to sleep,” she said, stepping up alongside him.

“I will,” he said, looking up at her, his voice muffled between a tight jaw and screw-holding lips, “When this is done.”

“You’ll heal faster if you sleep.”

“I’ll sleep easier when this is done,” said Seye, pushing his goggles up and rubbing at his eyes and taking a screw from his mouth, squinting at the gauntlets as he screwed it in.

Marti huffed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I thought you’d get less stubborn when you left Talon,” she muttered.

“Stubbornness is one of the reasons I’m leaving Talon,” said Seye.

“Yeah and the massive bioethics violations and brainwashed super-soldiers were just icing on the cake.”

“We all give more credit to the people who raised us than is due,” said Seye with a shrug.

“Offer still stands,” said Marti.

“The offer has been standing for the past 16 hours,” said Seye, smirking a little, “No… Overwatch isn’t my scene.”

“We don’t need another splinter group in this mess,” said Marti.

“Splinter group?” Seye repeated, “Martina, I have standards. Give a man some credit.” He grabbed a soldering iron and continued working, “Not exactly as if I can start working with Helix either…’Hey remember me? My dad tore through one of your prisons like tissue paper. Oh and you’re probably crawling with Talon moles, too. I’m sure I won’t get assassinated in an elevator while I’m here.’”

Marti sighed and rounded the table. “So you’re starting a mercenary organization.”

“A security consulting and enforcing organization, yes,” said Seye, continuing to work.

Marti snorted. Seye pressed a thumb to the gauntlet on his worktable and watched as a small graviton surge alighted on the palm of the gauntlet.

“Do you know what wins wars?” said Seye, pressing his thumb at the gauntlet again and powering the graviton down.

“Superior firepower?” said Marti.

“Before that.”

“Believing the right things.”

“Come on, Marts, you’re smarter than that.”

“Money.”

“Branding.”

Marti furrowed her brow at him. “Branding,” she repeated.

“Which… technically is a combination of money and what you believe–”

“You’re talking about propaganda,” said Marti.

“Calling it propaganda isn’t good propaganda,” said Seye, “People want heroes. They’re always going to want heroes. And when they can’t find heroes, they make their own. Overwatch worked as well as it did for as long as it did because people believed in it. The key here is not overstaying your welcome. Being there only as long as they need you.” 

“But people did need Overwatch, even when it—” Marti huffed.

“Overwatch’s big mistake was not letting itself fade into obscurity as a function of the UN. Of course, thanks to the Omnic Crisis, there was no way it could really do that.” 

“So you’re going to be that hero,” said Marti, picking up a mask from Seye’s worktable, “And then when your job is done… whoosh, you’re gone.”

“Something like that,” said Seye, reaching for the mask.

Marti pulled it away. “How are you going to know your job is done though?”

“When the Talon and Overwatch mess is over, then I’ll call it,” said Seye, grabbing for the mask again. 

Marti frowned down at the mask, then looked back up at Seye. “Branding,” she said.

“Branding,” Seye said in agreement.

“And what brand is that, exactly?” said Marti, waving the mask with a smirk.

“…Still working on that,” said Seye.

“That’s encouraging,” said Marti.

Seye resumed looking over his gauntlet. “It’s going to be greek,” he murmured, testing the finger joints of the gauntlet, “Everyone knows greek and everyone thinks they’re clever for knowing greek. Easy recognition.” 

“This is the rich boy corporate marketing strategist talking, isn’t it?” said Marti, leaning against the worktable.

“Can’t be Ares–Too negative, too scary. Arriktos–More noble, but too esoteric.”

“Remember the part where I said you should sleep?” said Marti, noticing his mutterings were getting a bit more throaty, “I can keep watch. You can figure this out later.”

“I can’t sleep when there are this many things to figure out,” muttered Seye.

“It’s a wonder you slept at all with Talon.”

“Insomnia was another reason I left, honestly.”

“Moral anguish keeping you up at night?“ 

"Mostly logistics. The moral anguish was responsible for ten, maybe maybe fifteen percent of the insomnia.”

“Ay…” Marti rubbed at her temples.

“You know, you can sleep,” said Seye.

Marti just shot a glare at him.

“Just a suggestion,” said Seye.

“You think just because you defected I’ll trust you any more?” said Marti, “You got another thing coming.”

“Ah, I’ve been speaking to ‘Mission Marti’ this whole time, I take it?” said Seye, smiling at her. 

“Damn straight,” said Marti, pulling up a swivel chair next to Seye’s worktalbe and sitting , “And I’ll be keeping a close eye on you all night, Seye Ogundimu.”

“Of course,” said Seye, “I’d expect nothing less.”

—

“Earthshaker,” said Seye.

Marti jolted awake, jerking up from where her head was resting on the worktable. “HNGWHAT?!” she blurted out, looking around. 

Seye smirked at her.

“It was only a couple of minutes,” said Marti.

“Of course it was,” said Seye, flexing his fingers slightly.

Marti shot a glare at him.

“You’re a cute sleeper, you know that, right?” said Seye.

“You wouldn’t know that because I was obviously just resting my eyes,” said Marti.

“Resting your eyes with those cute little snores,” said Seye.

“Say ‘cute’ again, I dare you,” said Marti, before pausing, “What was that you said about Earthquake?”

“Earthshaker,” said Seye, “The brand, you know. It works, right? Epithet of Poseidon… kind of primal, but heroic… a little sexy….” 

“Sexy?” Marti repeated.

“A little sexy,” said Seye, “Non-Profit. Just enough to cover costs–”

“But still a mercenary organization,” said Marti.

“Well how’s Overwatch keeping itself supported?” asked Seye.

Marti opened her mouth, then paused.

“Non-profit?” said Seye.

“Non-profit,” muttered Marti.

Seye smirked again. God, she hated that smirk. God, she loved that smirk. 

“I’m like… 80% sure I’m going to pass out in the next 5 minutes,” said Seye.

“I can keep watch,” said Marti.

“Great,” said Seye, moving to get up and then almost immediately collapsing as Marti caught him.

“Y’know, positions are open…” Seye’s voice was hazy as Marti half-walked, half-dragged him over to the cot.

“I’ve kind of got a thing already,” said Marti, helping him down to the cot.

“I’ll… put you down… as a ‘maybe’…” said Seye as Marti kissed his temple and let him fall into unconsciousness.

[zeciex]

Obsidian & Angelite Chapter 16 Part II

Oya has spend centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting. He comes with an offer she can’t refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.

But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want? Maybe they’re bound by something bigger than fate.

Warning: Dark themes, smut, penetrative sex, creampie 

A/N: Since tumblr kills everything with links, I’ll reblog this post with the links to previous chapters and archive link

Oya had returned to the library the moment Gallant had finished his interview. As soon as he stepped in he was bombarded with endless questions to which he all explained the basic rules for the interview and some of the questions. Apparently, Michael had struck quite a nerve, Gallant seemed positively distort, unsure what to do with himself until he found the way to mask his exposed soul with what he did best. He began speaking of the sexual tension, how Michael had made a hit on his… ‘gay-dar’ or whatever he called it, to where Coco began to prompt that he couldn’t possibly be gay if anything he was bi.

By then Oya had lost interest in the direct conversation and instead seethered in her own sexual frustration and blatant jealousy. In this expiration she walked with intent through the halls, her purple skirts basking around her as she stormed up the steps, only to halt when she saw two hunched over shadows tip through the hall.

The anger evaporated and turned into curiosity. She stepped behind a pillar, hidden from the two teenagers clearly lurking eyes. They snuck into what she expected to be Michael's room, closing the door after them. So they were spying on him… It was laughable with the knowledge she held. If they found anything it wasn’t my mistake, it was with full intent.

He’d been here for a day and there was already anarchy in the air. Oya made a face between impressed and glee before continuing on her way, a little less angry than before. This was going to be fun.

The teens weren’t the only ones that had been up to mischief or so it would seem when the day after Oya watched Gallant be dragged away in his undies with a bothered expression upon his face that was slightly concerning given the severity of the action. Whatever he had done he looked pleased with himself and Oya could only imagine what’d he’d been up to. Which she did with a frown on her face.

Alas, she breathed out to calm herself and rolled her neck again before passing through the hall to her room.

It wasn’t before Oya was sitting in the library ignoring the stupid conversation between what Coco labelled the other team as the old people and her own team of ‘youths’ over who had it the hardest, that she was to see Gallant again. This time there was something unhinged in the way he held himself, eyes distant and still there with obscure anger. She leaned forward and sipped at the water waiting to watch the show unfold.

If she weren’t the goddess of the underworld she’d be the goddess of chaos, strife and mischief.

Evie stopped fanning herself, eyes widening at the sight of her grandson. The air shifted to one more tense and severe, with everyone but her holding their breaths waiting for what was to come. Gallant picked up a glass of sparkling water with a childish pout on his lips.

He breathed out harshly before speaking. “Surprised to see me breathing, Nana?” Now his eyes were set ablaze, his anger unquenchable. “They usually shoot people for fucking...or,” He made a face at his ‘Nana’ looking mildly manic. “Did you not remember that when you turned me in?”

Evie smiled at her grandson, though there was no love there, indifferently shaking her head. “No hard feelings, darling. I wanna live and the only way to achieve that is to get rid of these 10 little Indians who stand between me and the golden ticket out of here.”

“Umm, we’re sitting right here,” Coco intervened offended.

“I knew you were a bitch but I underestimated how big of a bitch you were…” Oya commented earning an agreeable ‘Yeah!’ from Coco and Dinah. In all honesty, she didn’t know whether to be impressed or not by how cunning Evie really was. She set her own grandson up, watched as he’d fall and find his death to be entirely justifiable. If it weren't for how much Oya hated Evie she’d think there’d be a slight chance of her joining the Sanctuary.

“It is not my fault you can’t control carnal urges,” Evie threw at her flesh and blood, trying to justify her behaviour. This was the signal, it was kill or be killed. This was battle royal, what would you do to survive?

“YOU have LIVED!” Gallant shouted pointing violently at his grandmother. “I haven't.”

“Oh yes, you have! You have crammed 10 lifetimes of failures and screw-ups into your 30 years!” Evie rose to challenge Gallant with her own raised voice. Call it a byproduct of having been locked up with them for a year but Oya felt a pang of sympathy for the man who was standing up to his bitch of a grandmother. She wondered if he’d smash the glass on the table and jab it into her wrinkly neck. Gallant wasn’t bad, he was lost and had always been.

Where Michael might have been cruel or indifferent, Oya could be much softer, it all depended on the person.

“Am I the only one who makes mistakes?” Gallant blatantly asked to the room, holding his hands up. “Hmm?”

“No, but I’m always the one that has to clean up after you. Let me see 3 expensive rehabs on my dime, fancy lawyers to keep you out of prison. When your grandfather rejected you because of your perverted lifestyle-,”

“Gay’s have been around much longer than you’re propaganda history books tell you so shove that ‘perverted lifestyle’ up your cobweb cunt,” Oya defended with deep annoyance. She always did hate how humans disenfranchised everything they didn’t perceive as natural and made it so it was permanent, especially when it came to sexuality when it is so clearly fluid and more nuanced than black and white. They did the same with cultures and skin colours, and she had seen it all with her own eyes.

“As I was saying,” Evie dismissed Oya’s comment with a scoff. “ your ‘perverted lifestyle’ I took you in! And what did I get back?” Gallant turned away from her attack, swallowing the water with clear discomfort. “Yes, you went and you bankrupted 2 salons and then you snorted the third one up your nose.”

Evie turned to the room not a hint of regret on her face. “I deserve to live. I am the bridge between the past and the future. I mean when those poor survivors arrive what do they know about culture and music, and art? And I will be there to tell them all about it.”

“You’re a rich old white hag 99% of your ‘culture’ is stolen,” Oya mumbled under her breath catching an approving glimpse of Dinah.

“One lifetime of me is worth 50 of yours! Humanity may be in a sorry state,” she stared Gallant up and down with a diminishing look. “It deserves better than you.”

With a shaky breath, Gallant drew in a breath before speaking. “I should have put you in that motion picture home years ago. The only thing I ever wanted from you was for you to love me and accept me. Why couldn’t you just give me that?”

“Sorry, darling, it’s just not in my nature,” she spoke without regret. It was like watching a painting fading, the colours drained out of Gallant with his last hope of love. Evie patted her grandson on the cheek before leaving, knowing she had devastated him.

What she didn’t think were that with every last hope of love stripped away, with the betrayal and disappointment she had caused her grandson, she had also made an adequate enemy. Gallant was now a hairpin trigger and she had a target on her back. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge and knowing Michael, he’d see to that it’d happen.

Disappointment and betrayal make the perfect enemy. In Evie's desperation for survival, she may very well have caused her own downfall.

“Well it's a good thing you convinced me to bring your nana,” Coco commented with no feel for the tension in the room. Either that or she didn’t care. Gallant ended up falling to the cushions between Oya and Coco who so rudely rose up biting that he should sit on the other couch. He sank until his head rested against the back of the couch, eyes empty and breath still.

“I didn’t know you were gay,” Coco spoke loudly and looked at Oya.

“I’m not,” she shrugged. “Sexuality is fluid. I’m not gay or straight, I’m just…” Oya made a hand gesture that was meant to mean ‘something’. A headache was forming just behind her eyes making her pinch the bridge of her nose frowning.

“That’s a shame,” Coco blabbers.

“Why?”

“Because that means you’d be willing to fuck your way into the Sanctuary.”

She isn't wrong on that one. Oya doubted that if it stood between fucking for survival and death that anyone would choose to fuck regardless of their preferences. It was just funny how Coco thought she’d stand a chance when Michael so clearly wasn’t interested in anything more than playing cat and mouse.

But the statement brought back the nib of jealousy and possessiveness both of which were irrational and if Michael were to know of it there’d be endless teasing.

“We can count Gallant out, he already tried it.”

“He’s right there and he still breathes,” Dinah commented at the distasteful words. “I’d say he’s ahead of all of us.”

“He’s the only one who’s been interviewed,” Coco barked in her usual tone of voice. “It’ll all change when the rest of us is called in. Gallant can’t be the only one Langdon chooses and he most definitely will not be on the radar if I get my chance.”

“We don’t know if it was Langdon he fucked,” Oya injected. Coco waved her hand dismissively before striking up a less intelligent conversation with Mallory. In sympathy, Oya patted Gallant on the head before leaving.

Whomever Gallant fucked remained a mystery, though Oya had her suspicions, much clearer than her co-inhabitants, but Gallant proved not to be the only one who let the desire run wild.

Through Mallory, she found out that Timothy and Emily had both been dragged away by Venables henchmen followed by the ruler herself. Their salvation came in the form of Michael who shaved them from the bullets that were going to be planted in between their eyes. Why Michael choose to save them remained a mystery but she had the suspicion that he was setting up something bigger and if anything he was just toying with them.

Soon others were called into Michael’s appointed office Oya awaited her call in the library sitting among the other residents awaiting the news of each person's interview.

There was an unease creeping under her skin, her heart beating faster each time a resident entered the room. Each had a different reaction to the interview, Mallory being the one that seemed the most jarred, while others came back sexually frustrated.

“Oya Jeon,” the voice travelled from behind the slide doors, sending a shiver down her spine and straining her heart. She drew in a deep breath and entered the room with her back held straight and head held high, hands calmly connected in front of her.

He was sitting behind the desk, eyes studying papers that couldn’t possibly be hers with disinterested eyes and waved his hand as he spoke to motion her towards the chairs. “Please take a seat.”

“I’d prefer to stand,” Oya spoke cooly, feeling the wave of emotion collide with her body. The anger was the most prominent feeling and the one easiest explained. When it burned hot it burned blinding hot and at this moment she settled for anger and pushed any other feeling away.

Michael looked up through his lashes, blue eyes catching the orange flicker and darkening. Oya listened to the doors being closed behind her. The trap snapped shot. She masked herself perfectly with a cool expression one to rival his own. Then a Cheshire smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, eyes swallowed up by his pupils. Slowly he stood, body stretching out before her and suddenly it was as if she was seeing him for the first time in… well, a year. The hair had grown well past his collar, all the way down to his collarbone, with soft waves that fell down around his face. He looked older somehow, his features sharper and eyes more calculating. With a predatory stalk, he walked nonchalantly towards her.

“Stop.” Her voice was firm. She glanced towards the door with a lingering question.

“No,” Michael spoke with a charming drawl. “They can’t hear us.”

Her eyes turned towards him once more, eyes burning holes in him. The only thing that could be heard was the crackling fire, the orange flames licking at the air and sending waves of warmth out into the otherwise cold room. There wasn’t a way to be sure if the room would have frozen over or been set ablaze had it not been for her powers being locked away.

Michael raised a brow at her.

“You lied to me,” she broke the silence, voice stern and unflinching. “You left me here with these people! Do you have any clue as to how fucking excruciating it’s been? And for what? For spying on them?” Her voice began to waver and it broke towards the end when Michael took a single elaborate step towards her. She held her hand up and stepped back. “Stop.”

Michael’s head fell to the side, eyes eating up every micro-expression she made and caught on to when her voice wavered with emotion. He remained silent and she wasn’t really sure as to why.

“That old hag Evie is quite possibly the most insufferable person I’ve ever met, Coco is impossibly shallow and superficial and I’m not sure if the obnoxiousness is to hide something else. Then there’s Gallant whom I’m pretty sure you’ve got all figured out by now. Dinah is elusive but quite possibly the one candidate to put a bet on. Mallory is the only interesting grey solely because her whole character seems to make herself impossibly small all the while glimpses of something else shines through. Dinah’s son is just whiny and annoying. Then there’s your choice to lead this outpost!” Her voice grew louder as she was allowed to revel in the fire of her anger, letting it all out in angry sneers and elaborate arm movements ending in aggressive pointing. Michael allowed all of it. He didn’t stop her, never attempted to. “Mrs. Venable… Why do I continue? You already know all of this, you already made up your mind about them.”

Oya was breathing heavy, eyes wild and bitter. She could feel the confining embrace of the corset straining at her ribs and thereby her lungs. With each breath she took the shadows dug into the skin of her shoulders, edging out her collarbones that had become more prominent at the lack of proper food. The fire dimmed, if only a little, quenched by the feeling of hurt.

“You abandoned me here with them,” she expressed and swung her palm through the air, the sound of it smacking against skin ricocheting through the room before the stinging set in. There was a flicker of something wicked in his eyes, an entertained tug to the corner of his lips before he brushed it away with a swipe of his thumb. His cheek burned red and so did her hand. He pressed forward and Oya took another step back swinging the other hand only for it to get caught in a firm grip. Weakly she tried to pull it to her but Michael refused to let go, his grip as iron and yet without the promise of a nasty bruise. Oya spoke again with a wavering voice trying to retain the flicker of rage that had started to slip away. “I-I thought something had happened. I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Michael countered, eyes never leaving hers, ever-changing. At this she was speechless, gaping at him with wide eyes. No? What does he mean ‘no’?

“No? No?!” She pulled her arm to her and almost stumbled when he let go.

Her eyes caught the sight of his tongue darting out to wetten his lips before he spoke again. “If I were dead you’d know.” He began stalking towards her. With each step he took, she took one backwards.

She would have thrown poison at him, spoken with violence that maybe it would have been better if he were dead because then he had an excuse to abandon her here. Instead opened and closed her hand, palm still stinging from her attack but also with a need to be swung once more. With clenched jaws and a pointed glare she spoke. “Tell me, Michael, did you fuck him?”

His lips parted to draw in a breath, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in the most wicked way all the while his eyes drowned in mischief. His head tilted a little before he purred. “Would it bother you if I did?”

The question hummed inside her mind, tickled and grew. With another step backwards she felt the wall stop any attempt of retreat, efficiently trapping her between it and him. Michael only stopped when the tip of his pointed boots touched the skirt of her dress, all too close for her liking and not close enough. Oya realised something when she searched his eyes, read his face, almost leaned into his presence and the warmth he radiated. He was like a playful cat but far more dangerous.

