#might all be due to the fact that said colleague who was asked to retire just couldn't provide ample time to the mailing team

[lupismaris]

If anyone has a spare thought/fuck to give please toss it my way I'm treading the delicate path of sorting out the possible (absolutely likely) fuck ups of a former colleague and explaining to their supervisor that they allowed said fuck ups to continue for far longer than they needed to all for the sake of not wanting to ask questions

[advena-perditus]

(I feel like there are not enough "All Might revealing his true form to the UA staff so I decided to write my own, enjoy)

--------------------------------------

The Price Of Peace

Aizawa Shouta slunk into the teachers meeting room, his yellow sleeping bag hanging from his shoulders. It seemed like he was the last one there.

Hizashi and Nemuri were sitting at the end of the table grading papers. Cementos, Snipe and Thirteen were all sitting together talking about their plans for the students' final exams. Powerloader seemed to be going through some patents.

Shouta dropped into the empty seat between Hizashi and Nemuri

"Any idea why the rat god asked us to assemble here?" He asked the both of them

"No clue”. Nemuri said.

Hizashi hummed, looking thoughtful. "Maybe he found a new heroics teacher." Hizashi said, turning to look at both of them. "It's been months since old KickBack retired, he should have found someone by now."

Shouta slumped into the chair and buried his face into his capture scarf while Nemuri squealed with excitement.

"Ohh new blood" she said, licking her lips. She looked like she was about to say something else when the door opened and Nedzu walked in.

Everyone stopped and turned their attention to nedzu. The rat-bear-something demon was smiling at all of them in his usual cheery manner but the gleam in his eyes seemed even more pronounced than usual.

Shouta shuddered slightly.

“Good morning everyone” Nedzu said, smiling cheerily at them, “Thank you all for coming here at this time. I am here to make an important announcement. As you all know Masaru Kenta retired a few months ago, leaving foundational heroics without a teacher. I am happy to say that we have managed to find a suitable teacher to teach the class!!"

Everyone started murmuring approvingly. Shouta let out a pleased hum. The foundational heroics class had been without a teacher for the last few months since Masaru Kenta, the old pro hero KickBack, had to retire suddenly due to health reasons. All the other teachers had been filling in whenever they were free but this wouldn't be feasible in the long run. It would be good for the students to have a proper teacher again.

“I wonder who it is,” Hizashi said, grinning brightly at Shouta and Nemuri.

“Maybe it’s Endeavor” Shouta said with a small caustic smile.

The mental image of the hot headed number 2 hero trying to teach a bunch of teenagers sent all three of the into fits of giggles

“Settle down” Nedzu said, his smile growing even wider and his eyes becoming particularly shiny. “Everyone I'd like you to welcome the new heroics teacher-” suddenly the doors burst open with a loud bang and a familiar and iconic voice could be heard booming “I AM HERE AS THE NEW HEROICS TEACHER!!!!”

Shouta stared in absolute shock and horror while his colleagues yelled out “ALL MIGHT!!??” in varying tones of astonishment

Of all the people possible, Shouta had never considered that the new teacher could be THE Symbol Of Peace.

All Might had always given the impression that he was too busy with heroics to ever bother doing anything else, much less slum it with the poor overworked heroes in the teaching department.

Don't get him wrong, it wasn't that Shouta hated All Might ,oh no, in fact Shouta had huge respect for the number one hero. It was very obvious that the man was very devoted to his job. It was just that there was something he found fake in All Might's constant smiles and loud presence.

“Hello All Might” Nemuri said, giving him her patented Midnight smile and extending her hand “I am Midnight. I’m so surprised to hear that you are going to be our new heroics teacher”

All might, somehow, seemed to smile even wider. He shook Nemuri’s hand firmly while looking at her straight in the eye “Yes, I’m familiar with your work Midnight” He said smiling at her warmly “I am particularly a fan of how you manage to subdue your opponents without many injuries and wide scale property damage”

All Might then went around shaking everyone else's hands, commenting on their work and complimenting them. Shouta was a bit surprised at how much he knew about everyone. Not many heroes took the time to learn about their fellow heroes’ achievements and skill sets.

Finally he reached Shouta. All Might stretched out his hand and looked him straight in the eye. Shouta looked right back. What struck Shouta most about All Might was how piercing his gaze seemed to be. It seemed like All Might was scanning him, measuring his every weakness and characteristic with just one glance.

“You're the underground hero Eraserhead” All Might said, without breaking eye contact.

Now Shouta felt really surprised. Not many people recognised him in costume and even less could recognise him out of costume and never with only a single glance. Nevertheless, he looked right back at All Might.

“Call me Aizawa when I am out of costume.” he said.

All Might looked at him for a long moment and then his smile seemed to become a little more real. “I really respect you underground heroes” he said, his eyes growing a little distant, as if remembering something. “I have huge respect for your undercover work and you work on busting quirk trafficking rings in particular. ”

Suddenly Nedzu gave a little cough. "Now that all of you have gotten acquainted with each other, we should return to the matter at hand.”

Ah, Nedzu was probably going to discuss how to manage the inevitable media circus that would break out the moment the number one hero announced that he would be teaching at UA. Shouta was not looking forward to that, at all.

“All of you would like to sit down for this” Nedzu said, gesturing at all of them to re take their seats. “All Might, would you like to sit down too?”

“No” All Might said, suddenly looking serious “I better stay standing for this.”

Nedzu nodded.

The dread that Shouta had felt when he saw Nedzu walking into the room with that glint in his eyes returned, now increased by tenfold.

All Might's serious expression paired with Nedzu's stoic face meant that he was going to learn something he would have been happier without ever knowing. Next to him, his fellow teacher sat up straighter, all of them looking a little more serious

“Everyone, please don't be alarmed by what you see,” All Might said. He seemed to take a deep breath before an explosion of smoke suddenly enveloped him.

There were a few coughs across the room as some inhaled the suddenly formed smoke. Shouta fanned the air in front of his face in an attempt to dispel the smoke. He turned and looked at where All Might had been standing. At first it seemed as if All Might had vanished, but slowly as the smoke began to disperse a figure came into view. He had messy hair, bony arms, an emaciated face-

“WHAT THE FUCK!?!?” Vlad screamed.

“Language” Thirteen admonished reflexively, but they too were looking at the skeletal man in abject horror.

“What happened to All Might?” Snipe whispered, his voice blank and devoid of emotion.

The man who couldn't possibly be All Might sighed and Shouta noticed ,with mounting horror, that he had blood dripping down from the side of his mouth.

“I am All Might” the man said, wiping the blood from his mouth, looking at all of them with his piercing blue eyes.

Everyone stared at him in shock, horror and maybe a little panic. No one said a word.

“All right,” Nedzu said, his voice cutting effectively into the heavy silence. He pointed at one of the empty seats on the table. “All Might, why don't you take a seat, after that we can explain this whole situation.”

The skeletal man nodded at the principal and slouched into the empty seat. No one took their eyes off him. After he was seated the all sat in silence for a few seconds

“Would you like me to explain?” Nedzu said, looking at the man who might be All Might.

“No,” he said, moving his bony hand around, “This is my story and I should tell it.” He sat up straighter, suddenly looking much taller.

“Five years ago I battled against a powerful villain.” He lifted his shirt on his left side to reveal a horrible scar that climbed up and covered most of the side. “I was severely injured, lost my stomach and parts of my respiratory system. The subsequent surgeries reduced me to this”

He coughed,

“Since then the time I have to do my heroics work has slowly been decreasing. As of now I have only three hours in a day in which I can use my muscular form and the time will only become shorter as the days pass” He sighed and looked up at all of them.

Cementos suddenly spoke up, his voice faint with horror, “My god you really are him”

"And what of the villain?" Hizashi asked, looking ,rightly, worried.

Shouta watched as, for the first time since he depowered, All Might smiled. It wasn't his usual ,practised, smile. No, it was more of a baring of teeth. The blue pupils of his sunken eyes shone with a sort of savage satisfaction and glee.

"I took care of him. '' All might said, with that terrible, horrible smile.

Shouta felt as if he couldn't breathe. For the first time, he saw a glimpse of the man behind the cheery and friendly demeanour of All Might. The man who had spent the last three or more decades ruthlessly hunting down and crushing evil.

“Very few people know about this secret.” Nedzu said, looking at all of them seriously, “I ask that none of you share this with anyone outside this room.”

“Of course” Nemuri said, seemingly shaken out of her stupefied stupor. “It's the least we can do.”

“Besides,” Aizawa said dryly, struggling to maintain a level voice “It would be a disaster if this information got out” and it really would. If criminals knew that the all powerful symbol of peace was weakening, crime would see a sudden and sharp spike.

“Thank you” said the man who was most definitely All Might. Even in his emancipated form his eyes shone with a type of strength and power that made it impossible to not respect him.

“If that is all, i have some matters i need to attend to today”

“Certainly” Nedzu said, his previous serious demeanour disappearing in a flash “I'll send you all the forms and information you need later. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today”

All might nodded at him and then turned to all of them “Thank you all for agreeing to meet with me.” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”

Saying that he turned around and walked out of the room.

As Shouta watched the emancipated form of the number one hero walk out of the room, ducking through the doorway, his back hunched slightly, he couldn't help but feel like he was looking at Atlas, weary from all the years of carrying the sky on his shoulders.

‘How heavy’ he thought, in morbid fascination ‘Is the price of peace.’

[dansantat]

47

I used to believe in karma.

Most of my friends have said to me that your 40s are some of the best years of your life. So far, mine have consisted of 4 years of a horribly divided country led by TFG and almost 3 years of a pandemic.

Up until just a few months ago I believed in karma. What changed my thinking you might ask? Well, last year was a pretty rough one for me.

My father died.

I almost died from a brutal fall in my own home.

Many friends and colleagues of mine in the children’s publishing world have passed.

My dog was eaten by coyotes right in front of my eyes.

And, finally, my brother in-law passed away almost a year to the day that my father died.

But after what felt like a complete calendar year of 365 days it felt like the horrible string of bad luck just suddenly stopped. It was easily the worst year of my life and my first thought as a believer of karma was, “What did I do to deserve this?” Due to the fact that I was in the thick of completing my graphic memoir I was already in the mindset of studying every moment of my life and I thought back to all the years leading up to the present. I stayed up long sleepless nights dissecting everything, trying to make sense of it all.

I used to think that my life success was given to me by some greater force because my childhood had been a bit of a struggle. As my career grew I was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. In order for something good to happen then something bad had to happen to me. I’m not even sure that’s how karma works but that’s how I tried to make sense of the year from hell. This pain came to me because karma was telling me it was time to be humbled.

Now I of course realize this is not the case.

The last few years have been extremely hard on all of us and the truth is that life just is.

Awful people sometimes face no consequences for their actions. Good luck sometimes just happen to certain people more frequently, and sometimes the kindest people just never catch a break.

I’m not saying it to complain. Quite the contrary. I say it because I look around and for the last three years I see all of us struggling in some way. I’m seeing words like “anxiety” and “triggered” and “burn out” on a daily basis. We’re still in a pandemic. The world is getting hotter. It’s harder to buy a home, harder to raise a family, harder to save for retirement, etc. and despite all of us living mostly “good” or “bad” lives the paint is not distinctly focused on each of us an individuals. We’re all in the same boat and the storm continues to be brutal as we all continue to struggle to get through it.

That’s now I know karma does not exist.

But here’s the most important part of all this.

I realized that despite all the awful things that happened to me in the last year, I also know that it absolutely pales in comparison to the hardship that most people in this world have faced their whole lives.

Living is hard.

Over the last few years I have gained tremendous empathy for everyone I see. We all struggle to get through what may be considered the most difficult period in a generation. Why be angry at them for their views on the world? Everyone is freely giving their two cents on the matter and the thing is that I’m exhausted and I don’t want to waste any more years of my time being angry at things I can’t control. I can maintain the harmony of those close around me, but in the scope of the larger world I am a nobody and I am perfectly fine with that. As a result I’ve also stopped being hard on myself, and believe me, I rode this horse hard. I have always been my own harshest critic. I’ve always been someone who has felt undeserving of any reward. Call it a long life being nurtured into believing that nothing you did was ever good enough. Now? I take the good with the bad.

It is what it is.

I will steer my ship through whatever obstacles may arise, but I will no longer curse the sea for what storms may come.

[winterscaptain]

roots.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: another one from 2026! aaron retires from federal service this year, at 57. 

words: 2.4k warnings: kids!, missing haley hotchner hours, language

summary: “Every day the increasing weight of years admonishes me more and more, that the shade of retirement is as necessary to me as it will be welcome.” ― George Washington, Farewell Address. au!october 2026

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | requests closed!

SSA Mallory Kagan asks you to outline your career with the FBI - purposefully using your first name instead of using your title. It keeps the students guessing and paying attention. 

Plus, the payoff when they figure out who you are is the best part of the whole lecture. 

“My career at the FBI is more like a big tree than a path or a journey.” 

You look out over the classroom - blue shirts abound - and take a deep breath to center yourself. 

You’re used to giving this lecture with Aaron, but this is your first fall without him, which also means that this is the first academy class who won’t know him in person. 

They’ll only hear tell of the legend SSA Aaron Hotchner was stabbed nine times, lost his wife to a serial killer, and kept going. You know they’ll hear stories about his severity, his general lack of sunniness, hear rumors about the way he laughs with his children, his wife, and nobody else. 

You know the older agents tell stories about you, too. They say you ‘tamed’ Hotch, made him a little nicer. They might even say they’ve seen him smile at you, or they’ve seen you give him hell in public. 

Aaron Hotchner is practically a myth, now, only supported by your reputation, tall tales from academy classes of yesteryear, and his own legacy.

That retired bastard currently sits in your house with your kids, right on his fine behind, very likely falling into boredom-addled insanity. 

“Everything that I am - a parent, a wife, a friend, and an agent - is because of my work with the Behavioral Analysis Unit over the past nineteen years. My unit is my family, and I can’t get rid of them. Just like our own families, we love to hate each other.” 

The room laughs, and you know you have them hooked. 

“Jokes aside, I would encourage you to get to know your colleagues. Each relationship I built within my unit put a root into the ground, made the proverbial tree stronger - to extend the metaphor. I work with very few of the same people I started with, but I feel as steady and supported as I did back when they called us ‘The Elite Eight.’” 

You chuckle a little, clicking through your introductory slide to showcase a photo of the BAU in 2012. You point to each of them as you speak. 

“SSA Emily Prentiss, current unit chief of the Behavior Analysis unit and former head of the Interpol London office, responsible for taking down one of the most prolific international arms dealers in modern history.” 

The room is quiet, a little awestruck, so you add, “She’s a bit of a big deal.” 

They laugh.

“SSA Derek Morgan - you’ll probably hear stories about how he survived the Boston bombing with SSA Gideon in 2005, but don’t worry. He wasn’t there. He was with his momma in Chicago, celebrating her birthday.”

Another laugh. 

You’ve honed this routine over the last five years, knowing what to add, when to pause, what to cut if the students lose interest. 

“That said, SSA Morgan is one of the best profilers I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Today, he’s a consultant for DC Metro SWAT and is otherwise retired.”

Continuing down the line, “SSA Jennifer Jareau - JJ. Former communications liaison for the BAU, State Department, and DoD. She currently serves with the BAU as a profiler. If any of you are interested in PR or media relations, find an opportunity to speak with her about her experience. Her husband, Will, is a detective with the DC Metro Police and has plenty of stories of his own.”

A student raises a hand, and you give her the go-ahead. 

“Sorry for interrupting -“

You stop her. “You didn’t interrupt. You raised your hand. Don’t apologize for taking up space.” 

She smiles a little. “Okay. Um, I’m curious. How many people in your unit are married and/or have children? My understanding is that the work-life balance can be difficult in heavy-travel positions like the BAU.”

“It can absolutely be a challenge.” You look back at the photo. “In the course of my career, six of my colleagues have been or were already married and all of them went on to have children.”

“And you?”

You laugh a little, forgetting you’re alone up here. “Right.” 

The class laughs, and you point yourself out on the slide. 

“I still had my maiden name when this photo was taken, but now I share five children and a last name with SSA Aaron Hotchner.” You throw your thumb at Aaron’s likeness on the screen again for good measure. 

You check in with SSA Kagan to make sure you can share everything you usually do with Aaron present - your marriage was often the punchline of your lectures, letting you toe the line of humor a little farther than you normally would. 

She nods, a little smile on her face. 

“While I wouldn’t necessarily recommend dating your unit chief or marrying your section chief -“ you pause, holding your hands up in surrender to the echo of laughter “- even if they are the same person - you can certainly find the best people without looking too hard.” 

Hands shoot up into the air, but that always happens. It’s around this time people start asking the good questions. The people from their course materials and the people in front of them start to link together. 

They also figure out that you’re Agent Hotchner. That Agent Hotchner - the one married to the Agent Hotchner. 

You look out over the crowd again. “I know you have lots of questions, and I’m happy to confirm or deny any rumors about myself or my family, but,” you pause for dramatic effect. “Hold them for now - you’ll want to know the players before you ask the questions.” 

Hands drop, but pens start moving. You continue down the line, skipping over Aaron. 

“SSA David Rossi, a founding member of the BAU in the late 1980’s. He worked closely with SSA Jason Gideon, developing a database that we use to this day - one that outlines signatures, modus operandi, and victimology of modern serial killers. SSA Rossi is also well-known for his books - ten of them, in fact, that cover what we do in a kind of…” 

You search for a word. 

“Conversational format. He retired a couple of years ago, and is a full-time grandpa to all 16 of the BAU offspring.”

A few scattered chuckles pass through the room. 

“And then we have Dr. Spencer Reid - I could enumerate his degrees, but we don’t have that kind of time. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and remains an asset to the BAU in the field today.” 

You click to another slide - a photo of all of you taken a few weeks ago. 

“SSA Matthew Simmons - retired from the United States Army and former member of the FBI International Response Team, or IRT. He’s been with the BAU for ten years now. Like Dr. Reid and SSA Prentiss, he knows multiple languages - which comes in handy.” You look out and raise your eyebrows. “I hope all of you did well in your Spanish classes in high school - you might need it.” 

Another laugh. 

“SSA Luke Alvez and Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia are another pair that come from, shall we say, nontraditional backgrounds. While Garcia is no longer with the BAU, SSA Alvez is also celebrating his tenth year with us this fall.” 

A student raises his hand, and you call on him. 

“Isn’t Penelope Garcia the hacker known as The Black Queen? I learned about her work when I was at MIT.” 

You snort. “Nice way to slip in you went to MIT, there, bud.” You pause, waiting for the ruckus to die down as the student in question turns bright red. “But yes. Her experience was invaluable to our team. Just to keep up, we stole an analyst from the NSA to replace her - nobody else could cut the mustard.” 

You look back, stepping forward and pacing as you speak.”And finally, Dr. Tara Lewis. Formerly working in the FBI Counsel’s office as a forensic psychologist, she joined our team on cases where specific pathologies were in play before becoming a full-fledged member of our team.

“So, as you can see, there are so many varied qualities we look for in profilers, and your own path will be informed by the skills you develop, your temperament, and your dedication to the work itself. There’s no right way to be an agent, and when you leave the academy in five weeks, the whole world of the bureau will be open to you.” 

Clicking back to your introductory slide, you turn to the front of the classroom. “I know all my colleagues well enough to take any questions you may have about their careers and paths through the bureau. For any questions I can’t answer, I am happy to direct you to them with the understanding they may not get back to you due to our caseload. I’ll take your questions now.” 

Hands shoot up into the air, and you specifically call on the student in the back - the one you know has a question about Aaron. 

“So, when you say SSA Aaron Hotchner, you mean the same one that worked the Boston Reaper case for ten years?”

SSA Kagan checks in with you, ready to shut him down, but you call her off. 

“That’s right. SSAs Jareau, Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi, Dr. Reid, Miss Garcia, and I worked that case in its final year as well.” 

“I have a follow-up if that’s okay.” 

You tacitly give him leave to continue. 

“How do you handle cases that get that… close? I know there were considerable...” He searches for the right word. “...challenges. How did you guys deal with that?”  

Good question. 

Returning to the podium, you lean heavily against it, lacing your fingers in front of you. “You’ve all read the Reaper case file, yes? It’s still included in the MCRT training courses?”

There are nods around the room, but you check in with Kagan anyway. 

“The declassified version is covered,” She says. “They’re familiar with the full scope of the case.” 

“Okay. So, as you all know…”

You remind them what happened, from 1998 to 2009, finally landing where the students want you. “And on November 23rd, 2009, Haley Reneé Hotchner was George Foyet’s 40th and final victim. She was thirty-nine years old. And she was my friend.” 

The room is dead silent, all eyes on you, somber and attentive. 

