#middle aged people stop calling every bad political decision communism challenge

[flango87]

Everyday I think of the time I was watching the hunger games and my dad came in and I was explaining where I was in the movie and what snow was doing and such and he went “oh yeah bc snow is doing that communism thing like Trudeau is” and I just. No Sir. You Must be Confused.

[riddleredcoats]

Prompt: Bellamort and Anti-Tomione where Bella and Tom torture and kill Hermione together.

Anon, I’m so sorry for the delay, but I wasn’t sure how to do this prompt. But I did manage to come up with something… different?... I hope you like it anyway.

So, I really like Hermione (xd) and couldn’t bear to make this anti-Hermione, which I’m not even sure was what you wanted anon, but still there it is. The torture is also mostly emotional torture and even might not even be really be called torture? I mean Bella and Tom hurt her, but it’s kinda unintentional?

Also, this a Mafia AU because *shrug*, also ‘Mafia’ AU, since everything I know about the Mafia is from Godfather, the Simpsons and some shallow research.

Also posted on AO3

Some slang.

Boss – self explanatory

Consigliere – an advisor to the Boss, most decision are run through this guy

Underboss – right bellow Boss.

Boss, Consigliere, and Underboss run a particular Crime Family and are referred to as the Administration.

Capo – short for caporegime mid-level boss who leads a crew of soldiers

Soldier – is the low of the low in hierarchy.

 The one you least expect.

 New York in 1929 was a bustling city, skyscrapers ripped across the Manhattan skyline, smoke rose from cars, trains and buses alike while the waters of the Hudson ran black and dirty from the freighters. The city, grey and watery during the day shifted at night, to a minefield of jazz clubs and theatres and cabarets in which downtown New York City could rival the Paris as the City of Lights.

 When Hermione Granger had first arrived in the city a staggering 15 years-ago, at the ripe age of eleven from a little county in Georgia, the differences from her quiet hometown threatened to overwhelm her and wrestle her to the ground. Still, the sheer vibrancy of the city guaranteed amazement at every corner, something that Hermione couldn’t help but acclimate to, easily. Her want of answers and sense of adventure couldn’t help but make it so, and so, to her, the city had welcomed her with open arms.

 Getting up every morning – or really, middle of the night, seeing as she got up at 3:30AM – was a challenge, especially in wintery days where the warmth of the bed would be replaced by the cold, rarefied, smoke-filled air of her studio apartment. Nonetheless, work was waiting for her.

 Walking lazily to the kitchen, she made sure to turn on the gas to make her first cup of coffee, making sure to turn off every other appliance or light in the house since the gas and the light fixtures couldn’t stand to work at the same time. Rising off an old but reliable percolator – making sure to, of course, first let the water of the tap run for a while to get rid of the runny, brown water that always came in the morning – and then adding a filter and a spot of coffee to the old percolator, Hermione finished off the preparations for her breakfast by suspending a bit of the hard butter over the stove so it would be easier to spread on her hard bread. She ate mechanically, occasionally listening to the sounds of people coming home from a night out.

 After breakfast she walked to her bedroom and tied her bushy, brown, curly hair back into a ponytail, the humidity of the City making her hair even more frizzly than it already was. She donned her beige suit and with a last check of the buckles in her heels was out the door to the dewy-foggy morning, making sure to bring her umbrella.

 “Hey, Granger!” A man came up to her; Ronald Weasley, resident good boy from the scarce Scottish family that had moved into Harlem about 20 years or so ago, living in a predominantly black neighbourhood would be a big change for almost any white family, but the Weasleys… Well, the Weasley had Molly who, with a swift and caring ease, warmed her way into the Community; and so, her six sons and one daughter had been one of the few white families growing alongside the black ones in Harlem.

 “Hello, Ronald. I see you had an interesting evening.” Hermione knew that the disapproving tone in her voice was very noticeable, but then again so was Ron’s wobbling walk indicating of a night abusing one of the cities many illegal speakeasies.

 “’Mione! Don’t be like that!” He screamed, laughing all the while, and his happiness was infectious. Hermione let out a small laugh too. He twirled around her, “It such a fantastic day.”

 “Ron,” she said, laughing, “It’s raining! And the skies are grey!”

 “And yet,” Ron said, his ginger hair falling flat against his freckled face, framing his attractive blue eyes pleasingly, he came closer to her, holding on to her and twirling her around while she giggled at the drunkenness much as she loathed to do so, “It is fantastic!”

 He made sure to make her stop twirling and grabbed her carefully, looking into her with his slightly hazy blue eyes. Hermione, despite herself, felt her heart catch in her throat at the naked emotion that was lodged in those eyes. Ron seemed to come back to himself and take a step back, giving her personal space back. He chuckled a little, and rubbed his neck as he flushed red.

 “I-I gotta go.” He said quickly and stumbling, he turned fast and almost ran into a lamppost such was his rush, Hermione barely had time to say goodbye as Ron was already turning the corner to his house.  

 Hermione shook off the awkward and charged exchange, even as it lingered in the back of her mind, and quickly rushed herself to the subway stop. If she delayed any longer she’d be late for work, and that simply wouldn’t do, she had never been late, not once in her life and wasn’t about to start now. As the subway arrived and Hermione got in, along with the rest of the sludge of New Yorkers ready for another day at work, she got thinking about the job that she had fought tooth and nails for.

 Hermione Granger was a damn fine detective of the New York City police; she was hardworking, she was tenacious, she was ambitious, she was smart as a whip, but most of all, Hermione Granger longed for the days when the Mafia would stop running her city to the ground.

 Ever since the end of the Great War, things in the city had only gotten from bad to worse for everyone, it seemed, except for the Mafia, who now had a steady and much desired product to sell. The temporary ban of alcohol production during the War as an effort to avoid grain shortage was mostly viewed as essential, but then the War had ended, a half-of-a-generation of men came home and the so-called Prohibition Law remained in effect, increasing the demand of bootleg alcohol, speakeasies and gang violence who maintained control of the first two demands of the people.

 While Hermione found the Prohibition Law more harmful than good, it was the law of the land and she had to enforce it, no matter how she wished to indulge with the others. If for no other reason than to stop the rise in Mafia crime that threatened to almost sink the city to ground; dead politicians, corrupt cops, blackmail, torture, shakedowns and a culture of fear permeated the air of the city like the smoke of the factories in the East side. It had to stop, or it would suffocate them all.

 Hermione sighed as the subway arrived at her station and rushed to leave the carriage she was on, breathing the polluted, but not stale, air of the city. She still had a half-an-hour walk to the Police Station and as she dodged the incoming people that rushed to catch the transport, she sighed as she started walking along the blocks, hearing the occasional curse as some driver or another got frustrated with traffic.

 Turning the final corner of her route, Hermione sighed with relief as she entered the precinct, a cold and humid building, at 4:45 AM on the dot. Hermione cursed at the cold but was glad that at least it wasn’t raining inside. Well, not in most places in the station, that is; the building was old enough that some roofing was missing. Hermione made sure to greet the doorman, a fellow policeman who nodded politely at her as she made her way to the stairs.

 Reaching the third-floor, Hermione smiled as the usual chit chat rumbled from inside the room. She pushed the door open and the smell of third-grade, terrible coffee entered her nostrils, the earthy smell was the only thing about the beverage that was passable, but every single detective in the squad used and abused of the swill that Chief Shacklebolt insisted in calling coffee. Walking over to the old oak desk she shared with her partner – budget cuts were the real devil – she laid her purse and her umbrella down.

 Her partner – already on his side of the desk smiled at her – and just he was about to say ‘Good Morning’ as he usually did, she beat him to the punch.

 “I saw your brother-in-law today.” Hermione said as a form of greeting.

 The grin on Harry Potter’s face was unmistakably smug. The man that had welcomed her into the force with big, open arms and never, for once second stopped doubting her abilities and their friendship was also a smug little shit that drove her insane.

 “Oh? How’s Ron?” Asked, said partner, his wild jet-black curls falling over his face and catching on the wire of his round glasses that made his big, striking green eyes more prominent on his face already blessed with a big nose that went swimmingly with his large lips and stunning dark complexion.

 “Don’t give me that! He was slurring, wobbling around and hugging lampposts. You’re wearing last night’s clothes and smell suspiciously of mint… You went to a speakeasy again, didn’t you?”

 Harry’s green-eyes looked terrified at her and then all around them and then he started making wild gestures with his hands, telling her to shut up “Shhh!” Harry looked desperately around, “Hermione, please, it was just a drink and a bit of dance.”

 “Alcohol selling establishments are against the law, Harry! Something we are meant to enforce, not indulge!”

 “Christ.” Harry sighed, “I’m sorry, Hermione, you’re right. But this time it was a special occasion…”

 “Oh, really?” She asked, sarcasm in her voice, “Was it like last week, you went there because Ronald just happened to not have fallen on his face working at the docks that day.”

 “To be fair, for him, that is a miracle.” Hermione had to agree, Ronald Weasley was a gangly walking disaster, “But no, Hermione, that isn’t it.” Hermione took note of her partner’s soft tone, awed reverence in his voice. She looked on as he turned to look in her eyes, his emerald-green and filled with happy tears, “Ginny is pregnant… I’m going to be a dad!”

 “Harry!” She nearly screamed, and her lecture was immediately forgotten in favour of holding her partner – and closest friend – close to her as they hugged, truly happy for him, “This is great news! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry!” He said, rubbing his neck sheepishly, “We found out yesterday, and you were already gone.”

 Hermione winced, knowing how little Harry would approve of why she left early, “I had a date last night,” Harry was already groaning, she knew that he had been trying to set her up with Ron, and that he liked her date as far as he could throw him, “with Tom.” She confirmed, to his frustration.

 “You know I don’t trust him, ‘Mione.” Harry said, his hand rubbing a odd lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, “There is something wrong with that guy, more than the fact that he is almost old enough to be your father.”

 “We’ve been together 9 months, Harry! And he’s 36, it’s not exactly ancient!” Hermione said with a smile on her lips, Harry’s care for her always warmed her heart, “Besides, he is smart and upstanding and makes me feel important and doesn’t care that I cancel our date thirty minutes after they were supposed to be starting. Also,” she said with a lecherous smile, “he is very sexy.”