The realisation was quick, the humming inside her mind stilled and soothed the sliver of jealousy that had set root within her by the lusting humans that wanted nothing more than to sink their teeth into him. It should be them that was afraid if Michael were to sink his fangs into them. But it wouldn’t of one very simple reason, it’d give them exactly what they want and there’d be no satisfaction in that. He wouldn’t just let anyone touch him. Even though Michael were the embodiment of sensuality he found no interest in sex, not with anyone but her. Sensuality was a weapon turned towards everyone else.

“No,” she drawled just like he so often did. He pursed his lips tilting his head to the other side. “You could fuck him -you could fuck any of them if you so desire.” Michael blinked at her intrigued. “But you won’t… and even if you did, I know I’m the only one you’d ever find ease with.”

“Have you thought about it a lot?” His voice was a low rumbling thunder that sends electricity throughout her system. Then she felt it, a tug at her skirt that ever so slowly hitched higher. Never did his eyes leave hers.

Her heart drummed against her fragile ribs, adrenaline spiking her system and enhancing her senses. His scent engulfed her, the familiar spice pricking at at her tongue that made her mouth water. Her red lips were parted, soft breaths filling her lungs. More than ever before were the restraints of the corset present, she felt that with each breath she filled out the confined only to feel it loosen when it left her again. She was wet, she’d lie if she said she wasn’t wet the moment she stepped into the room but now the ache became more prominent.

It had been 18 months since she was last touched, her body ached and longed for his touch, it would revel in it. For 18 months she had tried to subdue the growing want for him.

“Tell me, Love,” he purred, hitching her skirt up higher. Even though the Victorian knickers she felt the heat of his fingers burning through the fabric. The first touch was light as air, trailing up her thigh ever so slowly.

“I-I’ve been here for 18 months, of course, I’ve thought about it,” she stammered wrapping her fingers around his scorching wrist forcing him to stop. It was getting increasingly harder to think, to keep up all the pent up rage she had been building. The castle of anger she had built around herself came tumbling down with one blow from the big bad wolf.

“All those long nights,” he continued voice lowering. His hand began to move again and she felt herself weaken her grip. “Did you touch yourself?”

“Yes,” she breathed licking her lips while his eyes darted to his.

“Did you think of me?”

“Yes.” Her knees felt weak as if they could give in any moment. Fire burned on her skin, his fingers leaving a trail up her thigh, slowly inching towards where she needed him the most. He was playing with her but unlike the other inhabitants, she was the only one to taste victory. He could leave her, just stop all of it and it would be entirely within his character, it’d be cruel and merciless, but it would also make for great sex later on.

But the thing was, she wasn’t the only one who had gone without the touch of someone else. She wasn’t the only one who felt the desire burn through her veins. And by far she wasn’t the only one affected by the presence of the other.

Michael’s pupils were dilated, blown out of proportions and swallowing up the blue of his gaze. Even though his breathing was normal he felt the air strain in his lungs. When she let him go completely he let his fingers travel to her mount and watched as her head fell back against the wall, lips parted in a silent breath and eyes fluttering. He marvelled at the sight of her, the shimmer of her lips, the flush colour building under her skin, her black eyes reflecting the fire. Under his touch she pushed her hips forward greedy for more, it made a chuckle form in the back of his throat.

“Did you miss me?” The question was light but it was like having thrown a bucket of water over you. Oya stilled, body tense and heart galloping all the while skipping beats. It felt as if she would surrender her anger to him, forfeit the grudge that had been building up in her, to give him her bitterness of being lied to and left for what felt like an eternity. Honestly, she’d have taken her little plot of land in Korea over this outpost any day.

“I can’t forgive you,” she began quietly. She reached for him, cubing his cheek and felt that he leaned into her touch just a little. “And I will make you pay for it.” She licked her lips before continuing, eyes softening with affection. “But I did miss you.”

“I’m sure you’ll make me pay in all sort of ways,” he rumbled pressing into her.

Their lips met briefly, her lips chasing his only to part in a low moan as his fingers circled her clit. The fabric stuck to her uncomfortably, cool everywhere but where his fingers touched. The ache pulsated between her legs, begging for her to just spread them right then and there so he could get between them.

“You’ve been playing a lot of games,” she purred, fingers hooking into the smooth fabric of his jacket, pulling him to her. “It’s been very entertaining to watch unfold.”

“There’s more to come,” he said, lips brushing over her jaw, nibbling at the skin of her neck. His fingers travelled downwards, pushing shallowly into her. She could have unravelled right then and there, it had been long since she came finding it difficult to bring herself to the edge and over.

Michael removed his hand, the skirt falling to the floor now that nothing was blocking it. Oya almost broke out in protest, no not protest more like sobs. A whine managed to escape her quickly shut lips. Michael merely grins at her, taking her hand and guided her through the room. With one tug she swung around, hands harshly placed on the wooden desk in an attempt not to fall straight on her face. Her nails scrapped over the wood when she balled her hands into fists, biting her lips as the skirts were thrown up over her ass, his hands gripping at her hips.

Michael knocked at her heels in a silent order, making her spread her legs more. Then she felt it, his large hand going from her hip to run down her ass, gripping it tightly. She held back a moan, melting further into the stance. Once, twice, thrice he ran his hand up and down her ass feeling her up before his fingers brushed against the wet cloth.

“Have you thought of me?” She found herself asking before she could stop the words from spilling out through her lips. With her back turned to him she didn’t see how his head fell back, bottom lip caught viciously between his teeth, but she did hear the ragged breath he took before answering.

“Yes.”

“Did you touch yourself?”

“No,” he answered. Confusion made its way onto her face, fisted hands turning into flat palms. She didn’t know whether to take offence or not. Or maybe she should be impressed by his restraint. She herself couldn’t exhibit the same level of it. He did have a lot to do after the end of the world, maybe the time wasn't there. But by god the vision of Michael’s firm and slender fingers wrapped around his cock with the look of desire plastered all over his face, with his perfect lips parted in soft gasps, eyes sultry and half-lidded.

“Oh?”

“I would much rather wait,” he drawled. The air hit her hot wet core as soon as the fabric was tugged down. In the candlelight, she must be glistening. He ran his palm over her mount, fingers wrapping around her swollen clit and pinched. A feeble weak sound escaped her throat, knees buckling a little. Michael dipped a finger into her and curled it, her walls beckoned him further, convulsing around him trying to get more stimulation. Then he added another finger and began to scissor them, each brush drawing out hitched breaths from her, arms beginning to tremble.

The other hand that remained placed on her hip pulled her backwards all the while bending her further over the table. If anyone walked in there would be no doubt as to what was going on with Oya lying bend over the desk, legs parted and ass bare to the world. When he moved his thumb to her clit she let out a moan, feeling just how slick she really was.

With little shame she pushed herself back onto his fingers, efficiently fucking herself. The feeling almost brought tears to her eyes. “Fuck,” she breathed.

For a moment Michael admired the view, the sight of his finger slipping in and out of her pussy with a frivolous need. He swallowed at the sight before adding a third finger, stretching her out further. “It’s almost pathetic your need to be fucked, it’s so human.”

“And you made me this way,” she bit back at him, eyes fluttering when he twisted his fingers while pushed at her clit almost too hard. “Fuck, Michael. Please, I’m ready.”

His fingers left her, her walls clenching around the emptiness. She imagined he’d use her juices to cover himself, pumping his fist a few times before gliding the head of his cock up and down her folds. The feeling was enough to make her mewl. In one upstroke, he caught on her opening and shallowly dipped in making both of them hitch their breaths in unison.

She couldn’t take the anticipation any longer and caved. “Please, Jagi-ya .”

Michael pressed into in one slow fluid motion. His fingers dug into her hips with steel and iron, without a doubt leaving bruises there for later inspection. Oya couldn’t withhold the moan that tore through her throat, nails digging into the wood as Michael pulled out and re-entered with a harder thrust. She could hear it, the low grumble from deep within his chest making its way up through his throat.

“If it wasn’t because you have to remain in the shadows, I’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk,” he grunted speeding up. With each thrust came a wave of pleasure. The feeling brought tears to her eyes, the delicious stretch and the full feeling better than she had imagined for months now. His words almost made her cum right then and there.

“I’m su-sure,” she agreed. For a moment she was afraid that cumming once would be enough after having repressed the aching need for weeks now. Not even when she was bound in Korea would there have gone as much time by before she had to satisfy herself. Then a savage smirk formed on her lips and she clenched around him as much as she possibly could, almost breaking her trail of thought. “But when all this is over it -it is you who won’t be able to walk. I’ll turn your b-bones into that gross jelly they feed us here. S-see what world you’d build when you’re bound to the f-ucking bed, Jagi-ya .” The last word was said in an extra sweet tone.

Michaels strong hand wrapped tightly around her throat, forcing her backwards to him. Her back was arched. The grip was tight enough to make her feel her own pulse but not tight enough to do any form of damage. His breath was in her ear, lips grazing over the shell of her ear. She could hear the smirk in his voice. “I could make you go out there with cum leaking out of you.” He snapped his hips to her making her eyes roll back in pleasure. “Or maybe have your breath smell of cum.” His grip tightened as he snapped his hips to hers, the lewd sound of flesh hitting flesh filling her ears with a low hum of her own pulse. “But I can be nice.” Now his voice was dripping with sweet sweet poison. “So very nice.” She could feel herself clench around him, the wave of hot white pleasure washing over her with vengeance. One hand found its way from the desk to Michael’s fine jacket, clutching the fabric violently as her breath was caught in her lungs. “I’ll let you choose.”

“C-come inside me,” she croaked out, voice dampened by his tight fingers. She heard him take a strained deep breath, she could almost feel him bite his lip and he tried to concentrate.

“How lascivious of you, Love,” Michael moaned thrusting into her one last time, burying himself deep before spreading his seed. The warmth was familiar, it was strangely obscene, but it felt… missed. She didn’t know whether it was him buried deep within her or the feeling of his seed she missed, most likely the former. Michael released his grip on her, Oya falling forward with a relieved breath, hands firmly planted on the desk’s cool surface. She felt him withdrawal, felt the movement of his seed.

Oya swallowed before letting out a breath, slowly beginning to redress herself, putting on the Victorian knickers that she’d have to wash herself to remove the cum stains guaranteed to happen. Cum stains she could handle, what she couldn’t handle was her breath smelling of it when she was to face the other inhabitants.

“You’re enjoying the humiliation of me going out there, asshole,” she said lightly with a faint smile on her face. Of course, he did, he enjoyed toying with people and she was no different, though with his way of toying with her were only between the two of them. The embarrassment came from both of them knowing.

Michael tugged up his pants, fixing the slick fabric to a point where it looked utterly perfect, while she fought with the barbaric ruffles of her dress to make it sit properly. He had the devil on his shoulder, that’s how he managed to look completely perfect while she lacked her own little devil. He was cheating . With a huff, she pulled of the purple fabric and swore that whenever she got out of here she’d never wear purple ever again. Fuck purple and fuck Venable for making them wear it.

Michal sank into the chair behind the desk, palms flat on the surface like hers had been. He watched her as she prepared to fall into the role of Oya Jeon once more. She brushed her tied up hair back in place, the loose strands fastened by tying them into the elaborate hairdo Gallant had managed to give her. Of course, Coco never allowed him to let Oya outshine herself.

Now that everything was in place, she let their eyes meet. “So, do I meet the requirements of the sanctuary?”

Michael tried to repress the smile on his lips, forcing it into seriousness. “You will know in time.”

“Did you miss me?” They looked at each other silently for a moment before Michael went to answer in a smooth drawl.

“Yes.” The answer made her heart flutter. The orange flames caught his blue eyes with warmth. Then the warmth seeped out and he fell back into the role of Michael Langdon, the one mean to pick and choose who to save and who to kill. Oya let herself find the mask she had worn, let his presence affect her negatively to a degree as a cover for what really happened. She brushed her hands over the material of her dress, collecting her hands there and waited.

“You may leave now,” Michael said with indifference, waving his hand towards the door and turned his attention to the papers in front of him. Oya rose from her chair, slipping out of the room and was met with curious stares that picked at every seam of her being to see if they could catch something beneath her blank expression. Oya decided to lean up of the others accounts of what questions he asked, how he had acted and made it convincing by the jaded tremor in her voice.

“Did you hear?” Coco asked after the endless questioning. Oya shook her head with a weary frown. The blond woman licked her lips and inched closer, a smile unmistakable smile on her lips. “The old hag died in her sleep! No more listening to her endless stories.”

This surprised Oya. She thought the bitch would never bite the dust… Unknowingly, her eyes travelled to Michael’s closed doors. Nothing happened in the bunker that he wasn't aware off, nothing happened without him pulling a string. For a moment Oya wondered just how intricate a web Michael had spun, just how deep the game was and if she were a mere piece or puppet.

“These past several months have been difficult for all of us. And perhaps in my efforts to keep us safe, punitive measures have been taken too far. I believe now what we need is a moment of celebration. Comradery. Which is why, this weekend, as a gesture of goodwill we will have a Halloween soiree,” Mrs Venable voiced out loud with a smile on her darkened lips. Coco and Gallant looked at each other in excitement, one seemingly shared with most inhabitants, if not with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

Oya was the ladder, finding the sudden need to celebrate perplexing, to say the least. For months it had been the same. No holiday celebrated, no birthdays, no celebration of any kind, just the same disgusting jelly, the same vitamin water, the same music over and over. The sudden change was worrying. Not only that but earlier the grounds had once more been breached and no word of what it was had yet been told. It all smelled fishy, or so the Americans tend to say. She couldn’t help but feel strings were being pulled, and she knew exactly who was the puppetmaster. This celebration was not the work of Mrs. Venable, though she might not know it.

“It will be in the style of a Victorian masquerade ball,” Mrs. Venable continued.

“If only my Nana were here to enjoy it with me,” Gallant muttered, the sudden excitement turned into something solemn and dark.

“We’ve all lost track of time a bit. And this festive occasion is the perfect opportunity to remedy this. And I encourage you all to use your imaginations,” Mrs. Venables voice rose with festiveness. “To create what I am sure will be exquisite costumes.” Now her voice fell into the same old track, stern and cold. “Attendance is mandatory.”

With that everyone was allowed to leave, most hurrying to make their costumes. Oya adopted the same vigilance and glee the others held while maintaining the slightest sliver of scepticism. Dinah held the same look in her eyes, the gleam of knowing something the others didn’t, knowing something similar to Oya’s own knowledge. The two women looked at each other, their masks off to reveal both of them being wary, before plastering a polite smile on their lips to maintain the mask once more.

“I know we’ve only just been told of this but do you have any idea what you’ll wear?” Dinah asked, taking Oya’s arm in her own as the two of them headed towards their quarters.

“No,” Oya answered frankly. “I have the six same dresses in my closet that I’ve always had and have no idea how to transform them into something new. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of wardrobe choice nor any excess material to work with.”

“I find it odd that they chose Halloween of all holidays, though I suppose it falls into Mrs. Venables taste,” Dinah shrugged and chuckled at her last sentence.

“Victorian masquerade! Couldn’t she just have called it Masquerade? We’re already in the Victorian,” Oya gestured to the tight garments with puffy skirts. She had lived through the times where victorian was the fashion, she had pale strangers come to her for her abilities, wishing remedies or blessings or curses. She had seen the fashion first hand even without leaving Korea and her plot of land. She had lived through many fashions, many invasions and occupations trying to take the land from the ones living there. Hell, she had seen kingdoms rise and fall, both her own and the in the world around her.

“True,” Dinah agreed. “Admittingly I do look forward to the celebration, we have to take what we can, right? And by the looks of it Mrs. Venable has something in store for us.”

“She sure does,” Oya grumbled, eyes flicking over the firepit in the middle of the room as they passed through the hall and up the stairs. The flames danced with gleeful abandon, the shadows following suit on the walls. Sometimes she had through to put her hand in the flames just to feel the pain but she didn’t.

“Do you think Mr. Langdon will join us?”

“Mr. Langdon?” Oya looked puzzled at Dinah who smiled kindly to her, her dark eyes catching the flames, lips thick and pretty. Dinah was a beauty but she was also that ever so positive talk show host through and through. Sometimes it was too much. Enough to make Oya want to strangle her. But there had always been something else, something hidden, a dark tint.

“Yes, the party would be the perfect time to tell us who’ll join him at the Sanctuary.” Dinah let go of Oya’s arm having reached her door. She brushed her fingers over her purple dress nervously, with hope and something else in her eyes.

“It is a possibility,” Oya commented meekly, not able to agree or disagree. It seemed to be enough for the darker woman, she smiled at Oya as she headed into her room and closed the door behind her. Now Oya was left alone in the hall, the cold creeping along the stone walls, nibbling at any exposed skin. She let out a breath and rolled her neck, heading towards her own room. The door closed and locked behind her with a soft click. Oya trotted to the bed, sinking down onto it with a huff before ripping the leather laces up from her boots, kicking the leather off with a sigh of relief. Those boots might look good but by the gods were they confining and painful. For a little while, she sat and massaged her feet dreaming of planting them on the soft soil, letting her toes dig into the ground as she walked through the garden. She missed it, having something to do, letting things grow and expand. She missed lifeunrestricted but knew it wouldn’t come for many years to come. There was also a bigger part of her that missed her powers, how they flowed through her, how they could twist and curl, how it was mischievous and playful. Michael had them, somewhere.

Oya took of the dress and kicked it across the floor with venom before attacking the corset hidden beneath, that which was thrown through the air and into the wall with just as much venom. “You better have tons of airy clothe in the Sanctuary and much prettier because if I’m forced to wear something like this again, every fucking day, I’ll castrate you.” She threatened the empty room, trotting through it and into the shower. The warm water relaxed the tension in her shoulders while she washed the sex off of her, fingers splashing water between her legs while the dirty imagery of her interview played in her head. He had looked better than ever, more mature and grown somehow, his edges refined and perfect. In the 13 months, she had been nothing but human he had grown to be the master in a lot of things, he had found himself, or rather, he rested in himself. The confidence had always been there but now it was matured. There was still a vulnerability to him but she hadn’t yet seen it fully, just caught glimpses. She supposed it was to keep level headed, being apart so long and with such difference in power and environment would have changed anyone.

But they were still connected, she felt it in that room. Oya had been herself for the first time in months and the relief of that was hard to hide. When she’d get her powers back she could finally breathe again, she knew it.

Oya turned off the water and exited the shower to find a note written on the foggy mirror. Come to my room. She wiped the surface clean, revealing her reflection beneath. Her features were sharper and more edged out due to the lack of food. Although she had always been on the thin side, visible collarbones and ribs, they were now edged into her like a crude statue, showing just how little they got. She couldn’t wait to soften her look, not feel so fragile and delicate. Oya dried her hair and braided it into a long thick braid, then twisting it into a bun held together with what once was a decorative letter opener, forced between the strands. She threw the towel over the side of the tub, one much smaller than what she had grown used to, before entering her room naked and clean. A dress had been neatly placed upon the covers of her bed, it’s look a mix between Victorian and something along the lines of traditional Korean hanbok. The fabric was much softer than the other dresses in her closet, it was without ruffles and strange textures that was nothing more than a terrible fashion choice. No, it was cut cleaner, with lone soft lines, a neck dipping an inch or two lower than what she was used to, with black see-through puffy sleeves.

She drew in a breath and began dressing, the Knicks, the underskirts, the corset and then finally the dress. It fitted her perfectly and she shouldn’t have expected anything less, it was after all Michael who had left the dress there. It was a plum purple that managed not to make her want to throw it in the pyre.

The door was unlocked, daring anyone to enter, with only a few brave or stupid enough to accept that challenge. Oya entered the room, locking the door behind her. She had made sure the shadows had hidden her form as she moved through the halls, no eyes catching sight of her.

The room was like any other, though it was a bit smaller. It had the same furniture, the same bedsheets, the same dark aesthetic. The candles flickered upon her entry, shadows dancing on the walls. Michael silently entered too, a towel wrapped around his lower body while his hair was tied up loosely to escape the water he had just exited.

Oya clenched her jaw at the sight, eyes following his every movement as he stalked through the room, throwing the damp towel he used to dry his upper body with onto the bed.

“If anyone were to have seen me...” She said calmly walking to the wardrobe to pull out one of his black shirts. By the time she turned around, Michael was hitching up his pants.

