#my life’s mission is to get everyone I know to read rote

[notmelanie0]

My friend just started assassins apprentice ahhhhh

[bleachbleachbleach]

Damnit you just triggered my writers brain. The way I see it is that part of why the Shino Academy takes so long isn't just training the potential shinigami, but also covering things such as literacy. (Aizen had taught a Calligraphy class there before being made Shinji's lieutenant)

Part of that I think would be speach training and language. Think about how in the British army their officers were/are trained to carry themselves like a gentleman, including the king's English. Put simply, they are speeking in a generally agreed upon subset of language so that everyone can understand eachother. There are other languages used in rukon, as well as dialects, and shinigami use their natural language in like company. (It being tokyo Japanese is probably solely for the convenience of the one consuming the media)

[This is in response to musing from this post!]

If we’ve said something that triggered your writerly instincts, when we have carried out our life’s mission! <333333333

As someone who’s spent way too long in school, part of me is like "6 years isn’t that long given that they’re starting from 0" even as I also know that most military training is not that long by any means. One day I’d LOVE to put together a bunch of potential course curricula for the Academy, because 1) I am obsessed with Aizen’s calligraphy class to an unhealthy degree, and 2) I do think they take The History of Soul Society and Hollow Biology 103, etc. though I suspect all of this is sorely lacking in the way that all curricula are—especially because every shinigami we’ve met knows a lot of things while simultaneously knowing absolutely zero things.

Below the cut, some of my thoughts on the Academy's auxiliary curriculum:

Entrance Exam

My co-blogger pointed out that the Academy has an entrance exam, and one that’s difficult enough to fail—though it makes me wonder what the nature of the exam is. Is it rote memorization of concepts? Is it testing your logical and spatial reasoning? What else are they screening for besides reiatsu? Regardless apparently it’s a written exam, which I imagine puts you at a pretty distinct disadvantage with you’re from most of Rukongai, because first you have to go find someone who will teach you how to read and write well enough to sit the exam, before you even get to go to shinigami school.

Calligraphy Class

My headcanon for Aizen’s calligraphy class (besides it being one of the many way he cruises for new recruits) is that it has both practical and artistic components. The artistic part is self-explanatory. The practical part is basically just penmanship training, which comes from the fact that all the handwritten reports we see seem to basically be in the same handwriting, even though we see in Colorful Bleach that if they’re not writing those reports with their inkbrushes, everyone’s handwriting is different. The two pieces of this class are DEEPLY divorced from one another, because one is deeply personal and the other the exact opposite of that. But when Aizen sent his course proposal to the Faculty Executive Committee, he probably said something about how practicing artful calligraphy imbues young potential shinigami with a mindset better suited to successful kidou and zanjutsu training and he's probably not wrong. Everything is utilitarian/practical in the end.

Report Writing 101

It would make sense that everyone take Report Writing 101, but part of me feels like that might be a more on-the-fly skill, or Continuing Education, because most of these guys aren’t writing reports anyway, and the number of reports written increases with rank, and since the Captain is going to have to sign off on everything anyway, they probably ether fix anything that’s amiss or give no fucks about whether anything is amiss before sending it on. So maybe that’s beyond the purview of the Academy. I mean, if most people don’t graduate with shikai, I guess they probably don’t graduate with Report Writing either. Maybe it's one of those "if you get fancy enough, there's one more thing you'll have to learn on your own!" deals.

Language Preserves Hierarchies Class

So that’s penmanship and written language, both things that Soul Society seems very invested in. What of the spoken language? The Gotei, for all their… whole thing, really, seem perhaps more permissive about a lot of things than a company might be IRL. Crazy hair, uniform customization, pretty informal language (though there is definitely still some preservation of language register based on rank). I could definitely see the Gotei wanting their trainees to have at least like, a 1-credit practicum in keigo, just because that helps preserve the power dynamics/hierarchies the Gotei runs on. I could also see them staring imperiously at potential new shinigami until this information was magically pressed into them, LOL.

Maybe my big interest here is "what does the Academy teach" vs. "what does the Academy just expect you to just know" (regardless of how much or how little sense these expectations might make). This is in regards to life skills as well as reiatsu skills. I'm convinced that there's a lot a lo a lot of room for improvement when it comes to this curriculum, 2000+ years in the making or not!

We basically said the same thing re: language variance in Rukongai, though oh MAN now I’m curious about like, to what degree standardization within Soul Society makes it out into Rukongai. Because on some level maybe it shouldn’t at all, because the Seireitei doesn’t seem to really care what’s going on in Rukongai except sometimes when whole swatches of souls go missing, but who’s doing all this teaching? To what end, besides Academy entrance exams? Is this a linear process where the resident Literate Soul needs to train the next one, or are there souls coming in from the Living World with different versions of this knowledge all the time? GAH I LOVE IT.

Unpaid Internship Class

I also wanna know, like, how much of Academy training is in situ vs. ex situ. Like, the Advanced Class leapt up to "field trip" really fast. Are the last year or two basically just Gotei Lite, except you don’t get paid (or get paid a lot less), even though you might die? Do you get TA credits if you’re like Hisagi et al, leading first-year field trips? Honestly I feel like a lot of Academy training is probably JUST learning how to interpret, control, and manipulate your reiatsu, and JUST trying to communicate with your sword and make it a true zanpakutou. Jinzen class is probably the hardest class series. If those two things happen to come easily to you, I imagine that’s mostly what fast-tracks you through the Academy curriculum.

But I’m coming at all this from a very contemporary, more-school-than-military, pretty Westernized perspective. Part of me wants to learn about how "school" has worked across the last 2000 years and part of me just wants to make it up in accordance with my own desires and interests because IT’S MAGIC GHOST MILITARY SCHOOL. 

Truly, I just want fandom’s 370 different versions of how this school works. There are so many great options. I want them all.

Anyone wanna do a "36 Views of Shinoureijutsuin" with me where we all make different potential curriculum plans lol. WHO WANTS TO DO FAKE ADMIN PAPERWORK WITH ME.

[raendown]

Fandom: Marvel Pairing: SamBucky Word count: 2070 Rated: T+ Summary: Steve had only just been thinking about how much he missed his best friend when his phone started ringing. Great minds think alike! Except apparently Bucky had meant to call someone else entirely and Steve was not at all prepared for the discovery of this baffling - but adorable - secret.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

From Where You Are

He may have staunchly denied it every time Tony or Natasha or anyone else teased him for it but Steve knew damn well that he had a - very slight! - penchant for dramatics. Dramatics like slamming an entire plane down in to the icy ocean rather than just turning the damn thing around and flying in circles until Peggy or Howard came up with the latest madcap rescue plan. Yeah. He was a self aware guy. Which meant he knew exactly how much teasing he would get if he so much as dared to open his mouth and complain about life on the run. 

Because as well as Steve knew himself, his friends knew him better. He might be lucky to get a whole three words in to his sentence before any of the people he currently had available to listen would guess exactly what he was really complaining about. He missed Bucky. So sue him! He’d already spent seventy years thinking his best friend was dead and then another two knowing he was out there but not exactly all there. Now finally he knew exactly where Bucky was. He knew that Bucky knew exactly who he was. They could be best friends again. 

Through video calls only. 

Steve clenched his jaw against the urge to close both eyes and whine at the unfairness of it all. Leaving Bucky in Wakanda had been the right choice for everyone but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Could the world maybe stop being so unfair for just five damn minutes? Give a guy a chance to reunite properly with the one thing that had centered the first couple decades of his life? Maybe get a hug or two in while Bucky was only one-armed and half defenseless against a few rounds of proper manly affection? It didn’t sound like too much to ask. Yet here he was sitting up just past midnight trying to calculate time zones to figure out if maybe he could get a quick call in now that Sam and Natasha were falling asleep. If he snuck out on to the balcony he might be able to avoid waking them and therefore avoid the inevitable teasing over his ‘very obvious pining’.

So lost in his own head was he that Steve nearly threw his phone against the wall when it began signing in his hand. It took a slow blink or two for his thoughts to clear enough that he understood no, he had not called Bucky out of rote habit, Bucky was calling him. Score one for that mental best friend bond he’d heard the other two joking about the other day. Steve was smiling as he accepted the call and held it up at an angle he hoped would get his face properly. 

“Hey, Buc- oh my god, are you okay?” 

Small on the screen and folding in to himself like he was trying to be just as small in person, Bucky’s eyes were wild where they stared somewhat just over top of whatever device he’d used to call from. He took several ragged breaths in and let them all out a little too heavily before he could speak. 

“No.”

“I’m here, pal, what’s up?”

“Can you- where’s Sam?”

Steve felt his eyebrows lift up together. “Uh, Sam? Is in the next room. Why?”

A good question, he felt, since in the eight or so months since they had all last been together in Wakanda, Bucky had never once so much as breathed Sam’s name during these scattered video calls. Steve had seen them have maybe two conversations in the palace and both of those had been stilted as hell. Two men dancing around the fact that they’d both tried to kill each other on several occasions. Now here was Bucky jerking his eyes over to look directly at the camera and Steve had never seen him look so haunted before. Which, really, was saying something.

“I want to talk to Sam,” he said, voice quiet, aching with something Steve hadn’t heard before. They had talked about Bucky having nightmares. He’d just never seen one, not even the aftermath. Bucky had been a keep-it-close-to-the-chest guy long before what happened with HYDRA.

“Uh, okay. Sure. He might be asleep but I’ll just- yeah.”

Feeling more than a little confused, he did just that. Stood and marched to the door with a single minded purpose that could only come with being given a mission. Bucky wanted to talk to Sam and he might not understand why but he was going to make that happen even if he had to wake the man up. 

Thankfully, he did not have to wake the man up, although if he’d waited even a single full minute longer that might have been the case. Sam hadn’t even taken the time to undress or properly get in to what passed as his bed for tonight. He was still sitting half slumped against the wall on a little nest of blankets, carefully positioned in exactly the opposite corner from Natasha because one simply did not sleep next to a Russian super spy knowing that the slightest disturbance would send her in to full mission mode in less than five seconds. Besides, Sam had laughed when he pointed that out, I’m a serial sleep cuddler and I don’t think that’s a great idea here. Who knows how many knives she’s got under her pillow? 

“Sam?” Fond amusement rippled through the layers of worry as Steve watched his friend’s head loll towards him, indolent and exhausted. “Hey, uh, Bucky’s on a call. He wants...to talk to you?” That got a reaction. His eyes cracked open to take in the phone Steve was holding out and his chin lifted faintly in greeting.

“Hey man,” he ground out, voice coarse with near-sleep. “‘Nother nightmare?”

“Can you tell me a story?” Bucky asked. 

Steve very nearly dropped the phone. He almost dropped it again when Sam, without any external reaction whatsoever, immediately launched in with, “So you know that guy Dwayne I was telling you about? From homeroom? God, lemme tell you about how stupid this guy is. We’re at prom, right? And there’s this honey he’s had his eyes on for like three months only she went to prom with Harry Murdock- yeah, you know, the quarterback. Fuckin’ quarterbacks, man.”

It was kind of like watching something his own weird dreams might come up with. A sequence of events that made very little sense once you’d woken up and tried to piece it all back together. Sam’s eyes gradually slid closed again but his mouth just kept going like this was all totally normal, like he often spent his nights sitting up and telling Bucky random stories about the other kids he’d gone to highschool with. And on the opposite end of the call Bucky’s face grew less haunted with every word until the panic had drained out of him entirely and his own eyes were sliding down. He must have been using a tablet or laptop because the camera stayed perfectly centered on him even when his head at last fell gently down against his chest. 