 Harry made a face, scrunching his nose, “Gross.” But laughed easily, after, “But you know what you’re doing, ‘Mione. But come on, we’re almost late.”

 “Oh, and where are we going?”

 Harry turned serious and Hermione immediately straightened her back in anticipation for what was to come, her partner was usually either jovial or irritable, never both at the same time, his perchance for mood swings was negligible, but he seemed to be oscillating today, and Hermione figured that if not for Ginny’s pregnancy Harry would be absolutely impossible to put up with.

 “You wanted to meet my informant?” Hermione nodded and moved already to her side of the desk, picking up her discarded coat, “Good, then. Let’s go.”

 “Has he given you any decent information?” Hermione asked as she put on her coat, ready to brace the rain again.

 “He’s young,” Harry admitted as he too put on his coat, “He mostly confirmed intel, which honestly is as good as it gets.”

 Hermione hummed distractingly. Yes, Hermione supposed, getting confirmation from another source usually went a long way to make sure that the intel was acted upon. Hermione’s own sources were more volatile and required a lot more of careful handling, since the intel was usually good enough to take down at least one crew under the purview of a Capo, and sometimes even managing to snag the Capo themselves. So, Hermione had to check and double check every detail.

 “But,” Harry said, drawing her attention back to him as he led her out of the precinct, “he said that today he would give me something more substantial.”  

 “Good.”

 Harry and Hermione got in the car and drove off in the direction of the docks, all the while shifting between work talk and talk about Ginny who was apparently entering her second trimester in a week or so. As they drove off, the sun – which had yet to rise – started picking through the horizon

 Reaching a shady-looking warehouse in the middle of nowhere didn’t exactly raise Hermione’s hopes that this meeting would go well. But, as soon as Harry parked the car, hidden – of course – behind some sort of construction site, they entered the deteriorating warehouse. Careful not to trigger any alarms, and to check corners where they could.

 Once they figured the building was clear, Harry yelled out, “Hey, kid, you in here?”

 A rattling sound, silence and then a stage whisper, “Would you be quiet? Do you want to get us all killed?” A figure stepped out of the shadows and Hermione gasped.

 “Harry, he’s like fourteen! He’s not young, he’s a kid!” Hermione yelled at her partner.

 “Sixteen!” The kid yelled, glaring defiantly at her.

 “Oh, yes, that makes it all better.” She deadpanned.

 “Hermione…” Harry started, a rueful tone to his voice, as if he knew that she would be even madder once she knew the whole story, “This is Draco Malfoy.”

 Hermione couldn’t hold back the gasp. Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy Crime Family. Hermione looked at the skinny, tall kid with a long thin nose, intense blue-grey eyes with a slick top and thick sides blond hair and an expensive suit that probably cost more than her apartment complex.

 Before she could say another word, voices ran out, rough and low and at Draco’s look of panic Hermione knew that the boy had been followed. Hermione and Harry cursed, and grabbing Draco by his shirt dragged him to a nearby office space and made sure to hide with him behind a desk.

 The voices grew louder and louder as they entered the warehouse and Hermione counted at least 4 people.

 “Spread out and find them!” The voice, accented and tilting towards French, seemed to fill the expanse of the warehouse, the voice of Rodolphus Lestrange, Boss to the Lestrange Crime Family, she had heard him testify, once, “Gaunt will get here soon enough, and I’d rather have them in hand.”

 Hermione and Harry exchanged surprised but determined looks. ‘Gaunt’ was the name of the Boss of the Slytherin Crime Family, the oldest crime family in New York City; they had stopped operating a few decades back but about 10 years ago they started wreaking havoc again in the city and re-establishing old supply lines and having more politicians in his pocket than out of it, but no one had even ever gotten a good look at the Boss, creating a mist of mystery and fear around him. Hermione and Harry didn’t have to do more than exchange looks; a glimpse at Gaunt was enough for them to risk their lives.

 Draco, sat between them, was trembling and Hermione was stuck with the sudden realization that Draco knew who Gaunt was. Hermione silently looked at Harry, tilting her head asking a question she was sure her partner would understand, Harry shook his head telling that leaving this hiding spot would not be a good idea.

 Still, they had to do something.

 Hermione was running scenarios in her head when the door to the office space opened. Draco whimpered loudly enough for whoever had opened the door to ear. Without much thinking, Hermione shot out of cover and fired her gun directly at the man’s chest. BANG! Hermione’s brain took a fraction of a second to reassert itself after the gunshot left her ears ringing, and a plan – clumsy as it – was formed in her mind

 “Run, Harry! Run!” At his shocked look she yelled again, “One of us has to make it. Go! You too, kid.”

 They didn’t need anything more from her and took off running, Harry and Draco to the left and she to the right. They had a shot with only four people of the Mafia and with this much ground to cover they might make it.

 “Hey, look there they are!” one of the men shouted, “Wait, is that Malfoy’s kid?”

  “WHO CARES?” Roared another, “JUST FUCKING GRAB HIM! I GOT THE GIRL!”

 Another shot ran out. BANG! Hermione took off running even as she heard someone getting closer behind her. And, then another shot. BANG! A cry – young and high-pitched – Draco. A thud as bodies fell to ground. Harry yelling. Another shot. BANG! Hermione panted as she felt the man chasing her, getting ever closer to her. She forgot Harry, whose voice she could still hear, yelling and pained. She forgot Draco, whose panicking sobs, still echoed in the warehouse. She forgot everything and just focused on getting out there alive. If just one of them made it, it would be enough.

 But it wasn’t meant to be. A grunt from behind and Hermione shrieked in surprise as she was tackled to the floor. “Got you bitch!” The man yelled as he pinned her to the ground, Hermione tried to fight him off. The man on top of her growled, grabbed her more firmly to haul her off the ground and push her towards the centre of the warehouse.

 Harry was already kneeling, bleeding heavily from a wound on his leg, but he continued resisting even as chains rattled with his fury. Draco, however, was unharmed but in the same position, kneeling and chained to the floor, and yet, he didn’t try to resist; the boy seemed resigned to his fate.

 There were two men remaining, not counting Rodolphus, one was standing guard behind the Boss and the other was leading her to where Harry and Draco were, to force her to kneel and be chainedbesides them.

 Hermione cried out as her knees hit the pavement, hard, and as the soldier behind her chained her to the floor, she turned to look at where the Boss of the Lestrange Family was kneeling, taking the hand of a wounded man and closing the dying man’s eyes, then bowing down to say a prayer over the now-dead man. So, she had managed to hit one; she hoped whoever it had been was someone important like the Underboss or the Consigliere. Hell, Hermione would settle for a Capo.

 Hermione felt the men that had dragged her here, search for her gun and handling it to the other remaining guard who put it atop a nearby table alongside what Hermione guesses was Harry’s own gun. Hermione sighed, as she found herself weapon-less and plan-less.

 “You killed our Capo with that gun, Detective.” The soldier snarled in behind her back, seemingly hearing her thoughts, and Hermione smirked in victory, which earned her backhanded slap that threw her to the ground, “Enjoy being smug while you can, you aren’t going to live for long.”

 Rodolphus rose from paying his respects to the Capo, with a heavy sigh, “Augustus, enough. We’ll get our revenge.”

 Before either of them could say anything else, the sound of rhythmic steps echoed in the warehouse and the silence that followed was heavy with anticipation. Had someone come and save them? No. It was unlikely, no one knew where they were. But whoever had come in was powerful, revered, easy to see by the way the two-remaining soldiers straightened.

 “Gaunt.” Rodolphus said in greeting, dashing Hermione’s hopes. Still, at least she’d die knowing who the infamous and mysterious Boss was.

 “Told you this was a bad idea.” Hermione stifled a gasp at the distinctive drawl. Hermione felt the soldier behind her tighten his hand over mouth and grip her tighter.  

 That voice… That croon-y voice that had sang her praises over dinner, whispered carelessly in her ear, led her into a nearby bed… That voice. That was the voice of the man she was seeing, Tom Riddle. Hermione tried to squirm out of the soldier’s hold, to see the face of the man for herself, to maybe see him being coerced into helping… To beg him to tell her they were lying and that he wasn’t the Boss of the newest – and yet, oldest – and most efficient crime family the city had ever seen.

 Hermione finally, carefully as to not draw attention, twisted enough to see the man she had been sleeping with for the past 9 months and yes, there he was. Tall, taller than most certainly, and handsome with his well-maintained black hair shining in the light of sun coming through the windows, looking as if he was dreadfully calm and completely at ease to be in this grim place.

 Hermione watched as the face that had become familiar to her, come fully into her field of vision and couldn’t help but flinch at the high-cheekbones she had ran her hands along, a pair of piercing blue eyes that bored into her, the thin lips that when stretched into a smile managed to make her catch her breath, the elegant nose and the long neck that matched the rest of his long and thin, although deceptively muscular, body. Dressed in a three-piece black suit, completed with a matching black tie, he looked ready for one of their dates. God. Bile rose in her throat and Hermione had to hold herself steady not to break down.

 “You came alone?” Asked Rodolphus, more curious than suspicious.

 Tom hummed disinterested, and repeated again, “I told you this was a bad idea.”

 “I know. I know.” Rodolphus growled, “But this bitch and that fucker have been killing off my men for a year and a half now, I’m not going to let that stand.” Rodolphus this time, sighed, “I probably should have listened to you, but we do have her now.”

 “Yes, you should have.” Tom agreed, easily, “That’s why you made me Consigliere.”

 Hermione bit her lip to not gasp aloud, although Harry wasn’t so lucky and received a club in the head for his outburst. For Gaunt – a head of a Crime Family himself – to be made into a Consigliere, the most trusted person in the Administration, it was unheard of. Whatever Tom had done to endear himself to the Lestrange, it must have been something big.

 “Ah, Hermione,” Tom finally addressed her, with the charm and smooth he always had, but the bastard made sure to keep himself away from approaching her, “I’m sorry to say you won’t be able to make our date tomorrow.”

 “Fuck you!” It wasn’t her gave into her anger and made that outburst, but Harry who was seething in place, kneeling as she was, on the other side of Draco, “Fuck you! How dare you? How could you?”

 “Augustus, please, gag him.” The soldier behind them did as Tom asked, even as Harry raged about him. Tom then turned his blue eyes towards Draco, “He is your nephew, is he not?” Asked Tom, pointing towards the kid between Hermione and Harry.