“The case was personal. It became personal because Foyet forced our hands. He attacked Agent Hotchner in his home and then targeted his family. So, the question is, how do we deal with that? Right?” 

Even Kagan’s watching you closely. It’s the first time you’ve covered this case without the rest of your team. In your joint lectures with Aaron, the case is off-limits for questions. She’s never heard you tell the story in your own words. 

You take a breath. “And the answer is… you don’t.�� 

There are some confused faces, so you elaborate. “There isn’t anything you can do to push the case away from you - that’s how people get hurt. In the meantime, you make adjustments. Agent Hotchner placed Agent Morgan in an interim unit chief position until the case was over, for the sake of his health and sanity. We chased down every lead, understanding that the faster we caught Foyet, the faster Haley and Jack, Agent Hotchner’s son, could come home.” 

A young woman in front tentatively raises a hand, and you open a hand to her. “Yes?” 

“What happened, you know, after?” 

“We moved on as best we could. Going back to my original point -” 

You leave the podium and take your place in the center of the floor again. 

“- the trust you have in the people you work with can carry you through a great many things. And not all of you will see horror every day - but some of you will.” 

You pause for a moment, hoping this is the part that really sinks in for them. 

“Always have something to come home to. Always have something or someone that brings you peace, that can take you away from the work.” 

+++

You set your things down and walk through the door, immediately accosted by two almost-eight-year-olds and their over-eager little brother. 

“Momma!” 

You haul Elliot onto your hip and kiss Sophia’s head as Caroline burrows into your side. “Hi, darlings! Did you already have dinner?”

Sophia moves to answer, but Aaron’s voice shoots around the corner. “Yes!” 

With a smile, you seek him out, dragging the girls along with you. Lo and behold, Aaron’s at the sink, washing dishes. Isaac’s supervising - sitting on the counter, swinging his feet. 

Aaron gets a kiss on the cheek from you as you pass and he turns over his shoulder, chasing you until you peck him on the lips, Elliot squished between you. Your son squirms, and you set him on the ground to chase after his sisters. Isaac hops off the counter likely off to investigate the happenings before retreating to his room for the rest of the evening.

For once, you’re left alone. 

“How was your lecture?” 

Your arms free, you wrap around him and rest your full weight against his chest as he backs himself into the counter. “Went well. Missed you, though.” 

The corner of his mouth tips up. “Did they ask about Foyet?” 

“Mhmm. It was a good segue into trusting your team and building each other up, knowing when to step back, etcetera.” 

He nods. “Good way to bring it back around. How’s Kagan?” 

“She’s good, loving it, as always.” 

“Think she’s ever gonna retire?” He asks, tucking into your neck. 

You laugh as he presses kisses to the underside of your jaw. “Probably not.” 

Aaron leans back to look at you, bringing his hand to your face to brush over your cheekbone. “Are you ever gonna retire?” 

“Probably not.” 

“What if,” he says, his hands slipping into your back pockets, “you retired in…” He does the math in his head. “Thirteen-ish years and I make it worth your while.” 

“Oh yeah? Worth my while? And you’ll be, what, a hundred years old?” 

His eyes roll so hard you’re sure he could see his own brain. You pull him down for a kiss, but it doesn’t stop him from mumbling, “Give me a fuckin’ break,” against your mouth. 

“Never.” 

+++

tagging: @writefasttalkevenfaster @quillvine @stxrrywildflower @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @hotchsflower @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @mrs-marcus-moreno @pan-pride-12 @sunshine-em @jdougl-love @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @qvid-pro-qvo @mandylove1000 @jeor @wakatoshislover @word-scribbless @bwbatta @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @joanofarkansass @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @ssahotchnerr @this-broken-band-girl @winqhster @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @the-falling-in-the-danger @softbibxtch @iconicc @mangoberry43 @andreasworlsboring101 @kerrswriting @mac99martin @itsalwaysb33nyou @baumarvel @messyhairday-me @ssworldofsw @deagibs @crazyshannonigans @moonshinerbynight @jhiddles03 @teamhappyme @mendesmelodies @starsandasteroids @unicorn-bitch @ambicaos​ @itsmytimetoodream @pinkdiamond1016 

[shih-coulda-had-it]

casualty report

my entry for @queenangst‘s bnha gen contest! Link to AO3, but also contained below the Keep Reading.

WC: 2,454

Summary: Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing. Yet whenever Toshinori sits in one with Gran Torino, it seems that Toshinori is always clawing at his own heart. Spoilers up to C305.

//

The air is cold, sterile, and silent, save for the low hum of machinery and intermittent beeping of the heart monitor.

Yagi Toshinori enters Gran Torino’s assigned room in a similarly muted fashion, sliding the door open and shut with barely a click. He finds the chair where he left it; the old man hasn’t gotten any visitors besides him and the nurses. Like Midoriya, Torino teeters on the knife edge of survival, and like Midoriya’s classmates, Torino’s colleagues are swamped with work.

Toshinori has the privilege to visit them both. So he splits his time between his teacher-mentor-father and his student-successor-son and waits. They are similarly stubborn about clinging to life; Toshinori is confident they will wake.

Whether they will be happy about it…

As he sits, Gran Torino’s eyes crack open. His already labored breathing stutters, resulting in a full-body twitch that eventually culminates in a pained groan.

“Take it slow,” Toshinori advises.

“Stupid lesson from a stupid teacher,” Torino snaps. Toshinori looks away to focus on the bright yellow fabric bundled on top of a cabinet, neither laundered nor repaired. He’ll have to do it later. 

The silence between them is tense. Surprisingly, it’s Torino who breaks it.

“Izuku?”

“Coma,” Toshinori says, fingers curling into fists. Before Torino can curse, Toshinori adds, “I think he’s talking to the predecessors of One for All.”

“Not something you could do,” the old man comments. He’s peering down at his injuries with a detached fascination: the maimed leg, the thick compress hiding beneath his bandages. Toshinori is uncomfortably reminded of his own injury, and of his own convalescence. He had recovered quickly, and privately, though he suspects that One for All had assisted with the process.

However lucky Torino is to have survived, Toshinori thinks the aftermath will be so much messier.

“It’s not,” he agrees.

“How can you tell?”

“A feeling,” says Toshinori. He forges on despite Gran Torino’s disbelieving eyebrows. “I think oshishou had a point, about the predecessors’ spirits living on in One for All. I’m not able to channel One for All anymore, but I think I still have some connection to the Quirk.”

“Ghosts in the machine,” says Torino dryly. He studies Toshinori. “Oh. You’re not joking.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this.”

Honestly, Toshinori had thought Torino would be ecstatic (as ecstatic as the old man ever got, as he swung between smugness, serenity, and seething fury) at the possibility of reconnecting with Shimura Nana. He had also quailed at the thought of telling Gran Torino that Toshinori’s own connection seemed to be a one-way thing.

And Toshinori doesn’t know how to tell Torino that he feels betrayed, in a way.

When he was researching the previous users of One for All, an alien-like urgency had pushed him past investigating to obsessing. As though a whisper had filtered through his head and said: what else, what more, why now?

Shinomori’s case. The hypothesis that Toshinori’s Quirkless heritage had protected him from the pitfalls of a stockpile Quirk.

The harsh intake of multiple people breathing in at once, even though Toshinori had been alone, with only stacks of heavily-redacted reports to keep him company. All of Toshinori’s devotion, and it had earned him nothing but sleepless nights and silent vigils.

Torino sighs then, heavy with resignation. And just like that, he moves on. “Shigaraki?”

“Escaped,” Toshinori reluctantly says. He doesn’t want to talk about the current situation of society and its failure to stabilize in the wake of so many terrible revelations and events. He really doesn’t want to talk about Tartarus. Except, it will be impossible to keep Torino in the dark about it forever. “Don’t have a heart attack on me, but—All for One’s back on the field.”

One heartbeat. Then two.

Something like forty years ago, Gran Torino and Toshinori had sat in a hospital room, numbed to the core by the very real confrontation and consequence of baiting All for One into the light. The superficial injuries belied the grief suffusing Toshinori’s body, and although he hadn’t recognized it at the time, the terror in Torino’s.

White-faced, Gran Torino had told Toshinori that they could not afford to stop moving.

Sleep. Wake up. Go to school. Your internship hours are going to be spent sparring with me.

For the rest of the year?

Until I’m goddamn satisfied.

It was a miracle they had survived the first week without killing each other. In retrospect, Toshinori could see the value in Torino’s decision to forgo the mourning period. Toshinori had still ended up sobbing on the ground, confessing to his father what he could not to his mother.

And of course, without dwelling on Toshinori’s admission, Gran Torino moved on to the next point of business.

“Cockroach,” Torino says through gritted teeth. The heart monitor stays impressively calm. “Third time’s the charm, then?”

“Torino-sensei, the third time was Kamino Ward. It’s safe to say the odds are against us.”

Toshinori’s bleak assessment earns him a narrowed glare, and it’s a sign of how exhausted and bitter Toshinori feels that he is unfazed. He can afford to be scared of Torino when Torino is walking of his own volition, cursing up a storm about the fact that he can no longer eat a whole box of microwaved taiyaki.

“Casualties?”

“Multiple civilians,” says Toshinori. “Multiple pro-heroes. None of the students, thank goodness.”

Torino stares at him. “There were no students at the hospital.”

“Many were… encouraged to participate in the mansion raid.” It still leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Terrible, yes, to see Eraserhead bandaged up yet again due to Toshinori’s failures, but it was even worse to see his students file back into U.A.’s dorms, eyes shadowed with something more than grief. Midnight’s death haunts them still.

The old man breathes.

“What else?”

“A loss of trust,” Toshinori says, leaning his elbows on his knees, fingers pressed together like a prayer. “Civilians want to protect themselves, and the remaining pro-heroes of Japan are stretched thin. Some died, and many are retiring.” He offers Torino a mirthless smile. “Yoroi Musha is out.”

“Twenty years too late,” Torino responds.

“You never liked him.”

“Gimmicky cowards with a chip on their shoulder shouldn’t be in this line of work.”

Well. Either Toshinori takes that as a personal insult, an unintentional dig, or Gran Torino’s acerbic sense of humor. He goes quiet anyway. Now is a good time as any for a lull in conversation to occur, but Toshinori doesn’t get long to contemplate his next move. 

“What’s eating you up,” Torino demands flatly.

“Nothing.”

“Pull my other leg.”

“It’s nothing,” Toshinori stresses. “And if there was something, I wouldn’t want to talk about it.”

“Toshinori. When you bottle up your specific brand of guilt, it has a tendency to backfire on you spectacularly,” says Torino. “I’m not walking away for a long time, so get it off your chest right now while I’m wired to half a dozen machines.”

Toshinori interlocks his fingers.

“Toshinori.”

“The Public Safety Commission has been disbanded,” he tries. “Their headquarters were attacked the same time the raids occurred.”

“Unsurprising,” says Torino. 

“I don’t think anyone could have anticipated a direct attack, Torino-sensei.”

“I’m not talking about the Commission. I’m talking about you. Deflecting.” 

Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing. Yet whenever Toshinori sits in one with Gran Torino, it seems that Toshinori is always clawing at his own heart.

“Do I disappoint you?” Toshinori asks, resigned to hearing an answer he already knows, staring hard at his hands. He’s pushing the wrong side of his fifties, less grizzled and more gaunt, more of a beanpole and less of a pillar. It’s impossible to remember all the things he did right when all Toshinori can see is where he went wrong.

And even though Gran Torino looks so fragile, tiny and bedridden, bandaged and hooked up to more machines than Toshinori can count on one hand—he still has the strength to look ahead.

Toshinori didn’t learn that. He had thought he did, those six years ago when he survived the fight with All for One, because in spite of the grievous injury, All Might had forged on.

“You can be honest,” Toshinori says. “Just like in U.A.”

“We’re a long way from that time,” says Gran Torino. His expectant and unimpressed expression hasn’t changed.

“It was a yes or no question, Torino-sensei.”

“No, then.”

He says it so simply. Toshinori blinks. Torino tips his head to the side, watching with half-lidded eyes how Toshinori processes his answer. Except Toshinori cannot fathom when this change of perception happened, because just as recently as Kamino Ward, Toshinori had still been reduced to sitting on his ass, listening to Gran Torino’s instructions.

“You’ve done more than anyone should have asked of you,” Torino says. “And you did it well.”

“I overlooked so many problems,” Toshinori protests. “So many people didn’t feel safe.”

“Brat,” says Gran Torino fondly.

“Torino-sensei.”

“There’s something more than that. You’ve been dealing with that insecurity for decades, and you know as well as I do that even a Symbol of Peace can’t catch everything. What’s going on?” Torino is ruthless when he wants to make a point; Toshinori circles back to his original impulsive question and thinks—

“Midoriya-shonen,” says Toshinori in a soft voice. “He’s talking to the predecessors.”

“So you said.”

“And I couldn’t. I can’t, even now, even though I’m connected to One for All still.” From there, the words come spilling out. “Oshishou told me from the beginning that One for All had some kind of spiritual essence. She might not have said outright about the voices, but she hinted at it. That we could meet again, somehow. And all those years… forty years, Torino-sensei, and—and nothing. Not a word, not a vision.”

Midoriya’s crybaby genes must have bounced over the connection, because horrifically, Toshinori can feel his face contort and his eyes water. He hasn’t cried in front of Gran Torino in decades.

“Like I wasn’t worthy,” Toshinori concludes, choking on the last word.

Here is what Toshinori learned on his own, independent of Gran Torino’s teachings: don’t cry. Smile through the fear and the pain, and don’t cry.

Conveniently, Toshinori has forgotten that all those decades ago, Gran Torino never censured him for his tears. So it is now, that Toshinori feels the unfamiliar prickle and the cooling trails sliding down his face, and Gran Torino says nothing.

Until he does.

“You’re everything Shimura stopped hoping for. Did you know that?” Toshinori jerks his head up from its bowed position; he can hear oshishou saying in her wry tone, typical Torino. Can’t make eye contact when communicating an emotion. “I saw her through almost every big milestone in her life. Her pro-hero license, her marriage, her pregnancy. The loss of her husband, and then her son.”

“You didn’t try and stop her.”

“She knew best.” Torino’s grin is painful. “I believed that then, and I believe it now. Kotarou survived longer than he would’ve if he stayed in her custody, which was ultimately her goal. So Shimura was right on that, never mind what Kotarou did with his life after. And you… I told you already.”

“You know me,” Toshinori jokes. He recalls his rusty impression of Torino’s lecturing tone, perfected during those golden hours of patrol with oshishou. “‘It takes twice as long for me to tell you something, versus me beating the lesson into you once.’”

“Then listen,” says Torino. “When Shimura met you, she was still hurting from giving up Kotarou. She couldn’t stop being a hero, but she didn’t want to stop being a mother. And every day, the news cycle spoke of a crime wave, fueled by something bigger than the injustices of the world.

“I was enough to keep her from drowning in work. It wasn’t until she met you that she started smiling again. That she had a son again.”

Toshinori scrubs his eyes. “Really could’ve used this talk forty years ago,” he manages.

“I wasn’t this emotionally intelligent forty years ago.”

“If Hound Dog ever managed to sit us down for therapy, he’d diagnose us both as emotionally-stunted,” he tells Torino. “You probably perpetuated a family cycle, Torino-sensei.”

“One of us cries, and it isn’t me,” Torino shoots back waspishly.

“It’s Midoriya-shonen,” Toshinori agrees.

Torino’s laugh comes out as a wheeze, and Toshinori winces in sympathy. The exhaustion that comes out of crying begins to settle in; he hasn’t allowed himself to cry for a while. Not in front of the students, and not in front of his colleagues. Gran Torino is situated in that blurred zone of family and teacher and co-worker.

Gran Torino is tiring as well. The conversation’s taken a lot out of him, and it surely doesn’t help that he was treated to a hint of Toshinori’s resurfacing insecurities.

“You asked if you disappointed me,” the old man says quietly, hoarsely. “Didn’t I disappoint you?”

His throat sticks.

Torino smiles, wry. “I know,” he says.

“Torino-sensei,” Toshinori attempts, horrified at his slip. He should fix this. He has to make sure Gran Torino knows that the past is past, and that his efforts haven’t been wasted on an ungrateful child. As Toshinori opens his mouth to reassure Torino, an urgent flicker of something calls out to him.

His head jerks to the door. Outside, down the hallway, in another room—

“He’s waking?”

Toshinori looks back to Torino, distractedly saying, “Yes,” before he freezes. Gran Torino has propped himself up halfway, teeth gritted with the effort it takes. He has reached out and clumsily pressed his hand against Toshinori’s forehead, fingers dipping into his hair.

It feels like a benediction.

“I am,” Torino forces out, “so proud of you. I could not be prouder. You were worth it, do you hear me, Toshinori? You are, still.”

The moment doesn’t last forever. Whatever burst of adrenaline fuels Torino, it dwindles with emotional vulnerability. He pats the top of Toshinori’s head and slumps back into his pillow, looking gray with exhaustion.

For his part, Toshinori stares, wide-eyed, like he’s fourteen years old again, meeting Gran Torino for the first time.

“Go,” says Torino. “Izuku shouldn’t wake up alone. He should have his family with him.”

There is a weak grin pulling at Torino’s mouth, familiar in its toothiness. Toshinori gets to his feet. He’s unable to return the smile, because he is suddenly terrified that if he leaves this room, Torino will somehow find a way to escape the hospital, hole up in his apartment, and—and—

“He’ll need you too,” says Toshinori. “Get better soon, tou—Torino-sensei.”

Gran Torino closes his eyes, and Yagi Toshinori moves on.

[jeannereames]

Hello, Dr. Reames. I have a question I would like to ask you. How is it like to work as a historian? I'll be finishing high school soon and i thought a lot about studying history at college, but I really don't know much about how it really is to work in the field, so if you could tell me how is it like, at least from your experience, I would really appreciate it 😊

(The following was written to reply to a query from a high school student, but is aimed broadly at anyone pondering the value of a history degree at various levels: BA/BS, MA, and PhD, written by an older professor who’s also served as Graduate Program Chair. PLEASE SHARE.)

First, by “working in the field,” I’m not entirely sure what you mean, and maybe you’re not either. And that’s okay.

So let’s talk about what “working in the field” could mean.

The common assumption about majoring in history is that it leads only to teaching high school, college, or working in a museum. (Maybe archaeology…but that’s actually a different degree.)

FACT: MOST history undergrad majors do not teach history or work in museums. Look at this helpful little illustration below. Note that only 18% work in education. Maybe some of the 10% administration are education administration. But even if we assume half are, that’s still less than ¼ of history degree recipients going into education, plus that 18% includes library science.

Now, some of the things on that list have little to do with history directly. Yet some have connections the average person might not think of: both legal and protective services, for instance. Legal = law, and protective services = FBI/CIA/other policing. The FBI loves historians as analysts, so does the CIA. History uses the same skill-set as police detectives. In addition, several (working and former) lawyers I know who were history majors all say their history degree gave them a leg up in law school over colleagues who’d done poli-sci or criminology.

Why?  CRITICAL REASONING. We teach you to think about what you’re reading/seeing/hearing, then how to write about it. Those skills are imminently useful in a number of careers. (To be fair, philosophy is useful for much the same reason; don’t knock a philosophy degree!)

So if you want to study history…it’s not going to hurt your job prospects, especially if you mull over how to “professionalize” yourself. Below, I’ve put a link to the American Historical Association’s website talking about just that: career development. If you have other skills such as IT, or are multi-lingual, it makes you even more valuable. Lots of work in the fields of digital humanities (which involves history), archiving, and public history. Also, sometimes scientific skills pair well, particularly for archaeology: LiDAR and GPR, for instance. Chemical analysis, dendrology, etc., etc., etc.

 American Historical Association Professional Development

Now, let’s say you are thinking about going on to teach history in college (at least in the US). My best advice?

Don’t.

That may shock, from a history professor, but the plain fact is that not only is history (and the humanities) undergoing seismic shifts on campuses, but college itself is altering profoundly. I call it the “Wal-Martization of Higher Education.”

Administration is bloating. Just look some time at the various administration levels in most any college: how many assistant deans, and senior-vice chancellors, etc. It’s crazy. There were half that (or less) when I was hired at UNO 20 years ago. Meanwhile, fewer tenure-track positions are opening in departments (that aren’t big grant winners). If anything, colleges are cutting those. More administrators! Fewer professors! Sure, that’s the ticket….

Why’s this happening? Administration has learned that, especially for entry-level courses (1000-, sometimes 2000-level), they can hire part-time lecturers, pay them peanuts, not pay them benefits…and rake in the same tuition. Bean counters don’t help, where they look at “Butts in seats,” enrollment figures, retention, and shortening the “Time to Degree.”

College is increasingly expensive, students want to cut corners and save bucks. I don’t blame them, but AT THE ROOT is the Almighty Dollar.