“They didn’t, although it would have made quite the tale,” he drawled, zipping up his pants. Oya nuzzled the soft fabric of his shirt between her fingers as she waited for Michael to be ready for it.

“What have you been planing? You’ve been puppeteering, I know you have.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, eyes bright blue with mischief. “Now, it wouldn’t be much fun if I told you.” With her help, he slit his arms into the shirt. Her hands trifled over his shoulders, fingers brushing against him as she came around to face him.

“You’ve made your decisions then?” Oya asked and began to button up his shirt, fingers working nimble.

“Yes, I will be making the final draft during the festivities,” he answered her with a slick smile. Oya pursed her lips at him, brows furrowing together in a frown. There was the slightest touch, a simple brush of his fingers against the fabric of her dress. She paid no mind and looked up at him, buttoning yet another button. “You will not be joining us?”

“As much fun that may entrail I still have work to do and I’m sure Mrs. Venable wouldn’t mind my lack of presence.”

“Paperwork even after the apocalypse,” Oya grumbled discontent with that matter. She was now half way up his chest. With a flash of her displeasure shining through her eyes Michael chuckled. “And the witches? They were the reason why we’re here after all, what of them?”

“A few survived the blast, that I’m sure of.” he breathed with a low voice, fingers dancing through the air to motion ‘somewhere out there’. Oya buttoned the last one, prushing her hands over the fabric and ran her eyes up and down to see if she had missed one or it the shirt was crooked.

“How so?”

Michael smiled entertained and began to fidget with the cufflinks. “Haven’t you felt them?”

“I’ve felt a lot of things, Michael, and most of it were pure and utter rage for you, ” she poked him right in the chest in the most childish manner. What was he expecting? That her hair would stand on the back of her neck? A tingle under her skin? Goosebumps? “I’m human, unless it’s in my face and obvious I won’t notice a thing.”

“Dinah Stevens was the voodoo queen of New Orleans before she became a talk show host and Mallory...Mallory is something ,” Michael informed with vague interest in what he was actually saying. Oya narrowed her eyes at him, folding her arms over her chest and made a displeased motion with her mouth. Voodoo queen? Dinah didn’t seem all that powerful and she certainly wasn’t a threat, but it did make sense why the mask of positivity sometimes cracked to reveal someone more clever and cunning underneath. But Mallory, she surprised her in a way Dinah didn’t, mostly because of the way Michael said her name.

“Is she something to be worried about?”

This seemed to draw attention from him, his eyes flashing up at hers. Michael breathed in between his teeth and tilted his head. “No, not that it mattered if she was.”

“Because you’re going to kill them.”

“Actually,” Michael began, a devilish smirk growing on his lips. “I’m not the one to kill them.”

“Venable is,” she finished with an eye roll of his dramatics. There was no reason to get blood on his hands when all he had to do was pull a few strings to watch the whole outpost unravel. And that’s what he wanted, he wanted the humans to be the cause of their own destruction, he simply laid out the tools and waited for them to choose. “I don’t know whether to think it’s going to be a dull party if everyone dies or if its ‘a total banger’ as Gallant would phrase it.”

Oya walked to the closet and picked out a black jacket, helping him in it with ease. Michael released his hair from the small bun, letting it wave down over his shoulders, perfect as always. She was fixing his collar when suddenly he pulled an apple out of thin air, the red fruit catching the light of the candles. Oya paused, eyes growing at the sight of something fresh, it’s sweet smell engulfing her and made her mouth water. Then she looked past it, to the mischievous smirk of her counterpart and withdrew from reach with narrowed eyes filled with suspicion.

“Is it poisoned?” Now she knew of the lure Snow White couldn’t resist, the lure Eve couldn’t resist.

“Not this one no,” Michael answered her, taking her hand and placing the fruit in her palm. He could clearly see the hunger in her, the starvation that had cast shadows over her form and edged out her bones. There were no doubt that he admired her, if she wasn’t so transfixed on whether to believe him and sink her teeth into the apple or to throw it at his head, she’d have seen the abortion shine through the cheeky smirk. He admired her persistence.

“But the rest is,” she concluded and fished out the knife hidden in Michaels jacket. The blade cut through the fruit with incredible ease and she quickly ate the piece  eyes fluttering at the taste. “I suppose this is a nod to the forbidden fruit.”

Michael took hold of her jaw lightly, bringing her sweetened lips to his only to find the touch of her fingers on his lips as she withdrew. Oya tsked and shook her head, rivaling his own playfulness. “I spend too long on this makeup for you to ruin before the party.”

“And I, who gave you a most precious gift! You wound me,” he fauxed hurt, hand on his heart as if to underline what he said. Oya chuckled at him, enjoying the playfulness she had missed so much, the ease of his presence.

“What of the rest of the witches?” The seriousness returned.

“They could have died in the blast although I’m sure they’re out there somewhere. They’re like cockroaches,” Michael said with such an ease it filled her with confidence. If it wasn’t for the makeup or the apple currently being enjoyed to the fullest, she’d have kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

When the apple was carved to the core, Michael took it from her thin fingers discarding the remainder in the fire. Oya placed the knife on the mantle before coming up behind Michael, wrapping her arms around him and pressed into his warmth. His scent was intoxicating.

“We’ll find them. One way or another we will find them and then destroy them,” she assured him and tightened her grip to emphasize. Although she couldn’t see him, a rumble tingled through his back and into her. He turned to her, her hands working around his movements and landing on his chest as he came to face her.

“I think it’s time you wear this,” he said and held up a stone black as obsidian framed by silver so that it hangs as a pendant from a chain. It was beautiful. Oya touched the stone and felt a tingle at her fingertips, warmth radiating off what should have been cold. She recognized it instantly.

Michael opened the chain and led the parts around her neck, the black stone standing out against her otherwise pale skin, lacking the touch of the sun and health of nourishment. It almost hummed against her chest. Was it as alive for him as it was for her? Michael’s hands came to rest against her neck, fingers tracing soft patterns on her skin while he angled his head towards her. “You will know when it’s time to break it.”

“Thank you,” she breathed softly feeling closer to freedom than what she had felt in a long time.

Everyone had on their finest attire and masks placed upon faces. Oya watched as they were all drawn to the perfect red apples that had been rolled in like fine dining to be placed in the small tub of water. They had all drawn in a breath of the sweet smell, mouths watering. She had watched them with amusement and played her part as well. Gallant was right about the symbolism… Something that’d soon turn to irony.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt,” Mallory introduced from above in the most expanced way possible clearly tired of Coco’s bullshit. Coco stepped out onto the balcony, lips painted in a heart shape and hair rising so far up from her head it reminded her of the elaborate headpieces back in Korea once upon a time. She stood as Marie Antoinette, or a watered down version anyway. The hair was impressive, even she had to admit that.

“Mhm! Can we clap please, thank you!” Gallant implored for people to clap at his masterpiece, clapping his own hands in the face of others to push their own actions. Oya joined in, eyes following the girl down the stairs.

“You did that?” Mrs. Mead asked in astonishment.

“Without a blow dryer sometimes I even astonish myself,” Gallant beamed with confidence. Clack, clack, clack, the erie sound of Mrs. Venables cain beating against the tiles travelled through the hall and into the library. It was a clear indicator of what came next. The claps slowly died out but Coco didn’t realise the shadow that had fallen upon her, not before Mrs. Venable leaned in beside her ear and said ‘boo’. Coco jumped in chock, the light teasing air within the room now tense with the usual kind of cold that followed Venable everywhere. Intimidation was the perfume she wore.  

“Tonight is all hallows eve,” Mrs. Venable began after Coco had scuttered away like a small mouse, the longing for the spotlight already showing upon her face. Oya breathed in, quietly moving into the shadows.  “-Which marks the beginning of the dark half of the year, when the boundary between this world and the other thins, and lost souls pierce the firmament desperate to find their way home. It is a night to remember the dead and there have been far too many to mourn.” A chilled quiet formed within the room, the losses heavy on their souls. Oya couldn’t count herself a mourner, she had lost far too many and the people that had been alive not long ago, were all mere spectres, mere thoughts.

“But also to celebrate,” Mrs. Venable continued with a smile on her lips. “That we have yet to join them.” The tap of her cain began anwe, Venable passing through the room with the air of superiority surrounding her, shoulders almost razor sharp with the edge she had on them. “We delight in the small things, that were once taken for granted. To eat, to drink, music and dance. Everyone! -and I mean everyone, should savour this night as if it were their last.”

Oya wanted to burst out laughing or quite maybe just yell. Venables whole speech was littered with cues and indications, like any villainous speech. The idea of throwing one of the candles at the redhead crossed her mind, but she remained quiet, the itching in her fingers never subsiding. It was a speech Michael would have liked, just for the fact that he knew exactly what was going on. He’d love the irony, appreciate it even. In this instance, she didn’t.

The music began, a new song and slowly the room began to move, bodies dancing throughout the space. Oya herself began to sway, taking a glass of sparkling water that quite honestly tasted like ass. Timothy and Emily swayed together, eyes connected in loving gaze. It was nice, she had to admit that, regardless of the end in sight.

“It is bewildering is it not?” Mrs. Venable said approaching Oya, whom eyed her over the rim of her glass nothing how revived the woman before her had become by the decision to play god with her own garden of Eden. Venable would present herself as God and the snake lureing starved humans to their own ruin. Poetic. “What little it takes to change everything, something so simple as apples.”

“I believe the promise of hope is what brings this change,” Oya voiced, fingers tapping with the rhythm on the glass. Venables eyebrows rose slightly, dark eyes fiery.

“Hope?”

“Hope is the smallest of things, it’s almost impossible to get rid of and it brings the biggest of change with it. Hope, want, desire, they all set root and grow.”

“And Mr. Langdon brought all of this? Hope? Want? Desire ?” The way she says the word, like it burns her mouth and leaves nothing but ash. Venable had always been opposed to desire, it was so easy to see in the way she gripped at control that desire was the fundamental of which the world was brought to ruin. That desire was the thing that made everyone who possessed it no better than rats. They were beneath her, those who were controlled by it and she was so far above because she was in control.

“Mr. Langdon brought many things, didn’t he?” Oya asked, following Venable through the room. They walked slowly, with sure steps although Oya trailed a few inches behind letting Venable control the pace. There was no need to look at the taller woman, she already knew the look of loathing upon her face mixed with the knowledge that she was soon to be rid of the thing she found so displeasing. “There’s been desire.” Oya said looking out into the room. “There’s been want.” They passed Mrs. Mead by the radio. “There’s been hope…All of this brings chaos of course, and this unabided is what brought the world to its knees, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Venable looked slightly surprised halting. “The old world was built on desire and the constant need to fulfill it. There was no control. People just did whatever they wanted. They were without discipline and those who was supposed to be the authority disregarded rules and mismanaged entire countries.”

“The world was ended because of men like him.” Venable looked over Oya with contemplation the younger girl giving no nod to her own thoughts. She wasn’t sure if Oya was taunting her, if the girl had some sort of knowledge and was now just toying with her or if she revealed for the first time her true thoughts. To her Oya had always been dubious, her intentions had always been unclear, she was a mystery that presented herself as simply another body that inhabited the place and her file had revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

Then Oya continued. “So why should we follow him?”

“I am not sure what you are saying, Miss Jeon,” Venable said ambiguously. “Do you not believe in the Sanctuary? Or do you not believe you’ll get in?”

“I am as sure as my position as any,” Oya said. “But these days it’s hard to know who to trust.”

“Indeed, which is why it makes me question your intentions. You’ve never been interested in the politics of this place, while the others have thrown their childish fits you’ve remained quiet. Now, however, you’ve decided to voice your views. You say men like him were the cause of the apocalypse and yet you’re willing to put your life in his hands?” Venable shook her head, eyes dark with fiery teeth ready to sink into any weakness presented. It was admirable what she was willing to do to be the queen, paving the way to her kingdom with the corpses of those who got in her way.

“For survival, I’d do anything. Wouldn’t you ?” Oya answered with a tone Michael would have been proud of, the same nonchalant mocking he had mastered so well. Venables eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Oya send Venable a sweet innocent smile before turning around and joining Gallant and Coco on the dance floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Venable return to where Mrs. Mead was, the two clearly sharing a few unknown words. If Michael had been there he would have been proud.

Mrs. Venable was a fox in sheep's clothing but there were other bigger and more dangerous creatures mimicking sheep as well.

A dark tall figure entered and began dancing with Coco. It wasn’t Michael that she was sure of but it could be one of this tricks, Oya simply shrugged and joined Dinah by the fire, chatting together as the mood began to brighten even further. It wasn’t before Coco’s disappearance down dim lit hall that Oya excused herself, disappearing as well. She had done her part, she had shown her face and now was the time to withdraw into the shadows while the attention was elsewhere.

“Let’s begin the bobbing for apples!” Mrs. Mead voiced out loud, turning down the music and gathered with the others around the small body of water. Oya looked over her shoulder one last time before walking to her own room.

Death had been invited in with open arms, a feast was thrown as a welcome and now was the time kiss death on the lips and take his hand for the festivities were for a goodbye and another world awaited.

When the door opened and Mrs. Venable and Mrs. Mead entered, Oya stood by Michael, she had one hand that rested on his shoulder in a familiar touch. Already she could feel the hardened glare of Mrs. Venable, the eyes that cut like glass and pricked at her back. The cane tapped at the floor, one after another until it came to a rest and then the door clicked closed.

“Ladies I’m a little busy right now formulating my selections,” Michael voiced with a nonchalance Oya couldn’t match. She was after all human and her body reacted to the threat of these people by sending a spike of adrenaline through her body even though her mind knew that Michael wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

“This won’t take long,” Venable said with a cold venom. Oya turned to face her, mild entertainment showing on her face. Venable’s eyes cracked to her the hostility almost unnerving. Michael shut the laptop gently, turning towards the intruders with the same nonchalance that he had spoken with.

“What’s this?” Michael asked with faux obliviousness, one that tugged at the corners of Oya’s mouth as Venable narrowed her eyes at him. The cane clicked as she came closer, invading the space of the two.

With one last click of her cane Venable answered with a victorious smirk. “We’re making the selections now, Mr. Langdon.” Her eyes traveled to Oya with sharp accuracy, the anger towards the other woman apparent. “I see you really would do anything for survival, Miss Jeon. I will admit, I am a little disappointed by your choice, you were after all supposed to be the smart one…. But you’ve made your choice.”

“And so have you,” Oya responded in a tone equal to Venables.

Venable drew in an unbothered but still strained breath before speaking, her eyes once more on Michael, who remained in his mask of faux confusion and obviousness. It was so apparent that it was faked. “And I’m afraid neither of you made the cut.”

Oya and Michael looked at each other and burst into chuckles that was neither warm or friendly but rather mocking. It was hard to keep the chuckle in when faced with someone who thought they were the puppeteer when in reality they had as many strings as the ones they thought they controlled. Venables power had been as superficial as Michael’s confusion.

“I’m sorry, I wanted to let you have your moment but I just couldn’t hold it in,” Michael said carelessly. He could be looking down the barrel of a gun and know it’d not be enough to take him down. Venable thought herself superior in the face of a god. That was better entertainment than what she had seen the last year. Still the arrogant smirk remained on her dark lips.

“You think this is funny?”

“I think I’m impressed, Mrs. Venable,” Michael answered. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” Stretching his body to the fullest of his height, Michael stood. He glanced at Oya before returning his eyes towards the enemy. “You passed the test. You’re perfect for the sanctuary.”

The woman behind him made a face of disagreement but remained silent. If Michael wanted her to go with them, then she’d accept it but that didn't mean she’d like it. Maybe he’d forgive her for killing Venable because that certainly would be the case if Oya had to live with that wretched woman for the rest of her human life. But of course, the woman she knew would never agree to fall in like under the heel of a man like Michael, any man actually.

“Mrs. Mead,” Venable breathed with annoyance. The smaller woman with ink hair and paper-pale skin fished a gun out from under her jacket, the sound of it clicking following quickly after. With her human body, Oya reacted to the sound, a wave of goosebumps washing over her. Unconsciously she stepped behind Michael, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket, the motion of it without a doubt known to Michael. She knew he felt her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Michael warned and by doing so extending another chance for survival. He wouldn’t give another one. Venable’s smirk grew, the fire in her eyes burning bright by the victorious end in sight.

Michael tilted his head towards Mrs. Mead, brows rising in anticipation. By this show of what some would call carelessness but in reality a certainty, Oya felt a boost of confidence. It was strange to watch Mrs. Mead with her ghosty blank expressions as if a million thoughts were going through her head.

The delay became too much and Venable’s delight turned to impatience. “Mrs. Mead.” Venable turned to glare at her companion but found that the gun was now pointed at her. Before she could register it went off, the expression of her face changing to surprise and then betrayal. One Oya recognized all too well. The sound of the shot resonated through the room and ran a cold finger down her spine. The air smelled and tasted metallic, a small gush of blood exploded into it.

Oya couldn’t help but breathe relieved, the joy of seeing Venable fall from her pedestal to lie on the ground among all those she had killed. If she believed in karma this would be it. But there were also surprised bubbling within by the reveal that Mrs. Mead had been the one among all of them to protect her. That she hadn’t seen coming.

Mrs. Mead, however, looked as shocked as Venable, her actions a complete surprise to herself. She shook at it, body trembling while she watched the woman she had thought she was to protect now lying dying on the ground, gasping for air as she drowned in her own blood.”I don’t know why I did that. I was always so loyal to her.”

Oya felt sympathy for the woman but remained standing in silence while Michael crouched down to look Venable in the eyes as life left her. Rarely had she felt pleasure to watch life leave a person but a few occasions changed that.

“It’s alright,” Michael said with a calm voice. “You were obeying command. Like you’re programed to do. My commands.”

Oya stepped up to him, placing a hand on his back as he stood and looked at Mrs. Mead, satisfaction shining through his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned into a delighted smile. “Did you enjoy executing the poisonous apples plan as much as I enjoyed coming up with it?”

Mrs. Mead was at a loss of words for a moment. You could see everything going through her head, how disoriented her thoughts were. Her body was frozen in time, still pointing the gun as if Venable was still standing. “You wanted everyone dead?”

“I’ve never been a fan of getting my hands dirty,” Michael explained with a drawl. “Learned that from my father.”

Oya looked down at Venables dead body, the bullet torn through clothing and skin as if it were the same and left a bloody gaping wound in her chest. From the looks of it it had tron through her chest plate and into her lung. There were no blood splatter nor any bullet hole behind her, so the bullet was still inside of her. Either she drowned in her own blood or her heart gave in. By the time Oya looked up, Mrs. Mead was trembling even more, bottom lip quivering and tears streaking down her pale cheeks.

“-Always more fun to entice men and women to dirty deeds. Confirms what I’ve always believed.”

“W-wa-what do y-you believe?”

“That all people, if given the right pressures or stimulus are evil motherfuckers,” Michael continued. Oya made a face and pursed her lips. Whether there was a flaw in Michael’s belief or not, were not hers to dispute. To her humans was oblivious little creatures capable of great monstrosity or kindness, each holding their own value. Humanity was flawed and just maybe a new set of rules, a new world, could make up for that flaw. In chaos, there were always the greatest fun.

“I-I’m having trouble with this,” Mrs. Mead stammered. “I know, I’m just a machine-,”

“Never say that!” Michael broke, the tremor in his voice indicating how emotional he was in this moment. It cut into her, the sudden realisation that this woman was more important to him that she initially thought. “You’re not just a machine. Not to me. When I tasked the Cooperative’s R&D department to have you constructed…” Oya put a hand on the small of his back, coming up to stand beside him. Michael glanced at her and revealed the tears in his eyes, the pain and sadness in the blue. “I gave them a prototype to model.”

“A prototype?”

“Someone from my childhood,” Michael said gently. “This one very dear to me.”

It was like she was watching the sun rise for the first time. Pure and adulterated realisation shining through every ounce of her. It looked like a door had opened and all that was hidden behind it washed over her.  

Oya couldn’t help but feel a strange sadness at the bottom of her stomach. This woman was created in the image of someone else, someone human and she had been lost to him. This woman was made out of his pain and sorrow and loneliness to replace the one he had lost. But in the end, to Oya at least, a robot could never replace a human.