“-and I mean, yeah, I get what he was going for with the ribbons but fuck, it really just made the whole thing worse. Best night of my entire highschool career gone right down the drain because Harry Murdock was too ashamed to tell his parents he wanted to take me to prom and Lisa Furlow was too good of a friend to tell anyone she was just a beard. Obviously the teachers were mad about the horse being there but- ah. He fall asleep?” It took a second for Steve to realize his friend was asking him a question. 

“Yeah. He did.”

“S’good. Good. ‘M gonna too. Night, Steve.” And then he was out too. Sam’s head lolled again, face going slack, and Steve was left standing there with a phone in his hand and several new knots in his chest, all of them shaped like confusion. 

Well. That. Had happened. Lifting his hand, Steve watched the live image of his best friend sleeping peacefully, a direct contrast to the shaken man who had reached out for help. Reached out to someone who wasn’t Steve. He’d be lying if he tried to say some part of that didn’t sting but he was a big enough person to recognize that helping Bucky was so much more important than stroking his own ego even if he did still feel like the ground was shaky between them after everything that had happened. Watching the man now, he certainly couldn’t deny that whatever the hell just happened seemed to have helped. Bucky hadn’t looked so at peace since he’d volunteered to go back in to cryo while the Wakandans figured out a way to help him. 

Movement from the opposite corner of the room drew Steve’s eye and when he glanced over he found Natasha sitting primly with both eyebrows raised in question. Not having much of an explanation, he could only give her a helpless one-shoulder shrug. They held each others’ gazes in matching confusion for several beats until Steve turned to look back at where Sam lay, asleep and content, slumped against the wall. He was definitely going to wake up to an aching back. 

And a whole lot of questions. 

Unfortunately for Steve’s overwhelming curiosity, he was still self-aware enough to know he didn’t have the heart to wake Sam, not knowing that it was ultimately his own fault the other man was so tired. If he hadn’t shown up on Sam’s doorstep that day they wouldn’t both be here, on the run from their own country, unable to call home to the people they cared about, worn to the bone from running and fighting and hiding themselves away in whatever dingy hole they found to crash in for a night or two. No, Steve would not be the one to disturb any rest his friend managed to find. 

“You gonna hang up some time this century?” Natasha’s voice murmured through the shadows. 

“Oh, yeah, I probably should.”

She watched him do so with what was probably an all too obvious reluctance. Then she grinned. “We’re giving him the third degree tomorrow, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“So many questions. I need to know absolutely everything that led to Sam Wilson telling the Winter Soldier bedtime stories. Everything.”

“That was weird, right?” Steve ran a hand through his hair, absently noting a tremble in the fingers. “We should probably get some sleep too. I mean, you try. Don’t think I’ll be able to get any.”

Natasha unfolded herself from the floor with the corners of her mouth curling up in a little smirk he couldn’t bring himself to look away from. “No, I think I’ll be fine. Let’s go get some coffee. We’ll coordinate our plan of attack for when this guy gets back to the land of the living.” She jerked one thumb at Sam’s form and Steve finally had to peel his eyes away just to hold in the laughter that wanted to spill out. 

“Alright. Yeah. Coffee. And a plan of attack. Sounds good to me.” 

“What was it they called you? The star spangled man with a plan?”

Steve groaned and covered his eyes with the hand not still holding his phone. “Please tell me there’s no surviving footage of me prancing around on stage in tights.”

“Why would I need footage when I get front row seats every time you suit up?” Natasha sauntered away from him, probably - definitely - aware exactly what shade of red she’d just left on his face. Front row seats indeed. He certainly didn’t mind his own front row seat whenever he had the chance and the times Natasha had to join them out here on the run from their own government gave him plenty of chances. 

One last look at his phone made him smile before Steve slipped it in to his pocket and gently clapped both hands together, rubbing his palms back and forth. Coffee did sound good. Coffee with Natasha while they figured out exactly how much hell to give Sam over how he was apparently reading bedtime stories for a man he hadn’t said two words about in all the time since they’d left Wakanda. This was going to be fun. 

[fangirlings-things]

The Border Control Project [Part. 2]

• ───━━━━─ ● ─━━━━─── •

Fandom: Extraction

Pairing: Tyler Rake x female reader

Summary: you're Tyler's next mission and turns out, you need him more than you want to

Word count: 2.4K

Warnings: curse words, violence and mentions of kidnapping

Based on this imagine

Gif credit: @thoresque

A/N: thank youuu so much for all the feedback guys!! I was so happy to know that you liked the story so here I am with part 2, hope you all enjoy it!!

Part. 1

Theme song: Shameless, Camila Cabello

Right now I'm shameless

Screaming my lungs out for you

Not afraid to face it

I need you more than I want to

• ───━━━━─ ● ─━━━━─── •

In a matter of five days, Tyler had learned a lot about that (Y/N) (Y/L/N). The file he had asked for had been delivered with not less than sixteen pages and a pen drive. There, the intelligence people had gathered everything they could find on social media and informations passed to them by the family. With that intel, he was supposed to know her even before he actually did. 

He found out that (Y/N) had been born in Chicago, on the 4th of July. The bloody fireworks of independence day were blowing up in the sky while her mother finally gave birth after a 13 hours labour. Through all her childhood, she went to private schools and had the best education a kid could possibly have. She graduated high school with excellent grades and went strictly to the University of Illinois at Chicago, to study History. 

She loved coffee and was fascinated by ancient artefacts and events. Her favorite movie was Star Wars. She was a great fan of Queen and even had a Freddie Mercury poster at her beedrom back in Chicago. Books were a passion of hers, she had read over forty at the age of 18, when other teens would probably be causing trouble around and getting themselves into the life of alcohol and sex. But that didn't mean that that girl didn't knew how to party as well. 

She frequently attended to parties, drank just enough to the alcohol in her system to make her happier and would dance through the night with her friends. Tyler saw some pictures and a video and in all of them, that girl seemed to have no worries at all. She smiled, laughed, passed her hands through her hair and closed her eyes to feel the beat of the music that was ringing in her ears. The thought that she might never smile like that again after what was happening, kinda disturbed him. 

It took some watching through surveillance cameras, intel and study of some rotes of the city, but the team Nik had putted up together called a meeting with everyone who was out after exactly a week since they had first gotten there. They had found (Y/N)’s location. 

She was being kept at a incredibly large house for Guadalajara's standards. That part of the city was one of the richest and yet, that place stood out.

With it's enormous extension, the odd distance from every other building in a raid of three miles, metal huge gates and the two heavily armed men guarding the way in, it pretty much seemed like a fortress. A place where important people would probably hide in troubled times. Although in that moment, it was being used by a total different goal.

Such goal placed Tyler just where he was, on the inside of an old '75 Chevrolet, driving smoothly and calmly while heading to the adress he had watched for a day and a half from the woods near by. He had gone there with questions, and came back with it's answers. How many men? At least twelve, plus the two at the gates. Who went in? Not a single soul. Who went out? Two men in a black SUV. Probably the driver in the front and the big boss, whomever that was, in the back. He didn't get a clear visual on any of them to get facial recognition. Which pretty much, pissed him off.

Tyler had gotten into his head that he wanted to figure out who was behind that shit. Who wanted to shut down the Border Control Project and had gone far enough as to kidnapp the daughter of the Senator. Nik had been right before, when she said that a lot of people could have done it. Dealers, traffickers, corrupted politicians, dirty cops. A bunch of them could go down with that project's approval. Whomever it was, the odds weren't good for (Y/N). But well, that's where he came in. To improve those odds. To fucking rescue her and get his money.

When Tyler made a turn to the left and the house he was going to invade showed up in his sight, he took a deep breath and instantly began to slow down the Chevrolet, making the velocimeter drop quickly, until he stopped right in front of the metal gates. 

"¿Qué estás haciendo?" the smaller of the two men guarding the gates was quick to approach the car with his ACR firmly between his hands, a stern expression on his face. 

What are you doing. Tyler putted on his face the best surprised and scared look he could, while taking his hands out of the wheel and then raising his hands in the air. He kept his bright eyes locked on the gun the man caried, trying to make him see the fake fear he was showing. 

“Salga del coche, cabrón!” again the smaller of the guards spoke up, just as Tyler reached for the window of the car that was closed. The fact for itself seemed to piss the guard off, because now from up close Tyler could see that his knuckles were white from gripping the ACR too tightly. “Vamos, vamos!”

“No habló español! No hablo español!” Tyler placed as much accent as he could on those words, eyes still on the other's gun. Get out of the car, of course he understood. But oh, he wasn't going to do that. Not before the other guard came closer as well. 

“Step out of the car” translated the taller man, doing exactly as Tyler predicted, taking a few steps towards the Chevrolet. 

Tyler nodded, keeping the frightened expression in his face. Slowly he opened the door and got out of the car, stepping in front of the two men with as much causality as he could with his hands in the air again. The smaller one kicked the door of the car closed and held his gun straight to Tyler’s face, as the taller one came even closer and analyzed Tyler up and down with a uninterested look.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the taller guard asked, calm but yet, as dangerous as the other one. He had his hands on his gun, but just for protocol. His grip wasn’t that tight in the metal beneath his fingers. His mistake, Tyler thought to himself.

“My name is Jeffrey, I’m a tourist” Tyler said with the best worried voice he had, keeping his eyes locked on the one who could speak english. “I lost my turn on the road and don’t know how to get back to the city. Please, I just stopped for information”

The taller man squeezed his brown eyes, thinking about his words. Deciding if he should believe him or not. After minutes that seemed like hours, he bought the story and nodded for the other to lower his weapon. His second and last mistake.

Tyler acted like a lightning. Too quick. He elbowed the smaller one that was closer, kicked him in the legs and made him fall, hitting his head on the ground. Just before the taller one could grip his weapon firmly enough to shoot, Tyler grabbed it and took it out of his hands after throwing him a punch. Two shots, the taller one was gone. He turned around to shot at the smaller one and was surprised to see that he had already gotten up and charged forward, aiming the gun to his face again. Tyler pulled the trigger four times. The blood wet the ground and he was alone.

“The front gate is clear” he said, after pressing the wire in his right ear so that the team could hear him clearly. Leaning down, he inspected the smaller one’s pockets and after finding nothing, went to the other dead man and found the keys to open the gate in his back left pocket. The keys he had seen they use while he was on watch.

“Well done, Jeffrey” Nik’s voice seemed to come from inside his own head, like she was his consciousness. As he smirked for a moment for the childish thought, he couldn’t deny, that would be a good thing for him. To be rid of his bloody consciousness, if he had one at all.

“I’m going in” he twisted the keys on the gate and heard the lock click, opening. 

Instead of entering though, he stepped to the side and leaned against the big walls. As he expected, the men from inside had heard the gunshots and went to the gates. Now, they were stepping outside slowly, with their guns held high and strongly.

Tyler took a deep breath. Feeling excitement run through his whole body in the form of pure adrenaline, he started to pull the trigger over and over again.  

            • ───━━━━─ ● ─━━━━─── •

You woke up to the sound of gunshots. Endless gunshots. They scared you and ringed in your ears as if they were coming from millimeters away. You thought if some of the men had began a fight between themselves. You had heard some of them arguing before, but they never got violent. Until now, anyway.

The idea that they could be distracted occurred to you and you found yourself realizing that that would be the best moment for you to escape. To try and get out of there without being noticed. Even the man that guarded your door, Juan, as you had heard other call him, was gone. Probably to inspect the origin of the firing.

Pulling against the restrains with enough force to scratch your skin you tried desperately to be free, not allowing yourself to make a single sound behind the gag. Oh no, you wanted them to continue forgetting that you were there and that you were now alone.

The gunshots stopped after so much time that now the sudden silence felt weird. The quiet made you panic, because you were very aware that your chance to escape was slipping away from you. Your only chance.