Education has become a “commodity,” a mere certificate to get you a job. Quality pedagogy is increasingly sidelined. From enrollment to graduation track is emphasized. This is a discussion all its own, so won’t go into it. (Again, this is a HUGE philosophic debate.)

The teaching of intro-classes by grad students/newly minted PhDs has been A Thing for decades. It’s not new. But back when I was doing it, it was considered job training and critical experience for my resume to get a “real”—e.g., tenure-track—job that had benefits and job security.

Pay your dues. Okay, fair enough.

BUT around the time I got hired by UNO (2000) and even a little earlier, college administrators began to suss out that they could cut tenure-track jobs by hiring an endless (desperate) string of part-time lecturers to teach entry-level classes. The idea spread slowly, but by c. 2010, it was entrenched. Too many PhDs, not enough jobs, so to make ends meet, those lecturers would take 4, 5, 6 classes (at various schools) at a couple thousand a class. Without a spousal unit, many live at the poverty level…WITH a PhD. Increasing numbers simply bailed on academia after several years on the job market, taking other jobs as they could, but (in some cases) trailing enormous tuition debt. Some still write and publish, and are content with that.

The field has wised up, but too many PhDs (or even MAs) were caught in that trap as it became clear what was happening—hundreds competing for a handful of jobs a year. I’ve run job searches (just did one, in fact). We can regularly expect 80-120 applications for one job—higher for Americanists. Yet this will be one of a handful of tenure-track jobs that year. Think about that: c.100 applicants for…5 jobs, 6, 7…10 if you’re lucky in a “hot” field.

Yet some unscrupulous professors STILL turn out oodles of MA or PhD students because it looks good for them. Beware of such! I’ve worked with a few. If ANYbody tells you there are easy jobs to be had and don’t give you a version of “The Talk” above (which I gave ALL my MA students) they’re in it to pad their CV, not to take care of you as their grad student. Find a new advisor ASAP.

Some fields are more “hot” than others, but this varies, and you can’t assume a “hot” field when you start won’t be a “saturated” field by the time you finish. It’s unpredictable.

This is all bound to implode sooner or later, and the pandemic may very well push that along.

So YES, there will continue to be jobs open for history professors. But they’re many fewer than in the 60s. 70s, 80s, or even 90s, and most will go to students from top tier (private) universities. Yes, dammit, people pay attention to the name on the kidskin. There will always be exceptions. So if you work your ass off and are truly driven, you could secure one of those jobs. When hiring, I look at what you DID/published/presented, not just where you got your degree.

So if you really want to teach at the college level—are driven enough—you’re going to ignore everything I just said and get that PhD anyway. But at least you’ll go in with your eyes wide open, knowing it’s a volatile field with “college” itself in flux. I’ve no idea what the institution will look like by the time I retire in 10 years (or less now).

Jump at every opportunity. Present papers at salient conferences, seek grants, try to get published if you can (mostly PhD level). It’s still possible, just understand the competition is STEEP.

I’m here to prove a first-generation college student with NO useful language got a full-ride scholarship to Penn State in the ‘90s, secured a tenure-track job at U-Nebraska, Omaha. Not a Research 1 university, but still tenured at a school with a History MA and research time off, then started the Ancient Mediterranean Studies Minor/Program here, and served as grad chair.

But I’m RARE, and come from an earlier era.

How much are you willing to buckle down and kick ass?

It’s an uphill climb. I won’t lie. Your odds are bad. So you have to REALLY WANT IT, to go on to an MA then PhD.

Teaching at the high school level is more attainable but comes with its own freight of baggage.

SO… getting a BA or BS in history, or even a minor in history, at the undergrad level is NOT a useless degree. For that matter, an MA in history isn’t. But the PhD is increasingly becoming The Hunger Games to find a job after. How much will you sacrifice?

[belonglab]

Belonging: An Inclusive Approach to Inclusion

By Neha Sampat, Esq.

(This article builds on a training the author provided to the ACCTLA Board in May 2019 and was originally printed in ACCTLA's The Verdict magazine.)

In 2001, right around the time I was starting my career as an attorney, African-Americans made up 1.28% of partners in law firms. This clearly was a problem. Even way back then, we as a profession decried awful statistics like these and promised to do better. In 2017, sixteen years and many, many millions of dollars later, the percentage of African-American partners in law firms was 1.83%. Math may not be my forté, but I know that is a 0.55% increase over 16 years.

That’s not a typo. And that certainly is not progress.

The legal profession’s stagnation with regard to diversity and inclusion is such old news that the stagnation itself has become stagnant.

There are a number of reasons why things haven’t changed. As a belonging strategist, consultant, speaker, and trainer, I work a lot in the legal industry, but also in other industries, so I get to see what sets us apart from other industries for both better and worse. On the worse side of the coin, we are very risk-averse: We aren’t comfortable with experimenting with bold initiatives, because we fear failure and worry it will define us. We are trained (for many good reasons) to mitigate risk, but it works against us when it keeps us stuck to the status quo. 

We as a profession also are very competitive. That means that we want to do whatever it is our competitors are doing. “Does Firm A have a diversity committee? Oh, then we better create one, too.” We measure our success relative to others in our profession. “We beat the average by having 1.84% African-American partners. Yes! Success!”

Ok, I’m being a bit hyperbolic and more than a bit glass-half-empty, which is not my usual view of the world. So here’s the glass-half-full part: We don’t have to keep doing what we are doing that is not getting to where we really want to be. We are capable of learning, growing, and adjusting. In fact, as lawyers, we are really good at learning, gathering evidence, and reframing.

The big reframe I urge you to consider to earnestly start to move the needle on inclusion in our profession is to shift from a diversity and inclusion framework to a belonging framework. This is going to help you get unstuck from what hasn’t been working for decades and start addressing what the real issues are in an inherently inclusive way. 

The Problem with Diversity

What is diversity? Diversity is most often about demographics and is measured by sheer numbers of people from specific categories of background, experiences, and/or traits. I see diversity as useful in that, by creating a critical mass of previously underrepresented folks, (1) Legal employers have a better chance of attracting even more folks of that particular background since people want to work where there are others to whom they can relate; and (2) Conceptually, legal employers have a better chance of decreasing implicit bias within the work environment since more folks will have increased exposure to and opportunities to connect and empathize with those who previously were from their out-groups. 

But the problem with diversity is that its positive impacts are limited and precarious. If people from marginalized and unique backgrounds do not feel engaged and sincerely welcomed in their workplaces, it doesn’t matter how many of them there are; they will leave. And they will leave without having felt comfortable enough to share their authentic lived experiences and unique qualifications, so the bias-busting outcome doesn’t really pan out. Also, this approach breeds tokenism, a valuation of people for optics: “Oh you hired me because I’m brown and a woman. Not because of my merits and because of what makes me uniquely qualified.” This feeds into all sorts of problems that actually decay true equality, such as by nurturing internalized bias and Imposter Syndrome. It doesn’t explore how to engage with folks from diverse backgrounds and capitalize on their unique perspectives, which is a tremendous opportunity lost.

Diversity tends to focus more on recruitment and hiring than on retention, engagement, and development, so it is very short-sighted. And that’s where inclusion comes into play.

The Illusion of Inclusion

What is inclusion? Inclusion is most often initiated and evaluated from the perspective of the organization and/or organizational leaders and implies efforts made to engage folks from diverse categories of background, experience, and/or traits. It focuses more on retention, engagement, and development, which signals an evolution from the diversity framework. However, inclusion commonly is implemented based on assumptions and on sweeping generalizations. It ignores the goldmine of data that is found in the lived experiences and perspectives of every person in the organization. So it is a very top-down approach to inclusion, one that is not very inclusive in how it is implemented, and one that often exacerbates a disconnect between the people in an organization and its leadership. 

How do you get to a truer form of inclusion? One that identifies the true strengths of an organization and the true pain points of an organization. How do you address the right challenges in the right way? By shifting to a “belonging” framework.

The Benefits of Belonging

What is belonging? Whereas “diversity” is “you get me into your org,” and “inclusion” is “you make an effort to include me,” “belonging” is “you make the right efforts such that I feel seen, understood, and valued.” Belonging is for everyone; just ask Maslow.

That said, belonging can feel uncomfortable as a concept in that it may appear to be too touchy-feely and subjective. As lawyers, we are trained to discredit the subjective. We always look for objective data and aggregations. But we lose so much in this process. We tell ourselves and our colleagues that our lived experiences and perspectives don’t matter, and we don’t feel comfortable sharing our authentic selves, which leads to job dissatisfaction, disengagement, disconnection, and stress. To adapt to a belonging framework, we need to expand our definition of data to include the lived experiences and perspectives of each individual in our organizations. We need to remember from our work as attorneys the unrivaled power of a story and make room for our own stories and stories of those in our organizations.

Belonging is subjective. It can mean different things to different people. What it takes for me to feel that I belong in a particular organization may be different than what it takes for you to feel that you belong in that same organization. So a cornerstone in building belonging is to ask and help each individual define for you what belonging means to them and what you can do as an organization for them to belong. Have each member of your organization tell stories of specific times when they experienced belonging and when they did not experience belonging. You then will start to identify the real pain points in your organization instead of assuming what the pain points might be. That will allow to you address your organization’s true challenges by leveraging your organization’s true strengths. You’ll be solving the right problems in the right ways. And you will have sent a message to everyone in your organization that their voice and experience matter from the get-go. This is what makes belonging a truly inclusive approach to inclusion.

How to Implement a Belonging Framework

A belonging framework requires a particular process that engages each of the individuals in an organization and moves forward from there. I have been working with a number of bold and dedicated law firms and teams on taking a belonging approach by first conducting belonging and engagement assessments for them via anonymous surveys as well as confidential interviews and focus groups. I then analyze the data and share back with them themes and insights. The org/team then has a sense of what is required to create a sense of belonging for all and where they may be falling short. I then help them harness this data into a strategy for true inclusion, and we then implement this strategy.

Along the way, we tend to unearth and address many common hidden barriers to belonging, ones that tend to go under-recognized and under-addressed in the diversity framework, including:

Unconscious bias with organizational activation (many of us have attended unconscious bias workshops with limited to no follow-through, and that has been found to sometimes backfire.)

Internalized bias and Imposter Syndrome – Along with reducing the bias bouncing around in our organizations, we also must acknowledge the damage already done by the bias our marginalized populations have faced in our workplaces and in their lives. We must empower them to recognize and uproot this internalized bias. One very common hidden barrier to belonging is the feeling of not belonging cognitively that, for some, is tied to internalized bias. This can manifest as a particularly destructive form of self-doubt called Imposter Syndrome that is very prevalent among high-achieving lawyers and is also very addressable.

Generational friction – Many younger attorneys experience a sense of not belonging in the profession due to the profession’s traditional hierarchy, and with the leadership retiring out soon, many firms are finding themselves facing a succession crisis, so creating belonging for members of all generations becomes a priority.

These approaches are not ones that get a lot of attention in our profession because they are not part of what our profession has been doing over the past few decades. But the time has long ago come for change, and if we can let the voices of everyone in our organizations guide us, we can feel confident that we are catalyzing the right kind of change. This type of change keeps attorneys with diverse backgrounds in our organizations and our profession, honors and takes their lead, and eventually leads to even more individuals with unique backgrounds and perspectives wanting to join us, because they know we have created a place where they know they are seen, understood, valued, and championed. Where they belong. 

[teaveetamer]

Looking at Edelgards wiki page, and aside from all the spelling mistakes, grammar mistakes and horrible sentence structure, dear LORD is it filled with such vague, unspecific language to make her look better. Saying in "some endings" she passes on the role of Emperor to someone else while in others she "rules for an unspecified time" to support she steps down after the war, completely ignoring Lysitheas ending where she rules for the rest of her life and not clarifying the specific (1/3)

numbers of endings where she retires (I counted, its two, and even then only in her later years). Crimson Flower apparently ends "much faster" than the other routes instead of directly stating its three months faster. Saying she only spoke so harshly to Dimitri before executing him to allow him to "hate her" until the end (how compassionate of her /s, also I cannot find any proof of this in the script so either I'm missing something or the editor is just posting headcanons). (2/3)

All in all, Edelgards entire personality wiki section is a complete joke. The person that wrote it should have their editing priviledges removed. (3/3)

I mean we know who is making all of those edits. It’s our resident contrarian that people were sending a dozen asks about yesterday. It just comes off as another of many poorly thought out arguments, since they keep pointing to specific supports or text in the game when that’s... Not really necessary. We all played the game, you only do that shit when you’re trying to win an argument.

Honestly if I were in control of the page it’d look more like this:

Edelgard holds herself with a dignified air, but full of melancholy and solemn wistfulness. which can make her appear outwardly cold. As heir of the Adrestian Empire, she is an exemplary student and a natural leader. She keeps a modest stoic front. rarely cutting loose and maintains formality. She rarely cuts loose and maintains formality at all times. Her colleagues classmates (who the fuck calls the people they went to school with “colleagues”?) express great surprise whenever she does relax. While She is generally a private person, she does recognize the importance of her duties and expresses confidence and faith in the abilities of her allies. and she is rarely shown opening up to other people.(the previous line did not make sense, her recognizing the importance of duty has no relationship to being a private person).

She is a capable dancer, having taught Dimitri at a young age and has a talent for drawing portraits, though she is embarrassed to show them to others. (These really belong in a separate “skills” section but whatever the wiki doesn’t appear to have that category for this game). She has a personal nickname, El, of whom which she only allows very close individuals, namely her family, to call her.

Though she tries to keep it a secret, Edelgard is deathly afraid of rats, as they remind her of a past she is uncomfortable with. Edelgard is deathly afraid of rats since they remind her of a past she is uncomfortable with, though she tries to keep this fact a secret. She is also fears afraid of the ocean since because she cannot swim.

Edelgard is far more complex than she initially appears, as she had been scheming to dismantle the corrupt systems of Fódlan, namely the influence of the Church of Seiros, the oppression of the Crest systems, and the hidden machinations of the Agarthans. Driven by her desire to remove these influences, she is willing to sacrifice both her life and reputation as she believes that the only means of achieving her goals is through war and sometimes underhanded tactics. (Such unnecessary fluff). Edelgard will use whatever it takes to achieve her goals, using all three of the aforementioned systems begrudgingly as they are the current means for her to amass any sort of power and influence in order to instigate meaningful change in them. Edelgard is extremely driven, and she is willing to use whatever it takes to achieve her goals. This is evidenced by her willingness to work with Those Who Slither in the Dark, as she believes they are the only ones who can help her amass enough power to achieve her ends.

Edelgard strongly believes that the ends will justify the means if she were to win the war, as she despises the structure of Fódlan society and believes it has to be replaced by a more just system under which humanity can flourish. In the Azure Moon route she states she went to war after weighing all options and determined that it would be much faster with far fewer casualties than to continue on in the continent's current state. This is reflected through the Crimson Flower route that ends much sooner than the other two, albeit a later war is impending against the remaining Agarthians, where she manages to wipe them all out, compared to the other routes where the Agarthans survive to return at a later time. As a result, she does realize the gravity of her orders but chooses to remain steadfast in her belief in improving society for everyone. She also does not desire to remain Emperor for too long as according to a tea time conversation with her, Edelgard states she has no intention of handing the throne to any children she might have, instead planning to pass it on to someone brilliant and kind, which a few endings do, while others she rules for an unspecified time. (Literally this entire paragraph is unnecessary fluff.)

Dimitri has had a significant impact on her life as the two are step-siblings when her mother Anselma married King Lambert under the name "Patricia." In their childhood, neither were aware of their relationship to each other, but they were close nonetheless, with Dimitri affectionately calling her "El" which only those particularly close to her are allowed to call her. Dimitri gifted her a dagger which she held well into the present, which was symbolically meant to tell her to carve out her own ideals and face the numerous hardships she had to endure up until the present. If met at the Goddess Tower during the Academy Phase, she admits that her first love was a Faerghus noble who she cannot recall, implied to be Dimitri. Despite her past feelings towards him, it is heavily implied for most of the game that Edelgard no longer remembers Dimitri nor that he gifted her the dagger, possibly as a result of her trauma from the experiments. In the Azure Moon route, she accepts Dimitri's invitation to parley on a whim. Despite failing to come to an understanding with one another to end the war peacefully, she is nonetheless able to express her gratitude to him for the dagger and the strength it provided her when he reminds her that it was a parting gift from him. (Everything in this paragraph would really be more at home in a separate “relationships” subcategory, which this wiki also does not feature.)

Edelgard's personality and ambitions are a result of tragedies that painted her view of the world. The traumatic imprisonment of her siblings and herself due to the experiments of Those Who Slither in the Dark created her hatred of Crests.  Edelgard’s personality and ambitions are a direct result of the suffering she faced at the hands of TWSITD. Her imprisonment and the subsequent experimentation on herself and her family were a key factor in her disillusionment with Fódlan and the Church of Seiros. (Don’t ask me how she got to that conclusion. Also take a shot for every time this dude uses the word “tragic”.) She also despises most nobility, especially the Adrestian Nobles, as they are partially responsible for the circumstances leading to said experiments, but also due to the fact that Crests are used as societal leverage by most nobles as a sign of their prestige. She even shows sympathy and pity to Miklan, whom she praises for becoming a leader despite being disowned and leading a group of bandits, calling his death "a waste". One of her main goals is to dismantle the current nobility system and having the people earn their position by merit rather than birthright, which she achieves in her ending in the Crimson Flower path. (More fluff.)

Edelgard has a complex view of the current Church of Seiros as her tragic history with the Insurrection of the Seven along with the knowledge given by her father regarding the truth of the War of Heroes paints her radical opinion. She bears a large distrust of Rhea due to her withholding of knowledge and context behind the history of the church, even pointing out some of the Church's hypocrisy of remaining neutral across Fódlan, yet allowing the Crest system to flourish that Edelgard despises. She does not fully dismiss the concept of faith however, even allowing it to continue to exist in her rule, though heavily monitored by the Empire. (Oh hey Edelstan is acknowledging her state run religion at least) She even tries to learn more about it from Manuela but does not plan on ever becoming a devout follower by any means. When as an enemy, however, she will cause those who are faithful to be afraid for their lives and flee the Empire. However, during Crimson Flower, several Knights of Seiros that have become unnerved by Rhea flee to the Empire, while those involved with the Church in the Empire flee for the Eastern, but then flee to Faerghus due to lack of a military. (Fluff.)

Despite this, Edelgard expresses fear and anxiety over the consequences of her actions her chosen path should Byleth side with her in Crimson Flower, as she understands that she would be her actions make her responsible for the deaths loss of countless lives. (lmao “the deaths of countless lives”) This is proven further when Randolph and Ladislava die defending Garreg Mach from the Church, and how she laments that another life is lost in the war because of her choices. She mourned Dimitri's death, letting herself be hated by Dimitri to the end by speaking harshly to him to let his perception of her remain, lamenting how she could not save him from Thales's manipulation. (wut) Dimitri's death struck her to the point that Byleth questioned if Edelgard was crying, which she denied, claiming that the Edelgard who cried had perished years ago.

Edelgard's relationship with Byleth greatly affects her personality and fate in the war. Edelgard admits in her support that she feared expresses fear that she would have become "a harsh ruler with a heart of ice" if she had to walk her path alone. In the other routes where she is not taught by them or where Byleth sides with the church against her, this becomes a reality and ultimately leads to her early demise. This is likely expressed in the conversation with Dimitri, where, in the Japanese version, she retorts Dimitri's statement over the lessons he learned with his friends and Byleth with her stating that he can understand that because he has what she lacks, referencing how Edelgard felt Byleth was the only one she could consider an equal that is not bound by status but simply as Edelgard. As her enemy, Edelgard will express regret that the two did not walk the same path and even find some semblance of closure falling to Byleth's sword in the Silver Snow and Verdant Wind paths. Should they choose to support her, she has a far easier time expressing kindness and regret over her actions over the course of the game herself. She will opt to force her enemies to surrender instead of wiping them out, where she even offered to spare Rhea and the Church followers if they surrendered, while the former was willing to sacrifice the city the final battle takes place in. (This doesn’t even make sense, she never forced Rhea to surrender she just half heartedly gave her the option of surrender). She also has several fleeting moments of peace and happiness, such as when she takes to drawing portraits of Byleth, which she is self conscious about due to their lack of quality in her eyes.