“The beautiful boy,” Mrs. Mead said calmly.

“That was me,” Michael said back, voice barely above a whisper and breaking. “But I had to keep the most important part of you hidden from your mind.”

“Why?”

“To protect you,” Michael answered. “And the plan. But now it’s time to remember it all. I lost you and I couldn’t bear it. I can’t imagine a new world without you by my side. One of two women who ever really understood me.”

There were no other way to explain it other than pure happiness showing upon her face. “Who ever really loved you.”

Michael embraced the woman, hugging her tightly. The sight moved Oya, her heart swelling in her chest. He looked like a child, a boy who was finally hugged by their absent parent that had returned to them. She had seen the boy in him before, seen the loneliness and heartbreak. If a simple thing like a rose or an embrace could bring this sort of happiness, belonging, she’d shower him in it. For all he had gone through he deserved better.

Michael sat Mrs. Mead down and told her about the woman in which image she was created. The conversation was intimate, between the two, mother and child, and Oya felt strangely out of place. She watched as the two were hunched together, the aura around them thick and warm. Standing back she wrapped her arms around herself and looked away while nibbling at her bottom lip.

“...Who better than the one person who I never stopped trusting,” Michael said with a gentle drawl. “Or loving.”

Mrs. Mead smiled, eyes sparkling with artificial life, with joy and prosperous love. Truly, it was like she was looking at her son, with the same proud eyes mothers had when their child achieved greatness. An oddly jealous ache settling in her heart. The woman stood and Michael with her, she took his hands with a gratified smile upon her lips.

“Mrs. Mead, I do believe you’re glowing,” Michael smiled at her.

“For the first time I feel like I know my place in the world,” she said. At this Oya smiled, knowing exactly what that felt like. She walked to Michael, wrapping her arm around his and smiled at the both of them.

“Oya,” Mrs. Mead said and looked at Oya who’s eyes widened a little unsure what to expect. The woman simply smiled and brushed a hand down her arm and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here,” She answered. Michael smiled down at Oya only for his smile to stifle, slowly turning into a frown as his eyes unfocused out into the room. The air changed, electricity filling it up making the hairs on her body stand. Not even the candles and fireplace managed to warm the air that seemed to be forever chilled.

“What is it?” Mrs. Mead asked.

“A powerful presence,” Michael answered.

“What do you mean everyone is dead.”

“Not anymore.”

[crewhonk]

Nameless (I)

1940!Bucky X War Nurse!Reader

Warnings: Language, Blood, War, angst, fluff, shitty POV consistency. 

Summary: When war is hard, attraction and love come easy

AN: To be added to the tag list send me a message! Also feedback, reblogs and likes encourage me to write better and faster! this was also supposed to be longer but its 3:30 in the morning so uhhh yeah. 

Words: 2,487

series masterlist 

April 20th, 1942

“So, you’re really doin’ this, huh.” Her best friend, Florence says from her place on the window sill. The weather is rainy, but there's a glimmer of sun in the horizon that promises the two girls an evening out on Main Street fighting off mosquitoes and cherishing the time before Y/N ships out for Austria early the next morning. Y/N looks over at her best friend for a brief second and smiles before turning back to her suitcase that reads ‘War Nurse; 107th Infantry’ and placing the bare essentials into it. Her uniforms, her helmet, her boots, some pictures and journals and her favorite perfumes and lipsticks. The latter items, she knew, would be the only luxury she would be allowed until the Great War ended. 

“I didn’t go through schooling and basic training for nothin’ Flo. I knew I wanted to be a nurse and save lives before the war started, but now people need people like me.”

“And you can do that here, YNN! There are hospitals here that are flooded with vets.” Her friend argued while picking at her ginger split ends— book laying at her feet forgotten. 

“Flo, that may be what you need, but what better experience could I get working under pressure and helping our boys who need it? Instead of doing things here at the hospitals by the book I’d get to improvise and push myself. I’d get to see men come back to me and go back out because I can help them get there.” She sighed as she closed her trunk and locked it before walking slowly over to her friend and taking a seat on the opposite side of the windowsill. The green pastures outside of her room seemed to be oversaturated and danced in the rain and wind, hypnotizing her only briefly before she turned back to her friend to look into her sad eyes. 

“That’s viciously naive, Y/N. I hope you know that.” Flo sighed and reached forward for her best friends hand. YN gave her a sad smile and held her friend's hand loosely in her own grip. Both of the girl's skin was soft, untouched by the spoils of life and war. Y/N knew that her words were that of American propaganda taught by her instructors and sergeants, but she also knew this opportunity would not only give hearth experience she needed but also the money to continue to help Florence with rent and other living expenses. 

Y/N’s parents had both died in the Great Depression, starving themselves so Y/N could eat and go to bed with a full stomach. She had been left a whopping eighteen dollars and a house a few kilometers north of upstate New York and close to the Canadian Border. Both her and Florence had left the busy city life for an honest living, clean eating, and while it was often difficult making ends meet, both young women knew it would be worth it to live a life where they could live it together. 

“When you can do the things I was trained to do and the things that I’ve been able to do since I was a child and you don’t— people die because of you.” She murmured, not meeting her friends gaze and choosing instead to stare blankly out the window, watching single raindrops trail down the window pane until they hit the sill.

Y/N had been blessed with certain healing gifts, and since her parents begged her to keep them to herself, they weren’t as powerful as those who were making names for themselves overseas. They rapidly exhausted her, and since most people still didn’t have basic human rights, using her powers were more often than not frowned upon. She had been punished with belts and rulers in school, and severely reprimanded later that day at home by her father. After she had finished her punishment, she would be coaxed into her parents embrace and showered with whispers of fear and love. 

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should Y/N/N,” Flo whispered. She was undoubtedly the most fearful person in Y/N’s life, and while it drove her absolutely crazy, she knew fear was the thing that kept people alive in times like the Great Depression and the War. Florence was afraid of the War, she was afraid of the Siege on Women, Minorities, and Mutants and she was cripplingly afraid of losing her best friend. 

There was a pause of silence that was only filled by the soft scratching sounds of the record player in the corner of the room and the even softer sound of rain hitting the window. 

“I need you to let me go, Florence. I need you to be okay with it.” Y/N could swear she heard her best friends heartbreak in her chest. 

“I will never let you go, Y/N. I’ll never be okay with you voluntarily going into a war zone, but you do have my blessing to do so. Just on one ground.” Florence’s voice was weak, and she shuffled closer to Y/N until their knees were touching and their faces only inches apart. When Y/N finally made herself look into her eyes, she saw fear and love and determination. 

“What’s that?”

“You come back to me. You come back to your damn cat. You come back to your ratty dresses and holey shoes. You come back to your cafe job you hate so much. You come back to me.” Florence was proud her voice didn’t shake around the lump in her throat or the tears in her eyes. She held out one dainty pinky between the two and clenched her jaw in an effort to hold back the sobs that were threatening to explode from her chest. 

YN found her cheeks suddenly wet with tears of her own, and she held her lower lip between her teeth in an effort to stop it shaking. She cleared her throat before looking down at Florence’s pinky finger, and without hesitation, wrapping her own around it. 

“I promise to come home to you. We’ll drive to the ocean when I come home and drink all of the coffee and spin in pretty dresses I can afford and finally know we’re safe. I promise.”

April 21st, 1942 

Y/N ships out at three o’clock the following morning after leaving a heartfelt note for Florence to find when she woke up and showering her cat, Felix, with enough kisses for one million years. The plane ride is long, and when she looks out the window all she sees is the light blue of the ocean and the rich colors of the rising sun. She knows she’s getting close when one of the girls she trained with back in February mentions she can see the warships of the British coast. The blue of the ocean soon turns into the brown of war zones and farmers fields and the sky becomes plagues with plumes of smoke Y/N isn’t sure is from explosions or factories. 

Settling down with the 107th, is long and hard, and the beds aren’t quite comfortable (not at all, really) as the ones back home, but it’s worth it when she’s able to sew up wounds and give fighting men fluids they need. It’s worth it when the Head Nurse gives her a flicker of a smile at her good work, and it’s worth it to be able to sit down and read letters from Florence about how Felix decided to tear up yet another set of curtains. 

She’s sitting with some of the girls, washing her hair out of her helmet when she sees him for the first time. He’s laughing with a man who had thick ginger hair and impressive facial hair, and she swears that the war is worth it if it has led her to this moment. His brown hair flops boyishly over his eyes, and when he glances at the group of nurses she’s with, she almost dunks her hair in her soapy helmet water to avoid his gaze. 

What she doesn’t see, is the way his eyes land on her. Not for any particular reason, she’s plain, and there are no physical attributes that makee him drool over the girls in New York, but the way her sopping hair falls over her face like a curtain and shines in the sun makes him do a double take. She doesn’t see the way his laughter dies in his throat, and she doesn’t see the way the older man elbows him in the ribs when he stops walking in front of him. She doesn’t see the way he blushes when the older man teases him, or the way a slightly more shy version of that boyish grin spread across his face when he looks back at her. He finally catches her eye just before he turns around a tent corner, and the way she’s blushing makes his heart skip a beat and makes his steps jovial. The older man that’s with him smiles fondly down at his younger friend, admiring the way such a talented marksman and fighter can still be such a boy. 

April 31st, 1942

She had lost two high ranking officers earlier in the day. One had been a victim of exploding shrapnel and the other had experienced severe head trauma as a result of the same explosion. It had been a miracle the paramedics had been able to keep either of them alive, and it was an even bigger miracle they had acted as long as they did under her care. While she tried to use her powers as much as she could, there were too many people around her and they were still too weak to do enough to even begin to save their lives. 

She’s excused from her shift, and she throws her blood-drenched nurse scrubs in the cart to be cleaned before leaving the tent she had helped build. The air is colder tonight, with the smell of incoming rain. The booms she hears in the distance could be either thunder or bombs, and she flinches when she heard them despite them being tens of miles away. She tells herself she’s safe to calm her shaking hands and racing heartbeat and she finds herself walking through her sleeping tent, grabbing the letters from Florence she received earlier in the week and heading straight to the bar. She finds an empty barstool amongst the throngs of drunken soldiers, and while the bar is sticky, and the lights are dim, she orders a glass of their strongest liquor and begins to read. 

Florence tells her that it snowed again earlier in the week and when Felix had tried to go out he jumped three feet in the air and found refuge on one of the heating vents where he stayed for the following two days. Y/N laughs to herself when Florence says he’s just as dramatic as Y/N is.

“Didn’t know such a pretty dame could drink somethin’ so strong.” She hears a voice from her right side pipe up. She looks over to the source of the voice, and her entire body runs cold when she sees the same boyish grin from earlier in the week staring back at her. He’s a few stools over, and by the way his eyes drift around the room, and his smile comes easy she guesses he’s had more than one drink. She looks back at her letter to hide the blush that's creeping up on her neck and face, pretending to read her letter but not being able to focus because he’s moved closer to her, and the overpowering smell of his cologne is almost burning her nose. The heat radiating off his body makes her want to curl into his arms, and she curses at herself for not thinking to grab a jacket when the winds flow through the Bar Tent and bites at the exposed skin. 

He says something to the bartender that she doesn’t quite hear, and she raises a groomed eyebrow when he slides a cheap beer in front of her. Compared to the expensive and strong drink in front of her, she knows the beer is going to taste like dirty water and without much more thought she takes her tumbler and drinks the amber liquid, ignoring the gifted beer. 

He seems to grow tired of her silence and leans just a little closer to her, and when Y/N only blushes harder and keeps her eyes on the pages in front of her, he clears his throat and speaks. “So, who’s the lucky person writing you? Boyfriend? Husband?”

“What’s it to ya?” Her snarky comment makes him blink stupidly at her for a second and his stunned silence bring her to look at him. She bites her tongue at his expression and her eyes flicker down to his uniform to find his rank, trying to ignore how broad his shoulders are under the beautifully tailored uniform. “Sergeant?”

His reaction to his title is immediate and he straightens his posture before smirking and cocking his head to the side playfully. “Just trying to make conversation with the prettiest dame I’ve seen on this side of the world.”

She raises both eyebrows and the flustered smile that spreads across her face makes his heart skip a beat. She lets the pages in her hands flutter to the tacky surface of the bar before turning in her seat to face him. She still ignores his cheap piece offering and drinks the rest of her scotch. 

Her flustered smile, however, is hard on the edges, and the redness in her eyes makes her look tired. “I appreciate the flattery, Sarge, I really do. But I lost two very important men today when I had the capabilities to save both of ‘em. I’d much appreciate it if you left me alone before I stab you in the hand with a scalpel.”

Her sudden threat makes him shrink back, and while both parties know it’s an empty threat, he stills holds his hands up in surrender and send her a sympathetic smile. 

“Sorry for your loss, Dollface.” His voice is filled with enough truth that it makes her hands tremble and throat sore with the size of the lump that finds itself there. She smiles at him that almost looks like a wince and watches his large hands reach for both of the bottles. Just as he’s about to turn around, her voice stops him. 

“Sarge?”

“Yeah, Doll?”

“Leave the drinks, yeah?”

“Anything for you.”

Part II

[marcythewerewolf]

Some Lord of Shadows Thoughts, In No Particular Order

I think Jace’s name is in this book more than Kieran’s which is obnoxious. Also every appearance of his was prefaced by a multi-sentence description of how gorgeous he was. This did not stop even when he showed up purely to be a dick to Kit. I officially hate book Jace now. He’s drunk the Kool Aid and he’s part of the Shadowhunter establishment and he’s insufferable so thanks for that book. ‘

Shadowhunters are a cult. Full stop. Sometimes it seems like the book has started to recognize this but then it backtracks and goes back to glorifying them. They’re so rich, they’re so pretty! Like, yeah, but they’re also super racist and hugely regressive and directly responsible for the suffering of thousands. Sure, they do some good along the way but so does Salvation Army, they’re still BAD. Look past all the glitter and propaganda and they’re just magical thugs who haven’t gotten past the middle ages and at this rate never will. The Blackthorn kids are better off without them. 

Kit is probably the most sympathetic person in the entire book and I do want him to run away and set up a pawn shop in Ohio? Save him from everyone but especially Jace. 

At one point his face was described as angular though, which makes me wonder if CC has seen a fifteen year old ever. You do it once, it’s justifiable, but most teenagers have a bad case of the baby face and saying other wise is ridiculous. This cheekbone addiction is getting out of hand. 

This book was so ridiculously heterosexual. Like, just such a pervasive case of unfortunate and tragic heterosexuality. So casual. So pointless. Magnus first gets brought up as “glittery”. One character thinks in all seriousness that you only get one dad. Gwyn is painfully straight for no apparent reason when faeries should and previously have been all sorts of flexible. It’s just... bad. 

The centurions are all kind of awful and I didn’t bother to learn their names. 

That being said, I did like the focus on Diana. She’s beautiful and amazing and brave and I love her. 

This is just blatant apologism for what happened to Anselm Nightshade. You set up a situation like that, you deal with the consequences of it, you don’t wimp out. 

The kids went to Faerie together and I am glad for that. They did just kill of Iarlath with no fanfare, but now his headcanon bf are chilling together and we got some follow up on Malcolm’s faerie ties so I’m not too mad about that. 

“Her old tutor, Katerina.” God, where’s my  Katerina spinoff. She has gotten no lines ever and because of that I love her. 

I do like anything with faeries very much but it could afford to be a little less fantasy and a little less chaos theory. The rest is just an issue of misplaced expectation. Obviously I like some of my interpretations better (killing girls is so stupid and outdated, an actual curse dooming him to have fifty sons all the time is maybe a twist) but other than that, nice worldbuilding, solid writing. 

Faeries! Gosh, I just love them so much. Faeries all the time, that what I want. 

The Unseelie King is super interesting. His kids are more trite, but hey, I love them anyways. 

On a related note, have I mentioned how much Gwyn just wants his big dumb teenagers to be safe and happy? Kieran and Mark aren’t even twenty and they need to take care of each other and not die. What a quality Faerie Dad. 

Some times these kids act dumb but i do not begrudge them it on account of them being children. 

The book got good about halfway through, which I appreciated. Kieran my sweet bratty boy, Nene the enigma, the courts, this is some good stuff I appreciate. 

What I did not appreciate was the killing off of Arthur. Like, come on. You’ve already done a disservice by magicking up your mental illness, you don’t have to kill him off too. A much more straight forward solution would have used the fact that Malcolm and Annabel were technically married, have his death revive her, then have confused Annabel and her angry zombie husband coming after the Institute, then Annabel realizing what was really going on and turning on Malcolm. Less in between steps. Failing that, ancient aunt they mentioned last book. 

Mark, Miach, darling, in fairness, the Seelie Queen’s lover very much did kidnap you. She was kidnap complicit. Don’t be trusting her. She absolutely had Sebastian’s baby. 

Memory loss plots are rather boring, but I recognize they do something for some people, so it might just be a cup of tea situation. Enjoy your memory loss then, friends. 

The Kieran/Mark/Cristina plot is juicy and I do like that but I want More Diana and Helen and Aline back and Answers first, you know?

One of the downsides of these books being about Shadowhunters is that it always comes down to the Shadowhunter heroes fighting and killing the irrational villainous Downworlder hordes which is Unfortunate. That conflict with Barnabas could have gone so much better. 

People need to stop trying to brainwash Kit with this Herondale stuff. People don’t go around calling me by my great-great great grandmother’s name and expect me to sit down and take it. Sure, we’re technically related, but that’s not how convention or basic politeness works. Your name is what you are raised with and more importantly it’s what you choose. His name is Kit and he’s a Rook until he decides, on his own without the constant pressure of adults, to be something else. 

As an extension of that? All these callbacks to the other book? They’re getting old and frankly more than a little annoying. 

Jessamine died in 1878. Edgar Allan Poe died in 1849. I’m telling you guys, the timeline just doesn’t line up. She wasn’t even born when Malcolm was young and building his house.

Kieran is a very impulsive boy who is already too invested in his Shadowhunter bf and gf. I don’t make the rules. 

I tried not to read too much into the Disaster Children literally burning down a church and having a weird intimate moment but they really are a mess. No laws, no holy lands, nothing but family, and nothing comes before family. I’m much more invested in them when they’re tearing down the establishment and making terrible toxic Wicked Powers choices. 

AIRMED WAS THE DAUGHTER OF MANNAN. This is basic people. Do your research. 

See, the memory loss plots always backfire unless you come clean. Lying never pays, kids. 

My Diana theories are more or less confirmed which I appreciate, thank you very much. 

I do very much wish they’d at least had the decency to leave bby Morgenstern a bby, that or go all the way and age him a few decades so you had a fifty something year old claiming to be Clary’s nephew. Much better than this cliche storm. 

I recognize that Annabel got a short shift in life, but so did Malcolm, frankly. The fact that he gets a life of torment and a horrible death at the hands of one he loved while she gets to wander off and live happily is a little concerning to me. Why do Downworlders not get to be happy? Downworlders, and Arthur Blackthorn, apparently, aren’t allowed to live nice, non-tragic lives, but pretty young Shadowhunters can get away with anything. At this point I would have preferred a disappointing end for Annabel. Get that good tragedy going. The Blackthorn’s clearly have a bad case of the Gothics they need to fulfill. 

Oh. OH. There we go. There’s the Blackthorn drama I crave. 

My sweet girl, my sweet girl Livvy. She’s coming back as a ghost, isn’t she?

So that’s about five hours. My record holds. The book wasn’t bad, it was just sooooo long. I feel like it could have used a ruthless editor with a really good grasp of the classics to clean things up a bit. Didn’t make me laugh as much, but that might just be a result of my evolving sense of humour. Drama got good nearer the last half of the book. There was some nice stuff in there. Overall, not a waste of five hours, and I’m not mad. Just please, someone de-brainwash these Shadowhunter children. They’re in a cult. Someone needs to tell them that they’re in a cult. Save Kit, he’s getting pulled in as well.  

[the-record-columns]

Feb. 20, 2019: Columns

A not so permanent wave...

The 1918 Helene Curtis Empress permanent wave machine from Arlene Staley sits next to a 1948 AMI Jukebox also in perfect working condition.