You started to scream from frustration behind the gag, crying and pulling so much that your arms ached and hurt as if they were being cut open. The door then was kicked open and that was when you really started to scream.

That man, you had never seen around the house you had been taken to. He was really tall, blond. Wore a blue shirt that had the same color of his eyes and old jeans. He was covered in blood. So much blood. In his face, arms, boots. Blood everywhere. The sight made you sick with fear. Was he the one sent to finally kill you? The moment he pulled out a knife from his waist, you got the confirmation you needed.

The tears wet your face and you made one last, useless attempt on the restrains. He got closer to the mattress, towering over you like a fucking building. You closed your eyes and took one last deep breath, finally accepting your fate as he kneeled on the floor beside you.

And then the restrains were gone.

Opening your eyes, you felt his rough hands touching your skin as he took the ropes completely out of your arms and then reached for your gag. Instantly, you kicked him in the legs making him fall on his side.

You ran out of the room, your hand flying to your own mouth and taking the gag out. You tossed it aside and forced your legs to work as without any orientation you tried to find your way out of that place. You ran as fast as you could, but you only made it to two corridors until you found yourself falling to the ground with a heavy weight upon your body. That man’s body.

You screamed and kicked, pushed and punched. Freedom was so close. You just had to…

“Stop fighting!” the man spoke for the first time, turning your body towards his and grabbing your hands when you tried to punch him in the face. He pressed your wrists with an iron grip to the ground. You continued trying to kick him, and that made his grip get harder. “Listen to me, (Y/N)! I’m here to save you!”

That made you go still. Frozen in place. None of the men there before had used your name. Never. You had the feeling that they didn’t even knew who you were. They were just tools, used to keep you under control under the command of someone much more important.

You stared into the man’s eyes, analyzed his expression. It was serious, dangerous. Some of the blood from his face fell on yours as you just stared at him and thought of the odds of him being actually telling the truth.

“If what you say is true then get the fuck away from me” you growled at him, every word hurting your throat as you spoke again after so much time in silence.

“Will you run if I let you go?” he asked fiercely, staring deeply into your eyes with such intensity that it made you nervous. Only when you denied with your head, he complied to your demand and released you, getting to his feet.

You got up slowly, without taking your eyes out of his for even a moment as you did. Your eyes went down to the knife that was back at his waist. You swallowed dry and tried to run again, but he seemed to have predicted that for the way he grabbed your forearm before you could get even a few steps away.

“Listen to me!” he grabbed both of your arms and shoved your much smaller body into the nearest wall. “Your father hired me! The Senator! I’m here to get you to safety but I cannot do that if you keep trying to run from me!"

“And I am just supposed to believe you?” you looked up at his face, the dry tears on your face now were mixed with blood you had gotten from him. “How can I believe you?”

“Your name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!” he said firmly, his grip still firm. “Your mother is Eleanor and your father is Charles (Y/L/N)! You love coffee, you were born in Chicago! Your best friend’s name is Maggie! Your favorite movie is Star Wars and you study History at college! Your first cat was named Thomas, he died two years ago!”

You just stared at him in complete shock. It was true. Everything he had just said about you. He new everything. Stuff no one could know unless they had spoken to your family. He was telling the truth.

“Y-you’re telling the truth” you said in a weak tone, trying to wrap your mind around the fact. After such time being a prisoner, you couldn’t believe it.

“I am” he seemed calmer now that he could see you believed him, but his eyes were still dangerous. Still completely alert. “Now let’s go. We have to get out of here before whomever kidnapped you notices what I did and sends reinforcements”

• ───━━━━─ ● ─━━━━─── •

tag list: @posiemax ; @annaallicce ; @alievans007 ; @imiiimargo ; @chickensarentcheap ; @fangirlsarah16 ; @innerpaperexpertcloud ; @ri-wantstorunaway ; @keikomia

[krisseycrystal]

Please, o' Granter of Wishes, in these dark days, I have but one request. On the Decree of Fluff, there lies both Soulmates & Reincarnation. Might I implore thee to pick a preferred option with the Fated Shuake pairing from the tale of Persona 5?

[sage voice] it is done.... 

shuake + “reincarnation” anyway alskdjf gOING TO WORK ON SHUAKE + “SOULMATES” NOW because i can’t help myself and couldn’t decide and honestly that sounds like a LOT of fun and also I have an idea (it will be a LOT happier than this one i promise alksdjfasdf)

thank you SO MUCH for the request, friend!! hope you enjoy and sorry for all the poetry

The Fool’s Courage [Read on AO3]

It starts with the tiny scribble of a pen in the corner of a crossword puzzle book and a, “Hey, any idea what 23 across might be?” which isn’t the way Akechi had ever planned on starting something that could remotely be considered a tragedy or a romance, but here they are.

He knows Kurusu sees the tiny, I think we’ve met before, because there’s a small furrow to his brow and a bend at the corner of his mouth and it’s not that Akechi’s been staring at the slope of that mouth, per se, but he’s always thought everyone else’s claims that the transfer student was hard to read was completely bogus if one just paid attention to the tiny inflictions in his face.

Kurusu adjusts his glasses and pivots the open magazine around the axis of his finger. He grabs Akechi’s pen out of his hand before Akechi can say a word--the nerve--and Akechi would say something, he probably should, but his own fingers are still tingling at that brief contact and he thinks if he tries his voice might betray him.

So he crosses his forearms over the counter and watches his pen--his--idly swing in the space between Kurusu’s thumb to index finger. It’s a rapid, thoughtless movement; it has no right to be so charming.

When Kurusu finally scribbles in the boxes and returns both crossword and pen, Akechi scoffs. “You could have given me a hint. No need to show off.”

Kurusu’s smile is something that handsomely reads, Isn’t that usually my line?

Akechi tries not to smile back. When Mr. Sakura walks up with a phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, he and Kurusu share a Look that means another order to-go and immediately, Kurusu moves for the disposable containers tucked above the fridge. 

Akechi taps his pen against the puzzle and hums. 

In the string of boxes, the poet of Infinitati Sacrum has been penned in Kurusu’s jagged, near illegible English (really, who taught this boy his English characters?): J-O-H-N-D-O-N-N-E.

He doesn’t know how the hell Kurusu knew that but the echo of possibility makes some, jaded part of him feel hopeful again. More importantly: written to the side, is a dark and small, I think I know what you mean.

When Akechi lifts his eyes, Kurusu is watching him with those quiet, steady eyes. He is too clever, too brilliant, for such an unassuming young man who hides behind thick glasses and a cafe shop counter.

- o - o - o -

It is England and it is Westerham and 1817 and he drank too much wine and made a fool of himself in the downstairs parlor, but it seems there is mercy yet to be found in the inoccupation of this room because damn the sounds this man’s tongue draws out of him are obscene.

In the cooling afterglow, he slips his long-awaited reply in an inside pocket of the man’s black coat, which had been heedlessly tossed over an upholstered chair. After a sweat-slick grin and teasing jibe about being more careful with the articles of his wardrobe or else people might get ideas, he straightens his cravat and dismisses himself out the servant’s halls with a, “Until next time, my dear burglar,” tossed over his shoulder.

It would not be good for him to be seen here.

They will meet again outside of Kent and then it will be strictly business. They have their roles to play after the Good Lady of Ramsgate complained about her missing silver after opening her doors for a social evening. If he wishes to uphold his post, he cannot give anything away about the promiscuous nature of his relationship with the man who is undoubtedly the culprit.

Not if he wishes to see him again in the fall.

- o - o - o -

It’s not just crossword puzzles. Over time, sudokus, word searches, cryptograms--passed from one hand to the other over LeBlanc’s counter--also become the means of their secret correspondences, the channels by which those burning things on the edges of their hearts finally have their chance to speak. Akechi would say he isn’t sure why or how he has become so certain of his and Kurusu’s strange connection, if only every time he looked at the young man, he wasn’t absolutely certain that the soul of him, even if not his face, was somehow familiar.

They start to use ciphers where well-placed puzzles and requests for help with English word searches to loop the letters R-E-I-N-C-A-R-N-A-T-I-O-N with a scribbled question mark next to it aren’t enough.

Kurusu struggles with the ciphers at first (adorable), mouth pinched and brow furrowed at the extra effort it takes to work out Akechi’s true message (also adorable). He himself doesn’t attend Shojin, so he can never watch him to verify this hypothesis, but it’s clear that Kurusu must spend some time working on his ciphers during his lectures or between his Metaverse missions because it only takes a single day for Akechi to receive each response, folded inside the cursory napkin between his daily coffee cup and saucer. 

And each time, he is forced to stifle the fluttery, warm feeling in his chest. 

There is nothing for Akechi to be affected about. Certainly not the idea that Kurusu spends at least some of his non-renewable hours and minutes thinking about him and what it is he wishes to tell him.

The happiness is silly. Foolish. It shouldn’t make him glad that a young man who he has been told should be his enemy wants to pursue these conversations, especially when Akechi makes it so difficult to do so in the first place in the hopes of keeping their written messages safe from unwanted eyes.

But their letters are a simple joy.

And Akechi does not have many simple joys in this current life.

- o - o - o -

It is Greece and it is 159 and a new shipment of papyrus has arrived when that damned thief strikes again. This time, just as the previous time, and the time before that, the thief steals more than his employer can afford to lose. At last, at last, having enough of this, the guard lays his trap.

When, by torchlight, with men at either shoulder, they corner the thief in a stone alcove, there’s something glinting in those dark eyes that, ironically, arrests him.

It is something old.

Something familiar.

And he cannot escape the wondering question: have they done this song and dance before?

- o - o - o -

It is 1816 and there are times, though they are few and far inbetween, when his burglar stays late into the night, entwined in the cotton of his sheets, and though he knows it won’t last until morning, the brush of their legs tangled together are enough to power him through centuries apart, he is sure.

“Tell me something you’ve read lately,” he whispers with his cheek pressed to his pillow. He breathes softly as his fingertips trace over the back of his burglar’s hand, following the soft ridge of blue veins under his skin.

“I’m afraid all I have for you are poems,” his burglar murmurs.

“How typical of you.”

“Is Donne too morbid for our faire?”

“If it’s recited by you, it’s perfect.”

And his burglar frowns thoughtfully, eyes askance. Slowly, he rolls onto his back and his arm twists so that his palm is up and settled beside his ear. His own hand follows it and their fingers intertwine.

“I sing the progress of a deathless soul,” his burglar hushedly murmurs and for not the first time, he finds himself marveling at the man’s perfect, rote memory. “Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not control, placed in most shapes; all times before the law yoked us, and when, and since, in this I sing…”

Angels know he could listen to the rumble of that quiet voice forever.

- o - o - o -

The ciphers, admittedly, get out of hand. What starts as, Do you believe in past lives? You probably think I’m crazy and You’re too good at chess to be crazy; I will see what I can find in the school library turns into You seriously need to better your handwriting and I can tell the news station the Detective Prince drinks his coffee here anytime then I have a geography test coming up that I am NOT looking forward to and Have you been sleeping well? You’ve been looking exhausted lately.

They start writing about anything and everything in between. The latest celebrity gossip from the news on the ancient TV with the crooked antenna in the cafe’s corner to their personal likes and dislikes. You can call me Akira, you know, and Very well; then call me Goro. They share childhood experiences both good and bad and dreams and, Have you ever thought about what you might do after your probation year is finally over?

It’s a question Akechi has always longed to ask as someone who has never fooled himself into thinking he might live past the age of eighteen.

He would be lying if he tried to claim that he didn’t look forward to their notes.

They talk over the counter, as a regular and barista so often do.

But it’s so nice, he thinks, so very nice, to have this one good, hidden thing that he can take home and read alone and know the secret message within is meant for his eyes only. He wonders if there is anyone else in the world so lucky as he is to receive an encrypted message in such a scratchy and slanted font.