That attachment towards Byleth is even perhaps stronger than that of the other house leaders. When they teach the Black Eagles, she makes several attempts to get Byleth to understand her world view, even though Hubert advised her it would not be wise and personally invited Byleth to her coronation. In the Crimson Flower route, Dorothea notes that among the Black Eagles, Edelgard was the most emotionally affected by Byleth's disappearance. Edelgard's fondness for Byleth goes so far as to encourage Byleth to call her El and even let Byleth give her orders on the battlefield despite her dislike of not being in control. Despite her earlier statement that she does not cry, she openly cries at the end of the Crimson Flower route when Byleth supposedly dies after slaying Rhea, but is overjoyed when they are revived. Edelgard's bond with Byleth can ultimately result in the marriage of the two, regardless of their gender. It is in her proposal to them at this level where she asks that they stay close to her and that she will need them for the rest of her life. Regardless of her relationship status with Byleth, in the Crimson Flower route, it is through their influence that she ultimately achieves her goals and is remembered far more kindly than in the other routes where she perishes. (Again, would be more at home in a separate relationships section since it says almost nothing about Edelgard as an individual. You could maybe keep the bit about her disliking not being in control, but I’d combine it with an earlier paragraph since it doesn’t make much sense as its own thing.)

[soyforramen]

My Pet Platypus

Jughead stared at the strange creature in the tank.  It stared back at him through beady black eyes as it floated on the surface of the water.  He couldn’t be sure, but Jughead had a strange feeling that this hybrid creature knew more than it was letting on.  In the dark room it was lit up by heat lamps that threw off an eerie orange glow that made the water around it look like fire.  Any creature that survived looking like the bastard child of a duck and a beaver could not be trusted.

Behind him, Betty and Dr. Curdle wrapped up their strange sort of pleasantries - she offering insight on new theories and experiments in magic, he calmly explaining his own newly learned techniques when it came to interring the undead.  It seemed a strange sort of relationship, on that Jughead was inherently suspicious of despite Betty’s assurances that Dr. Curdle was indeed a friend of the family.  Her assurances, as pleasant sounding as they may be, did nothing to allay his suspicions though.  

After all, it was hard not to be suspicious of a man whose being gave off none of the usual markers of humanity or the undead.  No scent.  No heartbeat.  No breath.  If the doctor hadn’t been standing in front of him, Jughead would have believed he didn’t exist.  

It wasn’t as if he were dangerous so much as something different.  Not of this world, perhaps.  The word eldritch scratched around the corners of Jughead’s mind, but he dismissed those as he stared at the creature in the tank.  A rare creature evolved to thrive in one of the harshest lands on earth, perhaps Dr. Curdle was just the same.  Something whose existence would be dismissed out of hand, too fantastical to be real.

Much like vampires and witches and werewolves, he supposed.

“Ah, I see you’ve met my colleague Gary,” Dr. Curdle said in his strangely accented voice.

Jughead straightened.  “Gary?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Curdle smiled pleasantly enough, and Jughead wondered whether it would be prudent to ask for clarification.  Was the platypus named after a former colleague or was the platypus his former colleague.  The doctor blinked with two distinct sets of eyelids and the shock of it banished all questions from his mind.

Betty stepped in quickly to direct the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“Dr. Curdle, would you mind repeating what you told me on the phone?  I just want to make sure our notes are correct.”

He turned to Betty and smiled, his cheeks stretched just enough past normal to make Jughead’s skin crawl.

“Of course.  Several of our peers have been brought in with missing pieces.”

As they waited for him to continue, the water filter burbled behind them.  Jughead couldn’t help but wonder if they’d stepped into a black hole that stretched time into infinite.

“Such as …” Betty trailed off, the smile on her face encouraging.

“One of our werewolf friends -“

The words gave Jughead a mild panic attack, and Betty laid a hand on his arm.  She shook her head and muttered a name he’d never heard of.

“-was brought to me a few days ago, curiously without his right lung, liver, and pancreas.  Would you like to see?”

In a strange sort of eagerness, Betty nodded.   Dr. Curdle nodded, his every movement clinical and detached and stilted, and lead them through a door to a mortuary room.  

“Please forgive the mess, I’ve had quite a few visitors in the last few days.”

Try as he might, Jughead couldn’t see more than a set of tweezers slightly out of place.  True, he’d never been in a morgue before, but everything was kept in clinical precision.  He glanced at Betty only to find her fully focused on the wall of morgue lockers in front of them.  With a sharp, practiced pull, Dr. Curdle pulled open the shelf and slid the body out.  

It was covered modestly with a plain white sheet, only the grey shoulders and pallid head above it visible.  The blood had been drained from its body leaving behind an ashen shell.  There was something to the unnatural, antiseptic environment that made Jughead uneasy.  He’d had seen plenty of dead bodies before, dead by his own hands and by others’, but seeing one under the harsh, florescent lights, the smell of formaldehyde around them, felt invasive and impolite.  

“This is a most interesting one, of the faery folk I’m told,” Dr. Curdle said as he walked around the body.  

In death the fae’s vanity charms had evaporated, leaving behind the natural split wood skin that stretched too tight around its skull.  Charming in life, it was terrifying in death.  It was no wonder people spoke of demons and goblins.

Undisturbed by the sight, Dr. Curdle lifted the sheet to reveal the rest of the body.  It’s torso had been split into three sections, each neatly held open by a pair of metal clamps.  From where he stood, Jughead could make out the ribs, a strange yellow blob, and just at the edge the still slowly pulsing heart.  He spun away from the sight, the little blood still in him from last night threatening to come back up.  Betty, though, held no such qualms and stood next to the good doctor to peer closer into the cavity.

“Despite the still beating heart, I can assure you she is most certainly dead.  Quite fascinating how the heart persists even after. While they aren’t human, per se - who in this room is,” Dr Curdle paused to chuckle at his own joke, “they do share much of the same anatomy as humans.  At least where the internal organs are concerned.  Quite expected when one takes into account the medieval ages and the dalliances of -”

Jughead slouched towards the wall and fought to keep upright as Dr. Curdle prattled on about the fae’s predilection for human company.  With more than a hint of black humor, Jughead couldn’t help but chuckle.  The witch who made healing potions and light spells had no trouble taking detailed notes while staring into the body of a corpse.  Meanwhile the vampire, a creature who lives off the life of others, is unable to stand the sight of a still beating heart.

“Do you see it?” Dr. Curdle asked excitedly.

His tone caught Jughead’s attention and he knew better than to look.  

“I’m afraid that might have been a trick question,” he said.  With a snap of latex he slipped on a pair of gloves and reached into the cavity.  Something squelched and Jughead squeezed his eyes shut.  

“Under here is normally where they keep the appendix -“

“The source of their magic?” Betty asked.

Dr. Curdle nodded and let out a small grunt.  Another wet sound came and Jughead slouched further down the wall.  

“Precisely, but as you can see -“

Betty gasped and Jughead cracked his eyes open to look at her.  Shock was written across her slightly open mouth and wide eyes, and he was tempted to look for himself until his stomach gave another gurgle.  

“Nothing.”

“Even stranger is that the liver, normally here, is also missing.  The tissue around both show signs of natural healing-”

“Indicating that it was done long before their death,” Betty said.

She hummed and continued her inspection of the cadaver, intent on getting as much information as possible.  Jughead knew he should be doing the same - often their notes improved when they went back through the day - but on this he trusted Betty’s instinct more than his own gag reflex.  

“Can you think of any reason why they might be missing?”

Dr. Curdle stared at the fluorescent lights overhead a moment.  “Liver, kidneys, lungs, and other various organs have been known to be missing from certain… suspect corpses that have come through here.  Common among those humans less fortunate who decide to ‘donate’ body organs when bills come due.”

“But have you seen this in the underground?” Jughead asked.  

It was one thing for humans to resort to carving themselves up and another altogether for the others to do so.  Though they might have their many problems, there was always good paying work of some sort in the underground, plenty enough to retire on.  You just had to have the stomach for it.

“Not until very recently.”

“When was the first?” Betty asked, her pencil raised and ready.

“Last month, as a matter of fact.”  

Now finished with his macabre show and tell, Dr. Curdle replaced the white sheet as carefully as if he were tucking in a small child.  With a low rattle the metal tray slid neatly back into the wall.

“Are you the only mortician who works on… us?”  

Jughead suspected that her hesitation was less from a witch’s natural self-importance than it was from the strange creature that stood before them.  He’d been in Dr. Crudle’s presence for over an hour and Jughead had yet to discern what exactly he was.   It was clear what he wasn’t though, and that alone was enough to make him afraid.

“As far as I know, yes.”

Now with the body gone, and along with it the overwhelming smell of formaldehyde, Jughead was able to stand.  He opened up his own notebook and flipped through the pages.

“Do you have any idea why those organs might be missing?” Betty asked, beating him to it.

“For the same reason as the humans,” Dr. Curdle said with a shrug.  His shoulders extended a hair too far to be normal.  

“Money?”

“Yes.”

Betty chewed her lip.  

“What about the appendix?  It’s useless in humans, can the fae transfer -“

“Transplant,” Dr. Curdle corrected.

“-transplant those?”

“Not as far as I’m aware.”

“What about using it in spells?” Jughead asked.

Betty stared at him, her lips thin.  She’d already shown how sore the subject of false rumors were about witches, but thankfully she held her tongue.

“It’s possible.  The appendix produces quite a bit of magic while the faery is alive; however I’m unsure of its efficacy after removed from the body.  From my understanding, magic is more personal then general.  A welder using such a magic, especially one stolen from a body, might themselves be on the receiving end of a very nasty defensive mechanism.”

“Like the barbs of a platypus,” Jughead said.  

“Exactly.”

“What about if its given freely?” Betty asked.  The line of her jaw was still tense, but thankfully she was no longer shooting daggers at Jughead.

“I suppose,” Dr. Curdle trailed off.  

The clock on the wall ticked by and Jughead found himself once more in the syrupy molasses of a black hole.  Dr. Curdle, meanwhile, stood completely still.  Even with his sharp eyes, Jughead could find no difference between that of Dr. Curdle and the body he’d since put away.  Ghouls were uncommon, and even so Dr. Curdle’s movements were far smoother and more coordinated than those unwilling victims who roamed the streets in the name of their masters.  

“Magic given freely, perhaps even magic sold, would, I suspect, respond just the same as the magic you sell.”

Betty’s nose crinkled and she shook her head. “I don’t sell magic.”

“You sell those marbles,” Jughead reminded her.  

She pursed her lips but said nothing more.  He wondered if he’d struck a nerve, and if he had had he done so purposefully?  To push her away before he was pulled in?  

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Jughead asked, more to get his mind off his own introspection and what it might mean.

“Not that I can think of,” Dr. Curdle said.  

Betty pulled a card out and scribbled a number on it.  She handed it to Dr. Curdle who slipped it into his apron.

“If something else comes up, please -“

“You’ll be the first one I call.  Now, if you’ll excuse me I have another appointment.”  

Jughead and Betty made their way back onto the street, the light dim compared to the surgical lights of the mortuary.  Around them the streets were filled with people, underground and human, who had no idea the disturbing implications of what they’d just seen.  It was the first Jughead had ever thought of what happened to a fae body after death.  But the more troubling aspect of it was more of what had been done to the body before death.

A fae willingly giving up their magic was just as improbably as a fish learning to fly.  And yet -

Betty’s stomach growled and she blushed.  

“I guess breakfast didn’t last as long as I thought.”

Jughead’s own stomach, still sore from the morgue, twisted in on itself to hide away from even the thought of food.  A rare occurrence considering his normally voracious appetite.  But when Betty mentioned a cafe down the street, he agreed readily.  And if the omelette and French toast she’d ordered made even a vampire green, Jughead didn’t mention it.

[theculturedmarxist]

This book will concern itself least of all with those unrelated psychological researches which are now so often  substituted for social and historical analysis. Foremost in our field of vision will stand the great, moving forces of history,  which are super-personal in character. Monarchy is one of them. But all these forces operate through people. And monarchy is by  its very principle bound up with the personal. This in itself justifies an interest in the personality of that monarch whom the  process of social development brought face to face with a revolution. Moreover, we hope to show in what follows, partially at  least, just where in a personality the strictly personal ends – often much sooner than we think – and how frequently  the “distinguishing traits” of a person are merely individual scratches made by a higher law of development.

Nicholas II inherited from his ancestors not only a giant empire, but also a revolution. And they did not bequeath him one  quality which would have made him capable of governing an empire or even a province or a county. To that historic flood which was  rolling its billows each one closer to the gates of his palace, the last Romanov opposed only a dumb indifference. It seemed as  though between his consciousness and his epoch there stood some transparent but absolutely impenetrable medium.

People surrounding the tzar often recalled after the revolution that in the most tragic moments of his reigns – at the  time of the surrender of Port Arthur and the sinking of the fleet at Tsushima, and ten years later at the time of the retreat of  the Russian troops from Galicia, and then two years later during the days preceding his abdication when all those around him were  depressed, alarmed, shaken – Nicholas alone preserved his tranquillity. He would inquire as usual how many versts he had  covered in his journeys about Russia, would recall episodes of hunting expeditions in the past, anecdotes of official meetings,  would interest himself generally in the little rubbish of the day’s doings, while thunders roared over him and lightnings  flashed. “What is this?” asked one of his attendant generals, “a gigantic, almost unbelievable self-restraint,  the product of breeding, of a belief in the divine predetermination of events? Or is it inadequate consciousness?” The  answer is more than half included in the question. The so-called “breeding” of the tzar, his ability to control  himself in the most extraordinary circumstances, cannot be explained by a mere external training; its essence was an inner  indifference, a poverty of spiritual forces, a weakness of the impulses of the will. That mask of indifference which was called  breeding in certain circles, was a natural part of Nicholas at birth.

The tzar’s diary is the best of all testimony. From day to day and from year to year drags along upon its pages the  depressing record of spiritual emptiness. “Walked long and killed two crows. Drank tea by daylight.” Promenades on  foot, rides in a boat. And then again crows, and again tea. All on the borderline of physiology. Recollections of church  ceremonies are jotted down in the same tone as a drinking party.

In the days preceding the opening of the State Duma, when the whole country was shaking with convulsions, Nicholas wrote:  “April 14. Took a walk in a thin shirt and took up paddling again. Had tea in a balcony. Stana dined and took a ride with  us. Read.” Not a word as to the subject of his reading. Some sentimental English romance? Or a report from the Police  Department? “April 15: Accepted Witte’s resignation. Marie and Dmitri to dinner. Drove them home to the  palace.”

On the day of the decision to dissolve the Duma, when the court as well as the liberal circles were going through a paroxysm  of fright, the tzar wrote in his diary: “July 7. Friday. Very busy morning. Half hour late to breakfast with the officers  ... A storm came up and it was very muggy. We walked together. Received Goremykin. Signed a decree dissolving the Duma! Dined  with Olga and Petia. Read all evening.” An exclamation point after the coming dissolution of the Duma is the highest  expression of his emotions. The deputies of the dispersed Duma summoned the people to refuse to pay taxes. A series of military  uprisings followed: in Sveaborg, Kronstadt, on ships, in army units. The revolutionary terror against high officials was renewed  on an unheard-of scale. The tzar writes: “July 9. Sunday. It has happened! The Duma was closed today. At breakfast after  Mass long faces were noticeable among many ... The weather was fine. On our walk we met Uncle Misha who came over yesterday from  Gatchina. Was quietly busy until dinner and all evening. Went padding in a canoe.” It was in a canoe he went paddling  – that is told. But with what he was busy all evening is not indicated. So it was always.

And further in those same fatal days: “July 14. Got dressed and rode a bicycle to the bathing beach and bathed enjoyably  in the sea.” “July 15. Bathed twice. It was very hot. Only us two at dinner. A storm passed over.” “July  19. Bathed in the morning. Received at the farm. Uncle Vladimir and Chagin lunched with us.” An insurrection and explosions  of dynamite are barely touched upon with a single phrase, “Pretty doings!” – astonishing in its imperturbable  indifference, which never rose to conscious cynicism.

“At 9:30 in the morning we rode out to the Caspian regiment ... walked for a long time. The weather was wonderful.  Bathed in the sea. After tea received Lvov and Guchkov.” Not a word of the fact that this unexpected reception of the two  liberals was brought about by the attempt of Stolypin to include opposition leaders in his ministry. Prince Lvov, the future head  of the Provisional Government, said of that reception at the time: “I expected to see the sovereign stricken with grief,  but instead of that there came out to meet me a jolly sprightly fellow in a raspberry-coloured shirt.” The tzar’s  outlook was not broader than that of a minor police official – with this difference, that the latter would have a better  knowledge of reality and be less burdened with superstitions. The sole paper which Nicholas read for years, and from which he  derived his ideas, was a weekly published on state revenue by Prince Meshchersky, a vile, bribed journalist of the reactionary  bureaucratic clique, despised even in his own circle. The tzar kept his outlook unchanged through two wars and two revolutions.  Between his consciousness and events stood always that impenetrable medium – indifference. Nicholas was called, not without  foundation, a fatalist. It is only necessary to add that his fatalism was the exact opposite of an active belief in his  “star.” Nicholas indeed considered himself unlucky. His fatalism was only a form of passive self-defence against  historic evolution, and went hand in hand with an arbitrariness, trivial in psychological motivation, but monstrous in its  consequences.

“I wish it and therefore it must be —,” writes Count Witte. “That motto appeared in all the activities  of this weak ruler, who only through weakness did all the things which characterised his reign – a wholesale shedding of  more or less innocent blood, for the most part without aim.”

Nicholas is sometimes compared with his half-crazy great-great-grandfather Paul, who was strangled by a camarilla acting in  agreement with his own son, Alexander “the Blessed.” These two Romanovs were actually alike in their distrust of  everybody due to a distrust of themselves, their touchiness as of omnipotent nobodies, their feeling of abnegation, their  consciousness, as you might say, of being crowned pariahs. But Paul was incomparably more colourful; there was an element of  fancy in his rantings, however irresponsible. In his descendant everything was dim; there was not one sharp trait.

Nicholas was not only unstable, but treacherous. Flatterers called him a charmer, bewitcher, because of his gentle way with  the courtiers. But the tzar reserved his special caresses for just those officials whom he had decided to dismiss. Charmed beyond  measure at a reception, the minister would go home and find a letter requesting his resignation. That was a kind of revenge on  the tzar’s part for his own nonentity.

Nicholas recoiled in hostility before everything gifted and significant. He felt at ease only among completely mediocre and  brainless people, saintly fakers, holy men, to whom he did not have to look up. He had his amour propre, indeed it was  rather keen. But it was not active, not possessed of a grain of initiative, enviously defensive. He selected his ministers on a  principle of continual deterioration. Men of brain and character he summoned only in extreme situations when there was no other  way out, just as we call in a surgeon to save our lives. It was so with Witte, and afterwards with Stolypin. The tzar treated  both with ill-concealed hostility. As soon as the crisis had passed, he hastened to part with these counsellors who were too tall  for him. This selection operated so systematically that the president of the last Duma, Rodzianko, on the 7th of January 1917, with the revolution already knocking at the doors, ventured to say to the tzar: “Your  Majesty, there is not one reliable or honest man left around you; all the best men have been removed or have retired. There  remain only those of ill repute.”

All the efforts of the liberal bourgeoisie to find a common language with the court came to nothing. The tireless and noisy  Rodzianko tried to shake up the tzar with his reports, but in vain. The latter gave no answer either to argument or to impudence,  but quietly made ready to dissolve the Duma. Grand Duke Dmitri, a former favourite of the tzar, and future accomplice in the  murder of Rasputin, complained to his colleague, Prince Yussupov, that the tzar at headquarters was becoming every day more  indifferent to everything around him. In Dmitri’s opinion the tzar was being fed some kind of dope which had a benumbing  action upon his spiritual faculties. “Rumours went round,” writes the liberal historian Miliukov, “that this  condition of mental and moral apathy was sustained in the tzar by an increased use of alcohol.” This was all fancy or  exaggeration. The tzar had no need of narcotics: the fatal “dope” was in his blood. Its symptoms merely seemed  especially striking on the background of those great events of war and domestic crisis which led up to the revolution. Rasputin,  who was a psychologist, said briefly of the tzar that he “lacked insides.”

This dim, equable and “well-bred” man was cruel – not with the active cruelty of Ivan the Terrible or of  Peter, in the pursuit of historic aims – What had Nicholas the Second in common with them? – but with the cowardly  cruelty of the late born, frightened at his own doom. At the very dawn of his reign Nicholas praised the Phanagoritsy regiment as  “fine fellows” for shooting down workers. He always “read with satisfaction” how they flogged with whips  the bob-haired girl-students, or cracked the heads of defenceless people during Jewish pogroms. This crowned black sheep  gravitated with all his soul to the very dregs of society, the Black Hundred hooligans. He not only paid them generously from the  state treasury, but loved to chat with them about their exploits, and would pardon them when they accidentally got mixed up in  the murder of an opposition deputy. Witte, who stood at the head of the government during the putting down of the first  revolution, has written in his memoirs: “When news of the useless cruel antics of the chiefs of those detachments reached  the sovereign, they met with his approval, or in any case his defence.” In answer to the demand of the governor-general of  the Baltic States that he stop a certain lieutenant-captain, Richter, who was “executing on his own authority and without  trial non-resistant persons,” the tzar wrote on the report: “Ah, what a fine fellow!” Such encouragements are  innumerable. This “charmer,” without will, without aim, without imagination, was more awful than all the tyrants of  ancient and modern history.