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

Every so often, I begin my column with a note to the effect of "...the best part of my day is my company."

And it is.

The "bait" out front leads many to assume we are running an antique store and, once I get them past it not being a store, but a poor man's museum, I have some amazing visits with folks that wander in literally from Boomer to Bangkok. Being a wannabe storyteller, it is always great to have a "fresh set of ears," as Sonny Church says.

Also, at this time of year, it is approaching the anniversaries of my parents’ deaths in 1995—March and April—and, while they are always on my mind, it just seems to bear down on me more this time of year. I, as you are bound to know, was their baby boy, and they were both elderly when they died. Most of their contemporaries are also gone and, frankly, it is rare for anyone to stop by who even knew them.

Which brings me to my company.

The offices of The Record and Thursday Printing are "decorated" with an array of old, unusual, and eclectic items which just beg for a story to be told about each one of them.

And, that allows me to often work in a story about my mother, Cary, or my daddy, The Preacher.

So this past weekend when three folks came in from Gastonia and walked straight to the hair-curling machine, I was ready.

The machine, which looks like something form Saddam Hussein's basement, is actually a 1918 Helene Curtis Empress permanent wave machine — and it is still in perfect working condition.  It was given to me by Arlene Staley some years ago, and it has been photographed with many a hairdresser who ended up randomly visiting here, and it is a great piece of history.

I live upstairs above The Record in the 911 Main Street building in what was once The Maylflower Beauty Shop and Beauty School. My mother sometimes had her hair done there and, when was a little boy, I was with her when she got a "permanent" one day.  She looked like they were going to blast her into outer space with all those wires and clips attached to her head.

Well, in no time, we were climbing those same steps again and I asked why we were there. My mother said she was going to get a permanent.

“You just got one,” I said.

“Well, I need another one,” she replied. 

“Then it wasn't very permanent was it?” I told her.

 As she laughed, getting ready to explain that your hair grows out and another treatment is needed, I said “...looks like you would call it a ‘temporary.’”  

My mother never drove a car. Years later, when sometimes my dad couldn't take her to the beauty shop, she would call me and she would always say, "Kenny, can you take me to the beauty shop?  It's time for another temporary.

To remember and to tell stories about my sweet mother, Cary, is priceless to me.

I thank my visitors and anyone else who gives me the chance to share those memories.

Attack against one is an attack against all

By EARL COX

Special to The Record

We are living in a time when anti-Semitism is again on the rise and public opinion is being wrongly and strongly influenced against Israel and the Jewish people. 

Back during the 1930’s and 1940’s, millions of Jews became victims of the Holocaust not because they were unaware that something bad was happening but because it was all too horrible and too unbelievable to actually grasp the reality that systematic intimidation and murder could be taking place in an educate and sophisticated society such as existed in Germany and Europe.  The first step down this dark passage of history began with intimidation.

On April 1, 1933, the Nazi regime announced a boycott of Jewish tradesmen, craftsmen, lawyers and doctors, accompanied by intensive anti-Semitic propaganda that claimed the boycott was merely reciprocation for the hostile attitude of foreign Jews towards the new German regime. 

For a time, the boycotts eased up however the economic and social isolation intensified.   Anti-Semitism and racism became a normal part not just of public campaigns, but also of teachings in schools. Eventually, the Nazi PR machine succeeded in convincing the German public that Jews were subhuman and were to blame for Germany’s many woes.  Jews became thought of as the enemy of Germany and thus were openly attacked in the streets and often in broad daylight. 

Today, an eerily similar pattern is emerging. 

The Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) campaigns against Israel and Israeli products is said to be in retaliation for the sufferings of the Palestinians for which the United Nations and others blame Israel.  Of course, this is nonsense. Thankfully the Jews now have a safe haven and it’s called the land of Israel however not all Jews live in Israel.  Those who continue to reside in France, Europe, Spain, Brussels and even in parts of the United States, are coming under increasing threats of attack. 

In France, for example, Jews have been warned by government officials not to wear any articles of clothing or jewelry that identifies them as Jewish.  In 2017, a 65-year-old Jewish grandmother and teacher, was murdered by an Islamist neighbor who broke into her apartment, beat her and threw her from her balcony. Witnesses reported hearing him shout, “I’ve killed my Jew!” This past Friday night in Brooklyn, N.Y., there was another attack on a synagogue.  The perpetrator threw a rock through the windows causing the glass to shatter and land close to where the children and adults were gathered around the peaceful Shabbat table. 

The Rabbi said, “We are facing this unfortunate experience not with discouragement, but with solid determination – to continue celebrating our faith, sharing our rich heritage, and offering our culture in an inclusive and warm environment. At the same time, we acknowledge the disturbing and increasingly frequent incidents of hate and prejudice in our New York community, and its destructive and divisive effects, especially on young people.”

Violence against Jews is not isolated to New York or Pittsburgh or France or anywhere else in the world.  Those of us who consider ourselves civilized and want to live in a peaceful society much consider an attack against one of us as an attack against all of us.  According to God’s word, we must stand shoulder to shoulder with our Jewish brothers and sisters knowing that it is our duty, as Christians and citizens of the free world, to make absolutely certain that another Holocaust never happens again.

[adam16bit]

Mega Man 2 was the first game I tackled on the NES Classic I just got, mostly because it’s great. I was a little disappointed 1 and 3 were missing.  Most people didn’t give a rip about Mega Man until this game came out, and by then the first game in the series was actually quite difficult to find - it took me a while to find a store that could sell me a copy. Nobody had one to rent either.  Mega Man 2 was so good it made people want the sequel, no doubt thanks to Nintendo’s astonishingly good and aggressive marketing.  Seriously, if Nintendo Power magazine gives you 12 pages you’re going to look at a game and want to try it.  (What else can explain Battletoads’ unforgiving hellscape that is the third stage other than hype from a whopping 40-page feature in Nintendo’s house propaganda factory?)

But I digress.

As a child, its $44.99 price tag was more than I could swing so I had to settle for renting it a few times before eventually getting a cheap used copy many years later.   It was the kind of game that was pretty easy, but so much fun that it was worth owning anyway.  

Mega Man 2 is genuinely great, with easy stages, clever boss weaknesses, and enemies residing in some wonderfully beautiful stages.   When I first rented the game I had no real problem gunning my way through the 8 regular stages and then struggling through the Dr. Wily levels.  I always went Flash Man, Bubble Man, Wood Man, Air Man, Metal Man, Clash Man, Heat Man, and Quick Man because man I hate the Quick Man stage’s beams of death.   The game is gorgeous, with cartoony robots, rich mechanical forests, pixel waterfalls, and flaming pits of death.   Every one of the eight stages had memorable music and a consistent, wacky design of things like pink robot rabbits that could shoot carrot rockets at you.  

For a run-and-jump-and-shoot contest, they managed to cram a lot of atmosphere in its short stages - you can plow through each one in under five minutes pretty easily provided you don’t die.  The Dr. Wily stages are a bit more difficult and less charming, with towers to climb, buildings to traverse, and giant bosses that were just visually overwhelming.   The giant robot dragon at the end of the first part of the Dr. Wily stages is the kind of thing that will cause you to die out of sheer surprise, and the mostly silent underground tunnel with deadly acid droplets operating as the only “music” is the kind of thing that either betrays a truly focused attention to sound design or a lack of a budget.

Most old video games are a “you had to be there” affair, as no sane person would pick up most Atari 2600 games and say “what a rich and rewarding experience this is, even in 2017!”   With inflation, Mega Man 2 sold for $44.99 when it debuted in 1989 - that’s about $88 in today’s dollars.   Seeing it packed as one of 30 games on the NES Classic Edition stings more than a little, because I skipped action figure purchases and poured any and all allowance and gift money I had into so many of those games back then - and now they can be had for a fraction of the original price.  Of course, I wasn’t exactly allowed out of the house much as a kid and there’s only so much you can do with $0-$2 weekly allowance, so the games I was able to get provided a handy escape from the fact I wasn’t going to be riding my bike anywhere like the other kids or generally doing anything but sitting in a dark house for long periods of time. 

Good times.  Even better that I’m not forced to write down a password in some strange grid system after each level and can save straight to the mini NES.

I assume that absolutely nothing can replicate the experience of renting a game at the video store next to the ABCO and having about 48 hours to plow through a game before it has to go back, especially now that games are cheap but actual time to play a game is increasingly short.  One of the things I’d love to be able to tell my younger self is just how valuable that Saturday where nobody else wants to do anything and you’re basically on your own in front of a TV truly was.

[sheminecrafts]

Facebook co-founder, Chris Hughes, calls for Facebook to be broken up

The latest call to break up Facebook looks to be the most uncomfortably close to home yet for supreme leader, Mark Zuckerberg.

“Mark’s power is unprecedented and un-American,” writes Chris Hughes, in an explosive op-ed published in the New York Times. “It is time to break up Facebook.”

It’s a long read but worth indulging for a well articulated argument against the market-denting power of monopolies, shot through with a smattering of personal anecdotes about Hughes’ experience of Zuckerberg — who he at one point almost paints as ‘only human’, before shoulder-dropping into a straight thumbs-down that “it’s his very humanity that makes his unchecked power so problematic.”

The tl;dr of Hughes’ argument against Facebook/Zuckerberg being allowed to continue its/his reign of the Internet knits together different strands of the techlash zeitgeist, linking Zuckerberg’s absolute influence over Facebook — and therefore over the unprecedented billions of people he can reach and behaviourally reprogram via content-sorting algorithms — to the crushing of innovation and startup competition; the crushing of consumer attention, choice and privacy, all hostage to relentless growth targets and an eyeball-demanding ad business model; to the crushing control of speech that Zuckerberg — as Facebook’s absolute monarch — personally commands, with Hughes worrying it’s a power too potent for any one human to wield.

“Mark may never have a boss, but he needs to have some check on his power,” he writes. “The American government needs to do two things: break up Facebook’s monopoly and regulate the company to make it more accountable to the American people.”

His proposed solution is not just a break up of Facebook’s monopoly of online attention by re-separating Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp — to try to reinvigorate a social arena it now inescapably owns — he also calls for US policymakers to step up to the plate and regulate, suggesting an oversight agency is also essential to hold Internet companies to account, and pointing to Europe’s recently toughened privacy framework, GDPR, as a start.

“Just breaking up Facebook is not enough. We need a new agency, empowered by Congress to regulate tech companies. Its first mandate should be to protect privacy,” he writes. “A landmark privacy bill in the United States should specify exactly what control Americans have over their digital information, require clearer disclosure to users and provide enough flexibility to the agency to exercise effective oversight over time. The agency should also be charged with guaranteeing basic interoperability across platforms.”

Once an equally fresh faced co-founder of Facebook alongside his Harvard roommate, Hughes left Facebook in 2007, walking away with what would become eye-watering wealth — writing later that he made half a billion dollars for three years’ work, off of the back of Facebook’s 2012 IPO.

It’s harder to put a value on the relief Hughes must also feel, having exited the scandal-hit behemoth so early on — getting out before early missteps hardened into a cynical parade of privacy, security and trust failures that slowly, gradually yet inexorably snowballed into world-wide scandal — with the 2016 revelations about the extent of Kremlin-backed political disinformation lighting up the dark underbelly of Facebook ads.

Soon after, the Cambridge Analytica data misuse scandal shone an equally dim light into similarly murky goings on Facebook’s developer platform. Some of which appeared to hit even closer to home. (Facebook had its own staff helping to target those political ads, and hired the co-founder of the company that had silently sucked out user data in order to sell manipulative political propaganda services to Cambridge Analytica.) 

It’s clear now that Facebook’s privacy, security and trust failures are no accident; but rather chain-linked to Zuckerberg’s leadership; to his strategy of neverending sprint for relentless, bottomless growth — via what was once literally a stated policy of “domination”. 

Hughes, meanwhile, dropped out — coming away from Facebook a very rich man and, if not entirely guilt-free given his own founding role in the saga, certainly lacking Zuckerberg-levels of indelible taint.

Though we can still wonder where his well-articulated concern, about how Facebook’s monopoly grip on markets and attention is massively and horribly denting the human universe, has been channelled prior to publishing this NYT op-ed — i.e. before rising alarm over Facebook’s impact on societies, democracies, human rights and people’s mental health scaled so disfiguringly into mainstream view.

Does he, perhaps, regret not penning a critical op-ed before Roger McNamee, an early Zuckerberg advisor with a far less substantial role in the whole drama, got his twenty-cents in earlier this year — publishing a critical book, Zucked, which recounts his experience trying and failing to get Zuckerberg to turn the tanker and chart a less collaterally damaging course.

It’s certainly curious it’s taken Hughes so long to come out of the woodwork and join the big techlash.

The NYT review of Zucked headlined it as an “anti-Facebook manifesto” — a descriptor that could apply equally to Hughes’ op-ed. And in an interview with TC back in February, McNamee — whose more limited connection to Zuckerberg Facebook has sought to dismiss — said of speaking out: “I may be the wrong messenger, but I don’t see a lot of other volunteers at the moment.”

Facebook certainly won’t be able to be so dismissive of Hughes’ critique, as a fellow co-founder. This is one Zuckerberg gut-punch that will both hurt and be harder to dodge. (We’ve asked Facebook if it has a response and will update if so.)

At the same time, hating on Facebook and Zuckerberg is almost fashionable these days — as the company’s consumer- and market-bending power has flipped its fortunes from winning friends and influencing people to turning frenemies into out-and-out haters and politically charged enemies.

Whether it’s former mentors, former colleagues — and now of course politicians and policymakers leading the charge and calling for the company to be broken up.

Seen from that angle, it’s a shame Hughes waited so long to add his two cents. It does risk him being labelled an opportunist — or, dare we say it, a techlash populist. (Some of us have been banging on about Facebook’s intrusive influence for years, so, er, welcome to the club Chris!) 

Though, equally, he may have been trying to protect his historical friendship with Zuckerberg. (The op-ed begins with Hughes talking about the last time he saw Zuckerberg, in summer 2017, which it’s hard not to read as him tacitly acknowledging there likely won’t be any more personal visits after this bombshell.)

Hughes is also not alone in feeling he needs to bide his time to come out against Zuckerberg.

The WhatsApp founders, who jumped the Facebook mothership last year, kept their heads down and their mouths shut for years, despite a product philosophy that boiled down to ‘fuck ads’ — only finally making their lack of love for their former employer’s ad-fuelled privacy incursions into WhatsApp clear post-exit from the belly of the beast — in their own subtle and not so subtle ways.

In their case they appear to have been mostly waiting for enough shares to vest. (Brian Acton did leave a bunch on the table.) But Hughes has been sitting on his money mountain for years.

Still, at least we finally have his critical — and rarer — account to add to the pile; A Facebook co-founder, who had remained close to Zuckerberg’s orbit, finally reaching for the unfriend button.

from iraidajzsmmwtv https://tcrn.ch/2LxhdlC via IFTTT

[technicalsolutions88]

The latest call to break up Facebook looks to be the most uncomfortably close to home yet for supreme leader, Mark Zuckerberg.

“Mark’s power is unprecedented and un-American,” writes Chris Hughes, in an explosive op-ed published in the New York Times. “It is time to break up Facebook.”

It’s a long read but worth indulging for a well articulated argument against the market-denting power of monopolies, shot through with a smattering of personal anecdotes about Hughes’ experience of Zuckerberg — who he at one point almost paints as ‘only human’, before shoulder-dropping into a straight thumbs-down that “it’s his very humanity that makes his unchecked power so problematic.”

The tl;dr of Hughes’ argument against Facebook/Zuckerberg being allowed to continue its/his reign of the Internet knits together different strands of the techlash zeitgeist, linking Zuckerberg’s absolute influence over Facebook — and therefore over the unprecedented billions of people he can reach and behaviourally reprogram via content-sorting algorithms — to the crushing of innovation and startup competition; the crushing of consumer attention, choice and privacy, all hostage to relentless growth targets and an eyeball-demanding ad business model; to the crushing control of speech that Zuckerberg — as Facebook’s absolute monarch — personally commands, with Hughes worrying it’s a power too potent for any one human to wield.

“Mark may never have a boss, but he needs to have some check on his power,” he writes. “The American government needs to do two things: break up Facebook’s monopoly and regulate the company to make it more accountable to the American people.”

His proposed solution is not just a break up of Facebook’s monopoly of online attention by re-separating Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp — to try to reinvigorate a social arena it now inescapably owns — he also calls for US policymakers to step up to the plate and regulate, suggesting an oversight agency is also essential to hold Internet companies to account, and pointing to Europe’s recently toughened privacy framework, GDPR, as a start.

“Just breaking up Facebook is not enough. We need a new agency, empowered by Congress to regulate tech companies. Its first mandate should be to protect privacy,” he writes. “A landmark privacy bill in the United States should specify exactly what control Americans have over their digital information, require clearer disclosure to users and provide enough flexibility to the agency to exercise effective oversight over time. The agency should also be charged with guaranteeing basic interoperability across platforms.”

Once an equally fresh faced co-founder of Facebook alongside his Harvard roommate, Hughes left Facebook in 2007, walking away with what would become eye-watering wealth — writing later that he made half a billion dollars for three years’ work, off of the back of Facebook’s 2012 IPO.

It’s harder to put a value on the relief Hughes must also feel, having exited the scandal-hit behemoth so early on — getting out before early missteps hardened into a cynical parade of privacy, security and trust failures that slowly, gradually yet inexorably snowballed into world-wide scandal — with the 2016 revelations about the extent of Kremlin-backed political disinformation lighting up the dark underbelly of Facebook ads.

Soon after, the Cambridge Analytica data misuse scandal shone an equally dim light into similarly murky goings on Facebook’s developer platform. Some of which appeared to hit even closer to home. (Facebook had its own staff helping to target those political ads, and hired the co-founder of the company that had silently sucked out user data in order to sell manipulative political propaganda services to Cambridge Analytica.) 

It’s clear now that Facebook’s privacy, security and trust failures are no accident; but rather chain-linked to Zuckerberg’s leadership; to his strategy of neverending sprint for relentless, bottomless growth — via what was once literally a stated policy of “domination”. 

Hughes, meanwhile, dropped out — coming away from Facebook a very rich man and, if not entirely guilt-free given his own founding role in the saga, certainly lacking Zuckerberg-levels of indelible taint.

Though we can still wonder where his well-articulated concern, about how Facebook’s monopoly grip on markets and attention is massively and horribly denting the human universe, has been channelled prior to publishing this NYT op-ed — i.e. before rising alarm over Facebook’s impact on societies, democracies, human rights and people’s mental health scaled so disfiguringly into mainstream view.

Does he, perhaps, regret not penning a critical op-ed before Roger McNamee, an early Zuckerberg advisor with a far less substantial role in the whole drama, got his twenty-cents in earlier this year — publishing a critical book, Zucked, which recounts his experience trying and failing to get Zuckerberg to turn the tanker and chart a less collaterally damaging course.

It’s certainly curious it’s taken Hughes so long to come out of the woodwork and join the big techlash.

The NYT review of Zucked headlined it as an “anti-Facebook manifesto” — a descriptor that could apply equally to Hughes’ op-ed. And in an interview with TC back in February, McNamee — whose more limited connection to Zuckerberg Facebook has sought to dismiss — said of speaking out: “I may be the wrong messenger, but I don’t see a lot of other volunteers at the moment.”

Facebook certainly won’t be able to be so dismissive of Hughes’ critique, as a fellow co-founder. This is one Zuckerberg gut-punch that will both hurt and be harder to dodge. (We’ve asked Facebook if it has a response and will update if so.)

At the same time, hating on Facebook and Zuckerberg is almost fashionable these days — as the company’s consumer- and market-bending power has flipped its fortunes from winning friends and influencing people to turning frenemies into out-and-out haters and politically charged enemies.

Whether it’s former mentors, former colleagues — and now of course politicians and policymakers leading the charge and calling for the company to be broken up.

Seen from that angle, it’s a shame Hughes waited so long to add his two cents. It does risk him being labelled an opportunist — or, dare we say it, a techlash populist. (Some of us have been banging on about Facebook’s intrusive influence for years, so, er, welcome to the club Chris!) 