 “My wife’s.” Rodolphus drawled out, immense anger about him.

 Despite herself, Hermione felt a chill run through her spine, and she saw Harry do the same.

 Rodolphus Lestrange’s wife… Bellatrix Lestrange, merely dubbed ‘The Woman’ since she seemed to be involved in every major crime family in one capacity or another although of course there was no proof, was a chill-inducing person. Originally coming from the Black Crime Family, where her father had been the  Boss and had only had two girls for heirs, everyone thought the family finished, but much worse had happened…The Boss’s daughters had each married into distinct crime families, Narcissa to the Malfoys and Bellatrix to the Lestranges, effectively bolstering each family with men and supply routes.

 That seemed to be the end of it, the Black Family was through after having been absorbed by the others. But then reports of the old Black trading posts, M.O.’s and business fronts roaring to life, putting the family on the map again…All clues led to Bellatrix being the mastermind behind the new life in her old family’s old grounds, although no proof was ever found. Even more concerning, the Gaunts and the Blacks seemed to be coordinating.

 And, instead of having to wrangle with the four crime families squabbling amongst themselves, the city had to start wrangling and negotiating with three strong ones.

 “Your wife’s…” Tom repeated, blue eyes analysing seemingly every part of the scene,  he gestured again towards Draco, “Is he the traitor?”

 “It appears so.” The cold, calculating tone of Rodolphus voice didn’t spring much hope that Draco would live to see the day.

 “Uncle! NO!” Draco yelled, before the soldier behind them gagged him. The boy’s blue eyes – warmer than Tom’s, but much colder than Ron’s were at the thought Hermione shook her head, Ron didn’t belong here in this desolate place and Tom didn’t deserve to be in her head any longer – were wide and teary, pleading for mercy from a man that had none to give.

 “Shut up, boy, you’ve caused enough trouble. My damn wife will have my head.” Rodolphus grumbled, as he took a drag of his cigarette.

 “That’s what you get for making Bellatrix your Underboss,” Tom chuckled, even as he refused Rodolphus offer of a cigarette, “Too much power. Although, she does wield it well.”

 It was then that the sound of high heels, reached their ears, the click-clack of the shoes on the pavement drowning out every sound in the desolate warehouse. It was as if the mere mention of her name had been enough to summon her. Hermione scarcely had to turn to see the woman that had arrived, her present was felt with no need to accentuate it by her image or her voice. Still, having read but descriptions of her, Hermione couldn’t help but be curious about The Woman’s appearance.

 She turned to her side and the first thing she noticed was the deep, black hair styled into a high bun with curls on the side settling nicely into the beaded headband which despite looking like the rest of the country seem to shine with unparalleled rival. A long-beaded necklace adorned her long and elegant neck, while her golden earring dropped to almost hit her slender shoulder.  Her dress – a sleeveless evening dress, meaning she probably came right off one of her speakeasies – was deep black accentuating her figure, and came to rest bellow her knee with a waist drop lined with beads to match her headband, and it gave off a silky quality to it. On her feet, the heels, high and black and T-strapped completed her outfit. To the casual observer The Woman blended in with the other high-class women, if only to attract attention for her exceptional beauty, but there was a hint of something dangerous in her walk, something that Hermione knew would be the end of them.

 “Auntie!” Draco, shaking himself out of the gag, yelled from between them. Hermione and Harry looked over Draco’s head, hoping against hope that at least the police’s source would still make it out even if they wouldn’t, “They are-…”

 Before Draco could finish, Bellatrix snapped her finger and the soldier near Lestrange shot at his Boss, once and then twice. Rodolphus Lestrange fell to floor, grunting and moaning in pain as the bullets that entered his kneecap and abdomen in a way that wounded him but didn’t kill him… yet. Hermione doubted by the way Bellatrix was acting that Rodolphus would last the night.

 “Bella!” The man groaned and yelled, twisting on the floor, blood sputtering out with the effort. A grim sign on all accounts. By the time the dawn was through, New York City’s two most profitable boroughs would be under new management.

 “Oh, shut him up, Theo.” Bellatrix waved the man off. Hermione watched as the large man that had been beside Rodolphus all morning, put a cloth in Rodolphus’ mouth effectively shutting him up. It seemed that the woman wanted him to suffer… Or to hear why she had done what she’d done.

 “You’re late.” Tom said, smirking, remarkably calm in the face of one of his conspirators being under a hostile takeover… Hermione then deduced that Tom had already known about the coup then, which boded badly for everyone. Two of the major three Crime Families plotting together was never good, but when the wife – who was also the Underboss – of one conspired with the Boss - who also a Consigliere to said first family – of the other, to seemingly have the wife take over… It was a hot mess of a disaster.

  Worse still, it seemed, because Bellatrix bypassed everyone and walked towards Tom, pulling him down by his neck, kissing him soundly on the mouth. Hermione was unable to tear her eyes from the passionate display as Tom’s icy facade seemed to thaw enough to grasp the woman closer to him, his hands firmly on her waist and her hair.

 Hermione heard Rodolphus let out one last muffled, pained yell over the cloth in his mouth and she knew it had nothing to do with the gunshot wounds… It was the betrayal of seeing his wife in the arms of another. A pain, Hermione was agonized to find, that she shared; her heart seemed shattered in two, more so than when she found out he was the so-called ‘Gaunt’.

 Bellatrix and Tom separated, begrudgingly, although they remained in each other’s personal space and exchanged whispered words. Bellatrix then, finally, turned towards them; her eyes travelling the three of them kneeling. Hermione watched as The Woman caressed Tom’s arm before walking over to them. The soldier behind Hermione and Draco tightened the grip on their shoulders as Bellatrix drew nearer, making sure that no one would jump The Woman when she got too close.

 “Well, yes, Narcissa was bugging me about Draco, again.” The Woman answered Tom and as she got closer still, Hermione found she had striking grey eyes which were currently fixed on Draco. Hermione watched as she took Draco’s chin in her hand lifted his face up, making him look at her, “Now, now, Draco… Your mama says I should leave you alone, and let you go your own way, but apparently your own way involves the police, a wire and selling your family out…” Draco was trembling, “How shameful.”

 “Auntie…” Draco tried, his voice coming out steady, chin still in Bellatrix’s hands, even if therein laid a hint of fear, “… They are saying I sold you out, but I didn’t! I mean, you wanted these Detectives here, right?”

 Bellatrix snarled, and shoved off Draco’s head away from her, “You should leave the lying for those able to lie, boy.” With that, Bellatrix took a step back, the look in her eyes undecipherable, but Draco seemed to know it well.

 “No, Auntie!” Draco was crying, tears running down his face unabashed now, his age showing as he pleaded with his aunt for his life, “I’ll change, I swear. I’ll never-,” Before Draco could finish making empty promises a loud ‘BANG!’ echoed in the desolate warehouse, and the only thing that left Draco’s mouth was a surprised sob as his body fell to the ground, lifeless.

Hermione looked behind her and saw the soldier that had been holding Draco and her looking at the lifeless body as surprised as she was. Hermione knew that Bellatrix hadn’t done it, having been looking at her the whole time, that left… No, God, no. Turning her eyes to Tom, she found him hand still raised with her police issue gun smoking in his hand. Bile rose in her throat, not so much for the smell of blood although it was potent, but more for the cruel act that a man she had admired just committed.

  “So that was a gun in your pocket,” Bellatrix sighed, shaking her head, disappointed, “And here I thought you were happy to see me.”            

 Hermione shook her head, disgusted by Bellatrix’s heartless reaction to the death of her nephew, traitor or no. Family first seemed to be the one Mafia motto that Hermione could get behind, and yet, here was The Woman, committing most foul sin against kin. Hermione didn’t dare look at Harry, for she knew that her partner was seething, the energy coming off of him was almost overwhelming.  

 Tom chuckled, a sound she had heard a dozen times but had never rang as true as it did this time, “We can talk about it later.” He said, his tone full of promise, as he put her gun back on the table where it had been before.

 The Woman smiled back, “I can’t wait.”

 Hermione felt more than saw the soldier behind her shaking, and Hermione couldn’t be sure, but she felt that he disapproved of the couple, their little affair and their coup. Maybe she and Harry could exploit this, but not when Harry wouldn’t even look at her, his furious gaze still fixed on Draco’s lifeless body.

“Congratulations on your wife’s pregnancy, Detective.” Bellatrix Lestrange said as one of her husband’s – or just hers, now? – soldier, Theo, bought over a chair for her to sit on. Hermione felt more than saw Harry tremble beside her, her partner terrified by the fact that the woman knew of his new family. When Harry said nothing, and kept his head lowered, with a snap of Bellatrix fingers the soldier behind them pulled her and Harry’s heads up by their hair so they might look at Bellatrix in the eyes, “Mister Potter, I said ‘Congratulations’.”

  When the pain of having her hair pulled and her head yanked up subsided, Hermione saw Bellatrix sitting on that same chair, looking like a queen on a throne. Hermione felt Harry stiffen himself, unwilling to show fear in the presence of The Woman.

  “Thank you, Bellatrix.” The eyes of Tom and the two-remain soldiers narrowed at Harry for his use of The Woman’s name, “But you can go fuck yourself with your congratulations.” The man behind Harry and herself growled at the detective. Hermione felt her heart catch in her throat… Harry was as good as dead.

  “Mm-hmm,” Bellatrix nodded, looking disinterested, when the beautiful women snapped her finger again, but this time said, “Rookwood!” Hermione had barely time to close her eyes when the pistol behind Harry fired directly into her partner’s chest.  Hermione bit her lip, willing the tears in her eyes not to fall. Oh, Harry… I’m so, so sorry.

  “Why?” Hermione asked, tears clouding her voice despite her best efforts, “Why did you…?”

  “Why did I kill him?” Bellatrix interrupted, baffled, eyebrow lifting in confusion, “I think it’s rather obvious, Detective. He was in my speakeasy last night even as he arrests those who visit those places frequently, flipped my nephew, and shot at my men.” She then turned to Tom, a pout to her lips, “Bloody hell, Tom, you told me she was smart…”

  "She is, Bella.” Tom’s voice, as it had done all evening, stabbed at her heart. The kiss hadn’t helped… But the way he said the woman’s nickname, the same nickname the woman’s husband had uttered before he died was like pouring salt in a wound.