The tzar was mightily under the influence of the tzarina, an influence which increased with the years and the difficulties.  Together they constituted a kind of unit – and that combination shows already to what an extent the personal, under  pressure of circumstances, is supplemented by the group. But first we must speak of the tzarina herself.

Maurice Paléologue, the French ambassador at Petrograd during the war, a refined psychologist for French academicians  and janitresses, offers a meticulously licked portrait of the last tzarina: “Moral restlessness, a chronic sadness,  infinite longing, intermittent ups and downs of strength, anguishing thoughts of the invisible other world, superstitions –  are not all these traits, so clearly apparent in the personality of the empress, the characteristic traits of the Russian  people?” Strange as it may seem, there is in this saccharine lie just a grain of truth. The Russian satirist Saltykov, with  some justification, called the ministers and governors from among the Baltic barons “Germans with a Russian soul.” It  is indubitable that aliens, in no way connected with the people, developed the most pure culture of the “genuine  Russian” administrator.

But why did the people repay with such open hatred a tzarina who, in the words of Paléologue, had so completely  assimilated their soul? The answer is simple. In order to justify her new situation, this German woman adopted with a kind of  cold fury all the traditions and nuances of Russian mediaevalism, the most meagre and crude of all mediaevalisms, in that very  period when the people were making mighty efforts to free themselves from it. This Hessian princess was literally possessed by  the demon of autocracy. Having risen from her rural corner to the heights of Byzantine despotism, she would not for anything take  a step down. In the orthodox religion she found a mysticism and a magic adapted to her new lot. She believed the more inflexibly  in her vocation, the more naked became the foulness of the old régime. With a strong character and a gift for dry and hard  exaltations, the tzarina supplemented the weak-willed tzar, ruling over him.

On March 17, 1916, a year before the revolution, when the tortured country was already writhing in the grip of defeat and  ruin, the tzarina wrote to her husband at military headquarters: “You must not give indulgences, a responsible ministry,  etc. ... or anything that they want. This must be your war and your peace, and the honour yours and our  fatherland’s, and not by any means the Duma’s. They have not the right to say a single word in these matters.”  This was at any rate a thoroughgoing programme. And it was in just this way that she always had the whip hand over the  continually vacillating tzar.

After Nicholas’ departure to the army in the capacity of fictitious commander-in-chief, the tzarina began openly to take  charge of internal affairs. The ministers came to her with reports as to a regent. She entered into a conspiracy with a small  camarilla against the Duma, against the ministers, against the staff-generals, against the whole world – to some extent  indeed against the tzar. On December 6, 1916, the tzarina wrote to the tzar: “... Once you have said that you want to keep  Protopopov, how does he (Premier Trepov) go against you? Bring down your first on the table. Don’t yield. Be the boss. Obey  your firm little wife and our Friend. Believe in us.” Again three days late: “You know you are right. Carry your head  high. Command Trepov to work with him ... Strike your fist on the table.” Those phrases sound as though they were made up,  but they are taken from authentic letters. Besides, you cannot make up things like that.

On December 13 the tzarina suggested to the tzar: “Anything but this responsible ministry about which everybody has gone  crazy. Everything is getting quiet and better, but people want to feel your hand. How long they have been saying to me, for whole  years, the same thing: ’Russia loves to feel the whip.’ That is their nature!” This orthodox Hessian,  with a Windsor upbringing and a Byzantine crown on her head, not only “incarnates” the Russian soul, but also  organically despises it. Their nature demands the whip – writes the Russian tzarina to the Russian tzar about the  Russian people, just two months and a half before the monarchy tips over into the abyss.

In contrast to her force of character, the intellectual force of the tzarina is not higher, but rather lower than her  husband’s. Even more than he, she craves the society of simpletons. The close and long-lasting friendship of the tzar and  tzarina with their lady-in-waiting Vyrubova gives a measure of the spiritual stature of this autocratic pair. Vyrubova has  described herself as a fool, and this is not modesty. Witte, to whom one cannot deny an accurate eye, characterised her as  “a most commonplace, stupid, Petersburg young lady, homely as a bubble in the biscuit dough.” In the society of this  person, with whom elderly officials, ambassadors and financiers obsequiously flirted, and who had just enough brains not to  forget about her own pockets, the tzar and tzarina would pass many hours, consulting her about affairs, corresponding with her  and about her. She was more influential than the State Duma, and even than the ministry.

But Vyrubova herself was only an instrument of “The Friend,” whose authority superseded all three. “... This  is my private opinion,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, “I will find out what our Friend thinks.” The  opinion of the “Friend” is not private, it decides. “... I am firm,” insists the tzarina a few weeks  later, “but listen to me, i.e. this means our Friend, and trust in everything ... I suffer for you as for a gentle  soft-hearted child – who needs guidance, but listens to bad counsellors, while a man sent by God is telling him what he  should do.”

The Friend sent by God was Gregory Rasputin.

“... The prayers and the help of our Friend – then all will be well.”

“If we did not have Him, all would have been over long ago. I am absolutely convinced of that.”

Throughout the whole reign of Nicholas and Alexandra soothsayers and hysterics were imported for the court not only from all  over Russia, but from other countries. Special official purveyors arose, who would gather around the momentary oracle, forming a  powerful Upper Chamber attached to the monarch. There was no lack of bigoted old women with the title of countess, nor of  functionaries weary of doing nothing, nor of financiers who had entire ministries in their hire. With a jealous eye on the  unchartered competition of mesmerists and sorcerers, the high priesthood of the Orthodox Church would hasten to pry their way  into the holy of holies of the intrigue. Witte called this ruling circle, against which he himself twice stubbed his toe,  “the leprous court camarilla.”

The more isolated the dynasty became, and the more unsheltered the autocrat felt, the more he needed some help from the other  world. Certain savages, in order to bring good weather, wave in the air a shingle on a string. The tzar and tzarina used shingles  for the greatest variety of purposes. In the tzar’s train there was a whole chapel full of large and small images, and all  sorts of fetiches, which were brought to bear, first against the Japanese, then against the German artillery.

The level of the court circle really had not changed much from generation to generation. Under Alexander II, called the  “Liberator,” the grand dukes had sincerely believed in house spirits and witches. Under Alexander III it was no  better, only quieter. The “leprous camarilla” had existed always, changed only its personnel and its method. Nicholas  II did not create, but inherited from his ancestors, this court atmosphere of savage mediaevalism. But the country during these  same decades had been changing, its problems growing more complex, its culture rising to a higher level. The court circle was  thus left far behind.

Although the monarchy did under compulsion make concessions to the new forces, nevertheless inwardly it completely failed to  become modernised. On the contrary it withdrew into itself. Its spirit of mediaevalism thickened under the pressure of hostility  and fear, until it acquired the character of a disgusting nightmare overhanging the country.

Towards November 1905 – that is, at the most critical moment of the first revolution – the tzar writes in his  diary: “We got acquainted with a man of God, Gregory, from the Tobolsk province.” That was Rasputin – a  Siberian peasant with a bald scar on his head, the result of a beating for horse-stealing. Put forward at an appropriate moment,  this “Man of God” soon found official helpers – or rather they found him – and thus was formed a new  ruling class which got a firm hold of the tzarina, and through her of the tzar.

From the winter of 1913-14 it was openly said in Petersburg society that all high appointments, posts and contracts depended  upon the Rasputin clique. The “Elder” himself gradually turned into a state institution. He was carefully guarded,  and no less carefully sought after by the competing ministers. Spies of the Police Department kept a diary of his life by hours,  and did not fail to report how on a visit to his home village of Pokrovsky he got into a drunken and bloody fight with his own  father on the street. On the same day that this happened – September 9, 1915 – Rasputin sent two friendly telegrams,  one to Tzarskoe Selo, to the tzarina, the other to headquarters to the tzar. In epic language the police spies registered from  day to day the revels of the Friend. “He returned today 5 o’clock in the morning completely drunk.” “On  the night of the 25-26th the actress V. spent the night with Rasputin.” “He arrived with  Princess D. (the wife of a gentleman of the bedchamber of the Tzar’s court) at the Hotel Astoria.”...And right beside  this: “Came home from Tzarskoe Selo about 11 o’clock in the evening.” “Rasputin came home with Princess  Sh- very drunk and together they went out immediately.” In the morning or evening of the following day a trip to Tzarskoe  Selo. To a sympathetic question from the spy as to why the Elder was thoughtful, the answer came: “Can’t decide  whether to convoke the Duma or not.” And then again: “He came home at 5 in the morning pretty drunk.” Thus for  months and years the melody was played on three keys: “Pretty drunk,” “Very drunk,” and “Completely  drunk.” These communications of state importance were brought together and countersigned by the general of gendarmes,  Gorbachev.

The bloom of Raputin’s influence lasted six years, the last years of the monarchy. “His life in Petrograd,”  says Prince Yussupov, who participated to some extent in that life, and afterward killed Rasputin, “became a continual  revel, the durnken debauch of a galley slave who had come into an unexpected fortune.” “I had at my  disposition,” wrote the president of the Duma, Rodzianko, “a whole mass of letters from mothers whose daughters had  been dishonoured by this insolent rake.” Nevertheless the Petrograd metropolitan, Pitirim, owed his position to Rasputin,  as also the almost illiterate Archbishop Varnava. The Procuror of the Holy Synod, Sabler, was long sustained by Rasputin; and  Premier Kokovtsev was removed at his wish, having refused to receive the “Elder.” Rasputin appointed Stürmer  President of the Council of Ministers, Protopopov Minister of the Interior, the new Procuror of the Synod, Raev, and many others.  The ambassador of the French republic, Paléologue, sought an interview with Rasputin, embraced him and cried,  “Voilà, un véritable illuminé!” hoping in this way to win the heart of the tzarina to the  cause of France. The Jew Simanovich, financial agent of the “Elder,” himself under the eye of the Secret Police as a  nightclub gambler and usurer – introduced into the Ministry of Justice through Rasputin the completely dishonest creature  Dobrovolsky.

“Keep by you the little list,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, in regard to new appointments. “Our friend  has asked that you talk all this over with Protopopov.” Two days later: “Our friend says that Stürmer may remain  a few days longer as President of the Council of Ministers.” And again: “Protopopov venerates our friend and will be  blessed.”

On one of those days when the police spies were counting up the number of bottles and women, the tzarina grieved in a letter  to the tzar: “They accuse Rasputin of kissing women, etc. Read the apostles; they kissed everybody as a form of  greeting.” This reference to the apostles would hardly convince the police spies. In another letter the tzarina goes still  farther. “During vespers I thought so much about our friend,” she writes, “how the Scribes and Pharisees are  persecuting Christ pretending that they are so perfect ... yes, in truth no man is a prophet in his own country.”

The comparison of Rasputin and Christ was customary in that circle, and by no means accidental. The alarm of the royal couple  before the menacing forces of history was too sharp to be satisfied with an impersonal God and the futile shadow of a Biblical  Christ. They needed a second coming of “the Son of Man.” In Rasputin the rejected and agonising monarchy found a  Christ in its own image.

“If there had been no Rasputin,” said Senator Tagantsev, a man of the old régime, “it would have been  necessary to invent one.” There is a good deal more in these words than their author imagined. If by the word  hooliganism we understand the extreme expression of those anti-social parasite elements at the bottom of society, we may  define Rasputinism as a crowned hooliganism at its very top.

[patriotsnet]

Which 7 Republicans Voted To Convict

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Which 7 Republicans Voted To Convict

Trump Acquitted In Second Impeachment Trial As 7 Republicans Vote Guilty

7 Senate Republicans Voted to Convict President Trump

Voting largely along party lines, the Senate finds the former president not guilty on the charge of inciting an insurrection.

The US Senate voted Saturday to acquit former President Donald Trump;on an impeachment charge of incitement of insurrection, bringing;Trumps second impeachment trial;to a close. The vote came after a five-day proceeding in which arguments focused on whether Trump incited the;attack on the US Capitol;on Jan. 6, and whether its constitutional to conduct an impeachment trial of a former president whos now a private citizen.

The acquittal, largely along party lines, was expected. Though the Senate is split 50-50, with Vice President Kamala Harris a potential tie-breaking vote as president of the Senate, the impeachment trial required a two-thirds supermajority for a conviction, meaning 17 Republican senators wouldve had to break with Trump.

In the end, the vote was 57-43 to convict, with all 48 Democrats, two independents and seven Republicans finding Trump guilty. The Republicans who voted alongside Democratic senators to convict Trump were Sens. Susan Collins, Mitt Romney, Lisa Murkowski, Ben Sasse, Pat Toomey, Bill Cassidy and Richard Burr.

It was the most bipartisan conviction weve ever seen in the Senate for a presidential impeachment, Rep. Jamie Raskin, lead impeachment trial manager, said Saturday afternoon.

Read more:

Liz Cheney Vote Count Latest Elise Stefanik Could Replace Wyoming Republican After House Gop Voted To Remove Her

8:30 ET, May 13 2021

GOP Rep. Elise Stefanik is favored to take over the position formerly held by Liz Cheney before her ousting on Wednesday.

Stefanik, the 36-year-old lawmaker from New York, originally criticized former President Donald Trump during his 2016 campaign for his inappropriate, offensive comments on the notorious Access Hollywood tape.

Since then, her stance has flipped, and when she voted against Trumps impeachment, he called her a new Republican star.

Stefanik was the youngest woman ever elected to Congress in 2014, and the first woman to serve as the recruitment chair for the National Republican Congressional Committee.

Cheney, 54, lost her post as House Republican Conference chair due to ongoing comments against Trump.

Cheney has often been vocal against former President Donald Trump and politicians from her own party.

The Republican was also facing backlash from colleagues as she has criticized them for promoting the big lie of baseless election fraud back in 2020.

Trump and House Minority Whip Steve Scalise have backed Stefanik.

On Tuesday, Cheney gave a speech on the House floor firing back at Trump and blasted fellow Republicans for backing the former president even after the attack on the US Capitol earlier this year.

Read our Liz Cheney live blog for the latest on the vote

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Graffiti Painted Outside Trump Attorney Van Der Veens Chester County Home

But by joining all 50 Democrats who voted against Trump, the seven GOP senators created a clear majority against him and provided a bipartisan chorus of condemnation of the former president. Trump was acquitted of inciting an insurrection for riling up a crowd of his supporters before they attacked the U.S. Capitol last month.

Our redesigned local news and weather app is live! Download it for or and sign up for alerts.

However, these facts do not make President Trumps conduct in response to losing the 2020 election acceptable, Toomeys statement says. He began with dishonest, systematic attempts to convince supporters that he had won. His lawful, but unsuccessful, legal challenges failed due to lack of evidence. Then, he applied intense pressure on state and local officials to reverse the election outcomes in their states.

Toomey said he voted for Trump in 2020 but said the former president betrayed to confidence millions of us placed in him.

The six other Republicans who voted to find Trump guilty were Sens. Richard Burr of North Carolina, Bill Cassidy of Louisiana, Susan Collins of Maine, Lisa Murkowski of Alaska, Mitt Romney of Utah, Ben Sasse of Nebraska.

Most of the defecting Republicans had clashed with Trump over the years. Burr and Toomey have said they will retire and not seek reelection when their terms expire next year.

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The Vote Echoed A Longstanding Dynamic Thats Poised To Continue

For years, Senate Republicans worked with Trump to pass tax legislation and appoint federal judges, and stayed silent during problematic moments in his presidency.

Forty-three Republicans ended up backing him yet again, indicating that while the party is somewhat split, the bulk of GOP lawmakers are still aligning themselves with him.

According to a Vox/DFP survey, there is a similar divide among likely Republican voters: 12 percent of Republicans would have backed his conviction, while 85 percent opposed it.

Trumps support from the Republican base is likely a factor behind some lawmakers decisions: If they were to go against him, its possible theyd face a serious electoral challenge in 2022 or 2024.

Beyond showing just how closely Republicans are still tied to Trump, the vote also sent another major message about the party, revealing how open the majority of GOP lawmakers are to condoning an attack on the democratic process itself.

Will you support Voxs explanatory journalism?

Millions turn to Vox to understand whats happening in the news. Our mission has never been more vital than it is in this moment: to empower through understanding. Financial contributions from our readers are a critical part of supporting our resource-intensive work and help us keep our journalism free for all. Please consider making a contribution to Vox today from as little as $3.

Are There Enough Senate Republican Votes To Convict Trump

The brisk and successful drive to a second impeachment of Donald Trump and his ebbing power in Washington have raised some hopes that this time around the U.S. Senate might actually convict him of high crimes and misdemeanors and bar him from future office . Predictions that this could happen appear to be based largely on the relatively low level of Senate Republican support for Trumps electoral-vote protests on January 6, and a surge of questionably sourced claims that Mitch McConnell might actually support conviction.

Its worth taking a closer look at how many Republican senators might reasonably be expected to throw Trump into the dustbin of history. Seventeen GOP senators would have to break ranks to convict him on the incitement to insurrection impeachment article, assuming Democrats stick together . After conviction, only a simple majority would be needed to prohibit Trump from holding future office. Who might these Republican defectors be, in theory?

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Here Are The Seven Republicans Who Voted To Convict Trump

Sen. Richard Burr, North Carolina Anna Moneymaker for The New York Times

Sen. Bill Cassidy, Louisiana Alyssa Schukar for The New York Times

Sen. Susan Collins, Maine Doug Mills/The New York Times

Sen. Lisa Murkowski, Alaska Anna Moneymaker for The New York Times

Sen. Mitt Romney, Utah Anna Moneymaker for The New York Times

Sen. Ben Sasse, Nebraska Anna Moneymaker for The New York Times

Sen. Pat Toomey, Pennsylvania Erin Schaff/The New York Times

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Seven Republican senators voted on Saturday to convict former President Donald J. Trump in the most bipartisan vote for a presidential impeachment conviction in United States history. The of the two-thirds needed to find him guilty.

Who are the seven senators? Only one Lisa Murkowski is up for re-election next year, and she has survived attacks from the right before. Two are retiring, and three won new terms in November, so they will not face voters until 2026.

House Democrats To Vote To Remove Gop Rep Marjorie Taylor Greene Of Committee Assignments

House Democrats are set to push ahead with stripping Marjorie Taylor Greene of her committee assignments after Republicans opted not to punish the Georgia congresswoman for past comments shes made in support of harmful conspiracy theories.

Greene has claimed that the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks and high-profile school shootings like the Sandy Hook Elementary attack are hoaxes and has called for the execution of prominent Democrats.;

The Rules Committee Wednesday voted to bring the matter to the full House for a vote Thursday that will decide whether Greene can stay on her committees for the rest of her term.

More:Donald Trumps backers failed to take down Liz Cheney. But the GOPs civil war is nowhere near over.

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, one of the Democrats Greene had said should be killed, denounced Republicans for not expelling Greene from the caucus. McCarthy has chosen to make House Republicans the party of conspiracy theories and QAnon and Rep. Greene is in the drivers seat, Pelosi said in a statement Wednesday that identified McCarthys party identification as Q.;

We had hoped that the Republican leadership would have dealt with this. For whatever reason, they dont want to deal with it. And thats unfortunate. So we are taking this step, said Rep. James McGovern, D-Mass, who chairs the Rules Committee. The question we all have to ask ourselves is what is the consequence of doing nothing.

Matthew Brown

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Security Concerns Among Trumps Supporters

Trump doesnt appear to want to go away quietly, which is also a cause for concern from a security standpoint.

This week, a leaked internal FBI bulletin warned that armed protests are planned for all 50 states and Washington DC in the days before President-elect Joe Bidens inauguration on January 20.

Some state capitol buildings have begun boarding up their doors and windows, while 15,000 National Guard troops have been mobilised for deployment to the nations capital ahead of expected violence and unrest.

This is an unfortunate sign of how many expect Trumps supporters to respond to both his impeachment and Bidens inauguration even with Trump finally urging against further violence and unrest.

Most presidents aim to leave office with the nation better off than when they entered, but Trumps legacy appears to be cementing a more divided country, where his brand of aggressive conflict politics may be the new norm.

This is a no-win situation for the country. And Republicans are still trying to figure out which side of history they want to be on.