Though, equally, he may have been trying to protect his historical friendship with Zuckerberg. (The op-ed begins with Hughes talking about the last time he saw Zuckerberg, in summer 2017, which it’s hard not to read as him tacitly acknowledging there likely won’t be any more personal visits after this bombshell.)

Hughes is also not alone in feeling he needs to bide his time to come out against Zuckerberg.

The WhatsApp founders, who jumped the Facebook mothership last year, kept their heads down and their mouths shut for years, despite a product philosophy that boiled down to ‘fuck ads’ — only finally making their lack of love for their former employer’s ad-fuelled privacy incursions into WhatsApp clear post-exit from the belly of the beast — in their own subtle and not so subtle ways.

In their case they appear to have been mostly waiting for enough shares to vest. (Brian Acton did leave a bunch on the table.) But Hughes has been sitting on his money mountain for years.

Still, at least we finally have his critical — and rarer — account to add to the pile; A Facebook co-founder, who had remained close to Zuckerberg’s orbit, finally reaching for the unfriend button.

from Social – TechCrunch https://tcrn.ch/2LxhdlC Original Content From: https://techcrunch.com

[theliterateape]

American Shithole #0 — Introductions

by Eric Wilson

I am penning this introductory screed on a weekday afternoon with CNN squawking at me in the background. The White House press secretary, Sarah Elizabeth Huckabee Sanders — looking like a confused and punch-drunk prizefighter — has taken one too many left hooks from the press.

I have grown accustomed to this angry, misshapen science experiment from The Island of Doctor Moreau — today draped in blinding fluorescent magenta — as she answers a daily barrage of questions from incredulous journalists. This is day seven (eight?) of Shithole-Gate, and what Sanders and her team have come up with is that sometimes Donny uses tough language.

Thanks Mrs. S.

Shortly after, I watched Homeland Security Secretary, Kirstjen Nielsen, straight up commit a felony, by lying in her testimony to Congress (including Senator Dick Durbin, who was with her in the Oval Office), culminating with a fiery Senator Cory Booker taking the fibber to task. We don’t see that every day. We didn’t used to, anyway.

Also, lying to the American people to protect this president, who has repeatedly demonstrated that if the roles were reversed, he would joyfully throw just about anyone under the bus, will not end well for her. Jesus, it’s like that fucking scene out of The Omen.

Some porn star named Dusty Windows or something, was paid $130,000 to keep quiet about what I imagine to be the world’s worst sex that she has ever been paid to perform. This sex was with the president, by the way. News that would lead during anything other than the apocalypse.  

Later still, Senator Orrin Hatch (congressional lamppost and patient zero for the aforementioned coming zombie apocalypse), took off his imaginary pair of glasses.

Let me repeat that. A sitting U.S. Senator took off his fucking pair of imaginary glasses.

Then, White House medico and disturbingly enthusiastic space alien, Dr. Ronny Jackson (whose nickname in medical school I imagine to be “McDolty”) answered questions cheerfully for far too long about the president’s health — again, to an incredulous press corps that could barely keep straight faces.

This is only a handful of the stories developing in one afternoon, now any afternoon in America. Every fucking day we are inundated with this madness. For the past year, I wake up like far too many Americans: my bones hurt, the colors are drab, and without fail I’m mortified to load my news feed.

Anywhere other than Bizarre-O-World (or whatever alternate universe, fucked-up, 12 Monkeys-meets-Hee Haw nightmare timeline we’re stuck in) these kind of events would dominate the news cycle for months.

The shelf-life for a news story these days, even a bombshell, is 48 hours, 72 tops. Less if another, larger story breaks. And now one always does, jamming up my feed, keeping the assembly line of atrocity rolling along so fast, I often struggle to do anything but watch it all go by. At this rate, in a year I will be writing about something two days old, that has already been completely forgotten.

That’s where we’re at.

Here’s where I’m coming from:

The now long-defunct Rykodisc Bill Hicks Message Board, where I cut my teeth writing short, comedic posts back in the mid-90s, seems born of a different internet. One where opinions were discussed, even argued without calamity. We enjoyed a regular news cycle, where major political events were infrequent at best. The community felt insular and remote. It was an island of misfit toys that had little in common other than their love for Bill, where no one was paying much attention and everyone was having fun.

Cut to the internet today, where every sparrow-fart tweet from Kommandant Bonespur jackknifes across the now orange-tinged information superhighway, like some sort of intelligence-dampening 18-wheeler spilling out propaganda like so many soiled Depends.

Welcome to the adult diaper days of American democracy, where Idiocracy is starting to look more like wishful thinking.

We are experiencing the dog days of late-stage capitalism and potentially the end of the Rule of Law. Today, if allegations of misconduct are leveled, the casket for your career (if you even have one) or for your life’s value, is a one-size-fits-all affair where sexual transgression is binary, and due process is the real crime. A pat on the butt and child-fucking are indistinguishable and identifying their differences only outs you as an enemy of the movement.

Republicans have ushered in the billionaire cash-grab part deux — the second fleecing of the masses in as many decades. The filthy rich literally stole everything from every struggling American they could. Twice.

I cope the same way I always have. I make fun.

One of my first stories at the Hicks board back in 1996, was about farting myself awake on an Amtrak train. As you might imagine, it was a high-brow narrative describing in great detail the hours of entertainment that event provided for young Jeremy — an idiot-child sitting behind me — who proceeded to mercilessly ridicule me the entire trip, much to the delight of the other passengers. It was one of those pieces that wrote itself.

Today, that same story would likely be scanned for offensive material, regarded with scorn for including a negative portrayal of a very young, possibly borderline mentally retarded child, then summarily dismissed as juvenile, puerile word-garbage. Does it offend? Shame it. Does it not offend? Ignore it. America has an almost clinical distrust of comedy developing and it fucking pisses me off.

For the past 20 years, I have written stories; about my own misadventures, mostly. These predominantly self-deprecating, embarrassing tales that made my friends laugh (which is surely one of the best fucking feelings you could ever have) also became the template for my writing style.

This kind of humor — the personal, self-reflecting kind — is perhaps the only safe comedy left. You would think a smart person would stick with that, if that’s what they already do, especially in today’s political and social climate.

But not this dumb-fuck.

Instead, I have foolishly (bravely?) offered to write a column where I will tackle all manner of nightmarish behavior and dark deeds contributing to our American Shithole.

Don Hall has welcomed me into the Literate Ape fold, and I look forward to connecting with my Chicago roots. My thanks to Don. Many of my happiest moments are Windy City moments, so an opportunity to rekindle my love affair with a city that was once so good to me, is much appreciated. (Also, if you haven’t seen Don laughing as if Patton Oswalt were the cure for aging and bad backs, then you should check out Patton’s most recent Netflix special, Annihilation. Don’s the one in the front row, center, reacting like a comedian’s wet fucking dream.)

I fully understand I am signing up for something that will likely offer as a return, many self-righteous kicks to my junk, public shaming, little remuneration and probably additional junk punches for a closer. For example, I am sure I will rue the day I write about Al Franken, but you know, fuck it, I’m definitely going to write about Franken.

Of course, at the breakneck speed this country is barreling toward an inescapable permanent shithole event horizon, perhaps that article will be met with an “Al who?”   

I also intend to find some humor winding its way through this cacophonous din of greed, stupidity, cruelty, misconduct, abuse and suffering. Not in a dismissive manner, nor needlessly derisive, or overly critical. I hope I have provided, but you know, pilot episodes are a bitch.

In an effort to facilitate, I have doubled my THC, CBD and TMZ intake, as well as my TLC personal happy time regimen.

A bit more about the author My language can be offensive, but my ideals are rooted in Scandinavian-grade socialism, and that means I’m nice, goddamn it. My core tenet is to always begin from a place of empathy. I fail miserably at this, because too many people are dicks. I am an off-the-scale leftist by American standards, a moderate liberal by Canadian, and a fairly typical middle-aged Chicagoan — if we are judging the city by my friends who still happen live there. I like dogs, funny people, the Clash and sobbing uncontrollably to Pixar films.

Mission Statement American Shithole promises to at least occasionally make you laugh like a middle-aged doofus sitting front row at a Patton Oswalt show. OK, not that hard. American Shithole also promises to stop with the third-person bullshit real fucking quick, just give American Shithole a fucking second. Finally, American Shithole promises to reserve the most vicious critique for the creator of American Shithole — that wanker.

[fadingfartconnoisseur]

Things to See, Eat, and Do in Krakow!

Krakow was the first stop of our month-long trip through Poland and what a great city to kick things off! Our visit to Krakow was filled with delicious platefuls of pierogi, trendy neighbourhoods covered in street art, relaxed afternoons on the banks of the Vistula River, stunning architecture around every corner, and lots and lots of ice cream. For years friends and fellow travellers had been urging us to visit Krakow, and now we understand why; the city is pretty magical but it also has a cool edge. In this post I’m going to share my mini-guide to what I think are some of the best things to do in Krakow:

THINGS TO DO IN KRAKOW

Spend a few hours wandering around Kazimierz

Kazimierz is Krakow’s Old Jewish Quarter and it lies directly south of the Old Town. The neighbourhood was mostly destroyed during the Second World War and then fell into further disrepair during the Communist period, but today it’s one of the city’s hotspots.

Kazimierz’s streets are covered in art, its sidewalks are dotted with bars and restaurants, and you can find art galleries, boutique shops, and vintage stores all in the same block. It draws a youthful crowd – both young by years and young at heart.

But if you really want to see Kazimierz come to life, you have to wait till evening. This neighbourhood is renowned for its nightlife, and you don’t realise how many watering holes there truly are until the sun goes down and revellers emerge en masse.

Some of the most popular bars in the area include:

Singer – Instead of tables, you sit around old Singer sewing machines.

Alchemia – Set in an old tenement building, with interiors that will make you think you’ve travelled back in time.

Propaganda – Covered in old posters and knick-knacks from the Soviet era.

You can find a bigger selection of trendy bars in Kazimierz here.

Taste the best ice cream of your life

Oh, my goodness Polish ice cream is good!

After a few days in Krakow, I had only managed to learn one Polish word: lody. This may sound like a bit of a faux pas – surely, please and thank you should have come first – but when those four letters spell out ice cream, you can understand why.

There’s one place you need to try and that’s Emil Kręci Lody. I visited that ice cream shop more times than I care to admit and it was pure magic every time. The flavours were natural, slightly understated at first bite, but you could taste each and every ingredient. It was better than any other ice cream I’ve ever had.

My favourite combination was the waffle cone with three scoops of mango, coconut and strawberry sorbet.

Trust me, the ice cream is worth the trek across the bridge.

Sample pierogies with different fillings

Speaking of food in Krakow(surely, ice cream qualifies as some form of food!), I also had some of the best pierogi of my life in this city.

It all went down at Pierogarnia Słowiańska Uczta (Krakowska 44) where I had lunch on my first day thinking I would just have a plate of pretty average pierogi. My interest was piqued when I saw they had a pretty interesting menu with experimental fillings. I went with one order of the classic pierogi ruskie, which is stuffed with potato and cottage cheese, but feeling adventurous then I also ordered pierogi pieczarkami, serem i orzechami, which turned out to be mushrooms, cheese and walnuts.

Oh, boy! Of course, this turned out to be my best meal in the city!

The mushrooms were the perfect filling I never knew existed. They were rich and earthy, and the chopped walnuts added the perfect texture. A plate of 10 was beyond filling, but if you had put a second plate in front of me, I would have gone at it, because a meal like that is just irresistible. Needless to say, I went back to this place again and ordered the same thing. As you do!

It’s a small place and they only have about 6 tables in there, so if you can swing by outside of lunch hours, you’re more likely  to get a table, but check the hours because they don’t stay open late.

Feel like a queen (or king!) at Wawel Castle

Krakow’s crowning jewel is Wawel Castle, which for centuries, was the residence of the kings of Poland. This is one of the largest castles in Poland (though not quite as large as Malbork Castle, which takes the title of largest castle in the world by land area!), and it’s hard to miss given its size.

We unknowingly happened to visit on a day when there was a special function taking place, so many of the areas were off limits, but even standing in the courtyard and seeing the mix of Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque architecture was pretty cool.

You can get information on admission and hours here. For conservation reasons, there are daily limits on the number of visitors who can enter Wawel Castle, so you’ll want to plan ahead.

For some stellar views of Wawel Castle, I would recommend going for a walk along the Vistula River at sunset. There’s a nice path that comes to life with bikers, rollerbladers, dog walkers, and sunset lovers, plus you also have a big stretch of grass directly underneath the castle, where you can sit down, relax, and enjoy the last bits of sun.

Enjoy the summer vibes along the Vistula

And speaking of the Vistula River, if you’re visiting during the summer months, one of the most popular things to do in Krakow is to go on a sunset river cruise. We opted for a small sightseeing cruise, but there were larger and livelier boats blasting tunes and keeping the booze flowing – these seemed especially popular with bachelorette parties.

Aside from cruises, you can rent kayaks, or if you’re not really in the mood for exercise, you can hop aboard one of the many boat restaurants where you can have a drink or dinner.

Tour Schindler’s Factory

Oskar Schindler is responsible for saving the lives of over 1,200 Polish Jews during the Holocaust by employing them at his factory, and this same factory now hosts a museum, so we went to visit.

I thought the museum would be a bit more about Schindler, his workers, and their combined story, but the museum takes on a different shape. The former factory now hosts two museums: the Museum of Contemporary Art in Kraków, which is located in the former workshops, and a branch of the Historical Museum of the City of Kraków, which is located in what would have been the administrative building of the factory.

We visited the latter, which is home to a permanent exhibition titled Kraków under Nazi Occupation 1939–1945. This is honestly one of the best museums I have been to in a long time, and it really pulls you in with its narrative, telling you the history of Krakow’s inhabitants – both Jews and non-Jews – and the events that unfolded once the Nazis occupied the city. If you only have time for one museum in the city, I’d pick this one. You can check the opening hours and ticket prices here.

Take the Royal Route through the Old Town

I can’t believe I’ve made it this far without mentioning Krakow’s Old Town, but this city just has so much good stuff on offer.

So another thing you can’t miss in Krakow is going to the Old Town and walking the Royal Route, which was the historic coronation path of Polish kings. The route starts in the north end of the Old Town at St. Florian’s Church, goes past the Barbican and through St. Florian’s Gate, straight down Florianska, past the Main Square and St. Mary’s Basilica, down Grodzka, and up Wawel Castle.

Another reason to visit Krakow’s Old Town is that it has the largest medieval town square in Europe. We were there on a weekend so it was very lively; there were lots of street performers, the cafes were packed with people enjoying sunset drinks, kids were chasing giant bubbles floating across the square, and there also happened to be a jazz festival featuring some overseas talent.

Look up inside St. Mary’s Basilica in Krakow

Travelling in Europe means you set foot inside a lot of cathedrals, and if there’s one I think you shouldn’t miss, it’s St. Mary’s Basilica in Krakow’s Old Town.

You do have to pay an admission fee to enter, but I think it’s worth it. St. Mary’s Basilica is home to the Altar of Veit Stoss, which is the largest Gothic altarpiece in the world and also one of Poland’s national treasures. The piece was carved by Veit Stoss, a German sculptor, between 1477 and 1484, and it’s a massive triptych carved out of different types of food. The amount of detail that went into this piece is amazing.

Another reason to visit St. Mary’s is the ceiling, which is painted to resemble the midnight sky. It’s hard to pull your eyes away.

They have a really up-to-date website that lists different events like choirs, organ concerts, and mass.

Where to stay in Krakow

We found one of my favourite AirBnBs to date here in Krakow! This two-story attic apartment was located in Podgorze, which is a funky district with a local vibe just south of the Old Town on the shores of Wisla River. The apartment had arched windows to boot and it was so nice waking up in the morning with natural light streaming in. I especially enjoyed lounging in the living area and observing people come and go. If you’ve never tried AirBnB before, you can use my discount code on your first trip.

There are also lots of hotels, B&Bs and hostels to fit every budget. You can get a better idea of rates and availability here.

Have you visited the city? What are some of your favourite things to do in Krakow?

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[thechangemachine-blog1]