 “Well, darling, I’m not seeing much of it, I admit.”

  “I meant,” Hermione tried again, voice more-or-less steady, interrupting the banter that was sure to ensue, “Why do all of this?”

  “Well, Detective, I thought it was obvious.”

  The first thought that came over was that Bellatrix had wanted to be with Tom and her husband was simply in the way. But thinking about it, it became clear. The way that the Black and Gaunt family seemed to be operating, the way that Lestrange was organizing his businesses… It was more than a crime of passion perpetuated by lust. It was a business deal.

  “You wanted your husband’s power, almost as much as you wanted him.” Hermione gestured towards Tom.

 “Hmm… rather easy a question, Detective, you don’t get any points for this one either I’m afraid.”

 “And how?” Hermione asked, ignoring The Woman’s goading, but unable to stop her curiosity from sprawling, “How did you…?”

                “Taking over my husband’s men took me a while longer than I care to admit,” the woman spoke, her hands running over her silky dress, taking special care to remove any piece of lint from the where the slit ended at her hip, “Of course, I do have to thank you for continuing to make use of the information we passed to you and continuing to kill my husband’s loyal men.”

                “W-What?” Hermione stumbled and before she could blink, both Bellatrix and Tom pointed their guns at the two remaining soldiers and shot at them, hitting the two targets square in the chest. The men’s eyes were already glassing over before they hit the ground.

                The issued ‘BANG!’ echoed in the warehouse and rang in Hermione’s ears, the sound seemingly much louder than it had any right to be. Hermione closed her eyes tightly, both against the ringing in her head and the knowledge that she’d be next. When no other shot ran out, and she found herself still breathing, Hermione opened her eyes to look at the two-remaining people in the room.

                “W-Why?” She asked again, but now significantly more confused.

                “Again with the questions.” Bellatrix sighed, as she cleaned the weapon in her hand and laid it besides Harry, clearly making it look that there had been a shootout between him and the soldiers, “Blindingly obvious answer again, too, Detective Granger. You are disappointing me…”

                Hermione thought back to the way the soldier behind her had been shaking and realized that the question was a dumb one, indeed.

                “These men still followed your husband,” Hermione said, “Or rather, they didn’t follow you enough.”

                “Yes, good.” Bellatrix said as she retook her seat in the chair, “Of course, there is the issue of loose ends. We couldn’t just let them know about the specifics of Rodolphus death, not after selling out so many of Rodolphus’ men, most of which these two had been comrades with. They’d never accept me and Tom as the new heads. Loyalty is important, after all.”

                “But why go through all this trouble?” Hermione asked, again, “You could have killed him more easily at home.”

                “Well, you can’t just kill a Mafia head, Detective.” Bellatrix explained, as if to a baby, “We needed a motive, someone to blame it on. We started this several years ago, I admit, but then, this one here,” she pointed to her side, towards Tom, “got me pregnant and plans got delayed, some of the men switched from my control to my husband’s and vice versa. It was a mess.”

                The girl she had seen in the company of Lestrange’s men in various photographs… The dark-haired little girl with pigtails and pretty red dress was the heiress to the Lestrange Crime Family – or was the Black Crime Family resurrected once more? – but more than that, she was Tom’s. Tom’s. He had a daughter and a… wife, or maybe a comare, when this was over?... out there while he had been screwing with her head.

                “We could have done something after Del was born, but…”

                “It was too risky,” Tom said, certain, pursing his lips and wincing as he did so, “We had to make sure that people would respect Bellatrix, that no question of Delphie’s parentage would be put in question. She’ll always be a Lestrange.” He seemed aggravated by the thought of his daughter having another man’s name, “But at least she’s safe.”

                “And we’ll tell her, eventually,” Bellatrix said, nonchalantly, “Although I’m sure she’ll be elated to live with her uncle Tom, for now.”

                “In a few months.” Tom said, tempering Bellatrix’s apparent speedy plans, “We have to wait for everyone to adapt, although I’m sure people will push us to act sooner rather than later, we’ve planted the image of us together for too long. People have expectations.” Bellatrix hummed in agreement, Hermione watched as Tom tightened his grip on her shoulder, and said, smirking at The Woman seating on the chair, “Have a few siblings for Delphie, maybe.”

              “Oh, shut up.” Bellatrix said, and Hermione could hear the smile she wasn’t able to hide.

                “That wasn’t a ‘no’.”

                Bellatrix hummed, as she caressed the hand on her shoulder, “I’ll think about it.”

                As Hermione turned from the loving display, part of her longed to beg Tom for her life, longed to say to him that he could have her whatever way he wanted if that was his wish or that she could disappear forever and never step foot in this wretched city again… But she knew, whatever he had had with her was fake. Looking him looking at Bellatrix with a softness in his gaze that was uncharacteristic of him… He had never looked at her that way, not even when faking to be in love with her.  

                But even as part of her begged her to plead for her life, the bigger part of her wrestled to rebel, to shout in their faces that they would be caught and brought to justice… But she knew the likelihood of that was unlikely, Hermione knew that the police were as much in the pocket of the Mafia as the politicians were. Odds were that Bellatrix and Tom would get away with this, scot free. Still, another question plagued her mind.

                “How are you planning to contain this? Two detectives, an heir to one of the Crime Families, a Boss to another, a capo, and couple of prominent soldiers. All dead.” Hermione said, contemplating, “The two of you escaping, and then taking over is a very big coincidence.”

                “Well, the public story will be that Rodolphus was at the warehouse to make an appraisal of the place to invest, Draco came along with him to learn the trade and got caught in shootout between the police and known Mafia members, then a gas pipe burst and the building went in flames.” Tom explained, “Rather amateur-ish but decent enough for the newspapers.”

                “As for our families, something more elaborate,” Bellatrix continued from Tom, “It is well-known that you have been a thorn in our side for quite some time, Detective, something that Tom and I engineered, of course, by giving you intel to arrest many of our least loyal, more problematic members. The meeting that took place here was, of course, spread about the families relaying the intent of catching you, your partner and your ‘informant’.”

                “We’ll pin it on Augustus, he has some connections with a former lover in the police,” Tom then, took over for Bellatrix, gesturing to the dead man behind Hermione, “So you arrive and you, your partner, and Augustus overpowered Rodolphus, killing him and that’s when Bellatrix and I ran. Then Draco, ah, we didn’t plan Draco,” He said chuckling, faintly, “He was never meant to come. Still, some cover will have to be made, about him coming here with Rodolphus and dying as a hero by sacrificing himself, injured after the shootout, to set off the explosives.” He snorted, “Worked out rather well, that.”

                “Cissa will buy it, if only because it makes her son a hero.” Bellatrix explained, “Of course, we always planned on having him killed. Stupid boy was always too clever for his own good and far too close with Rodolphus,” Bellatrix ‘tsk’ed, disapprovingly, “something that will, at least, work in our favour for him being here.”

                “So, Draco was always going to die then?” She tried, one last time, to make the people in front of her show some sort of emotion, some sort of remorse for the life they led. Hermione should have saved her breath, because Bellatrix only chuckled.

                “I admit, I had hoped that he wasn’t stupid enough to come here today, and that he would give up on the foolish idea of becoming an informant and convince him that he had a bright future if he kept his mouth shut, but it is as it is… But don’t concern yourself with my nephew, Detective, because everyone here but the two of us,” long fingers on elegant hands pointed to herself and to Tom with a commanding ease, “will die today. No loose ends. That includes you.”  

                Hermione shook her head, helplessly, there was nothing left to be done. She lowered her head, indicating that her questions were over, that she was, if not ready, resigned enough to her fate. She heard Bellatrix chuckle softly, almost pityingly at her and couldn’t find it in herself to care.

                “You want to do the honours?” Bellatrix asked softly, and the part of Hermione that couldn’t help but care for the man that had been her lover for 9-months was comforted by the fact that Tom, if nothing else, had someone to care for him.

                “You do it,” Tom said, carelessly, as he fiddled with a lighter in his hand, “I still have to set up the explosive. Besides, I know you’re dying to.” He finished with a smirk on his lips. Seemed like he didn’t have the same consideration for her, but Hermione wasn’t surprised, couldn’t bring herself to care, she was numb, her fate decided.

                Hermione heard the heels clicking on the ground as Bellatrix got close and had to fight off the chill that enveloped her body as Bellatrix tipped her head up, hand on her chin, to make her look in the calculating grey eyes, and a cruel elated smile of  the blood-red lips belonging to the woman that would end her life.

 As she felt the barrel of the gun against her temple, a thought ran through her head that she couldn’t stop; she wished she could have, even just once, felt the taste of smiling lips on hers, of worker’s hands on her body, of running her hands over the ginger locks of a man so good and so nice and so uproarious as Ronald Weasley.

 With that thought in her head, she barely felt the gun discharge into her head.

[alisayamin]

Somebody To Love (Sheith Secret Santa - Pinch Hit)

Ashie!! I’m your pinch hitter for the Sheith Secret Santa! I hope you like this pre-Kerberos fanfic! ^3^

Read on AO3

Shiro never thought it was physically possible to wake up because Matt started playing that awful song again but he did.

“Caaaaaaaaaan…. Anybodyyy? Find meeee, somebody tooo loooooovee~”

The worst part was? Matt was actually studying at the dining table and would alternate between pausing and playing the song according to what Shiro was doing.

He was just standing up from where he had accidentally slept on the couch when the song continued, “Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little… Can barely stand on my feet!”

As he went inside the bathroom to wash his face, he could hear the continuation, “(Take a look at yourself) Take a look in the mirror and cry (and cry), lord what you're doing to me?”

By the time he was preparing his daily bowl of cereal, that horrible line was repeating again, “Somebody (somebody) ooh somebody (somebody). Can anyyybodyyy find meee somebody to love?”

“I work hard (he works hard) every day of my life” Shiro twisted his neck to the side until it made a popping sound that made Matt look over at him and grimace deeply, “I work till I ache in my bones- I work till I ache my bones- I work till I ache my bones- I work till I ache my bones-“

Shiro gave Matt his most unimpressed face (which Matt challenged with his own poker face) but Matt was still rewinding that one single line again and again and again, until finally, Shiro relented.

He happily buried his face in his crossed arms as he admitted defeat, “FINE. You win. I’ll take the weekend off.”