- o - o - o -

Eastern Han period, China. 768, Egypt. 1511, Italy. The lives and the motif of their stories blur together in a vague idea of memory. They are not sure how and why everything first began. Ask either one and the answer will be a shrug or a turned-away head, beleaguered by a small smile. Have they always been an ill-fated pair? Has their star-crossed story always been that of a thief and a hero? But who is the hero and who is the thief, because Akechi isn’t quite sure he knows anymore.

If the hero is supposed to be the one who saves the day, then he already knows the answer to their age-old riddle. 

In this life, anyway.

- o - o - o -

It’s done. 

Things are as they should be. Maybe how they were meant to be.

Akechi lays in a pool of his own blood, sirens blaring around him, and stares at the steel ceiling of Shido’s ship and knew, somehow, in the center of him, that it would come to this. 

“Great Destiny the Commissary of God,” he whispers and it’s funny, isn’t it? It should be funny. A 1601 poem being somehow relevant and applicable four hundred years later. Akechi supposes that’s what happens when you have two lives who are again and again and again remembering old things and experiencing new ones but are never able to change the repetitions of their fate, these damnable roles they were meant to play.

“That has mark’d out a path and period for everything,” Akechi murmurs and touches the blood pooling over his chest. He lifts his hand above his face and watches the way his own blood webs between his fingers. “Where we of-spring took, our ways and ends see…at one instant…” 

He thinks of Kurusu, which might be precisely what summons him. He can hear the others’ indignant, pitched cries of, “Joker!” as he jumps onto the top of the bulkhead door. With a graceful leap, arm extended, he grabs the railing that lines the walkway along the side of the partition and flips down. Elegant. Stunning.

A fool.

“What…” Akechi coughs and doesn’t get to finish his question. Kurusu’s knees push under his head, red-gloved hands clutching at his shoulder and pulling him up--up--and suddenly there is screaming pain that whites out his thoughts. “Don’t! Don’t…that hurts.”

“Good. Because you’re supposed to live.”

Kurusu is not one to often talk so when he does, it feels like all of nature snaps to attention. Akechi lifts his head in surprise, which is when Kurusu takes the opportunity to press his fingers into the lining where his dark helmet meets the neck of his suit. Akechi opens his mouth to say something like these costumes aren’t supposed to work like that in the Metaverse, idiot, but then Kurusu yanks up and the helmet slips free and--well--shows what he knows. 

Maybe he’s the fool.

“Stay with me.” 

Kurusu’s hand is new and startlingly warm on his cheek. Akechi decides he likes it.

“Thou knot of all causes, thou whose changeless brow ne’r smiles nor frowns.” Akechi laughs and coughs and murky, red spittle dots his lips. 

“Stop it.”

“I always thought that part described you rather well.” 

“You weren’t supposed to be a murderer, Goro.”

Oh.

Akechi sighs and with it, he feels his strength ebb. “You think so?”  

“I know so.” There’s something in Kurusu’s voice that sounds like anger and it is surprising. It is comforting. It is enough to hear it. “You never have been before. You--you have always been brilliant and clever and just, but Shido took you and made you this when we could have been friends. I won’t forgive him for it.”

“Good.” Akechi’s stomach spasms against his will and the pain is near enough to make him black out. It’s time. “Then get him for me, won’t you, Akira?”

“I will.”

“Who knows. Maybe in our next life, we’ll have better luck.” 

Kurusu tilts his head close and leans in. They have never, not once, shown any intimacy but somehow the feeling of those chapped lips against his brow isn’t in the least bit foreign, nor unwelcome. It is all Akechi has ever hoped for.

“I’ll find you,” Kurusu promises and the words seal like a vow in his chest. “And this time, I won’t let them change you.”

- o - o - o -

Memory blurs, that’s the point. If memory didn’t blur you wouldn’t have the fool’s courage to do things again, again, again that tear you apart.

- Joyce Carol Oates, We Were the Mulvaneys

[goodlucktai]

lying in the gutter, aiming for the moon

final fantasy xv pairing: gladio/ignis/prompto (mentions of ot4) word count: 1267 summary: Prompto is better when he’s busy, so he pours all of his time and energy into the constant relief efforts, and hunting daemons, and helping displaced refugees make a new home in fortified Lestallum. Ignis and Gladio don’t have much to say to him anymore, but that’s alright -- he can take care of himself. And if this little kid has nobody else and nowhere to go, then Prompto can take care of him, too.

read on ao3

chapter 2/?

x

The Leville was used as a shelter immediately after the fall. With so many people flocking to the safety of Lestallum, it only made sense for the hotel to open its doors and offer its wealth of empty rooms. Since then it's been converted into something of a hostel, with multiple bunks in most rooms instead of the standard double beds, and the lobby serves as a soup kitchen Prompto works at every Wednesday.

Ignis lives there permanently, in a private apartment with attached bathroom and kitchenette, and Gladio stays with him when he's in town. It used to be the place Prompto went home to, too, but he hasn’t been back there in months.

There are other shelters now, new buildings rising up beside the old, ones that Prompto helped build, with communal kitchens and bathrooms on each floor. They’re nice, he thinks, and the people made homeless by night and war seem happy with them.

Prompto has a room in one of those shelters, but only because Ace told Dave that Prompto was sleeping in the back of one of the cargo trucks between jobs, and Dave got disproportionately angry and made the arrangements himself.

“I don’t need this much space,” Prompto had tried to tell him, refusing to take the key. “I’m hardly home anyway, Dave, it doesn’t make sense. There are -- families, people with kids. Give them a place with a bed.”

But Dave didn’t care. And Ace didn’t, either, when Prompto looked betrayed at him. And maybe they would have been at an impasse, except at that point Dave played his trump card and threatened to tell Cindy if Prompto didn’t take the damn room.

He took the damn room, but he wasn’t happy about it. He thought about ignoring it out of spite, but then it would just be sitting empty, and it would be even more pointless than having a room in the first place already was.

Prompto’s relieved his friends were so stubborn, now.

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have room,” the harried woman at the door tells him shortly. She runs the group home, a two-story house where a few live-in caretakers look after misplaced or orphaned children. “Go down to the hospital, there should be a care center there that can take him.”

Prompto stares at the door for a moment after she shuts it, and then turns to look at Ace. Ace shakes his head wearily, leaning against the alley wall as Prompto comes back down the porch steps. Each step is a ginger one, so he doesn’t jostle the sleeping kid in his arms more than he has to. Ace looks amused at him, but doesn’t comment.

“I don’t know what to tell you, brother,” he says instead. “Everyone’s stretched about as thin as they can go, and it’s not like there’s a government in place anymore to oversee things like housing and child care.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, leaning against the wall beside him. “Dave always says our main priority is keeping daemons at bay, politics and law enforcement are worries for another life. But still -- for a kid not to have any place to go -- “

Even Prompto has always had a place to go. An empty house was better than no house at all. Absent parents were better than none. Even now, if he wanted, he could probably go to the apartment he used to live in with Ignis and Gladio. It would be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t think Ignis would turn him away.

Ace looks thoughtful. He says, “My sister might be able to look after him.”

“Your sister is looking after four kids already, only two of which are hers.”

“So take him to the care center, like the lady said. He doesn’t have to be your problem, Prom.”

“That’s exactly why he’s not going to the care center,” Prompto tells him succinctly, shifting the kid’s weight a little. After all the battle machinery he grew accustomed to hauling out of the Armiger and whipping around in a fight, a five year old is nothing. “They’ll look at him like another problem added to the grocery list of things they have to deal with, until they can stick him in a hole somewhere and put a little checkmark by his name and pat themselves on the back for a job well done. Nah, dude. That’s not fair.”

Ace has a complicated look on his face that Prompto doesn’t know how to interpret. "You don't know that's how they'd treat him."

“I mean, it’s not hard to guess. Everyone’s overworked and burnt out. It doesn’t make them bad people, Ace, it just makes them the wrong choice for this. I can keep an eye on him for awhile, until we figure something else out.”

“Are you sure? I mean -- I’m not sayin’ you can’t, you’re stubborn enough to be good at anything you put your mind to, and that includes babysitting -- but you’ve got a lot on your plate as it is.”

Prompto sighs inwardly, but he’s not surprised. For whatever reason, Ace and the rest of them seem to think that Prompto is due for some sort of meltdown. They don’t come out and say as much, and no one is going to turn away help when it’s freely offered, but they give him side-eyes every now and then, like they can see his seams trying to come apart.

He’s fine, though. He likes helping. He’s on the duty roster for pretty much everything, from cooking to carpentry to electric repair, even if the hunters usually claim him for supply runs and escort missions. He’s better when he’s staying busy.

So he slides sideways, enough to bump Ace’s shoulder playfully, trying to shake that look off his face.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Everything’s cool. Sorry for dragging you out here with me for nothing.”

His friend gives him the driest expression Prompto’s seen in a long time, since Noctis tried to repair one of his shirts during the first leg of their roadtrip and Ignis found the attempt while he was doing the laundry.

“Don’t quit your day job,” the advisor had said, sending Gladio and Prompto into gales of laughter while Noctis sat there looking offended.

The memory makes Prompto laugh a little now, too, at the same time it makes him want to curl into a little ball of misery and nurse a grief that’s still, somehow, raw and aching.

“What’d I tell you about saying sorry to me?” Ace is saying by rote, and Prompto doesn’t miss a beat with his cheeky grin.

“To not to. Sorry.”

“Brat,” says Ace, who is a whole month younger than Prompto. “Get home, then, and I’ll let Dave know about the kid. And I better see the two of you at breakfast, or I'm telling June you've skipped it the last few days."

"Six, you don't have to threaten me. We'll be there." Prompto glances down at the boy he's holding, and adds, "Maybe I'll know his name by then, too. I can introduce you properly and all that."

Ace ruffles his hair, until it sticks up the way it used to when gel was a thing people could worry about. He's got a crooked smile on a face that lends itself well to smiling, dark eyes and dusky skin the farthest thing from Noctis there could be, and maybe that's why it's so easy for Prompto to be near him. He says, "I can't wait to meet him," and Prompto knows he means it.

"Look at you, Mr. Popular," Prompto says to the sleeping boy, making his way down a well-lit street towards home. "You've got two friends already, and you're not even awake yet. You're off to a great start."

[junker-town]

No sports, no fun

Getty Images

Good bye, maybe.

I’m afraid I won’t ever feel again the way I did on Nov. 4, 2000, when I was not yet 13 years old and the pain was new and all-consuming. I loved sports so much it hurt, and that love bore bitter fruit when Anthony Thomas fumbled a football for no good reason, and Michigan lost to Northwestern, 54-51, in the most stunning game I can remember.

I couldn’t question the feeling, nor did I think it could be questioned; my amygdala pulled its trigger and I buried my face as deeply as I could into our cold, wave-patterned couch in the next room. My shock even erased the memory of the steps I took. I remember the twin feelings of a cold couch on my face and injustice. Or maybe not quite injustice, but something unfair. It didn’t feel targeted. For the first time maybe, I felt impersonal, unmotivated and heavy cruelty.

Thomas was a football player of mythic proportions, a torso of concrete and legs made thick just from making sure his upper half didn’t topple over. He was marvelous, and at all times mildly disappointing, a perfect picture of inefficient smashmouth football just before the sport discovered better ideas. Thomas carried the ball 37 times for 199 yards, but he was outdone by Damien Anderson, who rushed for 268 yards on 31 carries in a Randy Walker offense that was one of the first examples of spread football on a big stage.

That game would come to be known as one of the most influential in college football history because of the way an underpowered team shocked another team of Thomas-ian proportions. But lost in the final score is the way Thomas fumbled. He broke through the line for what should have been a game-winning first down, then he simply dropped the ball.