Dear Society: It's time you open your eyes and realize the real lies

Dear Society: It's Time To Open Your Eyes And Realize The Real Lies. My name is Cory Figura. Most people these days can't be bothered to read stuff like this; I hope you aren't one of them ! . As a concerned resident of this planet I feel obligated to inform you, we're long past due for a change in how things work. . For a long time now, all around the world, the common folks have been lied to and misrepresented by the very governments that are supposed to be acting in our best interests. . We all know deep down that the entire system which shapes our lives, has slowly become less open and less trustworthy with us. . The corruption runs so deep that nearly everyone believes to some degree, there is no better way to run the world. And that's just plain old wrong. . And secretly, this understanding has left people feeling empty and defeated, a big contributing factor to why the world is what it is today. . I'm the type of person that can "sense" the way people are feeling inside. Not sure what that's all about, but this gut instinct has rarely let me down. . If you're lying to me or you're untrustworthy, I usually pick up on it right away. It's really hard to slip anything shady past me. . Sometimes though it's like I sense the whole world at once. And if I had to bet, I'd say you're ALL angry and upset about something. . And you're probably going to be surprised when I tell you what I've discovered that "something" might be. . I used to think it was fear. Like you were all afraid of something. But over the course of the last six months I had some deep realizations that made everything clear enough to write this. . I was an extremely aware, sensitive, and emotional kid. Unfortunately feeling this way didn't work out so great. In fact it caused me a lot of grief. . Besides being too smart for my own good when it came to certain activities, I was very easy to get a reaction out of. And from an early age, others took full advantage of this. . It wasn't hard to figure out why by 17 years old I felt the way I did, which was overwhelmingly depressed, hopeless, and empty. . I tried to figure out how to get past these feelings, but I never really got anywhere with it. Not until I hit my 30's, then a lot changed. . One night I was looking back on how crazy my life had been. Believe me, it was. So I wasn't expecting at all to see what I saw. . As I reflected on my long list of failures, instead of hating myself and continuing on my destructive path, I saw everything in a whole new perspective. . Instead of failures, I saw the lesson from every single screw up, mistake, failure, broken heart, and crushed dream I ever had. It was like my life flashed before my eyes. . Shortly after, I came to the personal realization that I had an empty spot inside myself. It had always been there, but I guess until this point, I didn't recognize it for what it was. And no matter what I tried, I couldn't fill that void. . So I started asking others about this, and to my surprise almost everyone I talked to could relate. . I soon realized that most people were only pretending to be happy for the sake of others. It was from that realization I knew the world had to change. . It didn't sit well with me knowing I was surrounded by smiling, happy looking people, who were just living a lie. . I also decided to try and figure out what had the world living this lie. I wanted to know what made us all feel so insecure on the inside. . I soon discovered even the ones who appear the most together, hide secrets about what is going on inside them. . It was like these secrets had been buried so deep we didn't even remember what the secrets were. . People whose lives were saturated with material goods, money, education, friends, family, success, love, stability and security, even seemed affected. . It was intriguing to me that people with all these things weren't satisfied either. . It was leaving them so unsatisfied that addictions, depression, and a lot of other problems entered their seemingly awesome lives. . I don't understand how, with everything going for them, people end up dead from suicide, like Robin Williams or Chris Cornell for example. . Whatever the case, something is really wrong with the human race. I've done the research and came to a conclusion. And now I want us to come together and at least try to implement a solution. . I believe the secret we all refuse to accept is, society is being deliberately influenced and manipulated to fit a design model and produce a desired effect. . And we know who is doing it, we know it's wrong, but we are too afraid to speak up. . But I'm not. So I'll say it like it is. Most refer to the ones doing this to us as the elite 1%. A legion of greedy billionaires and their minions who place wealth above all else. . They impose, and enforce a misleading, confusing, and often contradicting, governing set of beliefs on mankind through religion, news media, tv stations, educational facilities, the entertainment industry, government policies, and laws. . It leaves us unable to know what is, and what is not, true. As well as facing the idea we are ruled by liars, cheaters, and thieves. . I'm sick of it, and its time for YOU to realize there is a way out from under this stressful way of life. . It just depends on if you're willing to accept this information, and act accordingly, or not. Aren't you tired of living in denial yet? . Just so you're aware, I write from first hand experience, having lived what I'm going to be talking about. I didn't read about what I'm going to be telling you in some book. I was there. I observed, participated, and concluded with open eyes ready to see the world for what it is. . Even still it's been a chore trying to figure out how to penetrate the veil of illusion created by the elite. . The challenge of getting people to realize whats going on has been a major source of struggle for me throughout my life. I've been passively pointing all this out now for about 25 years. . I thought it would be easy getting through to the like-minded with this information. But even that has become somewhat of a challenge. . And even harder, trying to get through to those who have no comprehension for what I'm trying to share because of said denial you all refuse to move past. . Without a doubt, the billions of members of organized religions, will be the least likely to show any appreciation for what I'm saying. . Their firm position is for everyone to accept Jesus as the saviour. And like them, be content while ignoring the sick, and disturbing way these elite tyrants abuse the world. . I should state for the record, it's not God I blame for how these people act, but the leaders of these religious denominations who operate hand in hand with the elite tyrants controlling us. . I'm not one to sit and wait for things to fix themselves anymore, so here I am, trying to make things happen in a far more assertive way. . When I set out to solve or examine ways to solve a problem, I see what I call The Big Picture. . I don't analyze situations for the effect they have on my immediate surroundings. And I don't look for a local solution. . So, for example, if I see a person who hasn't eaten for awhile, I don't look for an apple to provide, I look for the reason why all people on this planet went hungry today. . It's an overwhelming way to approach the day. But it's my way. And I am who I am. So I try to roll with it. . After all, it's the whole world that's in trouble anyway, so a solution that works for everyone is what we need. . I've always had a vision for something I've decided to call The One World Solution. . You'll see why I chose that name after I get to talking about what it is. But let's just say it has a lot to do with the little recognized fact that we all started out here together as one. . The elite would sure like us to think differently, considering all the division they've created using race, religion, wealth, class, and politics among the most prominent dividers. . But the truth is, we are all together on this amazing planet called Earth, as one. . A That's how I know the threat of New World Order which I'm sure you've all heard about, is straight up REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY! Pure hype. New World Order is actually the LAST THING the elite would ever want. .' The massive amount of fear and propaganda on the subject, trying to make us hate and reject the idea, speaks loud and clear to me and tells me this threat is simply elite trickery. . I hope you REALIZE THE POWER of what I just explained about New World Order. It's one of the extremely limited number of weak spots in their armour and now it's exposed. . UNITY is the kryptonite the elite fear most. I hope knowing this helps you look at racism, religion, wealth, class, and politics in a new, and different way. . These are the main tools of Divide & Conquer, a centuries old plot to control us. And it still functions like a well oiled machine to keep Unity well out of our reach. . If you ask me, it's time to wipe the shame and embarrassment from our faces, and admit just how wrong we have been to allow the world to develop the way it has. . And knowing this is happening right in front of me, and that I accept this treatment for myself, and for others less able to stand up for themselves, well, that makes me feel like a coward. . And guess what? Nobody likes a coward. The truth I see is we are all angry at ourselves for what we've allowed these elite creeps to do to us, and to this planet. That, is our Common Bond if you ask me. . They have accumulated enormous wealth while those who perform the actual work that made them all very rich, are left with barely enough to scrap by. . They are in full control of every single one of our lives. Even though, everyday somebody tells me I'm crazy to think this way. . They tell me about how good they have it, and how they aren't a slave to a system that only cares for their ability to pay taxes, interest on loans, and purchase items. . The bad news is, not only have we been financially enslaved with debt, we are also prisoners too. . Nobody is exempt from passport requirements. If you want to leave a country like Canada, you will need the permission of not only Canada, but also the country you intend to enter. . That, my friends, is what I call a minimum security prison. Instead of a big electric fence with barbed wire, these prisons keep us inside with imaginary lines called borders. . I feel bad for the people stuck in places like North Korea or Cuba. For everyone to appreciate the "free world", they also had to demonize places to remind us just how good we've got it. . You'll realize the depth of the illusion created by the elite when you investigate and understand The Central Banking System. . You will quickly learn how North Korea refuses to accept the conditions of The Central Banking System. And Cuba was among the last to conform. And we've all been led to believe those countries are the corrupt, evil, and unacceptable ones. . The entire world, except North Korea, is now under the financial control of The Central Banking System. It's functions so intricate and deep, I'm sure most of the people it employs don't even understand how it works. . Having every single country on earth actually all agree that The Central Banking System is the best possible way to deal with the worlds wealth, doesn't seem right. It puts the management of a nations finances in the hands of an outside third party. . So, how did we get to this point? It's ancient history actually. Just not history from any book you'll remember from school. . When I look back and contemplate history from the very early days of man, there must have been a time where we had only a simple understanding of ourselves and we were all considered equal. . Eventually one of those early humans began to think differently from the others. Soon the idea they were not all equal was introduced to the community, likely arising from some kind of conflict. . From this conflict a concept called authority was created. And it was enforced using the threat of violence. . Why this desire to be greater and in control came about, I can't explain. . I can explain how this one single event was the beginning of a social structure that one day in the distant future, would be known as the government. . I can also explain how the top spot in the hierarchy became the envy and desire of all the others who held lesser positions of authority. . And how, eventually corruption would settle in as each member of the government set out to gain the favor of higher ranking officials. . And in turn had the citizens doing the same thing to gain favour of officials as society expanded and the need for business and industry grew. . Which further explains why the people not included in the government or expansion of business and industry quickly took a dislike to it. . I can also add how the government saw a potential threat from the average citizens who had quickly grown tired of being taken advantage of. . A control mechanism that would force people to conform was required before the citizens could revolt. . These men involved with the government took the time to research and investigate the mind frame, thoughts, hopes, dreams and fears of the common citizens. . With all they had learned about what the people who made up mainstream society believed, something called religion was introduced to reduce us to mere servants in our own minds eye. . The stage was now set for a corrupt system of total control over the population by men with no care for anything other than satisfying their own greed in a bid to accumulate extreme wealth. . Yes, the truth hurts. But all the logic in the world says this is just how it happened. Again, I am not saying God doesn't exist. Just that God has been used to control people by greedy, treacherous men masquerading as his servants. . Do I wish a magical solution existed that was quick and easy and offered up a whole lot of instant gratification? I do. . But nothing, not one damn thing about my life was ever easy. And this won't be either. But that's okay. It'll be worth it. . I was bullied and picked on from 7-18 years old. Viciously. Honestly, you don't even want to know. It only ended because I messed up and went to jail. . The funny thing about the experience of going to prison was, the people locked up in there with me, had nothing but respect for each other. . As long as I continued to act in a way not to lose respect, I was all good. Only I could act in a way that would lose their respect. So different from the "real" world I grew up in. And, a welcome change. . My first deep realization of the illusion was learning the very people society condemns and uses as the bad example are more advanced in human relations than any regular citizens I'd ever met. . What I didn't realize back in 1988 was that I had to live that criminal lifestyle to gain part of the knowledge and understanding to write this very document today in 2017. . So thats exactly what I did for fourteen years. Eventually, in 1999 I walked away from a life of crime. Eighteen years later I'm proud to say I'm still a "free" man. . Having seen both the illusion and what's beyond it helps me to plant seeds of knowledge inside the minds of people who still believe there isn't anything wrong with the world. . I used to laugh, before Fukushima dumped radioactive waste water into the ocean, and say they're right. It's not the world that's the problem, it's the people running it that have to go. Now I point out the price were still somehow willing to pay to avoid conflict with these monsters. . I tell these people to take an honest look at the issues facing society and tell me the people running the show deserve to be in charge of our future. . People aren't starving in some places because there is no food for them. They are victims of the insatiable greed, and indifference of their leaders. . The homeless aren't without a place to Iive because there are no homes for them. They are victims of a system that cares only for their capacity to pay for a home. . The environment isn't raped and pillaged because there is no alternative technology. . There's no shortage of brilliant ideas suppressed by power hungry, greedy, profit driven, mega corporations. . Racism isn't rampant because people with different skin tones are actually poisonous to each other. . Racism is rampant because those in power understand that a world full of hate for each other is a world full of conquered slaves to perpetuate their cycle. . Do you honestly not know what it's like to live in a place like Syria? Or Iraq? Or North America (the illusion runs deep here)...I was talking to some of them myself on Facebook, and it's really really wrong. . It's time everyone was included, and made to feel like they belong. Starting with the ones we've already allowed to slip through the cracks into a deplorable state of poverty, addiction, crime, and homelessness. . Are you aware close to half the world lives in a state of poverty? . Eighty percent of the worlds population has to survive on ten dollars a day or less. EIGHTY PERCENT. Billions of people. . Where I live, Edmonton Alberta in Canada one in eight people live in poverty. That's 100,000 people. Just in one city. And Canada is considered one of the best places on Earth to live. . When I learned up to 22,000 children die every single day on this planet directly due to poverty, I had to take a break from researching. I was too upset. . WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH US??? You can't honestly tell me you're okay with knowing that! Twenty. Two. THOUSAND! . One of the bigger mistakes the elite made in crafting this system was believing themselves to be superior in intelligence to the rest of us. . Not for one minute did the elite consider their systematic placing of lies, deceptions and corruption to be within the range of average people to decipher their modus operandi. But I feel I've done just that. . This revelation shines a bright light on another and equally detrimental, mistake the elite made. . They have simply driven too much of the worlds population into poverty. It will greatly influence and improve the ability to create Unity having such a large portion of the population sharing the common bond of poverty. . As the arrogance of the elite is exposed, people will come together in the realization of why their lives are what they are. I will never stop trying to tell them all either. . Old thoughts, fears, and perceptions will be confronted, diminished, and replaced with a much brighter way of life if I have anything to say about it. . Replacing these old issues; stability, equality, financial security, and positive personal changes for everyone. . Suffering the weight of being controlled by the callous nature of this debt driven monetary system needs to quickly become a thing of the past. Money can no longer be our MASTER! . And it most certainly is. The modern slave requires no chains. They are held captive by debt. And the fear of what happens if you don't pay your bills. . Men like William Wallace, General MacArthur, and Crazy Horse must be rolling over in their graves. We've been acting like a bunch of cowards. . I've spent my whole life able to intermingle with people from all walks of life. I've sat with the homeless as one of them. And dined at the tables of a few millionaires. I fit in either way. I see us all as equal is why. . Not in strength or intelligence or ability. No. Too many view equality that way so they can deem themselves superior. . When I think about equality, what I think is every person deserves an equal opportunity to discover where they fit in the world and equal availability of said place to exist. . Everyone has their place, it's just a matter of sorting it out and finding where we all belong. . From a place where you feel you belong, you can contribute to maintaining a sustainable society much better than if you're lost, and busy searching for your place. . And for the most part, the people I'm referring to, are quite removed from society. They are the poor. The lower class. The rejected. And most certainly, they are lost. . And a whole lot of them once had a better title to live with. At one time, they were a part of the middle, or even upper, class. . They were content with their little pink houses and white picket fences. Until something unexpected came along and changed things for them. . Just the idea of going through life referred to as lower class, is enough of an insult to warrant non-conformity to the rest of the population. . What you need to understand is the division that's been established between the lower class and what's above them, it's retaliatory, not instigated by the lower class. . They were bullied into submission unknowingly on behalf of filthy rich bankers out to make money and secure a stranglehold on the collective wealth of society. Something they have successfully done if you don't know. . We simply cannot continue to participate in this approach of classifying human beings in this way. This behaviour is responsible for some very destructive results. For both sides. . Spawned by this deep division between classes of people, comes three aspects of today's world that are cruel, sick in their nature, and deliberate in their result. . What I'm talking about are the war on drugs, the crime cycle, and the prison system. All of which serve to keep the elite sitting on top. . Each of these intelligently designed tools of division provides a long list of very well paying, secure jobs to loyal, law abiding, voting, citizens. . The crime cycle ensures the population is left living in fear. Fear that their home may be robbed, or their car stolen. Their businesses broken into. They are afraid their children will get into gangs, or hooked on drugs. . Fear is an extremely useful tactic when trying to manipulate people into holding certain beliefs. Such as disliking lower class people, or hating drug users for example. . I honestly do struggle trying to understand how all the people employed within the prison system and police services, can't seem to realize the absurdity of the system they support. . How anybody can't see it's a cycle that repeats itself over and over and rarely provides any lasting results or significant change, is beyond me. . Without having ever attempted a different method, I'd dare say that's pretty much insanity right there. . There has been no progress made whatsoever in 30+ years of this war on drugs. . They see the same offenders go in to jail. Get out. Go back. Somehow we conclude it's these criminals letting us down in life, and not the other way around. . In fact we mostly feel the lower class deserves all the punishment they receive. . I guess being a judge, prison warden, chief of police, head coroner, or crown prosecutor, provides a quality of life that makes it worth sacrificing the lives of "undesirable" people to achieve the social status that is so important to them. I don't know why else. . Don't these people consider themselves prominent, intelligent members of society though? . So why should I, or you, believe that with a grade 10 education, I can see all this stuff, and with all their brilliance and degrees they can't? . Their education alone, tells me they can see the truth, but they choose to block it out. And with a blind eye, they continue on with their role in the system regardless of who suffers at their expense. It's a harsh analysis if you sit here and think about that for a few minutes. . There isn't much room to deny there's not many places for poor people in society other than perpetuating the crime cycle. And that's exactly what is happening. The world's poorest people are being put in a terrible position then condemned for doing whatever they must to survive. . The elite take everything from a person. Leave them broke and unemployed. Then punish them for resorting to alternative measures to survive. The result is a never ending cycle of drugs, crime, violence, prison, and death. . I'm so glad I see this system for what it is, a well thought out deception. But that's all it is, one big deception. And WE are the ones acting out their script to make it a reality! . I'm sure you must realize by now I believe the government in any given country is a mere facade. They are the public face of leadership, but by no means do they hold any real power. . Their bosses, the elite, are the real people who control our fate. Justin Trudeau, our Prime Minister in Canada can no more change laws than I could. . Our actual Hierarchy here in Canada has one position above Prime Minister, The Governor General. . This person answers only to the Queen of England. Sorry Justin but it's true. You're symbolic. . Just like prison is in Canada. Symbolic. Its really not doing anybody any good unless, of course, you happen to work there. . The approach is insane. Comical even. To examine I mean, but absolutely not, to be trapped in. . I could offer more success from a sixty day prison sentence in the sense of rehabilitation than our current system can achieve from locking a person up for five years. . And I'm just me. Look at the resources the government has available. They sure don't spend them on prison programs and rehabilitation, that much I hope you know. . The main objective of the prison system, other than to provide long term, secure employment to voters, is to ensure the crime cycle continues. . Prison is in no way meant to serve the individual incarcerated or help them to become better people. It's quite the opposite from my viewpoint. . It's the prison staff who represent society and all that is "good" about it in the eyes of those imprisoned. . Prison inmates face many, many, stressful and frustrating abuses that come with being in jail. . The inmates also see the laughable approach to provide rehabilitation which society is told is the priority and reason people are sent to jail. . These same inmates associate that damage to the outside world. . I personally was beaten up by a prison guard. I've had my personal property they take away from you at time of arrest, disappear. I've had my weekly canteen purchases forgotten. I've had numerous written requests for services like dental care and visiting go missing after being submitted. And if you don't know how humiliating it is to take your morning crap on a toilet in front of 40 other men, give it a try one day. You feel less than human all day, all week, every month for as many years as you're in there. . It's no wonder people become so crushed while incarcerated, they no longer wish to ever be part of society again. . But that's just what the system wants from these people. If this wasn't the case, the last portion of a prison sentence would include being released to a furnished bachelor apartment and a prearranged place to work. . The funny part of that is, the citizens who suffer the consequences of criminal activity the most, complain when the government wants to try to improve things for these convicts upon release. Talk about Brainwashed. . It's the victims themselves who feel they get revenge by seeing the criminals released with nothing. . I've personally gotten out of jail with $30, a bus ticket, and the clothes on my back. What exactly can you expect the result of such negligence to be? I'll tell you, it's never going to be a good thing. . Let's face it, there's no place for these disenfranchised people to go to get away once they are released from jail. No escape. They either do as you all want them to do as if their lives are yours to control, or you ostracize them. I guess I shouldn't say no place to go; there's one. . The subculture of drugs, alcohol and criminal behaviour awaits with open arms. And welcomes them in with a great big, sinister smile. . At first Its all fun and games. The drugs seem to solve all their problems. They gain friends and become popular. . They don't have to suffer the humiliation of searching for a job as part of the lower class with a criminal record. They can generate income as drug dealers. . It's the only way they can afford to mask the guilt, shame, and despondency associated with knowing they will never achieve the security and benefits enjoyed by the very people out to catch them. . You may not see those emotions in the hardened individuals these people present themselves as but believe me, behind the masks they wear, they mostly all wish life was different. . I understand how this is a very general look at crime, prison, and the war on drugs. But I hope you can now see how these cycles relate to each other. . They work hand in hand to promote a system that is sacrificing an entire class of people and controlling the lives of many, many, more. . It's no wonder they are lost, and off course but when you get the privilege to earn your way to seeing them for who they really are, it's amazing. . Some paint, others carve, draw and create amazing artwork. Many play guitar, sing and even dance. I was quite surprised by the love they put into what they do when I first found myself being invited into their circles. . It's an amazing experience, but it's hard knowing that kind of genuine soul exists inside of someone society treats so damn poorly. . Which is why it's time to reevaluate what is considered acceptable behaviour as a human being. We must create new ways to address our old perception of good vs bad. . Especially when it comes to the war on drugs. It's my position this war is the catalyst that ignites the crime cycle, which in turn, then feeds the prison system. . The reality is a vast majority of drug users suffered some painful event in their past that had them seek out drugs in the first place. They felt they had no place else to escape their pain. Some things are just so disturbing, embarrassing, or sickening they can't bring themselves to talk about it for years and years. They relive this abuse daily and without drugs, suicide is the next option. . Imagine being victim to mental and physical