Matt got up from his seat with the most triumphant smile and began singing to his favourite Queens song. Honestly, sometimes Shiro wasn’t sure who the commanding officer in the room was anymore.

When Shiro first met Matt, it was when they found out they were roommates. Although they were in different programs, Matt was always there for Shiro. He was like the annoying brother Shiro never thought he’d meet. Even after Shiro became an instructor at the Garrison, he refused to move out from their shared quarters. Pros: Matt cared for Shiro and would make sure he ate and slept accordingly. Cons: Matt cared for Shiro and would force Shiro to take some time off from Garrison by giving him tickets to watch illegal races.

Shiro was walking to the secret track while simultaneously talking to Matt on his communicator that dual-functioned as a wristwatch as well, “Remind me again why you even had this pass. Do you really expect me to believe it was because of some racer?”

“Hey, Keith is awesome!  Make sure you bet him for me. He’s usually the one in red, number 23. And c’mon Shiro, loosen up!” Matt shrugged with a smug grin.

Shiro was already starting to regret his decision, “I’m a certified Garrison pilot who’s about to watch ILLEGAL racing-“

Matt’s expression suddenly became serious as he cut Shiro off, “Yeah but you gotta watch him. You’ll understand. Trust me.”

And that sealed the deal. Because if anything, Matt was the only Shiro truly trusted at the Garrison.

Shiro stared at Matt through his communicator before giving a curt nod, “I’m reaching the vicinity. Call you later.”

“Have fun!” Matt waved happily before he disconnected.  

When Shiro reached the marked building on his digital map, he went inside. It was a typical abandoned establishment in an abandoned city. He traveled quite far to watch this particular race so he hoped it was worth it. Following Matt’s instruction, Shiro walked to the ‘white ring’ and laid the ticket backside up on his palm. Abruptly, a red light scanned Shiro’s body and the ticket from the ceiling above him before it dispersed as suddenly as it appeared. Shiro felt a rumbling at his feet before the ‘white ring’ started descending underground.

It was a quiet ride that slowly grew louder as the walls opened up to a huge stadium. Shiro’s eyes grew wide with awe at the massive size of the underground track. From his still descending platform, Shiro had a clear semi-aerial view of the whole place. He saw that the rocky track was uneven and looked natural rather than man-made.

Blinding lights streamed from above. Reflective surfaces were used to direct the beams towards the race track, creating an incredible stage lighting effect.

When the platform finally reached the bottom, Shiro found himself lost in the crowds. Matt assured him that as long as he found his seat, he’d be able to bet and watch the race safely. The crowds were basically those that couldn’t get the passes but still wanted to watch the race. Shiro wondered how they found their way inside since the place was so deep underground.

It took longer than he thought to navigate through the masses but he was lucky to be on the right side of the stadium where his seat was located. The LED lights illuminating Shiro’s seat changed from red to green after he scanned his pass again at the small scanner located on the edge of the left armrest. Instantly, a rectangular touch-sensitive virtual display appeared in front of him; the betting screen.

The racers were labeled by colour and numbers. Names seemed to be optional since not many racers had placed their names in that particular section. Shiro scrolled for ‘Keith’ and made sure that it was also labeled ‘red’ and ‘23’. Matt betted a hefty sum for this ‘Keith’, enough for Shiro to pitch in his own units. Once the units were transferred, Shiro confirmed his bets. The display shrunk to a smaller screen on top of the right armrest.

Shiro perked up when he heard the familiar rumbling of a well-tuned aircraft. He looked upwards just in time to see a distinct red hovercraft swooping over his head. Shiro felt as though time slowed in that split second. It was surreal to watch the underbelly of a real flying (probably illegal) aircraft so close to his face. The resulting wind that slammed him into his seat was exhilarating. Shiro secretly wished he could ride his own hovercraft at that moment. Instantaneously, twelve other hovercrafts flew towards the track from all corners of the stadium. The crowds’ cheers drowned the revving engines as the racers took their position.

There was a commentator riling up the crowds and announcing odds of the possible winner. Shiro would have paid attention if he wasn’t so focused on the racers themselves. He noticed that there was definitely a major difference between the size (and age) of the other racers and this… ‘Keith’. Compared to the others, ‘Keith’ was practically a child! Shiro imagined Matt hitting his head for mocking someone’s height. Okay, Shiro conceded, ‘Keith’ was at least a young adult. A teenager. In an illegal race track. Racing illegally.

All sorts of alarms started ringing in Shiro’s head. Before he could properly organize his thoughts, a loud bang resounded throughout the stadium, signifying the start of the race.

Shiro literally forgot all about ‘Keith’ and that person’s age when he saw the smooth maneuvers that red aircraft was pulling off. The track was somewhat inconsistent, divided between a smoother pathway and a rocky one. The red aircraft, number 23, young adult ‘Keith’, was the only one in that rocky part of the track. And it was…

It was breathtaking.

Shiro himself had only ever did half those stunts strictly in simulators. Yet, here was a kid doing it with twice the risk and twice the skill Shiro could ever hope for. The control was flawless and the skill was.. Shiro couldn’t describe it as anything but ‘instinctual’. ‘Keith’ piloted that aircraft as though they were one. Matt had said before “You could take your eyes off him but you WON’T.” Shiro had scoffed back then. Yet, there he was, eyes figuratively glued to the red aircraft with a striking ‘23’ painted on the right wing.

By the time that red aircraft made it through the finish line first, Shiro was on his feet, clapping enthusiastically. He even cheered along with the crowds. The pilot of the winning aircraft came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the stadium and took off his helmet.

And Shiro received confirmation that ‘Keith’ was in fact, a teenager. His body was small and was of average height, probably 17, black hair styled into a mullet and he had a strong posture. Even from afar, Shiro could tell that despite his size and age, ‘Keith’ was not a child. ‘Keith’ walked to the podiums where the commentator was excitedly announcing all the amazing stunts ‘Keith’ had pulled.

As the commentator raised the winning pilot’s fist, Shiro was hit with an epiphany. Matt never did anything without a reason. And Shiro just realized what Matt wanted him to do and what he was already planning on doing the moment ‘Keith’ navigated his aircraft through a small curved cave that shouldn’t have been possible.

Shiro was going to recruit ‘Keith’ into the Garrison space pilot program.

Keith politely shook hands with the other racers that approached him. He was only going to stay till he received his units and not a minute longer. Unfortunately, he could feel eyes on him. Someone from the stands was watching him too intensely for his liking. By the end of the race, people would usually rush to reap their rewards from their bets at the collection counters. No one would stay behind to watch the racers or anything.

So when that uneasy feeling remained, Keith kept his guard up. The underground stadium was one of the more secure race tracks, so for it to be compromised would be very bad news indeed.

Keith started to undress from his racing garment, allowing him access for his dagger and other accessories in his utility belt to help with escape if he needed it. He would do anything to escape the system. Keith had just put on his red jacket when he heard incoming footsteps.

“Hi there.” Someone spoke from behind Keith.

As a reflex, Keith pressed the panic button on his wristband and withdrew his dagger, pointing it towards the suspicious intruder. Alerted by the panic button, everyone within a 100-meter radius withdrew their own weapons; guns, knives and other melee weapons, towards the person that was deemed a threat by Keith.

Said person simply raised his hands in a placating gesture. His eyes were wide and genuinely frightened but Keith didn’t take any chances.

“Scan him.” Keith commanded.

One of the other racers did so using a minipad and then announced, “Status, Garrison personnel. Pass holder, Matt Holt.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed at the stranger, “You’re not Matt.”

“N-no but I am Garrison personnel.” The stranger gulped audibly as he continued, “I came in Matt’s place. He’s my roommate.”  

Keith felt something loosen inside him as he remembered Matt telling him all about his ‘workaholic roommate’. The stranger definitely fitted Matt’s description of the hair and body type. Keith reluctantly lowered his dagger, “Shiro?”

The intruder looked taken aback, “Yeah.. How did you-“

Shiro seemed to forget all about the hostility around him as Keith heard Shiro mumbling to himself about how he was going to kill Matt six ways from Sunday.

“What do you want with Keith?” one of the racers asked with his gun still pointing in Shiro’s direction.

Without looking at the asker, Shiro stared straight at Keith and gave his answer, “I want to recruit Keith into the Garrison space pilot program.”

Then, it was time for Keith and everyone else to be surprised instead. The tense atmosphere broke with laughter. Keith would’ve laughed too if Shiro didn’t have so much conviction in his voice and if he wasn’t looking at Keith with such.. sincerity.

The others soon picked up on the seriousness of Shiro’s confession and the laughter died off.

“You’re serious.” The commentator deadpanned.

Shiro nodded, “Absolutely. If he comes under my recommendation, all he has to do is pass the entrance exam. I can help with that and so can Matt.”

All weapons were lowered and all eyes were on Keith. The teenager looked conflicted as he frowned at Shiro. Keith couldn’t comprehend Shiro’s desire to recruit him so he voiced out a soft but incredulous, “…why?”

The smile Shiro gave him was honest and warm, “Because if we had pilots with even half your skill, we’d be visiting Kerberos annually.”

Those words struck a familiar chord inside Keith. He allowed a small smile towards Shiro, “Matt said the exact same thing.”

“I’m not surprised.” Shiro rolled his eyes, “So? What do you say?”

Matt had once told Keith that his background wouldn’t be a problem if a Garrison personnel (especially someone like Shiro who was the Garrison golden boy) recommended him. He had lived the past few years as a runaway orphan, reading books from the public libraries, travelling with various mechanics to earn his keep, building his own aircraft and winning units through racing. Maybe it’d be nice to settle in one place to learn properly for once.

And if Matt and Shiro were a symbol of the Garrison, that place shouldn’t be too bad.

“I’m in.”

“You’re FIFTEEN?” Shiro gaped at Keith.

They couldn’t bring Keith’s (very illegal) hovercraft so Shiro opted to leave it in a secluded outpost somewhere in the desert. They were currently lounging on the porch together, watching the stars above.  

“I thought we established that already.” Keith sat at the porch steps while Shiro was leaning on the pillar to Keith’s left.

“NO. We established greetings and names, not YOUR AGE.”

Keith crossed his arms, “Drop it.”

Upon receiving the learning texts required to pass the entrance exam from Matt (through Shiro), Keith politely returned them to Shiro, saying that he had read them before. Shiro called bullshit and began quizzing Keith, only to eat his own words later when Keith answered every question correctly.