There was and is nothing to be learned from that. The whole was instructive; the details were not. Michigan would have won but Thomas dropped the ball, and then I hurt and I couldn’t make it stop.

I obsessed over that play. At the time, I obsessed over every aspect of Michigan football. I remember falling asleep thinking about Michigan’s ongoing high school recruiting class, its deficiencies and how the current commitments might shape the team. I used to take a football out to our front lawn and play out the upcoming games drive by drive, hucking the ball up in the air and running under it to make a big catch. If I was feeling generous, I’d give the opposition a rare interception. On a related note, I was a pretty lonely kid.

Before I developed a better relationship with sports, I approached them almost exclusively as something my team either won or lost. I decided I ought to take them very seriously, to the extent that everyone should think of me as a person who knew sports. I wanted to have the best answer to every question; I wanted to be a vessel of knowledge that others would rather submit to than challenge.

At the time, it seemed like a hobby. Now I know I was compensating for being a pipsqueak in every other regard. The problem, either way, was how much I had staked my confidence in being right.

In college, I took an internship at a fantasy sports website and learned how dumb I was. I found out there are people who seem to know every bit about everything — things like baseball — who could not only hold a greater mass of information in their brains than me, but could also do so without being an uptight dick about it.

What I should have learned was that caring about things intrinsically, and not for egotistical reasons, opens up our capacity to both know and love more about the world. Instead, I felt like I was drowning, like every moment more evidence was piling on top of me about what a fraud I was, faster than I could claw from under it.

I wondered if I could say I loved sports like I used to, or if I ever loved them to begin with. That period showed me a couple things: 1) That I could bull shit anything in writing, and 2) maybe I should readjust my relationship with sports.

I never stopped wanting to be a sportswriter, which I’ve wanted to be my whole life. But I also picked up a knack for editing, the process of turning your first thought into your best thought, of shaping and shielding and censoring an unvarnished self. That unvarnished self was often a truer self, perhaps. But it didn’t sing, and it never won.

I consider SB Nation my first real job, though when I started it only paid $1 more per hour than the fantasy gig. The difference was at SB Nation I saw a path to who I newly wanted to be. Which is to say, I started chasing a sense of superiority on moral grounds.

Working at SB Nation has never not been exciting, but my first and maybe last thrill was getting to say I worked with Spencer Hall. He’d become my favorite writer by crafting guttingly funny and guttingly poignant things about college football. A universe unfolded out of EDSBS.com, one that was weird and empathetic and antagonistic towards the capital-S Sportswriter lens and voice. Reading him gave me a physical sensation like my belly was made of splintered wood and a family of feral critters was tearing through, and that I ought to be happy for them.

I’ve read Spencer’s 2011 essay GOD’S AWAY ON BUSINESS dozens of times now and it never fails to scare the shit out of me.

None of this matters now. The man or woman in the desk is gone. They will not be returning anytime soon. Outside there are men roaming the streets. No one’s wondering who’s in charge, and that’s why the doors are locked, and the children inside quivering. When the desk is empty, it means anarchy is at your door. There are no permissions or courtesies. Shit just happens, and it happens all the time, and there’s no stopping it until everything you have is gone and bouncing out the door on the shoulders of thieves.

God, or anyone like him, is away on business.

I started aping Spencer then, and I’m still aping him now, though I feel more like myself. Mimic something long enough and you might accidentally discover some of the substance that makes the aesthetic work.

SB Nation taught me a better way to love sports. That what is true and good wasn’t in the results — on the field, or off where discourse boiled down to soggy debate — but in the ephemera. It was in baseball players taking pitches right to the beans.

SB Nation was dedicated to silliness and inclusivity. It highlighted the good people that sports elevated on rare occasions. It never fought along the chauvinistic battle lines that can feel like a mandatory part of fandom; in fact, it emphatically ignored them. And yet even after a decade-plus of existence, people still get upset when we suggest sports don’t have to be experienced in rote, tribalistic ways. Typically all you have to do is check the replies.

We never stated this mission very clearly, which has always kinda been a problem. Probably the problem. But if you paid attention, you saw it reiterated in countless ways. (Just click a letter, and note that none of these people work here anymore.) GOD’S AWAY ON BUSINESS was my value set among the many options, however. It told me that what we love most sometimes isn’t scored; that everyone has a responsibility to define and find joy for themselves, even if it may be outside the rules; and that to invest oneself in wonder and silliness also means taking on the duty to defend them.

At SB Nation I learned I didn’t have to identify by sports. I could have a relationship with them, I could be objective towards them, and I could turn them off. I learned that I have a self outside of what I like.

Working here has forced me to look back and figure out what I truly loved about sports. So far I’ve found two things: Charles Woodson, and the way sports helped a shy kid introduce himself. For me, sports’ best utility has been the way they facilitate genuine connection. Which is almost funny, because we know now the extent that sports are artificial by how easily they’ve disappeared.

But to know that sports have had some importance in one’s life is proof they can’t be trivial. They are real in the fact that we choose to empower them. The score has never mattered. Sports live because we give them life.

I don’t always feel good about that fact. Although I’ve come to terms with being mildly stupid, and I’ve gotten better at appreciating things intrinsically, I still often hate that sports are integral to me and that I’ll leave this mortal coil defined by something that never gave me agency.

There’s an image I’ll never shake. My last visit with my grandfather as he lay on the bed he’d die on. He was person I’ve perhaps wanted to emulate most in this world. A French history professor. The funniest, most considerate person I knew. He made everyone feel heard. I said this at his funeral:

He always paused before he laughed, turning over what you said and taking even the bad jokes and finding their point of redemption. Funny enough, this was a sign that he took you seriously, that he thought what you said mattered, even if you were five years old and nothing you had ever said to that point had ever been important. And because he laughed with you, you couldn’t help but laugh along side.

Just a month or two before I saw him among his final days, prostrate, suffering terribly from dementia and barely able to speak. He no longer embodied the self he had curated over 85 years. I talked to him about Michigan football because that had been the thing we talked about the most. He responded only in smiles and hmphs. I didn’t know if he retained anything I said until I started to leave the room. He said the last words I’d ever hear him say: “Go Blue.”

The image that haunts me isn’t my grandfather: Every memory of him makes me love him more, and I’m more grateful than words can say that in our last interaction we felt connected and happy.

Rather it’s my imagination, seeing myself dissolved layer by layer, body and soul disappearing. What would be left in a reduction of my experiences, love, regrets and relationships that I cultivated or destroyed? It might be sports’ afterimage, an outline of Anthony Thomas.

I feel sports’ absence. Maybe I’ve become accustomed to a constant hum of play, or maybe this pandemic has, in a terrible roundabout way, helped us see what is intrinsic.

But I do miss sports, even if that feeling is a byproduct of muscle memory. I miss fun, and sports have been the best outlet I’ve even known to find it. I’ve had a hard time not seeing this period as an attack on fun, that, more and more, the world is becoming something I don’t want to go back to: stodgy and bitter, a self-perpetuating game to see who’s winning at any moment. It feels like there’s no room left to be quiet and gentle.

I don’t know when fun will come back, and it feels fair to ask if it can. There has never been a good answer whether dumb anger is simply the natural state of things, or something we’ve reinforced on one another. There’s only the imprint that anger has left, deep with slippery walls.

The only thing I know is we all want to belong; that at the root of every fight is ostensibly the same impetus — to be full of love and free of worry once again, to feel complete and want for nothing. We just can’t agree on terms.

But I believe there is a healthy definition of belonging. One that does not subsume you, but lets you position yourself amongst the world, and create your own space as opposed to being dictated its rules. A way of editing that doesn’t entrench self, but amplifies it.

The end of the world is demanding, but we have options. And when I close my eyes, I can still see the world I want.

[postapocalypse13]

sex as power (#MeToo)