abuse, domestic abuse, neglect as a child, sexual molestation, and bullying. These are among the most prevalent reasons people seek out drugs. Not for fun. Not to rebel. . So really what you're doing by supporting the war on drugs, is supporting the furthering of the abuse against these people. It's time to help and not hurt these people anymore. . From previous discussions over the years, I've learned the common belief is there is no alternative to the way drug use is enforced. . There's cause, and effect, and that's next to impossible to deal with in any other way. But is that true? . I'm curious about what you really know about drugs? Is it personal knowledge? Or second hand? . Let's not forget there has been a lot of lies told about drugs which further agendas created by the elite. This much I know. . I also know what the common public perception of the long running public display of sorrow and misery called Skid Row, is. . The most extreme examples of drug addicts and alcoholics are sequestered in what are predominantly very old, run down, neglected sections of the inner city. The eerie backdrop of dilapidated buildings only adding to the illusion. . Here they are on full display for the straight edged, ill informed, law abiding citizens, who would never consider stepping out of bounds and trying drugs themselves, to see. . They have no need to try them, the obvious result of drug use is seen in the faces of the homeless, malnourished, dirty, addicts on the street. Right? . The truth is, those people on skid row represent 3-5% of all drug users. They are the result of extreme circumstance. . A vast majority of the time they have mental health issues as well. These people are NOT AT ALL the true face of the drug using public. Not even close. . Over 85% of people who use drugs Do Not end up impoverished, addicted, their lives in ruins. . I won't say they have perfect lives, we all have our issues. But, they maintain. And that's no reason to go after, and ruin someone's life. . They may use drugs, but they aren't harming people or doing anything much different with their lives as the rest of society. And guess who they are? . They are your neighbors, co-workers, children, family members and friends. . Perhaps it's the doctor you have an appointment with. Or the sports star you root for. Or the police officer writing you up for speeding. . The FACT is about 60% of drug users keep their drug use a complete secret from nearly everyone they know. The only exception, the dealer they meet in private, behind closed doors. . Some have a few select friends who are almost always completely removed from their regular circle. No mutual friends. . They have jobs. They go to work. They attend church. They drive their cars. They take their children to movies. They attend parent teacher meetings. Your kids have been to birthday parties at their house. They are at the mall. At the grocery store. Playing golf. Fishing with their kids Sunday afternoon. And they are high. . And because you have no idea, you talk to them. You work with them. You laugh with them. Even enjoy their company. And nobody has a clue. And nobody has a bad thing to say about that person. . Unless you've been there like I have, you can’t begin to imagine all the people involved who have never even been suspected of drug use. . The numbers would astound you. I mean blow your mind. And they are from every single walk of life. . The sober, righteous, and the naive among us, are right in the middle of a lot of drug use and don't even have a clue. . But then something happens to expose a person's clandestine drug use. And instantly, everything changes. . Suddenly people fear them. We no longer trust them. They lose our respect and friendship. They're let go from their jobs. And demonized. And why? Before we found out this information we thought they were nice, reasonably well adjusted, people. . So? What if I told you that one of the most harmful consequences of drug use, is the response from misinformed people??? . The judgement we pass on them is what drives them away, some never to return. And they end up involved in crime as a further result of being labeled and cast out. . Once that label is attached, it leaves them nowhere else to go. So we point our fingers at them and blame them some more. . I’ve been there. I was their dealer! I know what kind of people they are. They are good people. Most would give you the shirt off their back if need be. Can you see how wrong this is? Can you? . I really hope you heard something in what I just said to challenge your thinking. . The truth about the remaining percentage of drug users, the ones who fuel the crime cycle and prison system is their situation is a little more difficult to approach with a solution. A lot of them have evolved into this criminal element because they are adrenaline junkies and thrill seekers. And they enjoy crime in a way. . They enjoy the sense of payback they feel committing crimes against the very society which rejected them at some point in their lives, or maybe imprisoned one of their parents. . Others fall into crime because they are very sensitive people. So the hurt they feel when family, friends, siblings, and society attach the social drug stigma to them, it cuts too deep for them to handle. . They feel too ashamed, too guilty, and too afraid to face up and take responsibility for their actions. Which, in turn, eats away at their self esteem until it pushes them into things most others try to avoid. . Trapped by their sensitivity in a downward spiral, they resort to crime to meet the basic need for food and shelter which eventually lands them in jail. . What they NEED more than anything else, is simply a place in society where THEY BELONG. A place where they can heal in their own way. A place void of judgment, ridicule, and negativity. . It's so obvious to me why the government won't provide that. And it makes me sick. And angry. Not only with them, but I must say, I'm angry with YOU for accepting this behaviour from your government. . They won't approach this issue in a way that helps because if they fixed these people, it would mean the end of their precious crime cycle and all the taxpayer funded jobs attached to it. . I believe there is a solution for those who simply fail over and over as well. They can't stop and won't stop, and don't want to stop, using drugs in an extreme manner. . They are violent or abusive, and unpredictable. They prove they can't be managed or trusted. . Of course there are limits to what kind of behaviour should be tolerated by society. But the fact is even those people committing crimes can be productive in the right setting. . The right setting for them is a minimum security, controlled environment. Small communities removed from Interacting with society, like jail, but not jail. . In exchange for the lifestyle that is provided to these people, they are to perform simple jobs that generate the income to cover the price of providing for them. . They get a small furnished one bedroom apartment to call home. A part of the community would be a Walmart type superstore that sells everything they need. . And these people would work and live here. And yes. I would expect drugs are available to them. And access to treatment. . To get out once it's been decided you need to be there, you have to become sober. Simple as that. . Or, should you get violent and in trouble, there is always still real jail. In which there is no access to drugs at all. . Not many addicts would be willing to mess this up, the incentive to behave here is huge for them. . The time to stand up for the truth, and for each other, is here now. . Stop accepting lies. Educate yourselves, not by others examples or explanations, but by going out and gaining your own personal understanding. . I'm not saying go out and use some drugs, so don't assume that's my suggestion. There's other ways to come to an understanding. Here's one. . They may look scary. Or dirty. Or angry. But I'll tell you one thing about street people, they are also lonely. And friendly given the chance. They give what they get. . And all it takes is making the effort to have a genuine conversation with some of them, and most times they will respond in the way they are approached. . And you will learn by talking with them about the human beings they actually are. And I promise you, the experience will affect who you are. It will open your eyes. And you will thank yourself for taking such a brave step towards the truth. . A tolerant, non-judgmental, society that accepts we are all different, will achieve far greater success than a rigid society controlled by fear, any old way you look at it. . One thing I wish I could get you to understand is that if marijuana was simply accepted by everyone, it would literally change the world. . One simple acceptance, all on its own, would have such an impact, you would have to call it a monumental, revolutionary act of peace and healing. . Here's a quick generalization of what would happen. . First and most importantly, families would no longer be torn apart over it, as going to jail for marijuana would end. . That means less children from broken homes. Less broken homes means kids experience a two parent family lifestyle, and hopefully, less stress. And more discipline. . These kids grow up with fewer problems. They do better in school and keep their respect for society. . I get upset thinking of the kids growing up in the alternative. Angry and hating life. That anger carries on with them as they move into adulthood. And soon enough they themselves are getting into trouble and end up in the prison system. . There is a long list of products that can be made from the fibre of this plant as well. . This fibre is very durable and can be used to create clothing, rope, tents, tarps, sails. It can make bio-fuel. Plastics that decompose. There really is no limit to the uses for the amazing plant. . It has a plethora of medicinal uses as well. The way it eliminates seizures in children with epilepsy is nothing short of amazing. . If society were to hear what I'm saying right now about marijuana the demand on criminal courts, policing, and housing for offenders in prison would be reduced greatly. . As would the demand for the ever increasing cost to provide these services. Without even considering money generated by the sale of marijuana, an enormous amount of revenue becomes available. Other government projects such as availability of treatment programs for addiction, and mental Heath issues could receive the major overhaul they so badly need. . As well the financial savings could be used to develop industry specifically to employ people leaving prisons, rehab facilities, and mental health facilities. . I'm sick to death of seeing society kick people when they're down instead of offering them a hand up! And that's what the ones who need it really only want, a hand UP, not a hand out. . To me it would make far more sense to simply accept drug use as a personal choice. That way we can all look out for each other and not feel like we need to hide who we are. . It makes little sense sentencing them to an existence without hope. Instead, let's help pick them back up, and put them on their feet again. . I beg you, help me end the days of hating them ! Please😔 They are my friends, and I love them. . Contrary to common beliefs, I think I've shown there is a different way to address how we chose to approach this problem that is really hurting society. . The messed up, cruel, way we approach people who use drugs could sure stand a change. And only YOU can change it. . As I've said many times, to beat the elite, we need to beat them in the one way they wouldn't ever expect us to try, and that, is at their own game. . Their game is politics. Of course, these politicians themselves are not necessarily part of the elite. Some are. The ones who are not, are under the thumb of the elite tyrants. They are puppets who live to serve their rich masters. . From behind the scenes the elite manipulate, influence, and dictate what the politicians will say and do. . The elite truly have little concern for the common citizens desire for how things should work anymore. Their policies are proof enough. Everything works in their favour and we rarely have any input as to how things should be. . Politics is a dirty game. The power and control lends its hand to corruption. It's obvious those in this position have failed to adhere to the very sense of control they project our way. . Dirty or not, it's the game I feel we should play. It's the one LOOPHOLE in everything they've done to control us. . I've spent a majority of my life looking for the gap in their otherwise bullet proof armour. And here, I have found it. . This hole is about the biggest mistake these men could make. Their arrogance got the best of them leaving a way in like this for someone like me with the intelligence to take advantage of it. . They believe the tangled web of division they have created is so well crafted, it could never be penetrated. . You have to admit, once you can see past the illusion, they really did create a seemingly impenetrable veil of division to keep us under their control. . Racism. Religion. Wealth. Politics. Class. Just these alone create enough division to do the job. But there is just so much more if you think about it. . It worked so good, for so long it was impossible for them to accept anyone could ever out think them and find a way to illuminate their deception. . But they were wrong. I see through it. And l'm willing to tell you, and show you all I've seen in my life. . So now what I would like to do is show you some interesting numbers. In 2014 in Canada 26,618,560 people filed an income tax return. Here is a brief overview of what was earned and by how many people. People Wage 2,015,670 under $5,000 8,532,860 under $20,000 18,226,430 under $50,000 3,094,980. over. $75,000 164,220 over. $250,000 . 18+ million VS 3.1 million. Yet the rich control the system. . Somewhere around $40,000 is the low income cut off or poverty line for a family of four. . Approximately $19,000 is what is considered the low income cut off, or poverty line for a single person. . What this says to me, because nobody is happy to live in poverty, is there's an awful lot of unhappy potential voters all connected by at least one thing in common. They are all struggling for money. . And most of them are being pushed into the world of drugs as a way to cope emotionally, and as a way to survive financially. So I'd say these people have more in common than just a lack of money. . I can only imagine how grateful they would feel knowing of a plan to restore their dignity and remove the stress from the threat of harassment, arrest, and jail. . So how exactly are we going to accomplish this monumental feat? That's the million dollar question. . Well first things first. There are an awful lot of people in The Struggle Zone. . They struggle financially. They struggle with esteem. They struggle to belong to something they feel life is worth living for. . As I mentioned earlier, I consider this to be the second biggest mistake these elite scoundrels in control made. . They let greed and lust take over and guide them to driving too many people into poverty. Smart ones like me. . Again their arrogance allowed them to believe nobody could ever find a way through the division and unite society into one solid group ready to stand their ground. Especially with the lower class included. . It seems the elite believed their own bullshit about how drugs mess up your mind leaving you a stupid, unproductive, lower class piece of garbage. . However I won't deny the fact that Yes, drugs will mess you up if taken to the EXTREME. . But used moderately, and while surrounded by informed people willing to confront you if you start to get out of control, I honestly don't see what the harm is. . I myself have used drugs most of my life. Do my words seem like those of a brain damaged, useless, stupid, loser with no understanding of good vs bad or the inability to value life? . We are all tired of not only that empty little feeling inside us, but the crippling financial pinch imposed by the elite. . We are tired of how it's left an awful lot of people living in poverty, or dangling from a thread waiting to drop below the invisible line that separates us from them. . 22,000 KIDS have died since this time YESTERDAY because of the financial pressures placed on humanity by gluttonous billionaires. And that just messes with my mind. . So I will stand up and say NO LONGER! Never again will I sit by quietly and embrace our current system as an acceptable way of life! It most certainly is not. What about YOU? . Trillions of dollars are being hoarded by WORLD SCUM! And guess what? They think we OWE them! . When will you accept the outright blatant way the elite use the system against every singe one of us? The corruption is very real. The theft of resources is very real. How it perpetuates the crime cycle is very real. . They tax us heavily. They lay claim to natural resources which are no more theirs, than they are mine. Then sell those resources back to us. They regulate what we do on our own land. To say a person can't collect rain water is surely insanity in action. It's happening though. . So what is it that makes these people feel they can buy, sell, and own what is not even theirs to control? . I refuse to accept I am any less of a man than any one of the worlds 1800 or so billionaires. Neither should any of you! Money does NOT define your worth! So this is it for me. I'm taking this position against tyranny and until things change, you can count me out of this disaster called society. . I really want no part in it other than helping to reconstruct everything to include a stable, happy, place for everyone involved. . This all starts with us! And it's time to admit our own role in how the world is being operated. . I can't imagine anybody still not understanding that we MUST stand up to this elite rule. . I'd like to see their faces when they realize we became UNITED by the very poverty imposed by them as a way to keep us DIVIDED. . For my entire life I've watched the same Mega Charities shamelessly parade malnourished children with flies buzzing around them on TV. Over my 47 years I've never seen a time when those charities weren't there. . How can I be expected to believe nothing has changed in that much time, and with that much money thrown at them? . Africa is not a resource poor continent. Not at all. What it is I've learned by talking to the PEOPLE of Africa, is that they have a big mismanagement problem. . The elite call the shots and exploit a civilization that has been crushed by poverty imposed by generations of vicious leadership. . Since forty plus years of constant charitable donations hasn't solved the issues these people face, wouldn't you say it's time to demand an answer as to why? . What excuse will you provide for doing nothing? I'm all out of excuses. I can't live this lie another day. How can you? . LITTLE KIDS are paying the price for OUR indifference! I am NOT OK knowing they still live in squalor. I am NOT OK knowing anyone lives in squalor. . I'm sorry but how can any of us accept this? Yet here we are! WE ALL ACCEPT THIS! How is that possible? . I can only say it's time to usher in a state of renewal, repair, unity, and healing. We really, really need it. . It's time to help each other progress in life. It makes zero sense to hold each other back any longer. Doesn't it? Or is it just me? . I'm not doing this for myself, but for ALL the people who have been abused, branded and cast out. . The ones who've had their homes blown to smithereens in the last 17 years as this insane war on terrorism rages around the world. . I'm doing this for the ones who've had their jobs taken away by greedy corporations either setting up in town and running them out of business. Or relocating to countries where profits are much higher because weaker laws protecting workers keep wages very low. . You do understand the elite clandestinely own companies that produce every single item needed for war from multi million dollar helicopters, right down to the toothbrushes soldiers in the field use right? . Don't take offence when I point this out, but do you realize they sell these items to governments all over the world at super inflated, ridiculous prices? . And our governments use OUR TAX money to make these purchases? DO YOU GET THAT OR WHAT??? DO YOU CARE??? . We can't even get the damn streets cleaned of snow where I live but I'm supposed to be ok with my government handing over all our tax money to fill the pockets of billionaires? . BECAUSE THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT YOU'VE BEEN ASKING ME TO DO!!! . They want us to live in fear, under stress, miserable, tired, and used up in the end. . All to satisfy a greed that will never lose its appetite until the last dying creature takes its last dying breath on Earth. . OR WE STOP THE INSANITY. . People are too afraid to accept the idea the government is not on their side. I get it. . They've done a very good job DIVIDING us. So good, you start to believe it's just you up against the full weight of the government all on your own. . Its no surprise people feel hopeless, helpless and defeated before they even take one small step towards confronting the elite. That's the CONQUERED part of Divide & Conquer playing its role. . Furthermore, deceptive ideas of revolt and revolution are spread by the elite as distraction. . It leaves only two choices. CONFORM or take part in an unorganized revolt with a ragtag army of tinfoil hat wearing crazy people as they are made out to be. . Of course the road most taken leads to conformity. Conformity to a system that sucks the life right out of them. If you ask me that's some strong proof of their power over you. The illusion at its very best. . I mentioned my thoughts for something called The One World Solution near the beginning of this manifesto. So now I'll tell you briefly what I'm thinking about that. . The One World Solution will function in two ways. First, as a Non-Profit Association. A hands on, boots on the ground, interactive coalition of people working directly with the people who need us the most. . Second, a multi national political party with branches in every country on Earth that the law allows a new party to be created. . Every branch will promote the same literature. The same values and the same ambitious approach to creating a more unified world where everyone gets to enjoy life, not just certain ones, born in the right place. . In the long run, I'm talking about a government that values each and every life it agrees to take responsibility for. The term Public Servant will be recognized as the reality in a One World government. . Mentoring programs for children. Food sharing. Life coaching. Housing programs. Spousal abuse safe houses. Connecting employers and potential employees. Daycare for working parents. Addiction treatment programs. Mental health counselling and treatment. Bully prevention. Programs to build esteem, teach values, and promote a strong sense of community. Funding for children's sports. As well, many other new services aimed at readdressing the many abuses and deep wounds suffered by the people who most desperately need these services. . The idea being the non-profit association directly serves the poverty stricken people displaced by the current system being utilized right now. . While helping to meet the needs of those impoverished and cast out by the current system, we will also begin to educate them. . Our message will begin to awaken them to the idea behind the political movement. . Our service work will deliver a realization that of all the things these people have lost over the course of their lives, the RIGHT TO VOTE was not one of them. . I didn't look into anything about the other countries around the world, but I found out some interesting info about political regulations in Canada. . I'm quite hopeful what I found out about politics in Canada, will also apply in the other 122 democratic countries on Earth. . Creating a new political party is simple. A few forms, a signature, proof of support from 250 citizens who believe in your vision, and a reasonable fee of about $500. . Anybody can run for Prime Minister of Canada. The only restriction I could find states you may not run if you are currently imprisoned. . Even a criminal record like mine doesn't disqualify me. It's their belief that my criminal record, being a public document, would surely discourage anyone from supporting my ideas knowing what I'd done in the past. . I am who I am, and did what I did. I have no issue admitting my mistakes. And I freely share the lessons I learned from it all. . Besides, I paid my debt to society for what I've done in this lifetime. Even though all my trouble was a result of the stigma attached to people associated with drugs. . As mine is a vision that includes forgiveness, I feel quite fine in being the example of how to ask for it, and what to expect, and how to return that forgiveness to complete the circle. . To begin this very ambitious project an online presence needs to be created to express our ultimate vision. . The website will be something tangible people can attach to and show their support and commitment to a new way of life. . It will be the ignition switch that fires people up into supporting The One World Collaboration between our non-profit association and our political party. . The people already supporting my idea are an amazing, dedicated, and extremely intelligent group of caring people. There is little doubt in my mind that we can handle the creation, and establishment of The One World Solution. . We will promote a message of our desire and approach to restore dignity to the victims of elite rule in the ways I've outlined in this article. . For the most part, by respectfully accepting people as they are, for who they are, and working towards establishing a place in the world for everyone to belong, we will gain the support we require. . The vision I have for a government is nothing like anything else that's been tried before. . Though all the branches of One World in all the countries on Earth will be part of one massive group and share all the same policies and procedures, they will operate independently of each other. . What happens in one region, for example, a building permit for a massive housing project in Poland, will not be influenced by any other region. . The only times these independent branches of One World would act as one unit, would be in self defense of any, and all of them, from outside sources who act aggressively. Or in the face of natural disasters or terrorist attacks. . Considering how with each successful political victory in the democratic nations of the world, not only will the elite be removed from their positions of authority over policy and law enforcement, but they are removed from their control of the military in that country as well. . All those weapons owned by these countries that the elite hide behind, profit from, and promote war with, will no longer be theirs. And that literally means, the beginning of the end of wars. . The One World countries will never act aggressively or instigate wars under any circumstance. We do not act in defense of any country not affiliated with our collective. And we do not retaliate by declaring war. . I see a government that is totally transparent in all ways. It is not the position of One World to keep secrets or make single handed decisions without consulting the public. . There will never be a 100% consensus on any topic, but that can't be helped. However, I feel major decisions should be made together. . Secret ballot voting will no longer be the way things are done. Transparent voting that can be cross referenced for accuracy by anyone who wishes to do so, will replace the secret ballot. . Finances, and resource wealth distribution will be at the top of the list of things to become transparent. . All in all I feel the biggest problem with the world, other than the still to be determined consequences of the Fukushima disaster, is who is running it. . It's not even so much that all their policies and programs or laws, need to change. What they need is an honest approach implemented, a zero tolerance for corruption policy, and a varying degree of adjustments to priorities, and procedures. . And to the people with anarchist views where we have no government and simply govern ourselves, know this: . The need and expectation by humans for guidance has been deeply ingrained over thousands of years. There is no magic switch that turns it off. . That is why the goal of One World is to slowly, over time, restore what the elite have taken, restricted, and controlled. . Eventually we will return the population to a more natural and sustainable way of conducting our affairs on Earth in a far less profit driven and destructive manner. . The End game being a self sustaining, unified world that stands up for each and every one lucky enough to receive The Gift of Life on Planet Earth. . One strength. One wisdom. One Spirit. One challenge. And it awaits you answering this call. . Through all the hardships I've personally endured; the long days in prison, the cold nights homeless with no place to go, I wouldn't take back a single moment of it. . I'd keep every bit of anger. Each day of despair. Every loss I ever felt, and dream that was ever crushed. It's my motivation to end this so no future generations have to live with what I do in my head everyday. . I just hope the people I've hurt along the way while I gained the knowledge I needed to write this, realize it had to be told. And it had to be real. I had to live it to be able to tell it. . And to those who did me wrong, it's all good. You showed me exactly why I needed to confront the world head on. Be sure, I have no hard feelings. . Again, thank you for your patience in reading this. It's time to rise! © 2017 Cory Figura