Keith caught Shiro sighing blissfully while staring at the stars. There was something about Shiro’s love of space that made Keith want to feel it too.

“I wanna explore all that one day…” Shiro whispered wistfully, “Just.. go wherever the stars trail to.”

Shiro turned to Keith, “Wanna come with?”

Keith played along, “Only if you’re leading the mission.”

“Ho? Why’s that?”

Keith didn’t answer but he’d figured that someone who loved space as much as Shiro did would always make it out alive somehow.

Rumours flew around the Garrison about Shiro adopting a stray. If that stray was an increasingly infuriating brat called Keith, Shiro would readily admit that rumour. Not one month since his enrollment and Keith was already beating every single one of Shiro’s records. Truthfully, that was all he was striving to do. Keith lived to watch Shiro’s face when he found out that Keith had beat his score.

Keith did well enough in class but he lacked participation and did not get along with his classmates. Shiro knew Keith was not used to regular human interaction and it took a long time to get those stories out about Keith’s past. But once it was out, Shiro tried making up for all the social interaction Keith needed to learn normalcy. Animosity among teenagers was something Shiro wished he never had to deal with but Keith was someone Shiro never wanted to see hurt.

Every time Keith excelled and gained fame for his piloting skills, many interpreted it as Keith being arrogant and a ‘show-off’. Shiro knew about all the ‘lessons’ some cadets would make Keith learn for being favoured by Shiro and the other instructors. Matt could wash away all the bloody cloths he used to help Keith but nothing could ever remove the black bruises from Keith’s body before Shiro found out. And Keith, being the stubborn brat he was, would never admit who exactly held him down while other people kicked the shit out of him.

Keith fought back of course, but never more than he needed to get away. Although Shiro never said it, Keith understood that as ‘Shiro’s recommended’, everything Keith did would reflect on Shiro too.

Shiro’s solution to the ‘secret beatings’? Secret self-defense lesson. Unfortunately, Keith could disarm and throw Shiro to the ground in no time. That was when Shiro realized that Keith didn’t use his full strength against his classmates. They were lucky too. Shiro and Keith had matching bruises soon.

Matt’s solution to the ‘secret beatings’? A vine account. A Garrison vine account. Where he used every blackmail material possible and posted incredibly embarrassing moments of almost every cadet in the academy.

It definitely distracted everyone from Keith, especially since no one knew who was behind the account (because of course Shiro, Matt and Keith would post stupid shit about each other as well).

Matt posted a vine of Shiro sleeping during a class after he had handed out quizzes.

Shiro posted a vine of Keith being smashed with a pie (from Matt) on his face for his birthday.

Keith posted a vine of Shiro constantly squeezing shampoo onto a panicking Matt who was shouting because no matter how badly he washed, the shampoo was still there.

Once a month, Keith and Shiro spent the weekend at the outpost in the desert. Shiro taught Keith about the constellations while they're both on their back, lying on the cool night sands.

In the mornings, Keith would give Shiro mini heart attacks by flying his hovercraft at full speed with Shiro as the passenger.

Keith enjoyed Shiro's panicked rants and shouts but not as much as Shiro enjoyed Keith's rare laugh and the way Keith looked with the wind against his smiling face.

Shiro was chosen to be part of the Kerberos mission. So was Matt.

Keith promised to take over the vine account and continue their legacy.

Shiro hugged Keith for the first time the night before he left. Keith didn’t know why he felt like crying when he was Shiro’s arms. It wasn’t goodbye but Shiro’s strong grip was misleading.

After Shiro let Keith go, he gently tilted Keith’s chin up and kissed him softly on the lips.

The rumours of Shiro and Matt being the owner of the Garrison vine account became null because the account was still running even after they left.

For 6 months, the vine account posted daily videos of the variety of students in Garrison. Those that pick their nose in secret, those that sang in the showers, those that were caught dancing with very risqué moves through the dorm windows, those that slept in class, and those that simply had funny things to say.

The Garrison vine account died the day the Kerberos mission was announced to have failed due to a pilot error.

Keith couldn’t stay.

He couldn’t stay and be ridiculed and lied to by people who said Shiro and Matt were dead.

Shiro was not dead.

Someone who loved space as much as Shiro did would not just die. And Shiro would not let anything happen to Matt. Besides, they promised to explore the stars together.

Shiro was not dead.

Keith ditched everything and left the academy. He went to the outpost in the desert to retrieve his hovercraft. Some of his and Shiro’s clothes were still there from when they would stayover so that Keith could tune his hovercraft.

Shiro was not dead.

Keith let himself wander with his hovercraft. Two weeks later, he realized that he was flying circles around a certain spot. A month of exploration later, Keith found the markings of ‘Voltron’. Few weeks later, he had all the markings on paper. He calculated the dates from the data he found using the formula he learned to derive from Matt. Something was going to happen soon.

Shiro was not dead.

There was a crash on the night Keith predicted something would happen. Although he believed that Shiro wasn’t dead, it was different to actually see and touch Shiro for real. He used his hovercraft to get Shiro (and the extra baggage) to safety.

Shiro was not dead.

When Shiro woke up on the bed they shared many times in the outpost, Keith didn’t hesitate to hug him. They stayed in each other’s arms for a long time. Keith wanted to ask about Matt, about the mission, about the past year and Shiro’s whereabouts but at that moment, he wished time would stop. Shiro’s grip was as tight as the night he hugged Keith before his mission.

Keith felt the urge to cry again but he didn’t stop it this time. He would let himself break just this one time, to embrace the fact that Shiro was not dead. When Shiro pulled Keith in for a kiss, Keith didn’t question it. He responded as desperately as Shiro was giving it to him. They never spoke about it, whatever that was happening between them but Keith was fine with it. He’d give Shiro anything he needed. Matt once said (sang) to Keith that Shiro needed somebody to love, someone to lead him home when he lost his way in space.

As Shiro’s hands began tentatively mapping Keith’s back, and his lips began trailing soft kisses down Keith’s neck, Keith thought to himself that he had already become Shiro’s beacon. Keith promised to himself that day that he’d always bring Shiro home no matter how many times it takes.

Author’s Note:

Everyone needs somebody to love. They remind you why you still need to live and breathe. I hope all of y'all have someone to love.

[perfectzablog]

Why Children Aren’t Behaving, And What You Can Do About It

Childhood — and parenting — have radically changed in the past few decades, to the point where far more children today struggle to manage their behavior.

That’s the argument Katherine Reynolds Lewis makes in her new parenting book, The Good News About Bad Behavior.

“We face a crisis of self-regulation,” Lewis writes. And by “we,” she means parents and teachers who struggle daily with difficult behavior from the children in their lives.

Lewis, a journalist, certified parent educator and mother of three, asks why so many kids today are having trouble managing their behavior and emotions.

Three factors, she says, have contributed mightily to this crisis.

First: Where, how and how much kids are allowed to play has changed. Second, their access to technology and social media has exploded.

Finally, Lewis suggests, children today are too “unemployed.” She doesn’t simply mean the occasional summer job for a high school teen. The term is a big tent, and she uses it to include household jobs that can help even toddlers build confidence and a sense of community.

“They’re not asked to do anything to contribute to a neighborhood or family or community,” Lewis tells NPR in a recent interview. “And that really erodes their sense of self-worth — just as it would with an adult being unemployed.”

Below is more of that interview, edited for length and clarity.

What sorts of tasks are children and parents prioritizing instead of household responsibilities?

To be straight-A students and athletic superstars, gifted musicians and artists — which are all wonderful goals, but they are long-term and pretty narcissistic. They don’t have that sense of contribution and belonging in a family the way that a simple household chore does, like helping a parent prepare a meal. Anyone who loves to cook knows it’s so satisfying to feed someone you love and to see that gratitude and enjoyment on their faces. And kids today are robbed of that.

It’s part of the work of the family. We all do it, and when it’s more of a social compact than an adult in charge of doling out a reward, that’s much more powerful. They can see that everyone around them is doing jobs. So it seems only fair that they should also.

Kids are so driven by what’s fair and what’s unfair. And that’s why the more power you give kids, the more control you give them, the more they will step up.

You also argue that play has changed dramatically. How so?

Two or three decades ago, children were roaming neighborhoods in mixed-age groups, playing pretty unsupervised or lightly supervised. They were able to resolve disputes, which they had a strong motivation to because they wanted to keep playing. They also planned their time and managed their games. They had a lot of autonomy, which also feeds self-esteem and mental health.

Nowadays, kids, including my own, are in child care pretty much from morning until they fall into bed — or they’re under the supervision of their parents. So they aren’t taking small risks. They aren’t managing their time. They aren’t making decisions and resolving disputes with their playmates the way that kids were 20 or 30 years ago. And those are really important social and emotional skills for kids to learn, and play is how all young mammals learn them.

While we’re on the subject of play and the importance of letting kids take risks, even physical risks, you mention a remarkable study out of New Zealand — about phobias. Can you tell us about it?

This study dates back to when psychologists believed that if you had a phobia as an adult, you must have had some traumatic experience as a child. So they started looking at people who had phobias and what their childhood experiences were like. In fact, they found the opposite relationship.

People who had a fall from heights were less likely to have an adult phobia of heights. People who had an early experience with near-drowning had zero correlation with a phobia of water, and children who were separated from their parents briefly at an early age actually had less separation anxiety later in life.

We need to help kids to develop tolerance against anxiety, and the best way to do that, this research suggests, is to take small risks — to have falls and scrapes and tumbles and discover that they’re capable and that they can survive being hurt. Let them play with sticks or fall off a tree. And yeah, maybe they break their arm, but that’s how they learn how high they can climb.

You say in the book that “we face a crisis of self-regulation.” What does that look like at home and in the classroom?

It’s the behavior in our homes that keeps us from getting out the door in the morning and keeps us from getting our kids to sleep at night.

In schools, it’s kids jumping out of seats because they can’t control their behavior or their impulses, getting into shoving matches on the playground, being frozen during tests because they have such high rates of anxiety.

Really, I lump under this umbrella of self-regulation the increase in anxiety, depression, ADHD, substance addiction and all of these really big challenges that are ways kids are trying to manage their thoughts, behavior and emotions because they don’t have the other skills to do it in healthy ways.