Rape is a political statement. It says: "I am everything. You are nothing." God of Sky and Rain Women hold up half the sky? In His world women hold up the sky. Men sit around, masturbate, watch football, occasionally, go out and rape lowering that small part of the sky. Rose Red I am prickly, admittedly. I come by it rightly. Organically evolved defensive weapon (note, no offensive weapon attached). You must approach me with care. Feel the velvet of my vibrant leaves, gently. My flower, radiant in grace and wonder. Musical poetry wafting, my enchanted perfume calling for the discerning touch. But grasp too hard, too clumsily, without reflection, a thousand tiny cuts push you far away. In no time, you will heal, leaving me to bleed forever, attempting to clear from my system your poisonous residue. Bitter Dregs You don't get it. You don't want to. It would be too much to bear if you let your thought go there. Briefly unconscious, awakened to hard concrete ground surrounded by heels and toes, amazing they don't crush me, but no, like clockstep they walk around though occasionally a(n unmeaning?) shove -- I'm not a someone, just a minor obstacle unnoted in their busy day. No worries. Not like shoved down under hard muscle, jutting bone, stinking of beer and rage; or waking from too brief oblivion, broken pain, bleeding tears, torn, bruised, a colorful toy made for pleasure. Then the voices, echoes. Harpies and Sirens, Furies and sad old women. Fingers shake in disapprobation. Shrill voices call me beautiful, in the way that ugly things are. So bad, so pitiful, cardinal status among the neverweres. Struggling shadows, whispering curses demurely lest anyone notice and throw them further down, below duration. Never easy, confessing degradation. The sin adheres. No one wants to know. logic of rape culture I don't know. Would it be morally acceptable to destroy a person's mind while they sleep, because they'll never know they had one? Would it be morally just fine to cruelly use people's lives while keeping them unconscious without consent or prior knowledge, because unexplained pain won’t rise to legal proof? Is there value placed on personal integrity? Must boundaries that make individual beings complete with self-control, define a zone of self to be respected? Do conscious beings own a right to privacy, a zone of personal integrity, sacred space for self-discovery: “This is mine. This is me.” When we choose to agree for common utility, what inner prize do we remember to defend? Or do we prefer to behave as a bunch of random beasts, subject to convenient moral rules, precepts to defend hierarchy of self-proclaimed reasonable men? I am beginning to think that this whole anti-abortion, anti-contraception idea is about rapists who want to impregnate their victims and then have access to torture them for life. Mighty big hate on. Dazzling glitter of star light is doing its job: distract and divide while they rape, kill and rob. Ascending spiraled steps in hope of eventually reaching a solid surface, more a chore than a mission as we continue inexorably day by day. Or is that eternity by eternity? There's not much choice, as these stairs, though solid and seemingly endless, do not provide enough solidity, enough surface, for other sustained activity. There is not even room to climb by twos, thus enabling the solace of close companionship. Certainly there is no room to make love between, stair to stair, to find what respite or pleasure such loving might provide. Perhaps for some of the more daring an occasional rearguard rape may be accomplished, coming from behind as it were, never seeing the face of the victim, so that's alright. A temporary digression from the rote work, hand over hand, leg up and leg up, monotonous unfulfilling dance. The land, when we found her was warm and inviting. We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow. We ate of her fruit, fish, herds. We built with her trees, stone and clay. We drank from her beautiful streams which we soiled with our waste. Gaea was saviour and womb. We repaid her with rape. We didn't understand, thought her merely land, thought ourselves masters from afar. Perhaps it is not so much a war on women as another front in the war on people with lesser means. I mean, how dare a woman be raped if she can't afford her own treatment? Women are raped by husbands, strangers, dates, bosses, family members, often seriously injured or killed in the process. Implying we have nothing more serious to protest about than "glass ceilings" is a macabre insult. Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed. Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep and shallow, ravage disease. Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath outside rational context. Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled. It could be rape; it could be terrifying violence. But you got it wrong. You blamed yourself. And the reasons you got it wrong go back to that world, not to you. Cross Purpose At time's crossroads, Reason drowns in rage, pain, radiated rain, treasonous air. Weary of care, of punishing, bottomless anger, of sobbing men robbed of their right to give birth. Taken from Mama's warmth, from the cave, to play brave. And it's ladies' choice as you squirm in fool's corner. Such a chore -- kissing at this and that for a chance to score the shame, the blame from stuck-out tongues, the bloody laughter "I could bite off that little thing -- make you squat to pee." Wired to fight, at any cost, because, of course, the Cross proclaims "We're right. They are inherently wrong." "Those below must be taught to obey our superior tools, to be broken, that we may ride." Against our better fate, our race divided along strict lines, by difference nature instilled to make us strong Our Gang Outrage Depression facing outward Taking power to give it away. This entrained impulse See them crackling, jangling puppets at puppy play, bite, bark, entangle, grab and tussle, growl, muscle in for the kill. Bloodlust arousal. Natural as puke, as death, violation as violent orgy violation as ecstatic initiation to the brotherhood. Life elevated to dreams, goals, careful weighing of coin and hours, dependable plans, actions that honor can favor, love, duty, allegiance to the rules of sanity and kind regard have no purpose here. Men of blood and battle fluid need no fine speeches, no valor -- only food and receptacles for their waste. Capital Crime Sweet old daddy Doing his will in the night Keeping the mamas afright for the plight of each beloved child, so tender so young He really oughta be hung! so say the neighbors, clicking their tongues Take him to the magistrate Fill his ears with the voice of hate while he's tied, defanged, prostrate Let our will be done! Tie him down in a prison cell Make him feel the wrath of Hell 'til we all are bloody well exhausted of our fun. No need to delete old daddy sweeping shit and burning bones any toil we deem atones to repay society's loans of wicked sowing days assuring he damn well pays for the pain and loss his wicked ways marred our happy homes. Trial It was said, everyone knew, some whispered in my presence, that I was born a bastard of rape. My mother, a pious maiden, in penance gave me into servitude to the Brotherhood. Thus she was allowed to return to her Sisterhood’s life of humble ministration. I never knew her, or have no memory of such an early time in my life. I knew nothing of the treasured childhood that comes with family. I was a low thing, circumscribed by duty. I was educated, taught to read, write, do sums, memorize long passages of scripture, sing in the Holy Choir, take my part in ceremonies, taught for useful service. I was taught to please my masters as my only worth. Any modification to please their plans was my sacred duty to undergo. Any master. Any metamorphosis. Any mutilation. Accept. When he bit me, as the fast-acting soporific emitted from his fangs entered my artery, I hoped this was my end. It wasn’t. He did not drain me, but woke me to force his blood into my sagging mouth to remake me in his image: immortal, powerful, supernatural, outside of the laws of man. I learn to create my own sacred place, free of duty, free of the yoke of belief. I am my own silent sanctuary beyond the touch, the reach of their world. What good am I, have I, what good does it do me to have a conscious me apart from my puppet role, plaything of powerful forces and men? Perhaps after all the trials of my journey, it is enough to have a consciousness that knows me so well and feels a kind of comforting love. Perhaps the kind of love a mother feels for a child she never wanted, who is yet of her, a companion to her trials. They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his head. Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress. She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting louder. Renata starts to make out words. "They fill yer belly with their babies. No more babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men, they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They make them grow in me, take over my body, make me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won't take them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more pumping out their nasty babies. I won't. I won't go there. You can't make me leave." She burbles, gasps, cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long, lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned, perhaps cursed. From further back in the room, a man dressed in black, prominently carrying a black book, approaches the group around the table. "Don't mind Betty. She's a hard case. We can't find anywhere that will take her." He seems perturbed by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman's plaint. Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to blend in have flown from Renata's mind. She goes quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but reach out her arms to comfort. Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins). Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn't appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one's own desired destiny? Mothers' Night cascading shards uneasy echoes falling "It's our calling." Rape of Earth, hot spurts of words savage knives Abiding Mothers, sacred and mundane twist into harridan cold stars wail, hurtling waves Sad, old, crust of ages sliced, screwed, carved up for profit "It's not the color of the skin, the culture of the smile" the scent of danger, the inborn stranger -- all excuses for Us (superior) and Them (inferior) "They are not like we; but lower curs." we may harm with unfettered glee Cursed to be cut to our requirement. Borders clear "Here, fear fences in our livelihood and wives." Leave THEM to putrid pits cunning jabs, our pleasure. Thus, all treasure that might regale, heal, reveal true worth, of man and Earth sold for pittance of potash to dance a weary jig Post-trauma A child of my own rape, it shaped me, made me less and more Memories stored, to when I can't go on implore: "You'll feel better when you're gone."

[duaneodavila]

5 Things Operational Leaders Need To Get Right

In more than 20 years of working in the legal business — the first third just working hard, the second third as an aspiring leader, and the last third at the director level — I’ve learned a thing or two about leadership, about operations, and about people and how to lead them. It frustrates me when I hear about a leadership vacuum literally sucking the life out of an organization.

It got me to thinking about leadership and what that means, and about the handful of things that leaders need to do right in order to be successful. I did a presentation on leadership at a trade show about a year ago. It was a very interactive session, so I learned some things too, but one of the things we talked about was what it takes to be a leader. I thought I’d share some of the output from the discussion.

I’ve always defined leadership as the art and style of influencing others to achieve results. I don’t remember where I read that, nor does it matter. It’s pretty accurate in my view. Thing is, not everyone is good at it. Some of it can be learned; some of it is innate. For those aspiring to leadership or for those who are in leadership or perhaps struggling in leadership, I recommend you consider the following themes:

Identify and communicate vision. Leaders give direction, establish key processes and expectations, and then they allow those they manage to figure it out. Almost anyone can be taught to perform administrative or rote tasks. Leaders look ahead to the future and see projects or initiatives as complete. The goal is to help others see the same things.

Find and see opportunities. Leaders look for opportunities. Where others see obstacles, leaders see opportunities. And they know how to align resources and focus their team members on meeting those challenges. It’s one thing to be a great problem solver; it’s quite another to know that with proper guidance and resources your team can reach the same resolution to the problem.

Lead by example. Leaders have to be someone others will follow, and therefore it is necessary to inspire and motivate team members. It is not always easy to rally enthusiasm and build esteem in others, but by being excited about the vision, mission, or purpose, it can be surprising how much that enthusiasm will infect the team and get them excited as well.

Coach, communicate, and listen. Great leaders are not only knowledgeable about the work and know how to share their knowledge and skills, but they also excel at communication. And sometimes the most important part of communication is listening. That’s the part where the leader removes all distractions and simply listens to what their team members (and others) are saying. One of the most important things I think a manager can do is make sure their team has everything they need to do their job. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you may find someone is simply asking for something.

Share credit and accept responsibility. These kind of go hand-in-hand, and frankly, there’s not enough of this. It’s almost as simple as saying “thank you,” but frequently leaders forget to do it. Leaders can personally build credibility with other leaders and, perhaps more importantly, among their team if when they experience a win, they give credit where credit is due. At the same time, good leaders don’t blame others for losses. They do some introspection and assess what they could have done to prevent a loss.

In addition to these five themes, leaders are diplomatic and persuasive. They use tact and reasonableness and know the difference between a tack hammer and sledgehammer. Leaders also need to be trusted — and this goes for subordinates as well as by superiors. If people are going to look up to you and believe that you can help them achieve something, they need to understand that they can trust you and have confidence in you.

Lastly, leaders care about more than just results. They also care about those who follow them. Be kind and empathetic.

Tune in next week for a little more on leadership. For now, give your team a hug and thank them for the work that they do. Even great leaders neglect this at times.

Mike Quartararo

Mike Quartararo is the managing director of eDPM Advisory Services, a consulting firm providing e-discovery, project management and legal technology advisory and training services to the legal industry. He is also the author of the 2016 book Project Management in Electronic Discovery. Mike has many years of experience delivering e-discovery, project management, and legal technology solutions to law firms and Fortune 500 corporations across the globe and is widely considered an expert on project management, e-discovery and legal matter management. You can reach him via email at mquartararo@edpmadvisory.com. Follow him on twitter @edpmadvisory.

5 Things Operational Leaders Need To Get Right republished via Above the Law

[brianwestchest]

Day 739- Party At Mark’s House

It’s the first of July. Mark Pitstick is having a July 4th party at his house. It’s an annual affair, but the first time we’ve been close enough to Mark to be honored to have been extended an invitation. Kayla’s in Spain. Shayna isn't physically here. So, there’s no need to hang around West Chester for the Saturday before the 4th.  We make arrangements to have Lexi let the dogs out while we’re gone and we pack up the car to make the 1-½ hour drive to Chilicothe, OH.  In the four plus decades I’ve lived in Ohio, I’ve never been to Chilllicothe. 

We bring a pasta salad to the party. It’s always challenging when you’re going to a party with people you’ve never met to decide what kind of dish to bring.  Mark is really into nutritional health (I just hope he doesn’t become a Breatharian at some point).  He drinks these green smoothies he’s concocted.  I’m not sure if he drinks alcohol. So, we bring a few bottles of wine, just in case.  I’m not (yet) on any of these gluten free, vegetarian, vegan, soy free, daily free, etc., etc. diets.  I’ll pretty much eat anything. But, clearly, this is not that crowd. Before we eat, Andy (who is engaged to Mark) gives us the run down on each dish she has provided and the people who prepared the dishes give a quick overview of what’s in it and how it was prepared.  I’m halfway paying attention at this point because if I looks good, I’ll at least try it. It doesn’t matter if it has gluten or if you already put the dressing on the salad or left it to the side. I feel like a heathen, but oh well.  The way I look at it is we aren’t meant to live forever in these bodies and we were given the sense of taste to enjoy.  We begin the meal with a prayer.  Interesting. In the Christian gatherings I grew up with, we always start our meals with prayers.  But, my guess is very few here would identify as Christian. The prayer is not rote. And, I sense everyone here feels it deeply and sincerely. We know we are all here to serve mankind and we are grateful for the opportunity.  We are on a mission.

As we begin eating, Tywana and I notice that most people it seem are not drinking alcohol.  But, as we began to assess from our conversations before we sat down to eat, none of these people are in a normal state of consciousness most of the time. They are not seeking alcohol to alter their moods. Many of them see spirits on a regular basis.  They view what we call “reality” in a different way, much more sensitive to the subtle energies around us.   One guy can put a numerical value on the “energy” in a space and describes how he’s sensed it going from a 400 to a 2,000 based on services that were performed at the time. We share stories of experiences that most people wouldn’t share with their best friends, let alone in a room full of people they have never met. Some of these people have been coming to this party for years.  I feel a bit out of place because I’ve never had these experiences. What I do share with them is the knowing though.  I know that we are spiritual beings having a human experience. I know I am not my body. I have no doubt that each story, no matter how unbelievable, is true. I am honored to be included in this gathering and in awe of the experiences they have had.  It’s so amazing to be in a room full of people who see the world the way I see the world.