The Seven Republican Senators Who Voted To Impeach Trump Say It Was Their Constitutional Duty

7 Republicans Voted to Convict Trump in Second Impeachment Trial

On Feb. 13, 2021, seven Republican senators voted to convict former president Donald Trump for his involvement in the Capitol riots on Jan. 6, 2021. but 17 were needed to find Trump guilty to meet the two-thirds majority rule.;

All seven Republicans that crossed party lines to vote alongside the Democrats faced criticism from voters and other factions within the party, according to CNBCbut who are they and how will the decision affect them?

Senator Richard Burr of North Carolina

;Senator Burr first began his Congressional career in 2004 when he won North Carolinas; Republican Primary. He has now served in the Senate for nearly two decades but is facing censorship from the GOP as a result of his defiant stance in the impeachment trials.;

Censorship is a formal statement of disapproval from the states party, therefore it has no direct repercussions such as removal from office but it can have lasting effects on the senators reputation, thus affecting his or her chances of being reelected. Senator Burr, however, will not be running next year, though there are no reports of the censorship having any influence on this decision.;;

In his trial statement, Senator Burr asserted Trump was responsible for the events that took place at the Capitol, stating, The evidence is compelling that President Trump is guilty of inciting an insurrection against a coequal branch of government;

Senator Bill Cassidy of Louisiana;

Senator Susan Collins of Maine

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What The 7 Republicans Who Voted To Convict Donald Trump Have Said About Their Decision

Seven Republican senators voted alongside 50 members of the Democratic caucus to convict former President Donald Trump on Saturday.

The final tally of 57-43 fell short of the 67 votes needed to convict Trump on the House impeachment charge of inciting the January 6 insurrection against the U.S. Capitol. However, the count total has been touted as the most bipartisan impeachment vote in U.S. history. Trump’s acquittal marks the end of a five-day impeachment trial.

The GOP senators backing Trump’s conviction include Susan Collins of Maine, Bill Cassidy of Louisiana, Pat Toomey of Pennsylvania, Mitt Romney of Utah, Richard Burr of North Carolina, Ben Sasse of Nebraska, and Lisa Murkowski of Alaska.

Here’s how they explained their decisions this weekend.

Lisa Murkowski of Alaska

In a statement released Sunday, Murkowski addressed her reasoning for voting to convict Trump.

“The facts make clear that the violence and desecration of the Capitol that we saw on January 6 was not a spontaneous uprising,” Murkowski said. “President Trump had set the stage months before the 2020 election by stating repeatedly that the election was rigged, casting doubt into the minds of the American people about the fairness of the election.”

Of the seven senators, Murkowski is the only one up for re-election next year, spurring speculation she’ll face a primary challenge from Sarah Palin.

Susan Collins of Maine

Bill Cassidy of Louisiana

A Majority Vote In The House Is Needed To Impeach Trump But 20 Republican Senators Will Need To Join A Vote To Remove Him

GettyTrump at the Social Media Summit

Impeachment proceedings are more complicated than they might sound. If you recall, in former President Bill Clintons administration, there were enough votes to impeach him but there were not enough votes to convict and remove him. This could happen again with President Donald Trump. You can read all the laws on impeachment proceedings here.

A simple majority vote is needed in the House to impeach Trump. This might not be difficult since the Democrats have a majority in the House.

If all 435 House members vote, they would need 218 votes for a majority to be reached and for Trump to be impeached.;There are 235 Democrats in office in the House, one Independent, and 199 Republicans, Reuters explained.

So getting a majority of Democrats wouldnt be difficult, since a majority of House Democrats already supported impeachment earlier this year. But even with an impeachment vote, Trump would still not be removed from office.

With a majority vote in the House, articles of impeachment would be approved that lay out all the impeachable offenses. Treason and bribery qualify as crimes warranting impeachment, as do other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.

But this is not all that is needed to remove a sitting President. They would then need 2/3 majority of the Senates 100 members to vote to for the President to be removed from office. That means a total of 67 Senators would need to vote to convict and remove the President.

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House Votes To Impeach Trump But Senate Trial Unlikely Before Bidens Inauguration

9. Rep. John Katko, New Yorks 24th: Katko is a moderate from an evenly divided moderate district. A former federal prosecutor, he said of Trump: It cannot be ignored that President Trump encouraged this insurrection. He also noted that as the riot was happening, Trump refused to call it off, putting countless lives in danger.

10. Rep. David Valadao, Californias 21st: The Southern California congressman represents a majority-Latino district Biden won 54% to 44%. Valadao won election to this seat in 2012 before losing it in 2018 and winning it back in the fall. Hes the rare case of a member of Congress who touts his willingness to work with the other party. Of his vote for impeachment, he said: President Trump was, without question, a driving force in the catastrophic events that took place on January 6. He added, His inciting rhetoric was un-American, abhorrent, and absolutely an impeachable offense.

Republicans Voted To Impeach Trump 7 Already Facing Challenges For Their Seats In Congress

The RINO Republicans who betrayed President Trump and his voters must have no place in the Republican Party. They must all be primaried and replaced with strong pr0-Trump candidates for the 2022 midterm elections. Dont start a new party and split our vote. Primary the fake Republicans.

Related Lewandowski creates new PAC to back Republican supporters of pro-Trump agenda

Don’t Miss: Who Is Right Republicans Or Democrats

Trumps Iron Grip Loosens

With just a week left in his term, it now appears all but certain that Donald Trump will become the first president to be impeached twice.

Unlike his first go through the process, this vote will have the support of at least a handful of Republicans including Liz Cheney, a member of the partys House leadership team. There is also, unlike January 2020, a chance the Senate has enough votes to successfully convict the president. Majority Leader Mitch McConnells recent signals of approval are evidence of that.

Of course, the primary consequence of Senate conviction removal from office seems of limited relevance with so little time left in the Trump presidency. Democrats, however, view impeachment as a formal way of marking their outrage at the presidents behaviour, not just last week, but during his months of challenging and undermining Novembers election results.

A successful conviction could also result in Trumps being banned from ever holding federal public office again and stripped of the privileges enjoyed by ex-presidents.

That prospect alone, in the minds of Democrats , makes impeachment worth the effort.

Here Are The 7 Republican Senators Who Voted To Convict Trump

The Senate voted to acquit former President Donald Trump on the “incitement of insurrection” impeachment charge, but seven Republicans joined with 50 Democrats in voting that he was guilty of the charge.

Here are the seven Republicans who voted to convict Trump:

North Carolina Sen. Richard Burr

Statement:

The President promoted unfounded conspiracy theories to cast doubt on the integrity of a free and fair election because he did not like the results. As Congress met to certify the election results, the President directed his supporters to go to the Capitol to disrupt the lawful proceedings required by the Constitution. When the crowd became violent, the President used his office to first inflame the situation instead of immediately calling for an end to the assault.

“As I said on January 6 th, the President bears responsibility for these tragic events. The evidence is compelling that President Trump is guilty of inciting an insurrection against a coequal branch of government and that the charge rises to the level of high Crimes and Misdemeanors. Therefore, I have voted to convict.

Election status: Retiring, not seeking reelection in 2022

Louisiana Sen. Bill Cassidy

Statement:

Our Constitution and our country is more important than any one person. I voted to convict President Trump because he is guilty.

Election status: Just got reelected in 2020, up for reelection in 2026

Maine Sen. Susan Collins

Alaska Sen. Lisa Murkowski

Utah Sen. Mitt Romney

Recommended Reading: Trump Says Republicans Are Stupid 1998

[anniviech]

Tabula Rasa (1/?)

Pairing: “Ten/Rose” (eventually) Rating: Teen Summary: Four months ago, John Smith woke up on a cold and windy beach with no recollection of who he was or how he had gotten there. He just knew that sometimes he felt like he didn’t quite fit in.

[Masterpost] -- [AO3]

Notes: See prologue.

Chapter 1

"I'm sorry, Mister Smith, but there still haven't been any news."

He thought he had gotten used to hearing this sentence by now. Almost expected it, really.

And yet he still found his jaw working as he swallowed down the unbidden emotions the uttered words had once again brought up to the surface.

"But we are keeping an eye on it, and I assure you we will contact you as soon as there is any update on your file, so you won’t have to go through all the trouble of making your way up here just to return disappointed."

It was the pitying look in the Detective Sergeant’s eyes that made his jaw work again as he clenched his teeth, briefly making his dimples show, before he gave a sniff and plastered on an easy smile that didn't quite reach his own eyes as he rose from his seat.

"Right. Well, thank you for your time anyway, Detective Miller," he replied with more enthusiasm than he felt, shaking the woman's hand over her desk. “Not a complete disappointment if I get to enjoy the lovely seaside view in a calm getaway, though, is it?”

“’Course, there’s always that,” DS Miller agreed with a smile that looked at least a little less pitying.

His own smile remained on John's face even after he said his goodbyes and turned his back on those pitying eyes, giving one of the faces that he recognised by now across the spacious room a small wave in passing as he made to leave the police station, all the while trying not to appear as upset as he felt.

It had been months by now.

Four months and two days, to be exact, since John Smith woke up on a cold and windy beach on the Dorset coast with no recollection of who he was or how he had gotten there. Even his name was just a placeholder – simply the first one that had come to mind when he’d been asked what he’d like to be called. (And it was wryly appropriate, he had to admit.)

He felt his mood spiralling further downwards as his thoughts drifted back to the time after he woke up as a stranger to himself.

The angler from the beach had been concerned and kind enough to offer him a ride, and when John had been unable to give a destination, they had eventually agreed on the local police station as being the most sensible choice after John had initially shot down the man’s advice to see a doctor.

What had been first assumed to be hopefully just a temporary blackout of sorts and minor inconvenience, soon turned into a much more complicated case for the friendly Detective Sergeant who had ended up assigned to it after being the one to greet them at the entrance of the station, when still not a single personal memory would return to John within the following day. Nor had any relatives or friends made inquiries into local hospitals or other nearby police stations, and none of the hotels and B&Bs of the surrounding towns had been aware of any missing guests that matched his description, either.

What had followed was a range of psychological examinations, as well as medical ones of his head which failed to find any trauma to it, interviews with various authorities, and conflicting emotions he didn’t really like thinking too much on.

With no further results.

In the end he had really lucked out thanks to sheer coincidence; otherwise his current situation would likely look much bleaker.

During a conversation with one of the doctors doing the examinations of his head, they’d found out that John was in possession of rather advanced linguistic knowledge, when he’d finished one of the doctor’s explanations for her, pointing out that the Latin and Greek in the medical terms she’d used kind of gave that away and that it was simply logical conclusion, really. Intrigued, the doctor had suggested to check if he might know any other languages, as any knowledge about his lost background could be of help, and when he’d been offered to use the internet on her computer, both of them were amazed to realise that he had no trouble reading the Cyrillic alphabet, Arabic abjad or logographic characters from Asian languages, and had even been able to easily speak sentences in the respective languages when prompted.

It might not have helped the police with his missing person’s report so far, but it sure had been a small blessing in regards to John’s current everyday life – since, as luck would have it, the doctor had a friend running a language school in London who was looking for a replacement for two teachers who were about to retire, and had given in to the impulse of giving them a call and arranging an introduction.

That was how, soon after, John found himself with a job teaching French and Russian at the Morris Language School in London, after an extensive interview with its owner Lloyd Morris. Morris, an elderly, well-travelled man, had been intrigued by his story and so thoroughly impressed with his linguistic abilities, that he’d wanted to hire him right away despite his unique situation and lack of educational certification, going so far as to offer John accommodation at the school’s student residence, in exchange for his income cut in half for the time being to make up for the loan in accommodation and food provided in the school’s cafeteria.

While John’s income would still not be comparable to that of his certified colleagues even if it wasn't cut, it was enough to have slowly built a wardrobe for himself over the months and might even allow tentative plans for looking for his own place to live in the near future.

Being offered a position at the school had definitely been a stroke of luck and he was forever going to be grateful for the opportunity, considering that he might’ve just as well ended up living penniless in some kind of homeless shelter. Plus it gave him something to focus his mind on, and he found that he quite enjoyed teaching. (He often wondered if he might’ve also been doing that before.)

At this point, one might even think John to be quite the productive member in society, all things considering – were it not for his own cluelessness as to who he was. Or the general feeling of not quite belonging that he sometimes felt.

He wasn’t sure if it was due to his situation of not knowing his own past, but sometimes he couldn’t help noticing little things about himself and the way his mind worked that seemed… different from other people. (And he didn’t just mean speaking an unusual amount of languages, which in itself already made him stand a bit out.) It was the way he’d find people staring at him when he joined in on conversations during very specific discussions, like that one time he’d watched a scientific documentation with some of the students in the common room and ended up explaining the jargon and one of the mentioned topics in detail, to several surprised faces. (To be honest, he had kind of surprised himself with that. The facts had sort of just blurted out of his mouth without him really realising.) Or how he slept much less than seemed to be common, often finding himself to be the first and only one up at the student’s residence during the week days – well, apart from the receptionists.

Little things that just made him feel out of place at times. (But then again, he sort of was out of place, wasn’t he?)

So here he was, four months later.

And there was still no one reacting on his own missing person's report. (Well, other than some recent insincere attention seekers who’d read that bloody news article about him – he was starting to regret ever agreeing to the blasted thing, as it turned out to only pile more annoyances to deal with on his plate instead of being of any real help. Fat lot of good that had done.)

He couldn't help but wonder what that said about his previous life and the man he used to be, when not a single person seemed to be actively looking for him.

Could he have been that horrible a person? That no one would miss him nor mind him being gone?

Once more he came to ask himself if perhaps he should simply let go of looking for his past life and just focus on who he was now. To try and fill the glaring hole in his mind with new memories and experiences, and just be the person he felt comfortable being at this moment.

'If only it were that easy,' John scoffed mentally as he pushed the glass door open to leave the circular building the police station was located in.

Maybe he should just start by stopping to come by here.

Detective Miller was right, of course they'd inform him if there were any news. It was just him being sentimentally hopeful that made him take the three hour train ride to this quaint, small town on some of the weekends to personally check in with the local police department (and to try to find any more clues around his mysterious appearance here himself), really – and what good had it done him so far? Every time he just left the place feeling dejected and even more lost than before he’d arrived.

Walking down a concrete staircase, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, he decided to go for one last walk along the beach. Since he was already here, he might as well go and really enjoy the seaside view, he told himself.

Monday found John back in London.

He’d spent a good part of the first half of the day filling his lessons with comments and what he thought to be interesting facts about the respective countries’ culture on top of teaching the languages, keen on keeping his mind busy and distracting himself from any potential brooding which typically followed another fruitless weekend at the Dorset coast. (He tried not to question the wealth of his general knowledge too much, with his memories seeming to be perfectly fine in that aspect – while anything personal was just one big void. It was rather peculiar, and kind of hinted at the possibility of his amnesia having psychological origins… He wasn’t sure how he felt about that idea.)

His off the track rambling had been brought to an end, though, when one of his students corrected him on a rather well known historical fact, dumbfounding John when the other students had agreed with their peer. He’d been pretty sure he had gotten it right, as he’d been correct with everything else so far. He’d put it off to being a bit too scatterbrained (or his general memory maybe not being perfectly fine, after all) and decided to just check on that again by himself later.

With his courses finishing early in the afternoon on Mondays, John made plans to spend the rest of the day with flat hunting, next to planning future lessons, and made his way to a quiet little café he’d come to like frequenting, his second-hand laptop resting in a messenger bag against his side. While he didn’t mind company as such, he was growing a little tired of being constantly surrounded by people who were mostly over a decade younger than him, and having to share most of the living area with several students at once. (He was growing especially tried of curious - if probably well-meaning - students who tried triggering his memory by constantly asking him personal questions he had no answers to. He was really starting to regret that news article.)

While the arrangement had been fine for the first few weeks (beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all), he found himself increasingly longing for some more privacy, especially when he’d find his mood shifting towards the more gloomy side.

So he tried finding his own place to live at, or at least a shared living situation in a much smaller scale – which was easier said then done for a person lacking concrete identification and a comparably modest income in a city like London.

Still, couldn’t hurt to try.

And so John was nursing his second cup of tea at the café a little later, scrolling through offers on the internet after having already sent out three inquiries via mail, when another particular one caught his eye. At first he thought he had misread the rental charge, mixing up the line it was stated on with the advert above it, but when he clicked on it he realised it was indeed correct.

Instantly intrigued, John read through it carefully; a single person was looking for a subtenant to a spare room in their three room flat located in the nearby Chiswick area, with a monthly rent that was well within his budget and frankly speaking rather low considering the location, ticking all the mental boxes he had been looking for. He had hopes that as a subtenant people would be more inclined to turn a blind eye to his lack of identification papers as long as he could proof he had a stable income.

It sounded nearly too good, and John was almost certain an offer like that would already be taken up, as it had been posted a few hours ago, but he still hastily typed an inquiry anyway. Sending it away, he took a long drink from his tea, mentally crossing his fingers, before finishing his scrolling of the remaining adverts. When no other offer caught his eye, he finally decided to work on his course lessons.

Around twenty minutes into it, he got distracted by an alert to a new mail. Curiously opening his inbox, he felt a spike of excitement when he saw the subject line referring to the Chiswick flat, quickly clicking on the message.

“Hi John!

You’re actually the first person I got around to respond to since I only found time to check my messages just now, so no worries there! Give me a quick call under this number, so we can talk this out a bit?”

John blinked in surprise, hardly able to believe bis luck. But then his eyes fell on the phone number the message ended on, and he felt his excitement curbed again a little as he typed a reply.

“Sorry, don’t have a phone. Know it’s a bit unheard of and that I should be getting one, but so far I just didn’t get around to it. Is that a problem? I could ask to borrow one? Might just take me a mo’”

He send it off right away, with the hope that he didn’t sound too desperate coming up only once it was already sent into the digital ether. Still, if he was the first candidate, then he didn’t want to waste time that could potentially lead to someone else getting their chance. He was looking around the café, sizing up the few other patrons and which of them looked the most likely to borrow him their phone as he couldn’t spot the café’s employee right then, when another alert drew his attention back to the laptop.

John opened the message.

“Bugger. Do you have Skype on your computer? (You know, I think that might actually beat a phone call for a first impression!) I’m using the same email address on there.”

He was pretty sure he’d seen that name before among the pre-installed software, and sure enough, a quick search revealed that he did, indeed, have Skype on his laptop. Grumbling under his breath about why everything needed a separate registration, John finally managed set up an account and look for his potential future flat-mate. Adding them to his contacts, he typed a quick message.

“Hi, this is John who asked about the flat.”

A few moments after he had sent the message, he was surprised to find his laptop playing a ringing tune and popping up a window that informed him about an incoming video call. Clicking on the accept button, he watched the window turn black with a new tiny window displaying himself at the bottom corner, before the connection was finally established and revealed a view on his contact slash potential flat-mate.

John froze briefly as he took in the sight on his screen, feeling like something was tickling the back of his mind, similar to the sensation of a déjà vu.

It was a woman; around her mid-twenties, blonde, shoulder-length hair framing a triangular face in soft waves, a smile spreading over full lips as she gave a little wave into the camera.

“Hiya! I’m Rose.”

[mybumpbirthandbeyond]

Jinx

“I write because I’m afraid to say some things out loud.”

Do you ever think when you say something out loud it’s like a jinx? Or do you joke to someone else, ‘don’t jinx it?’ I’m not particularly superstitious, but I’ve certainly felt that a lot on my journey so far.

Cailean has slept through the night since he was just 10 weeks old. And I mean from 10pm to 7am initially (no wake ups in between) and now 7pm to 8am. I was afraid I would jinx it if I even said out loud: “we’re lucky, my baby sleeps through the night.” Similarly with my recovery, shit hit the fan a lot, so once I overcame one hurdle, I was afraid to actually say, “I’m feeling better,” because in truth, that feeling didn’t last long enough initially.

With my diastasis it’s fair to say it’s been slow and I was nowhere near ‘fixed’ or ‘healed’ or whatever you want to call it. I didn’t recover from it; I merely made progress from where I started. Significant progress, it’s fair to say, but even significant progress still left me with a significant diastasis pre-pregnancy number 2. For months I refused to see any progress or accept that it looked better just because someone told me it did. Even when I had noticed the change, there were niggles that I was still so firmly on the side of caution it was laughable - the atrophy on my right side is a good example. When Gráinne said she couldn’t see any atrophy after a couple of months, I asked if it’s because there might be atrophy on the other side balancing it out - such was my lack of belief and caution.

In pregnancy number 2, I’ve felt like I’ve been on eggshells the whole time and it’s an uncomfortable feeling to say the least. I’ve acknowledged that for me, it’s important to understand, to know as much as possible, and to prepare as much as possible for whatever I’m doing. If that’s a client session at work; or in a previous life, a criminal trial; childbirth; diastasis, it doesn’t really matter. I appreciate you can’t prepare for everything, but I like to damn well do my best to prepare for what I can. This pregnancy has been completely uncharted territory in a lot of ways which I am far from happy with. My brain has always worked in overdrive. I’m an overthinker and there’s nothing I can do to change that. That’s why it’s so difficult that there are so many unanswered questions.