You write a lot about the importance of giving kids a sense of control. My 6-year-old resists our morning schedule, from waking up to putting on his shoes. Where is the middle ground between giving him control over his choices and making sure he’s ready when it’s time to go?

It’s a really tough balance. We start off, when our kids are babies, being in charge of everything. And our goal by the time they’re 18 is to be in charge of nothing — to work ourselves out of the job of being that controlling parent. So we have to constantly be widening the circle of things that they’re in charge of, and shrinking our own responsibility.

It’s a bit of a dance for a 6-year-old, really. They love power. So give him as much power as you can stand and really try to save your direction for the things that you don’t think he can do.

He knows how to put on his shoes. So if you walk out the door, he will put on his shoes and follow you. It may not feel like it, but eventually he will. And if you spend five or 10 minutes outside that door waiting for him — not threatening or nagging — he’ll be more likely to do it quickly. It’s one of these things that takes a leap of faith, but it really works.

Kids also love to be part of that discussion of, what does the morning look like. Does he want to draw a visual calendar of the things that he wants to get done in the morning? Does he want to set times, or, if he’s done by a certain time, does he get to do something fun before you leave the house? All those things that are his ideas will pull him into the routine and make him more willing to cooperate.

Whether you’re trying to get your child to dress, do homework or practice piano, it’s tempting to use rewards that we know our kids love, especially sweets and screen time. You argue in the book: Be careful. Why?

Yes. The research on rewards is pretty powerful, and it suggests that the more we reward behavior, the less desirable that behavior becomes to children and adults alike. If the child is coming up with, “Oh, I’d really like to do this,” and it stems from his intrinsic interests and he’s more in charge of it, then it becomes less of a bribe and more of a way that he’s structuring his own morning.

The adult doling out rewards is really counterproductive in the long term — even though they may seem to work in the short term. The way parents or teachers discover this is that they stop working. At some point, the kid says, “I don’t really care about your reward. I’m going to do what I want.” And then we have no tools. Instead, we use strategies that are built on mutual respect and a mutual desire to get through the day smoothly.

You offer pretty simple guidance for parents when they’re confronted with misbehavior and feel they need to dole out consequences. You call them the four R’s. Can you walk me through them?

The four R’s will keep a consequence from becoming a punishment. So it’s important to avoid power struggles and to win the kid’s cooperation. They are: Any consequence should be revealed in advance, respectful, related to the decision the child made, and reasonable in scope.

Generally, by the time they’re 6 or 7 years old, kids know the rules of society and politeness, and we don’t need to give them a lecture in that moment of misbehavior to drill it into their heads. In fact, acting in that moment can sometimes be counterproductive if they are amped up, their amygdala’s activated, they’re in a tantrum or exploited state, and they can’t really learn very well because they can’t access the problem-solving part of their brain, the prefrontal cortex, where they’re really making decisions and thinking rationally. So every misbehavior doesn’t need an immediate consequence.

You even tell parents, in the heat of the moment, it’s OK to just mumble and walk away. What do you mean?

That’s when you are looking at your child, they are not doing what you want, and you cannot think of what to do. Instead of jumping in with a bribe or a punishment or yelling, you give yourself some space. Pretend you had something on the stove you need to grab or that you hear something ringing in the other room and walk away. That gives you just a little space to gather your thoughts and maybe calm down a little bit so you can respond to their behavior from the best place in you — from your best intentions as a parent.

I can imagine skeptics out there, who say, “But kids need to figure out how to live in a world that really doesn’t care what they want. You’re pampering them!” In fact, you admit your own mother sometimes feels this way. What do you say to that?

I would never tell someone who’s using a discipline strategy that they feel really works that they’re wrong. What I say to my mom is, “The tools and strategies that you used and our grandparents used weren’t wrong, they just don’t work with modern kids.” Ultimately, we want to instill self-discipline in our children, which will never happen if we’re always controlling them.

If we respond to our kids’ misbehavior instead of reacting, we’ll get the results we want. I want to take a little of the pressure off of parenting; each instance is not life or death. We can let our kids struggle a little bit. We can let them fail. In fact, that is the process of childhood when children misbehave. It’s not a sign of our failure as parents. It’s normal.

Copyright 2018 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Why Children Aren’t Behaving, And What You Can Do About It published first on https://greatpricecourse.tumblr.com/

[clubofinfo]