After we eat, we head outside to sit by Mark’s pond in a drum circle. I’ve never sat in a drum circle.  Our leaders are another guy named Mark who knows all about Native American (or is it Indian?) culture. He leads us in several songs.  A woman who plays the didgeridoo plays several tunes for us.  How she did that without passing out, I don’t know.  Before she does that, she performs a ceremony to invite in our ancestors from the seven directions (four compass points, Mother Earth below, Father Sky above, and within us).  Mark regales us with some fireworks and we head back inside where we continue our conversations.  A gentleman gives us a lesson on loving ourselves, how to replenish that love on a daily and continual basis and even does a demonstration for us.  We talk about the ultimate nature of reality- at this point there are about ten of sitting in a circle in Mark’s living room.  It’s getting late, but it’s clear no one wants to leave.  We have several impromptu prayers/meditations.  The room grows warm (almost instantly).  People say they can sense the energy passing through the circle as we stand and hold hands. Two different people describe a vision of seeing lightning strike in the middle of the circle. Midnight passes. The party started at 5. We got there about 5:05 and people were already there.  7 hours has passed and Mark’s joking about having to kick people out (maybe he was joking). Finally, one of the attendees asks if she can give a blessing to the people who are left. She’s certified in giving two types of blessings   Individually, she goes around one I believe is the flowering heart blessing. The other is the Oneness blessing.  I’ve heard of the Oneness blessing and even attended a ceremony to have that once. So, I go with that.  As she is giving me the blessing, for one of the only times in my life, I can sense my angels and guardians around me. I don’t see them or get any names or anything cool like that. But, I feel them there supporting me and telling me I am not alone on this mission.

Finally, people are starting to leave. Tywana and I retire to what will be our room for the night.  I’ve been focusing on dreams because of a book I’m reading, but I don’t recall any dreams recently. Probably not for a couple of weeks. Tonight, I have a dream that I’m working with Mark on a project where we’re counseling people and someone has sent in a question I go to him for advice on how to answer.  It’s the first time I’ve ever dreamt of Mark.

In the morning, we get ready to hit the road back to West Chester.  The other overnight guests, another couple, are having the smoothies they brought for breakfast. Andy and Mark share with the rest of us their magical concoctions.  I’m not converted to being a smoothie guy or giving up my meat or alcohol, yet.  But, this party has been like a mini spiritual retreat. It was amazing to meet people with whom I could be completely myself, immediately, share the most intimate details of my spiritual journey, and be completely accepted.  I hope we are invited and able to attend next year.

[teaandamovie]

The Dark Knight Rises: What went wrong? And why is it James Bond’s Fault?

Having finished Phase 1 of the Marvel Cinematic Universe with my son, I made the executive decision to switch over to the Dark Knight trilogy to break things up.

Also I really wanted to revisit the series given a recent foray into video essays discussing the trilogy. My read on the current standing of the trilogy amongst is something like this:

Batman Begins: Gave us the template for every superhero origin story since 2005.

The Dark Knight: Great, but then there was a backlash, but now people are back to really appreciating it.

The Dark Knight Rises: there are intrinsic issues with logic and plot.

And that break down is about right. But for the sake of brevity, I will be looking at the ending of The Dark Knight Rises and my theory on why it is a failure. If anything was made more apparent by this viewing is how much that ending is an unmitigated mess.

I shall explain:

No one, not a single character, is acting in a way that is either truthful to their characterisation or logic.

Batman, the Gotham Police force and Gordon’s Team are all working on flawed assumptions, and with no coordination. They (wrongfully) assume Bane has the detonator and lied about a trigger man. Working off this, they do come up with a semi-coherent plant: Batman and the police will attack Bane and his troops, meanwhile Gordon will intercept the bomb to prevent the detonation signal if all else fails. 

Great, except, there is no communication between any of these teams: Gordon was tricked into an empty truck and only through luck scrambles to the right one. But by this point the attack on Bane has already begun. Any of this is open grounds for Tahlia to detonate the bomb, but she doesn’t because we need a film.

In the meantime Blake rounds up a handful of kids from an orphanage onto a bus, and heads for the only bridge out of town. There, the military correctly stops him from crossing given that Bane said no one can leave town. All Blake offers as an explanation is “your orders are out of date”, which is less than convincing.

Furthermore, Catwoman blows open the tunnel: an unguarded and perfectly usable escape; why doesn’t Blake take the bus there? He told others to go there?

And lets not forget that after Batman escapes Bane and chases the bomb, the police are seen getting gunned down by the Tumblers. But, as the film wraps up we see that the cops have won. This is an obscene cut, it leaves so much logic lying on the ground of how a heavily armed, well trained group of mercenaries were defeated by a bunch of police officers with a smattering of handguns and have been imprisoned underground for 5 months.

Anyway, this entire messy ending feels rote, and what I mean by that is we know that this is an superhero film and that we need to reach some sort of conclusion. The characters even seem to know this, and as a result a heck of a lot of short cuts are taken.

Case in point, and most egregious example of this, is after Tahlia stabs Batman and reveals she was the villain all along, and producing the detonator, she goes on a monologue of how she is going to blow up Gotham.

There is nothing inherently wrong with this. But during this, Bane is tying Batman up with a rope.

Why?

You are seconds away from vaporising 12 million people, including everyone in that room; and you are tying up Batman.

Why? Well because the film knows the detonator won’t work so we need to have Batman tied up in the next scene so that Bane can taunt him, and then be killed by Catwoman in the nick of time and with a witty one liner.

How did this come to be? The Dark Knight seems far more tightly constructed compared to this: what went wrong?

My theory is: Batman became James Bond.

It is apparent that Christopher Nolan has been lifting a lot of aspects from the James Bond series. The last two installments of the trilogy begin with a cold open: a separate action sequence that sets up the film. This is a solid trope of the James Bond series, and is most recognisable in The Dark Knight Rises where the mission to bring down the CIA plane is the same a the cold open to Licence to Kill:

Similarly, Lucius Fox becomes Q by providing weapons and the nifty gadgets that would fit in just as easily in the spy world. But through inheriting these aspects it also inherited some bad behaviours, and that is James Bonds unfailing, unflappably arrogant sense that every plan will work out. It doesn’t matter what the situation is Bond is almost always able to escape, trick, cajole or just dumb luck into succeeding.

Example? In Diamonds Are Forever Bond has to infiltrate an oil rig to stop a diamond satellite that is blowing stuff up around the world. He does it by rolling up (literally) in this:

And is captured. Of course he escapes, rescues the girl while the rig is shot by attack helicopters.

But there is no plan, his only plan is to turn up. It is just a given that everything works out. This is not the only time; even the latest installment, Spectre (Sam Mendes, 2015), has Bond turn up at Blofeld’s base. And be captured. Then he is tortured to within an inch of his life but he escapes and etc. etc. etc.

This sense of “its Bond film, Bond always wins and we just need to get there” is all over The Dark Knight Rises like a rash.

Maybe, in this one instance Nolan gave in to his deepest wish to direct a Bond film and he did so, just in doing so really mucked up the ending to his otherwise masterful trilogy.

For more film and television comparisons visit www.TeaandaMovie.Tumblr.com.

Check out my YouTube and Vimeo channels where I post video essays at www.YouTube.com/c/MrTeaandaMovie and www.Vimeo.com/TeaandaMovie.

Twitter at www.Twitter.com/Teaandamovie.

[summonerwithbedhair]

Final Fantasy XV DLC - Predictions and Things I Want to See

(FYI - Before you read on, I'm going to get super spoilerific, so save this for later if you haven't yet finished the game.) 

First, I'll state the obvious - FFXV was severely lacking in the story department, even with the supplemental material courtesy Brotherhood, Kingsglaive, and Parting Ways. As someone who typically values good storytelling before all other aspects of a video game, this is the biggest thing I feel needs fixing via the DLC. 

I’ve thought about this practically non-stop since finishing the game, so I think I’ve established some pretty solid (and in one case, story-altering) theories here. I know this isn’t holy rote by any means, though, so if you have any ideas of your own, I’d love to hear them.

Here's what I'm guessing we're going to get from the three upcoming chocobro episodes: 

Gladiolus 

I’m fairly certain that this episode:

Occurs simultaneously with Chapter 7 of the main story (Party of Three).

Involves teaming up with Cor for a mostly fighting-based mission. 

My Theory: Whatever Gladio and Cor are doing is either a personal revenge errand (perhaps to do with Gladio's father, who along with Regis, was killed by Glauca in the attack on Insomnia), some other mission Cor does not want Noctis involved in, or to retrieve or kill Calgo, the Niflheim soldier who escaped during the fort infiltration in Chapter 6. 

What I Hope To Learn: More about Cor? A little more backstory concerning the Noctis/Gladio dynamic, which would help explain why Gladio in particular flips out at Noctis in Chapter 10 (it did seem rather overblown to me). Honestly Gladio doesn’t present much of a mystery to me, even though he has the least character development of all the chocobros (no real character arc here). So as long as I get to learn a bit more about the guy, I’m happy.

Questions That Will Probably Stay Unanswered: Whatever the mission, Gladio ends up sporting some hefty new scars, so unless I'm messing up the timing here, how did he heal so quickly from his injuries? Also - what book is he reading? ;)

Prompto 

I’m fairly certain that this episode:

Occurs following Chapter 11, after Noctis mistakes Prompto for Ardyn and knocks him off the train. 

Is a more story-based mission - obviously Prompto is going to be very tempted to shoot someone. I’m also thinking that, since Prompto isn’t the muscle of the chocobros, there’s going to be a lot of stealth involved.

My Theory: Prompto ends up on the run from Niflheim troops, trying to elude capture, all the while attempting to process why his best friend attacked him. I think the person he's aiming at in the brief preview we've had thus far is Verstael, who according to the official guide, is his biological father, and the reason Prompto has had to hide who he is for his entire life. That said, how would Prompto come to know this information? Perhaps Ardyn lets slip this info via creepy voiceover, now that Verstael is of no more use to him.

What I Hope To Learn: Much, much more about how Prompto came to escape Niflheim and avoid becoming an MT. Did he know what he was the entire time, or did he only come to grasp the full purpose of his “birthmark” after his fall from the train? How did his adoptive parents find him? Why are they never around?

Questions That Will Probably Stay Unanswered: How did Prompto become a member of the Crownsguard, especially since a) he’s not the greatest in a fight and b) he doesn’t have a long-standing “in” with the royal family the way Ignis and Gladio do? How did he prove himself? Did Noctis pull any strings? How did Ignis and Gladio come to place that much trust in him? I really want answers to these questions, but I have a feeling the DLC won’t go into this much depth.

Ignis

I’m fairly certain that this episode:

Occurs during Chapter 9, during the Leviathan covenant-gone-wrong, in which Ignis is attempting to evacuate Altissian citizens and fend off Niflheim attacks on Leviathan.

Concerns the circumstances surrounding Ignis’s injury and resulting blindness. As such, it’s probably equal parts story and combat.

Will have the most “impact” on the overall story, according to Tabata.

My Theory: I’m not sure who or what blinded Ignis, but story-wise, a person committing the act would bear much more weight than a random piece of debris. I can’t really nail down the culprit (since at that point Ravus had already decided to help Luna (and, by proxy, Noctis), and Ardyn was busy stabbing Luna at the time, unless Ignis was injured some time after Luna died and Noctis lost consciousness). I have a feeling that Ignis took the fateful hit for Gladio, which would explain why Gladio chooses to lash out at Noctis, since none of this would have happened had he been able to quell Leviathan’s wrath in time.

What I Hope To Learn: My biggest, hugest, CRAZIEST question of the whole game - did Ignis know Noctis was destined to become the true king? Maybe Regis didn’t tell him explicitly, but given Ignis’s studious, thorough nature, and the available lore, surely Ignis should have seen the pieces fitting together ahead of time. Perhaps he couldn’t predict the timing of the prophesy (given that the Niflheim attack came as a surprise to everyone in Lucis except Regis, and Noctis only needed to seek out the Armiger weapons and forge covenants with the Astrals after this point), nor that Noctis would be held captive by the crystal for ten years - but just IMAGINE the weight of that knowledge, especially when Ignis comes to realize all this is happening much faster than he had hoped. Did he keep his mouth shut at Regis’s behest, or simply to maintain his friends’ state of blissful ignorance, living without the knowledge that Noctis was destined to die? Is this the real tragedy of FFXV - the “story impact” Tabata hinted at?