The biggest question mark for me has been the baby’s movements and what the hell is going on internally. Even now at 23 weeks, my tummy still does weird things when I’m lying down, and looks nothing like my pregnancy bump in standing or what it would have looked like with Cailean. With the movements, I’m scared to say out loud what’s happening in case I jinx it. The baby’s movements started the exact same week I felt them with Cailean - at 18 weeks. And they are strong. Despite the fact I have an anterior placenta this time around, I am feeling the same movements I had with Cailean. The ripples, that tingly feeling right before they push so much pressure to the front and you feel your bump go rock solid, and visibly seeing kicks. This little one is either acutely aware of my need to feel movement, is one strong little monkey, or in my head, the tissue is so thin, it’s counteracting the anterior placenta. Will I ever know the answer to that? Probably not. It’s probably just another question to add to the ‘never going to know’ pile.

When people ask if I’ve been feeling movement I’ve been afraid to say it. It would of course be so much worse if I wasn’t feeling it, but I’m frightened that this will suddenly go away. I practically hold my breath every morning until the bump wakes up and decides to let me know. I will say this little monkey seems to be a bit of a party animal like their brother - just like Cailean it’s a nighttime rave in my tummy at times. Who says you get a good night’s sleep when your pregnant?!

I’ve had all my scans now and have had my first midwife appointment at my GP’s surgery. I’ve met my midwife a few times randomly locally, but this was my first appointment with her since Cailean. I’ve bumped into her on my way to physio at the hospital and seen her in the park with her granddaughter. A few days before my appointment we saw each other again in the park. Cailean is a pretty unusual name so even if she hadn’t recognised me, it’s fair to say you’d be certain by the time I called my toddler a few times from running off. She asked about how I was feeling about things and when I was due to see her. I told her Tuesday. She asked...wait for it....if I’d been given a tubigrip. I’ve already remarked on my self-restraint on that one, but bet you didn’t realise it was the second time I’d had to field questions/comments on a tubigrip in a few days!!

When I saw her at the appointment she told me I was obviously carrying similarly to Cailean. She remarked I had quite the bump. and once again I haven’t put weight on anywhere else. In fact, I’m only a few kilos heavier than my pre-pregnancy weight. She had googled about diastasis and also consulted the senior midwife in charge on the community team. I was impressed she’d gone to such lengths, but there’s so much bad information out there that what she found was scaremongering- that labour would be difficult and the baby would not position correctly to engage. I had read the same thing I think before I had even found out I was pregnant. Concerned by the fact it seemed a genuine medical website in the UK and was the first result on the page, I asked Gráinne. Thankfully she told me it was nonsense and there was absolutely no clinical evidence to back it up.

My midwife asked me about surgery and I confirmed I would go down that route after this. She actually told me her colleague had it after twins because it was affecting her mental health and body image. She got her surgery on the NHS from persistently appearing at her GP. I know from what my physios have told me, it can be incredibly difficult to get it on the NHS because it’s seen as elective and cosmetic - despite numerous recommendations from them pointing out it’s anything but. I’m lucky enough that should things stay the way they are, I will be going private to ensure I get the best possible repair available and a surgeon who truly understands it, and advocates for extensive physio pre and post-op. But let’s not jinx it at this point 😉

On examination it became clear she felt like she would struggle to measure the baby. She all but said it. Her eyes widened when she realised how big the gap was and turned to my husband with a look of incredulity/shock. Alex calmly said “yeah about there is probably right.” It’s a mark of how much I have been poked and prodded in the stomach that I wanted to laugh but was grateful I was wearing a mask. She started to say I was the worst she’d ever seen. She commented she had seen a fist before and a few fingers “but that’s the...” then busied herself doing something else. It’s not the first time I’ve been told that and there’s a high chance it won’t be the last. But it’s likely I will remain the worst she’s ever seen - she told me previously she will be due to retire in a couple of years. Not exactly a badge of honour.

She mentioned she could refer me to a consultant. That threw me I have to say. I’m not in any way high risk and that thought always scares me somewhat. It was a kind offer but I didn’t expect it. I knew what my answer was, but it did make me second guess myself. After the appointment I checked in with Gráinne to make sure she was happy that there was no reason I would need a consultant. I felt there wasn’t, but I needed that checked so that I wasn’t missing anything. Thankfully, as always, she managed to reassure me there would be no reason for me to need a consultant from a diastasis point of view.

The appointment - despite delving quite deeply into my diastasis - reassured me that the baby was fine which was all I was worried about. My next appointment is 6 weeks away. As much as I have the kicks to keep me reassured in the meantime, I think I’ll be holding my breath until the next appointment and I can hear the heartbeat again. I think that will just be the nature of this pregnancy.

In terms of physio, we are quickly coming to a point where the number of consults will be single figures now until the baby arrives. Certainly those that are face to face will be few and far between. I feel like I’ve constantly been looking forward to try and get me to the next step, or the next milestone as this journey has progressed. It’s a sobering thought to think it will all start again from that first face to face appointment after the baby arrives. The numbers will, once again, give me a strong sense of how far I have to go to get back to the point I was pre-pregnancy number 2, and beyond. Operation ‘Get Strong’ part 2 (or Operation ‘abs of steel’ as my husband will no doubt call it) starts from my first physio appointment post-birth. I’m under no illusions that I will be sprinting - I’ll be starting slow again because it’s the right thing to do. I have plenty of time before surgery so there really isn’t a rush, but I may need reminding of that come the other side and I’m sure my physios will need to keep me in check...

I never knew the first time it was Operation Get Strong part 1. I thought I was going to be ‘fixed’ by the next time I feel pregnant. Luckily I didn’t say that out loud then, given it would have been a massive jinx clearly! Some people may think I’m getting ahead of myself, but as I’ve said, I’ve always looked forward in this journey. It’s nice to look back and see how far I’ve come, but there’s nothing other than to look forward when you’re facing a challenge of momentous proportions. Like I’ve said before, I’m steeling myself for what’s to come - mentally and physically.

[chiauve]

Algernon - Day 21

(Note: We are 21 days in and Jet isn’t awake yet omg how do I do this every time...)(But SOON)

           Gilmore was there to greet them when they arrived that evening. His welcome of his colleague was warmer than Joe's, but then Gilmore and Grant had been sharing correspondences long before the cyborgs ever met the doctor.

           "I figured we'd let you settle in for the night and then get started fresh in the morning," Gilmore explained, ushering Grant and Joe indoors. The rest of the cyborgs were in the front room and a round of introductions took place, though they had all met Grant before once or twice over the last couple of years, but he could never seem to keep them all straight.

           "I was hoping to look over the lab before retiring, if I may? Maybe take a copy of the plans for the 002 unit for some bedtime reading," Grant suggested.

           "I'll show you the lab and introduce you to Jet, though he's still unconscious. I'm sorry but I do not leave hard copies of my cyborgs' designs lying around. They would be too easily copied or stolen. I hope you understand."

           "Of course. You can give me a rundown of the plan of attack while we're down there, then."

           Joe took Grant's bags up to his room while the others dispersed, Chang to prepare dinner and the others to find something to busy them until then. Joe would stay the night with Francoise during the duration of Dr. Grant's stay. She'd earlier taken one look at Joe's room before he left for the airport and pulled at her hair.

           "How does this place look worse and worse every time I see it? How are you so messy?"

           "Honestly? Jet was the one who always cleaned up, not me. I kinda got used to it."

           "Jet's been gone for two years!"

           "It's been a messy two years."

           She'd all but tossed Joe out of his own room to clean up and prepare it for Dr. Grant herself. Joe hurried out the front door but still heard her scream when she got to his sink. He might have forgotten to rinse it out for the last couple of weeks. Two years of not having an angry six-foot-plus American after you when you didn't clean up tended to make one careless.

           That was one of the reasons Joe never realized Jet's hair was dyed. When he was done with the sink it was immaculate. Clean sink, clean shower, swept floor, but otherwise Jet's bed was unmade and he had a habit of tossing his pants wherever.

           The house hadn't been the same without Jet's clothes showing up in random places.

           Joe placed Grant's bags on the bed and hurried back downstairs, catching up with the two professors as they descended into the underground laboratories. Gilmore glanced back at him and Joe just shrugged. What else was he going to do for a while?

           Dr. Grant looked like a child in a candy store as Gilmore showed him the labs and equipment. He oohed and ahhed and wanted to admire and touch everything. Gilmore couldn't help but beam in pride a little.

           They moved into the battle room so Gilmore could show Grant 002's specs on the large 3D projector.

           "What I'll mostly need help with will be the construction of the body itself and the primary artificial organs," Gilmore explained, scrolling through the broken down sections of the cybernetic specs, "Even now I could attach 002's limbs in my sleep."

           "Are you planning on making any alterations to the design?"

           "Not this time. I'd rather not add extra stress to Jet by making changes he's not expecting. I can always upgrade him later; he's used to it. However, I'd like to keep the thrusters offline until I know he's ready, so we may have to temporarily disable the neuro-connectors. He knows how to override and refuel the jets himself otherwise."

           Grant gestured to the bright neon lines streaking through the framework, dulled only by the mechanics related to the thrusters. "Is that an accelerator? Like 009?"

           "An older model, but yes. 002 rarely uses it, though that's probably for the best. He wasn't designed for heavy power output of that kind and the accelerator is draining; that power is better used for his high-speed mode. The accelerator also has a tendency to disrupt the bonding of his armor. I leave it active though, you never know. One split second could mean life or death, right, 009?"

           "Yeah," Joe muttered. There had been many split seconds, Joe thought, and Jet still never used it. He could have saved himself using it when the two of them went after the nuclear warheads in space. He could have brought down Maximoff without destroying himself with it. Had the accelerator been damaged and Jet just never said anything? Had he been that low on power?

           Gilmore led them to a smaller side-lab that also functioned as his office where he could escape his sometimes very noisy cyborgs to work on his own projects.

           "Before we head up for dinner there's one last thing to show you," he said to Dr. Grant, and went to the containment unit in the back of the room. "This is Jet Link. It's his body you'll be helping me construct."

           Once moved from the Dolphin III's lab, Gilmore had placed Jet's head in containment and ran a gamut of scans and performed full diagnostics. He'd happily reported no physical damage to Jet's brain and that the cybernetic one was still registering as acceptable. Since then Gilmore installed a new pair of eyes and replaced the tongue and some missing teeth, as well as all the scanners, the chronometer, the translator, and the near-burnt out emergency power and oxygen supplier. He also installed a new transmitter and receiver but planned to keep them offline until Jet had been conscious for a few days.

           Aside from the fact Jet's cheeks were still too hollow, he looked much more like how Joe remembered him. His hair was a bit shorter, but blond and unmatted. Francoise did a good job combing it in such a way that the patches where his hair had fallen out or been shaved were covered. The dangling vertebrae were still there and made a macabre addition but Gilmore pointed out that there were some surviving nerves he would try to preserve so the damaged vertebrae would stay intact until they fused Jet's head with his new body.

           Despite these improvements, Grant took a look at Jet and stepped back in shock.

           "I, uh…" he stammered.

           "It's okay," Joe assured him, "I know it's a bit unnerving, but trust me he looks much better than he did."

           "Yes, of course. Excuse me, I just didn't expect that, I guess."

           Gilmore's brows rose slightly in surprise at Grant's discomfort but then shrugged. "You're brilliant at cybernetics, Phineas, but you always forget cyborgs involve people."

           "Yes, yes, you're right. Sorry." Grant still hurried out of the room once he was able.

           Joe smirked. "You make the weirdest friends, Doctor."

           "Let's just hope he's still able to eat dinner," Gilmore sighed then followed his colleague back up into the house.

           The cyborgs were banned from the labs unless Gilmore specifically called for one of them.

           This may or may not have been due to uncomfortable hovering.

           As such, they went about their chores, played the same board games again and again, or sat around pretending they were reading, or working, or doing anything but thinking about what was going on in the labs below them.

           Two years they thought Jet dead, but now the fact that he wouldn't be back and walking among them for at least another week was too long for Joe to stand. He'd given up trying to play video games when he couldn't focus and kept dying and now was just sitting in front of the fireplace waiting for Gilmore to call him, even though the professor was far more likely to call Francoise if he needed one of them.

           Still, among the impatience was an underlying feeling of happiness. Jet was alive and would soon indeed be back among them. Chang already announced he was going to make the American's favorite meal for him once he recovered.

           "What would that be?" Albert asked over his newspaper.

           "Chicken curry tetrazzini."

           "I was not expecting that."

           "Well it was either that or grilled cheese sandwiches but that seemed a bit underwhelming, considering."

           "Wait," Pyunma said, "you said his favorite meal. Don't tell me you're also serving…"

           "Yes. With the tetrazzini we'll be having alcoholic root beer floats. And some crappy chicken nuggets leftover from that fast food place in town he loved so much. I would never serve such a thing normally but he loved them so…"

           "The longer in the fridge and the more congealed the grease the better, yeah."

           Chang visibly shuddered. "And for dessert…"

           "No!" Pyunma and Albert yelled simultaneously.

           "Yes! Banana slices in milk with sugar!"

           "Oh thank god I thought it was going to be something deep fried again," Pyunma sighed, "I'm not gonna eat it anyway but still."

           "I'm pretty sure Jet will be the only one eating it," Chang agreed, "But I'm going to have to get the ingredients soon, I don't have everything here."

           Albert folded his newspaper and put it on the coffee table. "We could do that now, it's not like we're doing anything. And this early in rebuilding Jet's body I doubt the professor will need our help.

           Joe leapt on the idea. "I've been thinking. Jet doesn't have any clothes. We're going to have to get him some."

           "Oh damn, you're right. Anything of his burned down with the house two years ago," Pyunma said.

           "Well," Albert fidgeted, "Not everything. He had a box in storage, but the only thing wearable in it was a pair of slippers and his old AC/DC shirt."

           "Then we'll get that for him."

           "Uh, thing is, that was the shirt he got at that concert he dragged me to. We stood around forever to get a shirt and by the time he got up to the table they didn't have his size, so he bought something a bit bigger."

           "…You've been wearing his shirt, haven't you."

           "I waited with him for that damn shirt and it fits. I mean it's kind of snug in the chest but…"

           "Is that why you always wear it when Lucy's around?" Chang snickered.

           Albert glared.

           In the end, just about every cyborg piled into two cars and drove into town. They'd barely finished asking Ivan if he wanted to go when he turned around and glared at them. He hated his car seat and drove nowhere unless absolutely required.

          It was apparently too much to ask just to buy a couple of pairs of jeans and a few shirts for Jet. For one thing, no one could remember what sizes he used. The other problem was Joe himself, who insisted on getting more than just the bare essentials.

           "We have to show we care, you guys! Get him some stuff he'd actually want, not just what will do."

           "He likes to do his own shopping, Joe," Albert sighed, "and he prefers to do it by himself. I don't even know where he usually bought his clothes."

           "You could just give him back his shirt, Heinrich."

           "No."

           "You don't even like AC/DC."

           Pyunma walked up carrying a few jackets and vests. "Did Jet like plaid? I can't remember."

           "Only if you're okay with him singing the 'Lumberjack Song' nonstop."

           "That's a no, then," he said and hurried away before he got sucked into whatever Joe and Albert were bitching about.

           GB was next to pop up, leaning unhappily on a shirt rack. "Unfortunate question, my lads, but was Jet a briefs or boxers man?"

           Joe sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Recently, when he had to, boxers."

           "When he had to? Don't tell me."

           "Commando. Jet had no shame. I think I saw his dick more than my own."

           "Sorry I asked. Why didn't you tell us rooming with him was so horrible, Joe?"

           "Because then you'd make sure I was stuck with him so you wouldn't have to be."

           "Damn straight."

           "Look what I found!" Francoise cried, holding up a shirt as though it was the Holy Grail. It was a hideous collared shirt with tiny American flags printed on it.

           "Put that in the cart right now. I'm going to go find an ugly tie to go with it," Albert said and ducked away into the racks.

           "What about shoes? Anyone know Jet's size?"

           "Gilmore makes Jet's shoes so he can fly with them. Don't worry about it."

           "I'm getting Jet this cute pink toothbrush and no one can stop me!"

           "Those jeans are too loose, Jet likes to show off his ass."

           "…Why do you know these things."

           "I got him a brush too!"

           "I'm pretty sure this is Jet's cologne. It smells like 'I'm trying too hard'."

           "Jet doesn't like big sweaters, Franny. He wears jackets."

           "Too bad, he's getting a giant woolen sweater. He's going to be adorable."

           "Look at this shirt. It's got a little angry eagle on it. I'm getting it for him."

           Geronimo tossed a cowboy hat into the cart without a word.

           "We're not buying him a whole wardrobe, guys!" Pyunma shouted as he looked at the overflowing cart.

[vanquisher2099]

Part Twelve: A Hacker Investigates Investigators

Jade was having something of a revelation as she sat at her desk in the Ceres Corp offices, tapping away at a corporate-owned workstation, which boiled down to this: corporate IT officers were, somewhat by design, incredibly difficult to work with. She had been given, per Camila Tower’s instructions, expanded access to the outside network – most of it was locked down for employees, both to protect against malicious attacks and to gently encourage employees to spend less time reading the news, checking their personal email, making posts to whatever social accounts, or watching pornography and more time working. That Jade needed to be able to move about freely in order to find the sort of people who could give a good review of the skills and level of service for a private investigator was met with outright distrust by the head of Information Technology before Camila had gotten involved.

The fact that, if she hadn’t given up access to her old information-gathering network to Maesin, she would have found a decent investigator within a few minutes was not lost on her. Instead she was reduced to the same tools as the rest of the general population. So Jade dove deep into various communities interested in the world of private investigation. Each community was, perhaps due to the inherent desire for privacy that usually led someone to engage the services of a private investigator in the first place, deeply suspicious of any newcomers.

“Imagine you’re someone who thinks their wife is being unfaithful to them,” Jade found herself explaining to Camila later that day, “but you don’t want anyone to know you think that, and you certainly don’t want your wife to know you think that. If you were in that situation, you’d value discretion.”

“Of course, but isn’t anonymity sort of baked into most online communities?”

“Yeah, but it’s online communities frequented by private investigators who are, as a rule, good at figuring out who people are – or by people who think they’re good enough to be private investigators, and what better way to prove it than to, you know, investigate a bunch of anonymous people.”

Camila was quiet for a moment, and let out a long sigh. “You know something Jade?”

“What?”

“I think I don’t understand these people.”

Jade shrugged. “I can’t say I do either. I’m just sitting quietly in a bunch of discussion channels occasionally pretending to be interested in the particulars of someone’s great technique for evaluating a prospective PI.”

“Are you saying that we should conduct try-outs?”

“With respect ma’am, hell no. That would take way too long, and I already feel like it’s taking long enough. There’s a few names that keep coming up, so I’ll dig into them a bit and see what sort of success rate they’ve got.” Jade frowned as a new thought occurred to her. “The problem is we’re probably dealing with people only good at finding out whether or not someone’s spouse is cheating on them, so we’ve got to find the ones who take on cases that are a little more complex.”

“Hence all the time spent talking to people overly concerned with preserving their anonymity, I assume.”

Jade shrugged again. “Pretty much. I have to admit, ma’am, this is one of the strangest things I think I’ve ever had to do as an executive assistant, and I once had to make sure my boss’ cow was properly brushed every morning.”

Camila raised an eyebrow at this. “You’ve never had to hire a PI for a boss before? That’s actually kind of surprising.”

“Honestly, a lot of my bosses had investigative teams on retainer. I’m a little surprised we don’t.”

“We do,” Camila said, “I just don’t want them brought in on something so… unusual.”

“Unusual is probably the right word for it, yeah.” Jade said. “At any rate, now that I’m a little more accepted into the community, I should be able to get you some recommendations within the next couple of days.”

“Sounds good!” Camila said, and moved on to the next item on her agenda.

A few days later, as promised, Jade provided a list of three names to Camila, who glanced over them quickly. “Leavitt… why do I know that name?”

“Oh, apparently he was one of the detectives in charge of investigating that terror attack back in 2099? That explosion at the apartment complex. I guess he decided the private investigation business was a better use of his skills – according to some of the conversations I saw he kind of got forced out of the force in the aftermath of the scandal that hit shortly after. Took his partner with him too – that’s Harold Anderson, name number two.”

“And this last name? Jaqueline Powers?”

Jade shrugged. “She’s kind of a ghost, apparently. Nobody’s been able to figure out anything about her beyond the fact that she’s known for finding the unfindable.”

“Sounds too good to be true if you ask me.”