Expert: In a sense, blowback is simply another way of saying that a nation reaps what it sows. Although people usually know what they have sown, our national experience of blowback is seldom imagined in such terms because so much of what the managers of the American empire have sown has been kept secret. It is time to realize, however, that the real dangers to America today come not from the newly rich people of East Asia but from our own ideological rigidity, our deep-seated belief in our own propaganda. ― Chalmers Johnson, Blowback, Second Edition: The Costs and Consequences of American Empire There are no more leaps of faith, or get out of jail cards left anymore. The first casualty of war is truth. Lofty heights of defining the first amendment are just overlooks onto the crumbling mythology of a democracy, where the people – citizens — vote for laws directly. We have a republic, a faulty one, the source of which is the power derived from billionaires, financiers, arms merchants, K-Streeters and the attendant moles allowing the government to break every charter of human concern. So, in that regard, we in this corptocracy have the right to be fooled every minute, suckered to not know a goddamned thing about democracy in big quotes. The very concept of manufactured consent and a controlled opposition destroys much of the power of agency and so-called freedom of assembly, association and travel. The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum. ― Noam Chomsky, The Common Good The best way to control the opposition is to lead it ourselves. ― Vladimir Lenin But, alas, we have blokes who see the world not as a black and white dichotomous illusion of the for v. against bifurcation, but a world of flowing back to what words should mean, a world that allows the filters to be smashed like high polished glass and instead deploying a magnifying glass to point toward the very source of the blasphemies and strong arm robberies that have been occurring in the Republic the very first moment the beaver hat was put on and the first treaty scripted by the powdered wigs of Washingtonian Fathers and broken, ripped to shreds, seeded with the dark force that is the white race. Here comes Tools for Transparency into the mix of triage to uphold the declaration of independence, and the few tenets of the constitution that are supremely directed to we-by-for-because of the people, AND not the corporation, monopoly, Military-Retail-Finance-Ag-Energy-Pharma-Prison-Medical-Toxins-IT-Surveillance-Legal Complex. This project is the brainchild of a former Marine who “came to life late in the world” of pure skepticism about the powers that be and his own questioning of the motivations and machinations of his government and political representatives. Sometimes it’s hard to don and doff the uniform of a trained/manipulated/choregraphed killer and make any sense of the orders belted out and campaigns designed with no benefit to the invaded peoples other than the demented good (bad) for that gluttonous octopus parasite called capitalism as it entangles its tentacles on each invaded country’s birthright, history, natural resources, land and people through the power of the high explosives bomb and the usury bond. “Heck, before starting this project, I didn’t even know we had 535 representatives in Congress,” states Brian Hanson. So goes the beginning of this start up, Tools for Transparency, an on-line clearing house for what Hanson hopes will be a light shed onto all the backroom dealings we as consumers of news just aren’t privy to. Or that’s at least what Brian Hanson is shooting for in this atmosphere of “fake” news, “really fake” news, “non” news, “no” news, “distracting” news “manufactured” news, “rabbit hole” news, “lies are truths” news, or newspeak. The Beaverton, Oregon, resident is the father of this platform which is still in its infancy, as the former Marine throws his all into the project. The 37-year-old Hanson is a Pacific Northwest product, having dropped out of traditional high school and landing up in an alternative high school where the instructors were outside the box. He recalls reading Shakespeare, doing two weeks of study on the Nez Perce peoples, and a class report on the Battle of Wounded Knee. With gusto, he told me that his class made a video of the trail of tears and presented it to the local Shriners. For this father of a special needs daughter, he easily lets roll off his tongue, “black sheep,” both an emblematic moniker and symbolic of his travails, having stuck with him throughout his life, from high school, to the Marines (“where I learned to get responsible”) to today: divorced, single dad, precarious income stream. On top of that, he’s living in his elderly parents’ garage/converted small studio apartment. After the Marines, where he specialized in communications, and field wiring, he worked on a community college degree, eventually ending up with a BA from Portland State University in psychology. The disciplines of cognitive behavior therapy and behavior analysis “got to me” first in college, initially through the inspiring teaching of a San Bernardino community college instructor who helped the young Hanson stick it out after Hanson smashed up bones in a motorcycle accident: a spill that caused him to miss half the classes. This faculty member went the extra mile, Hanson says, allowing him to do outside work and test make-ups. I was fresh out of the military and had no idea what I was doing. This professor missed dinners with his family, missed his kids’ recitals, to allow me to make up tests. . . . I’ve been a lifelong feminist because of this man, who instructed me on his own philosophy tied to feminism. I never had a male role model like that before. Hanson kicked around, came back to Beaverton, worked with developmental disabled youth and then foster youth, where I met him when we were both case managers for 16-to 21-year-old foster youth. We talk a lot about consumable information, as Hanson explains his gambit with his new information web company. It’s an age-old conundrum, what George Lakoff puts down as narrative framing. That was a big issue in the Bush Junior (W) election cycle, how born-with-a-silver-spoon George W had snookered Joe Six-Pack and NASCAR country with his Yale education, dicey National Air Guard record and Bush’s rich charmed life, getting a professional baseball team (Texas Rangers) as part of the family bargain. The illustration is dramatic to both Hanson and myself, as we talked about Mad Men, the Edward Bernays and Milton Friedman schools of propaganda, framing stories (lies) and setting out to paint good people as bad, heroic politicians like Salvador Allende of Chile as Commie Baby Killers. Even now, Bush, the instigator of chaos in the Middle East, with all the cooked up lies and distractions of his own stupidity (like Trump), and, bam, W is reclaimed (in the mainstream mush media) as something of a good president, and especially by the likes of the Democratic Party misleadership. Bush, millionaire, entitled, crude, racist, and, bam again, we have dirt poor kids from Appalachia or Akron joining up through the economic draft of standing down the armies of burger flippers to fight illegal wars, and then to come home creaking decrepit shells of their old young selves to fight for oil and geopolitical checkmate brinkmanship of the World Bank and Goldman Sachs order. Here we have an old Connecticut political family, from Prescott Bush, putting the grandson out on tens of thousands of acres of scrub brush near Waco, Texas, with 4×4 hefty pick-up trucks and chainsaws (George is deathly afraid of horses), and we’re all good to call him a man’s man, roughing it West Texas. Honest George or Rough-rider Teddy or Ahh Shucks Reagan, Yes We Can/Si Se Puede Obama, One Thousand Points of Light Bush Sr., Make America Great Again Trump — the news isn’t the news, and patriotism is the graveyard of scoundrels and their bromides. A huge turning point for Brian was this last election cycle, with Trump getting guffaws and trounced in the court of public opinion as a wimp, liar, cheat, misogamist, racist, buffoon, narcissist, from people all over the political spectrum, during the beginning of the election cycle. But then once Trump got in, family feuds and friendship breaks occurred: “How was it that this relationship I had with a male buddy, a true friend, going on 27 years, just gets dumped because I was questioning Trump as a viable candidate and questioning his integrity?” The age-old battle – turning blue in the face trying to explain to a friend, or anyone, that candidate x is this and that, based on the historical record. In Trump’s case, there is a long written, legal, quotable/citable record of this guy’s dirty dealings, bad business decisions, his lechery, racism, sexism, blatant unmitigated arrogance, criminality. For Hanson, it’s a no-brainer that anyone in their right mind might question Trump’s validity and viable character when he threw his toupee into the ring. A great friend just dropped Brian. Took him off social media, stopped socializing, screen to black, and this broken friendship was racing through Hanson’s mind because of the new normal: the targeted toxicity of social media feeds, and the social and psychological conditioning which this huge chasm between red state/blue state ideology has meted out to an already bifurcated flagging American consumerist society. Even having a respectable, clean and thorough debate about Trump is almost impossible, Hanson said while we talked over beers at the Yukon Bar in Sellwood. This huge cultural divide exists as far as individuals’ skills sets and critical thinking skills. The more technical the stuff like climate change or the deep state military industrial complex, people’s world views get challenged. They just don’t have the tools to dig deep into a bill passed (and endorsed) by their local representatives. Again, “consumable” as a tool to enlightenment or at least knowledge comes up in our conversation, and Hanson has done the following thought experiment literally hundreds of times – “I hear an opinion in the news – FOX, MSNBC, the Young Turks – and I can spend four hours digging up truths, and how that opinion got to us.” What he’s found is the consumable stuff the typical news consumer gets is absolutely counter to the reality of that news’ origins, facts and context. His Tools for Transparency cuts through the opinion, and as he proposes, makes the world news and the even more Byzantine and elaborate proposed legislation and lobbying groups behind “the news” approachable, again, consumable. He taps into his college days taking courses in industrial organizational psychology, seemingly benign when the American Psychological Association gets to mash the term into a three-fold brochure by defining it for prospective students as business as usual for corporations, and humanity is better because of this sort of manipulative psychology, but . . . In reality, it’s the science of behavior in the workplace, organizational development, attitudes, career development, decision theory, human performance, human factors, consumer behavior, small group theory and process, criterion theory and development and job and task analysis and individual assessment. It’s a set of tools to keep workers down spiritually and organizationally, disconnected, fearful, confused and ineffectual as thinkers and resisters, and inept at countering the abuse of power companies or bureaucracies wield over a misinformed workforce. The shape of corporations’ unethical behavior, their sociopathic and the draconian workplace conditions today are largely sculpted and defined by these behavior shapers to include the marketers and the Edward Bernays-inspired manipulators of facts and brain functioning. This begs the question for Hanson, just what are today’s hierarchy of needs for the average American? Physiological; Safety; Love/Belonging; Esteem; Self-Actualization. Of course, Maslow added human’s innate drive toward curiosity. Ironically, the lower scaffolds of the pyramid are deemed primitive – eating, sleeping, drinking, as are the safety needs and social needs such as friendship and sexual intimacy. In one sense, we see it played out – one cannot philosophize on an empty stomach and for Aristotle, his observation is prescient – ‘all paid work absorbs and degrades the mind.’ Hanson and I talk about the existential threats of climate change, terrorists, war, and our own mortality. We are in that hyper-speed moment in history when technology changes at breakneck speed, and disruptive technologies’ create disruptive economies which in turn give us disruptive communities. We are avoiding the inevitability of collapse, peak oil, peak everything, so we construct comforting (read: dopamine-triggering and sedating) realities, tied to bourgeois values, consumeristic habits, customs, degraded culture, moral codes that are antithetical to our own agency, and, then, religious fervor. Hanson states: How do they get us to take actions against our beliefs? This conditioning now is based on not just ‘buy my product’ to attain unattainable standards. Today, we, as a society, are terrified if we can’t attain that level of status or standard, Hanson’s singular (one of several) bottom lines is that his Tools for Transparency has to find a way to be consumable, and a second one Hanson repeats posits the solutions to our problems have to be profitable: “How can he create a market for alternative information profitable?” Tools for Transparency uses the platform Patreon, founded five years ago as a platform that allows patrons to pay a set amount of money every time an artist creates a work of art. Hanson’s web site and service, then depends on loyalty, fee-paying patrons. The result thus far for Hanson is nascent, but growing. I asked him how his daily routine tied to this dream can be synthesized in a nutshell: My daily routine is actually starting to wrap up at this point, it has never been very consistent as a single start-up founder anyways. For the most part my site is not sophisticated enough to continue in perpetuity yet. Too many requirements for data and input that cannot be done on a static basis. So I am mostly working on a static prototype I can display, build an audience with. For the most part I have been diving headfirst into legislative bulk data sets. Making connections between publications, finding creative ways to link (intentionally I think) differently formatted data together. Working to construct cohesive and understandable information. When I get tired of staring at data sheets, I will work to develop relationships with business people, work on marketing techniques, reaching out to colleges and programs, learning about business development, corporate securities, federal regulations pertaining to my business, or some general outreach (mostly family right now, you’re the first real contact outside my main family I am working with). There really isn’t anything routine about what I am doing, because it is mostly just me and a single developer friend working on the site. We talked about other issues tied the militarization of society, and I posed some long-winded questions cut and pasted below: 1. What makes what you are doing relevant to the click bait/screen addicted generation? 2. You say you were terrified for the lives of the family members, the country. Blacks and Hispanics tell me that finally, the whites get what we have been experiencing for decades, since the beginning of the country. Speak to that reality. This has been and is a white supremacist country, and with that operating procedure/system, poor people, disenfranchised people, people of color especially, are on the chopping block for those white elitists and the militarized mentality of law enforcement and even our daily lives as a renter class. He and I talk much about Black Lives Matter, and why this new movement is relevant in 2018 as it would have been in 1950 USA or 1850 America. And I do not for a second believe it has ever not been exactly this way. Every regime has to have a solider class that it uses to enforce the social hierarchy. And the solider class is always expected to use violence to enforce ideology. The threats are always transient, ever shifting, but the response is doggedly the same. Authoritarianism flourishes in this environment, we sacrifice freedoms for security, and our world shrinks a little more. Brian believes there is an awakening today in this country, and that the examples of movements such as those in Portland where youth are out yelling against the police state, and then how we are seeing individual officers returning firing with violence against those youth: The viral video of an officer drawing his pistol on a group of school age children is terrifying. We talk a lot about the devaluing of language and intentional discourse which includes the abilities of a society to engage in lively and cogent debate. For me, I know the forces of propaganda are multi-headed, multi-variant, with so much of American life seeded with lies, half-truths, duplicitous and twisted concepts, as well as inaccurate and spin-doctored history, which has contaminated a large portion of our society, up and down the economic ladder, with mind control. Unfortunately, our language now is inextricably tied to emotions, as we see leftists (what’s that?) and so-called progressives screaming at the top of their lungs how Trump is the worst president ever. Black so-called activists, journalists, stating how the empire (sky) is falling because Trump talked with Putin. Imagine, imagine, all those millions upon millions of people killed because of all the other presidents’ and their thugs’ policies eviscerating societies, all those elections smeared, all those democracies mauled, all those citizens in the other part of the world hobbled by America’s policies, read “wars, occupations, embargoes, structural violence.” It is a daily reminder for us all that today, as was true yesterday, that we are ruled by masters of self-deception and our collective society having a feel good party every day while we plunder the world. Doublethink. Here: Orwell’s point: To tell deliberate lives while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality one denies – all this is indispensably necessary. Even in using the word doublethink it is necessary to exercise doublethink. For by using the word one admits one is tampering with reality; by a fresh act of doublethink one erases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie always one leap ahead of the truth. Herein lies the problem – vaunting past presidents on pedestals while attacking this current deplorable, Donald Trump. The reality is the US has been run by an elite group of militarists, and by no means is Trump the worst of the worst, which is both illogical and unsupported by facts: Yet, we have to mark the words and wisdom of those of us who have been marking this empire’s crimes, both internal and external, for years. Here, Paul Edwards over at Counterpunch hits a bulls-eye on the heart of the matter: After decades of proven bald-faced crime, deceit and the dirtiest pool at home and abroad, the CIA, FBI, NSA, the Justice Department and the whole fetid nomenklatura of sociopathic rats, are portrayed as white knights of virtue dispensing verity as holy writ. And “progressives” buy it. These are the vermin that gave us Vietnam, the Bay of Pigs, Chile, the Contras, Iraq’s WMD, and along the way managed to miss the falls of the Shah and Communism. Truly an Orwellian clusterfuck, this. War Party Dems misleading naive liberal souls sickened by Trump into embracing the dirty, vicious lunacy Hillary peddled to her fans, the bankers, brokers, and CEOs of the War Machine. Trump is a fool who may yet blunder us into war; the Dems and the Deep State cabal would give us war by design. In an innocent way, Brian Hanson is hoping to dig into that “objective reality,” with his Tools for Transparency. He might be unconsciously adhering to Mark Twain’s admonition: “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.” Maybe Tools for Transparency will get under the onion peels of deceit, a consumeristic and kleptocratic debt-ridden society to expose those culprits’ origins – where or where and how and why did something like the Flint, Michigan, poisoning of people’s water happen? Who signed off? How did it, the deceit (felonies), weave its way through a supposedly checked and triple-checked “democracy”? As we parted from a free jazz concert in Portland, he has some pointed words for me: “I will keep working on you Paul to get some hope about society, about the world. I’m going to keep on you.” http://clubof.info/