“That’s what I thought too, but I did some more digging and apparently she’s legit. Famous, at least in the PI community, for finding some dead heiress who’d been missing for two years. Her husband suspected she’d faked her death but nobody believed him and it turned out he was right.” Jade shrugged. “I know it’s still basically a cheating wife sort of job, but the heiress had put considerable money and resources into not being found, which is a good sign.”

“Hmm…” Camila thought for a while. “Alright, reach out to all three of them and get a price.”

“Go with the lowest?”

“No,” Camila said, “we’re going to hire all three.”

Jade’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Ma’am?”

“I believe I was clear. I want all three working on this, to better our odds. Put a bonus on it and tell them if they don’t want to work together they don’t have to, but if they do work together we’ll give them all a bonus.”

“That could be pretty expensive.” Jade said, a little hesitantly.

Camila looked genuinely surprised. “This is a company problem, and the resources of the company are quite vast – as you are no doubt aware.”

“I’ll make the arrangements.” Jade said, nodding.

A few days later, she found herself sitting in a small café as a vaguely grumpy-looking man of considerable size – Harold Anderson – wedged himself into a corner booth.

“John’s chasing some lead on a missing persons gig out on the coast, in case you were wondering.” He seemed almost offended by the idea. “The boy doesn’t know when to let things go.”

“Is that why you and he ended up leaving the force?” Jade asked, politely.

“He left because the higher-ups made him leave. I retired a year later and took this up as a hobby when he asked me for help on a particular case.”

“I see.” Jade nodded. “Is there any way to contact John? We’re eager to get this matter resolved as quickly as possible.”

“John’s not generally one for being contacted on the job.” Harold said with a snort. “Thinks there’s too much potential that sensitive information could be leaked. A little too paranoid, if you ask me, but that’s John.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Jade said, frowning. “I suppose we’re lucky you didn’t go with him.”

“Hey, I know a lost cause when I see one.” Harold said, taking a swig of coffee. “And that case he’s chasing is a lost cause, believe me.”

A voice broke in before Jade could respond. “Says you, Anderson. I happen to think your boy is on to something, even if he’s probably going to fuck it all up somehow.”

“Oh Christ,” Harold groaned, “if I’d known you were the third party I would have said I was busy.”

The speaker, an olive-skinned woman with long hair so blond it might as well have been white, had walked up behind Harold and was grinning like she’d gotten away with something. Jade resisted the urge to snicker at Harold’s sour expression and stood to make room for the new arrival.

“Miss Powers, I see that you already know Mr. Anderson here.” She shot a stern look Harold’s way. “I hope that this won’t be a problem?”

Harold held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, as long as the checks clear I’ll work with whoever you want. Even the clinically insane, like this lady here.”

“You’ll have to forgive my colleague here – he’s probably still angry that I solved a case he’d assured a client couldn’t be solved.”

“It was a lucky guess.” Harold muttered sourly.

“A lucky guess that was based on knowing more than you did, yes.” Jaqueline said with a smug expression on her face. “But that’s in the past. You, I presume,” she turned her attention to Jade, “had something else in mind?”

“That’s right.” Jade said, and reached into her bag to withdraw the envelope and note – without the family tree reports in it, naturally. Camila had been hesitant to allow any more information about her employees out into the wild than was strictly necessary – something Jade, at least, appreciated. “We received the following materials about a week ago. We would, if you could, like you to discover who sent this letter and why.”

There was a long silence as both PIs gave Jade a long look. Jacqueline was the first to speak. “That’s it? That’s the whole job?”

Jade returned the look. “That’s the job.”

Harold sounded like he’d just been told the earth was actually flat. “You pulled three investigators in to find out who sent a fucking letter?”

“Was I not clear?” Jade said, arching an eyebrow.

“No, I mean, you were clear, I’m just…” Jacqueline seemed to be searching for the right words for a moment, “surprised? This is a lot of trouble to go through for a mysterious, vaguely-threatening note.”

“My employer takes threats very seriously.” Jade said, shrugging. “If you think the job’s below you, we can always find someone else.”

Harold snatched the letter and envelope from her hand. “For what you’re offering? I don’t think any job is below me for that much.”

“And you, Miss Powers? Is this job beneath you?”

Jacqueline smiled, showing her teeth. “Of course the job’s below me. All jobs are, at first glance.” She shrugged in an exaggerated gesture of casualness. “But I’m sure there’s more to this than you’re saying, so I’m curious enough to see where this all leads.”

Jade was very good at not reacting, but even so it took some effort to give no indication that Jaqueline had hit somewhat close to the mark. “If you say so.” She pulled a small tablet out of her jacket and made a few taps, switching to a more businesslike mien. “I’ve just deposited a downpayment into your respective accounts. I will be your only point of contact on this case – you are not to approach any other Ceres Industries employee on this matter unless you contact me first and display sufficient reasoning for needing to do so. I won’t insult your skills by requiring regular check-ins, but failure to show any progress within a month will result in termination of the contract. A bonus of 20% of your base pay will be delivered should the two of you demonstrate you’ve been working together, but you are free to work separately if you wish.”

Harold cast a sideways glance at Jacqueline. “I think we can work together.” He said, waving a hand. “Pool our resources. Leverage common synergies. Whatever the hell gets us a bonus.”

“Well then,” Jade said, standing to leave, “I’ll leave the matter in your capable hands. We’ll be in touch.”

“This,” said Harold, continuing an unfortunate streak of being wrong about things, “is going to be the easiest case I’ve worked in ages.”

Part Thirteen

Part Eleven

[mousou-note]

Tales of Ammon

Ok, so here is a thing that I had absolutely no intention of writing. It’s like a prequel to a manga project I have going on, but focused on one of the side characters - who is really useful but just a terrible person overall. I mean, I love him as a character, but I would probably hate him as a person.

Is this the best thing I have ever written? No. But it’s decent enough that I’m going to post it here.

I recommend listening to Aslan Senki’s OST while reading it... either that or Woodkid’s Golden Age album, mainly the songs Iron and The Deer. It’s what I listened to while writing.

I had more stuff to say... uhm, the setting is mythic-arabic-ish, mixed up with some magic, and dragons. It’s a fun mess I’ll be delighted to explain to anyone interested.

@wanderingsofalice, I finished the thing at like 2h30 AM, and just edited it!

Okay, that’s enough, hope you all enjoy! (Introduction right off, then lots of story under the cut - full word count: 3253)

The Ammon Empire is called an Empire due to the sheer extension of its territory, along with its tendency to solve its problems with brute force. Objectively, however, the Ammon Empire is at least 70 percent desert, 15 percent barren and 15 percent barely salvageable land where almost nothing grows, surrounded by the Baraz mountains, which are practically insurmountable and infested with monsters. If any potential invaders of the kingdom don’t get crushed by falling rocks, die by the extreme climate conditions or fall off the mountains, some dragon, wyvern, basilisk or other monster will probably kill them (if they are lucky, the invaders might just get attacked by normal wolves or lions or such beasts). And nobody would want to go through all the trouble just to get their hands on such a terrible land... unless, of course, they have their eyes on all the minerals the land is rich in: copper, gold, silver, iron; stones precious and otherwise.

Ammon isn’t a very populous empire, so in sheer numbers their military could never measure up to other empires such as Sheng or Orion. But rumour has it that one of their Noble Warriors could decimate a whole army alone.

In fact, there is a story told and retold both in the Ammon Empire and in the Vestaria Kingdom, in awe and fear respectively, of one Noble Warrior wiping out the Vestarian army on the way to “deliver a message to the king”, who had said his numerous army could easily take the few hundred Ammon warriors.

Some people think it’s only a legend. Others know better.

It could be said that the gods did not favour Alki. And if there was one thing that was almost more abundant than sand in the Ammon Empire, it was gods. Their Temples were all over the land, the cities, the towns, the desert. And none of those gods seemed to be looking out for that boy, born of a cheap prostitute, an accident, a problem. She wished that he would die, but since he didn’t, she decided to sell him like she sold herself.

Alki was a fierce child.

The first man she sold her son to got his intimate parts almost bitten off, and Alki was taken away by the city guards. The fact that he wasn’t killed on the spot might have been one of the gods favouring him for once.

In the hole he was thrown into to probably wait for death, a man found him. He wasn’t a good man, but he wore dragonhide and was covered in tattoos, a powerful noble warrior although old and retired; a man who had heard what Alki had done to his “first client” and had grown interested. A man who needed something fierce, something that he could forge into a noble warrior like himself – something like Alki.

Alki was beaten, and he was insulted, and he was pushed beyond his limits more often than most grown men could bear. But he was fed, and he was dressed, and he was washed. He grew up stronger, fiercer.

When the old warrior died, Alki was still young, but old enough to claw his way into the military academy, despite being of such low birth and not having anyone to back him up.

Alki was a fierce young man.

He clawed his way to the top like he had clawed his way into the academy. He had more than his share of enemies, not only because of his birth, but also his character: he was as aggressive as he was skilful, as bloodthirsty as he was powerful. All those characteristics, while not appreciated by his colleagues, were rather useful in an empire that thrived on war. They kept Alki alive and strong.

To graduate from apprentice to noble warrior, one must kill a dragon and bring back its hide, which would be used to make their noble warrior’s attire (dragonhide was better than any armour to protect from cuts and blows, and much easier to move in). Usually, an aspiring  noble warrior would kill (or at least attempt to) a young green or red dragon to graduate. Some of the more skilled would show off by killing a gold or blue dragon; and rumour had it that the most skilled and arrogant student to ever graduate had killed an adult black dragon just to prove himself.

Alki was fierce, and bloodthirsty, and more than anyone there he had to prove himself, prove that their noble blood didn’t make them better than him. An adult black dragon would not suffice.

There wasn’t a due date to return with the dragonhide for graduating, but usually the students would go into the Baraz mountains and be back in a month or so. Alki disappeared for half a year, and everyone thought he was dead. But what he was looking for was very hard to find.

White dragons aren’t worth the effort. They rarely leave the mountains and feed mostly on beasts and other dragons, so as long as humans don’t step into their territories, they usually won’t attack. And as they prey on other dragons and monsters, clearly they are stronger than them, and therefore harder to kill. All in all, they just aren’t worth the effort.

As the capital of the Ammon Empire, home to the Temple of All Gods, the Imperial Palace and the Noble Warrior Academy, Mahtab was a large city, and very few things had never been seen there. A blood-soaked young man dragging the gigantic corpse of an ancient white dragon through the city streets was one of those things.

Every single piece of a dragon could be sold, and both ancient and white dragons were rare merchandise. And that young man wouldn’t possibly waste the chance to get himself enough money to pay for actually good equipment for once. So he took a detour around the market, selling everything he could except one thing.

Alki dropped what was unmistakably the hide of an ancient white dragon in front of those responsible for officially making him into a noble warrior. The young man was still covered in blood, which would be worrying if it was his blood - but it looked like it was dragon blood, which supposedly made you stronger (if you survived).

“So…” the young man started, gesturing to the pile of silvery-white dragonhide.

The instructors whispered among themselves. “An ancient white dragon. You killed it yourself? Alone?” asked one of them, suspicious.

“Yes.” he answered simply.

“And you expect us to believe it?” another one asked, just as suspicious as the first.

“I certainly couldn’t afford to buy that… or hire mercenaries. Neither do I have friends who would help me kill it.” he shrugged.

“...that is true.” the first instructor replied, while a messenger arrived and whispered something to one of the others.

“There are several reports from people who say they saw him fight the dragon, and drag its corpse all the way from the Baraz mountains. He just sold the rest of the dragon in the market before coming here.” the instructor who had just heard the message reported, and all of them stared at Alki.

He just stared back, arms crossed, expression neutral.

“Take that dragonhide to the tailors. It’s enough for a few spare outfits, and I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic to work with so much of such a rare material.” the director said at last “After that, go wash yourself and get your wrist and ankle tattoos. We’ll be expecting you to start working as soon as you get your first outfit.”

Alki answered with a short bow, taking his dragonhide and walking off. The outfit and tattoos would officially make him a noble warrior. No matter if there was nothing noble about him, he was a skilled warrior and the Empire needed as many of those as they could get. He grinned.

Alki was disposable. He was certainly skilled, and useful, so much that in less than two years he had every piece of skin under his outfit covered in tattoos. But he was still aggressive and difficult to deal with, neither a leader nor a follower. He was something they unleashed at the frontlines, to deal as much damage as possible without dying - although it wouldn’t be such a terrible loss if he did die.

So it wasn’t that much of a surprise that, when the Emperor wanted to send a message to the king of Vestaria, they would send him. He was just as skilled as he was disposable, and that was a rare combination. Still, that mission meant a lot of people to kill, so either Alki would die or get himself a colourful tattoo right over his heart - not on his face, like most people got, on his chest. One outcome was great, the other unlikely. So he set out to Vestaria without hesitation.

The merchant caravan was happy to have a noble warrior with them in the path through the mountains, even if he wasn’t kind, nice or sociable in any way - being safe from monsters was much more important than making friends. And a noble warrior was sure to keep them safe, mainly one wearing white dragonhide.

They made it through the Baraz mountains and through the common trading routes towards Vestaria without a problem - well, they did get attacked by monsters and bandits, but nothing that Alki couldn’t handle easily.

The caravan headed off to Sheng, and Alki continued towards Vestaria (the usual caravan guards could deal with anything outside the Baraz mountains, so it wasn’t really a problem). The young noble warrior approached the border of Vestaria in his usual attire: pants, cape, shoes, bracelets, necklace, not yet possessing any visible tattoos. He was wearing dragonhide and carrying a sword, however, so it was expected that the guards at the border would stop him.

“State your business.” asked one of the two guards stationed at the gates of the first city Alki had to pass through to get to the royal palace in the capital.

“I come with a message to your king, from the Emperor of Ammon.” he stated simply. The guards frowned.

“Wait here, we’ll have to ask our superiors about this.” said one of the guards, pointing his halberd menacingly at Alki.

As if it would actually make a difference.

“That won’t be necessary.” Alki grinned, sharp and menacing.

“What do you-”

The guard never finished that sentence, Alki’s sword had already sliced his head off. Before it even hit the ground, the other guard was also dead, and Alki was cleaning his blade on the fallen guard’s cape, resheathing it and strolling calmly into the city.

And then the bells rang. Good, someone up on the walls had seen him. He licked his lips, baring his fangs. This would be fun.

Guards started pouring from every street around him as he reached the central plaza, circling him as they ushered the people out. Hm, good formation. Maybe Alki should have worn his dragonhide shirt… but the cape and pants should do. All around him, menacing faces (all male, a strange characteristic of the Vestarian military) and positioned halberds.

“Stop, or you will be stopped.” said a man in better armour than the rest, white skin, blue eyes and dirty blond beard. Probably the captain of the guard.

Alki tilted his head at him, smiling amusedly, a smile that never reached his golden eyes. “I have a message to your king, from the Emperor of Ammon.”

“If you have a message, you should have waited. Why did you kill the guards at the gates?” the captain raised his voice again.

Alki grinned, wild. “I have a message to your king, from the Emperor of Ammon.” He slowly unsheathed his sword from the back of his waist, and all the guards tensed the grip on their halberds. Amateurs. A city guard in Ammon could easily take ten or so of these without much of a problem. Alki could take twenty Ammon city guards without breaking a sweat - and the men surrounding him were about thirty in number. This wouldn’t even be a warm up.

“Is that all you can say?” the captain barked back, losing his patience.

Alki just grinned back. “Your men are scared, captain. Rightfully so.” He finished unsheathing his sword, and calmly tested his grip on it. “Someone should run away to tell your king that I’m coming. With a message from the Emperor of Ammon.” He stepped forward.

“Seize him!” the captain’s voice rang, just as the first head flew.

Alki’s silvery-white cape flared and flowed as he moved, like a vengeful spirit weaving through the men that unsuccessfully tried to hit him, to capture him. It was over in a minute, and the Ammon noble warrior wasn’t even breathing hard as he leveled his sword to the throat of the last man alive, scared and unarmed.

“Tell your king that I’m coming with a message from the Emperor of Ammon. Tell him to try and stop me.” He grinned, and the man ran away as fast as he could.

Cleaning his blade on the cape of a nearby corpse, Alki walked away, calmly, in the direction of the Vestarian palace. No one in that city tried to stop him.

Other people did try to stop him - city guards, and soldiers. Every city he passed through en route to the palace had its guards try to stop him, and then be decimated by him easily. Armies of hundreds, and then thousands of men ambushed him on the roads between cities, just to meet the same fate. Rumour had it the Emperor of Ammon had unleashed a demon upon Vestaria - which was just partially correct.

Alki had been wearing his full outfit since the armies (better trained than the city guards, but just enough to be about half as good as the Ammon city guards) started ambushing him. He did think he was going to die a few times, but he had survived worse before. And he always got to rest after he decimated an army, or a city guard, and the king had to send more troops, which took time to get to him… and so he advanced, at his own pace, but unstoppable.

As he approached the royal capital, Alki figured the king would have already given up on trying to stop him - but he was wrong. Before the city gates awaited a few thousand soldiers in formation, with equipment and posture a bit better than those of the ones he had killed before. Hm, that might be a bit annoying.

He took a deep breath, then stretched… and unsheathed his sword. Almost there.

The young Ammon noble warrior that walked calmly into the Vestarian palace’s throne room was red, covered in fresh blood from head to toe, only his eyes shining golden and his sword glinting steel.

“I have come to bring a message to the king of Vestaria, from the Emperor of Ammon.” he announced, in a voice much deeper than expected from a man that young and lean.

“G-guards!” Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin, purple tunic, fancy golden crown. Fat and weak and pathetic, the king stuttered, rising from his throne on shaking knees.

The four men, two at each side of the throne, unsheathed their swords. From how they carried themselves and their equipment (which was much better quality than any Alki had seen so far), Alki could tell those were probably elite soldiers. It was a shame they had such a useless king.

They didn’t last more than a few minutes, even against a tired Alki.

“Your Majesty, I have come to bring you a message from my Emperor.” Alki, covered in even more blood, turned to the shivering king, his expression neutral.

“W-what do you want?” the king asked, shivering.

“My Emperor has heard that you say your army of thousands of men could easily take on the few hundred Ammon noble warriors. So he sent me, a single noble warrior, to send you a message. A visible, palpable message. To be very careful of what you say.” Alki smiled, that smile that never reached his wild golden eyes.

“That’s… all? You killed most of my army just for that?” the king asked, incredulous.

Alki grinned, a wild grin that actually matched his eyes. “Yes.”

No one tried to stop him on his way out of the kingdom, and he simply walked away, washed off the blood in a river on the way, and met up again with the caravan he had come out of Ammon with, to accompany them on the way back.

And he became a legend, earning himself a huge colourful tattoo over his heart, for all to see.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. His skin was still dark, still covered in tattoos from neck to toe, but it was wrinkled; and he was small and weak. He had never been small and weak. Damned be whoever cursed him, forced him to hide and cower. He didn’t want to die, mainly not like this. Not this pathetic.

He wasn’t expecting the Emperor to send one of His agents after him, much less that they would know about the curse… and even less that they would offer him the chance to get rid of it. He didn’t trust people, usually, but at that point he was taking any chances. Living like that, weak and pathetic, might be worse than death.

So he climbs with the imperial agent to the highest peak of the Baraz mountains, hating every time he must be protected by her, and sees a single sword embedded into the rock at the very peak: a shining silver blade with a hilt of white dragonhide, made in the traditional curved mold of Ammon swords. Beautiful, and ominous. Perfect.

“What’s that sword?” he asks, voice weak and unreliable like the rest of him now.

“Yakhun Alwad. I trust you’ve heard of it?” the imperial agent replies.

He shakes his head. No.

“The sword of the first Emperor. Legendary.”

“Hm.” A fancy sword, then. But was it useful? “And what does it do?”

“By itself, nothing. But it should rid you of your curse, and grant you the power you so strongly desire.” there’s a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“At what price?” he asks, suspicious.

“The Emperor will charge you nothing… but the sword desires blood, and you will have to feed it. You’ll have to keep killing for as long as you live.” she explains, dramatically.

He stares at the sword, letting out a thoughtful hum. The right choice is pretty obvious, isn’t it?

A small, wrinkled hand reaches out to the hilt of the sword, grabbing it in a way that only someone who has held onto sword hilts their whole life can. A silvery-white light spreads through his tattoos, acknowledging his power, his aggressiveness, his bloodthirst. And then he’s himself again.

Alki stands at the highest peak of the Baraz mountains, staring appreciatively at his new sword, more powerful and more bloodthirsty than ever. He should probably change back into his old dragonhide outfit… and test that new sword. Preferably on whoever had cursed him before.

Alki was a fierce man, with a bloodthirsty sword of power. And he still didn’t know about the unexpected adventure he was about to get mixed up in.