Questions That Will Probably Stay Unanswered: How did Ignis become adjusted to his blindness and get back in fighting shape in the ten years Noctis was in the Crystal? Is he like Daredevil or something? Though I’d love the ability to go daemon-hunting with Iggy, Gladio and Prompto, it sounds like they didn’t hang out much after that point, and, let’s face it, playing as an injured Ignis struggling to get his groove back doesn’t scream “exciting.”

Any or All of the Above DLC

More than any other story aspect, I hope the DLC (or some other update) adds a significant amount of depth to the Noctis/Luna relationship. Is there any way Noctis can visit with her prior to the Leviathan covenant? Surely they can give us just one reunion scene? Surely there’s a purpose for this hole in the wall that leads to Luna’s quarters? Given Final Fantasy’s history of beautiful, tragic romances, I’m looking for a lot more here than I got. I can’t mourn someone I never knew, and when I’m feeling more compassion for a car than an actual character, you know there was a missed storytelling opportunity somewhere.

Then again (though I’d prefer it sooner), this could be fodder for a FFXV-2, which, given the game’s insta-success and Square Enix’s sudden fixation on FF sequels, is probably inevitable. As such, I’m going to theorize on that next, so stay tuned... 

In the meantime, if you want to weigh in on any or all of the above, whether you think I’m on the right track or completely out to lunch, let me know. I’d love to bounce some ideas around somewhere other than inside my own head. ;)

[hermanwatts]

Short Reviews – Sword of Fire, by Emmett McDowell

Sword of Fire, by Emmett McDowell, was the featured cover story of the Winter 1949 issue of Planet Stories. It can be read here at Archive.org.

Whatever the hell that is they’re riding is totally making epic meme-face.

At last we get to the exciting cover story of the Winter issue!

Dashing raygun pulp hero Jupiter Jones is on a mission for the Galactic Colonization Board to chart nearby star system with potentially habitable worlds when his ship, the Mizar, gets hit by a space warp that throws him half-way across the universe. Without fuel and supplies to get back, he’s forced to land on an earth-like alien world to seek out the necessary fissiles to get him home.

Jones finds himself on a strange planet with several divergent humanoid races, most of which are the bred-slaves of a race of evil telepathic mollusk men! Lucky for Jones, in the octopods’ temple, they have a giant tentacle monster statue made out of uranium that may be his ticket home!

The Octopods managed to take over the world because the humanoid civilization had found these small creatures that, when affixed to the neck, gave them telepathic powers. Having telepathic powers and small mollusks attached to your spinal cord became all the rage. Of course, the small mollusks were the young life-stage of horrible tentacle monsters from the sea, and everyone who had one of the buggers stuck to his or her neck was easily enslaved.

Sword of Fire fits the mold of this kind of raygun romance nicely: hero lands, hero gets captured by aliens and learns about the world from his fellow prisoners, hero escapes from aliens, hero gets back to the free people to unite them against the evil aliens, evil aliens are defeated, hero departs with a dame in tow.

That’s not to say it’s rote. One of the fun twists in this story is that there’s not one dame, but two. Lete, one of the captive “wild peoples” (as opposed to the bred peoples), is the first to meet Jones and teaches him what she can of the language and the situation on their world. She also reveals that he may fulfill the prophecy of the Wanderer with Sword of Fire: typical man from the sky with technology mistaken for heavenly powers. The other dame, Tabak, is one of the slave priestesses of the octopods—when she reads Jones’s mind, it’s an eye-opening experience, and she agrees to help Jones if he’ll liberate her world.

There’s a tease at a love triangle, but until the end, Jones is more concerned with getting back home alive after he’s done his good deed in liberating the world than hooking up. Frankly, Lete is Best Girl in the story—she’s one of those ERB inner earth savage type dames who ends up leading her peoples in the battle against the tentacle monsters. Tabak is a bit more of the wide-eyed swooning types, though she still manages to hold her own.

Funniest part is when Tabak is feeling jealous and she straight-up plays the hypergamy card:

“Jupiter,” [Tabak] said soberly, with one of her quick shifts of mood. “Are—are you very fond of Lete?”

  He raised his sandy eyebrows. “What made you ask that?”

  “I don’t want to see you hurt, Jupiter.” Tabak grew more and more confused under his level stare. “You don’t know the Kagans. They—they’re promiscuous like animals. Lete would never understand your morals. She couldn’t—“

  Jupiter slapped his leg, burst into laughter.

  “Good heavens, I’m not in love with her. Why, I’ll be leaving Yogol as soon as I can get enough fuel. I couldn’t take her with me anyway.”

  “Oh,” said Tabak.

Like the other novella in this issue, Sword of Fire is perfect fodder for crafting a tabletop adventure. You’ve got your basic set-up, a few set-pieces, key-locations, content to populate a small hex-crawl map, objectives, and even some NPC hirelings to stat up [Jones’ guard when he’s captured eventually makes a heel-face turn and joins the fight against the octopods]. It would be great to run for your B/X game, Star Frontiers, or Traveller.

I think this is it, guys! My last review for Castalia House! Don’t worry, we’ve still got one more Retro Fandom Friday to go before we deliver our farewell to our readers here. Maybe even do a spotlight on pulp ads [Planet Stories: A Magazine for Lonely People Breeding Hamsters]. Please be sure to check out the Cirsova Summer Special, and the Illustrated Enchantress of Venus that are coming out soon!

Short Reviews – Sword of Fire, by Emmett McDowell published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

[asegbolu]

🎙 *The topic is ''Essential motivation for exceptional communicators"* 🎯 🗣Communication is the act of connecting with other living things... It is the key to personal and professional success.. 🖍 You can have a brilliant idea,you might be the most intelligent person but if can't communicate effectively, if you can't convince people, all your ideas will go no where.. It will just be an idea on paper's 🔻 It is an essential skill needed by everyone irrespective of their profession,educational achievements,culture and family 🔻Everyone has to know how to get their messages across as clearly as possible.. ❇ Communication can either be written ✍ or verbal 🗣 ❗Everyone has a style of communication.. There are a few common skill traits that we as communicators must all posses... 1⃣ _Trait number 1:_ *Ability to connect*--- in order to pass your message across effectively you must connect with your target audience and be able to convince your non- target audience if they are around to listen to you. ▪You must always be aware of the audience response, body language, gesture... ▪Always make eye contact ... ▪Always check your tone 2⃣ _Listening:_ ❗This is probably one of the most important trait that a good communicator has to have. ▪Listen purposefully.. ▪Listen to understand.. ▪Listen to empathise.. ▪Listen to Lear.. ▪Listen to build trust.. ▪Listen to build relationship's... ▪Do not listen to reply sharply without thinking.. 3⃣ _Patience_ 🗣A good communicator needs to be Patience. Listening and Patience go together.. ▪Think first before you speak.. ▪Don't let anger or sentiments control your speech.. ▪Don't be in a hurry unless you are giving an elevator speech, even then you need Patience to get your ideas across 4⃣ _Flexibility_ ▪You must always be ready to pitch your ideas... ▪You must always be ready to show your professional skill anywhere and you can only achieve this if you are flexible in your thoughts and actions.. 🌡 Other traits include.. 🔸Emotional intelligence 🔸Tolerance 🔸Cultural and religious sensitivity 🔸Verbal and written consistency 🔸Observations 🔸Creativity 5⃣ _Observation_ Everyone like I said before is a communicator.. ▪We must learn to be observant.. ▪We must observe our environment, what we ▪can say and cannot say in a particular environment.. We must observe the reaction of our audience this will determine the path our communication will take.. 6⃣ _Creativity.._ : ▪Every communicator must learn how to think fast,be creative in their thoughts and actions. ▪Think outside the box for solutions to issues. ▪Don't restrict yourself.. Be bold..step out of the norm . 7⃣ _Emotional intelligence_: 🔻This is simply your ability to recognise and deal with your own emotions and the emotions of other people. ▪An exceptional communicator must be emotionally intelligent.. ▪You must be able to know how to deal with the different types of emotions that people exhibit.. ▪Your response to these various emotions must be appropriate 8⃣ _Verbal and written consistency_: 🔸Communication can either be written or verbal. ▪It is essential in order to maintain clarity and professionalism to learn how to communicate verbally and in written form. ▪This platform was put together to help us achieve this.. ❇ Why do we need to learn how to communicate.. ❓ ▪I am not an educator now? ▪I work for myself? ▪I don't work in an office now? 👉These are some of the responses I get when I talk about communication to a non- target audience ✍ Everyone had ideas.. Everyone has dreams.. Everyone has a personal vision.. Everyone has a mission.. Everyone has friends,family, relations.. Everyone has to make a living.. 🔻 You cannot achieve any of the above without learning how to communicate 🔻 You cannot move professionally if you lack good communication skill 🔻You cannot impact knowledge if you cannot communicate properly 🔻 You cannot have a successful personal life if you cannot communicate well.. 🔻 You cannot be a good business man/woman if you cannot communicate well 🔻 You cannot be a good leader if you cannot communicate effectively 🔻 You cannot achieve your dreams and aspirations if you cannot communicate properly.. 🔻 People will only listen to you if you are communicating with them.. 🗣 Communication is a very powerful tool.. ✳ Let me tell you a personal story... 👉 My child had learning difficulties while she was young.. I quit my job to help home school her.. ❗No one could understand why she wasn't learning.. We all believed she was being lazy.. 📗 I read a book on the act of listening... I applied it to her... 👩‍🏫 I stopped everything academic.., Observed her.. Applied emotional intelligence.. Listed to her.. Was Patience.. Connected with her on her level.. ✔I discovers that we didn't get her method of learning.. She is a rote,visual Kinesthetic learner 🔺 Once we discovered that...she flew with her own wings... ♦That is just an aspect of the benefits of communication.. 🔚 Let's stop here...... Hope you all have learnt something right .. ❓

[raystart]

Bleak Time, Bold Moves: The State of the Digital Nation 2020

Jules Ehrhardt made waves in 2016 when he published State of the Digital Nation, a raw and honest look at the major forces threatening the digital consultancy industry. Two years later, the seasoned digital exec has done it again with State of the Digital Nation 2020, painting a bleak picture of the agency landscape, pointing out flaws in the model, and urging creatives to consider their options.

The new publication coincides with change in his own life. After leaving his post as co-owner of ustwo, the digital product studio behind the wildly popular mobile game Monument Valley, Ehrhardt launched FCTRY in May. A “creative capital studio,” the company acts as an advisory for early-stage technology companies in return for equity.

In the interview below, Ehrhardt shares his views on why now is the time for new thinking in digital. So are we all doomed? Nah. Amid change, there is always opportunity.

What led you to write a new State of the Digital Nation?

I wrote the first State of the Digital Nation in 2016. It was a point in which I was reflecting deeply on what I’d seen over the previous four years and where I saw things going. It was an expression about the journey to try to evolve the typical consultancy model, or try to build the future phase of the studio.

In 2017, I was closing a chapter in my life and starting a new chapter. I had the freedom to do what I wanted. The fundamental question that came to me was, “If you could start again, completely fresh without serving any legacy, what would you do?” State of the Digital Nation 2020 is basically me ripping apart my journey, closing a chapter and beginning a new chapter and trying to organize all the thinking and inputs and outputs that would lead me to decide to build a new type of studio. So, that’s in a nutshell why I wrote it.

You say that the “death of the agency” drum is beating louder and louder. What went wrong and what’s happening now?

We’ve all been watching the epic battle between the consultancies and the ad holding groups. That’s led to a few issues. One is that design is being homogenized. If you look at how so many independent studios are being acquired and brought in to consultancies, you’re seeing what I think is a fundamental problem with how the ecosystem is designed. To use a metaphor, if you mix all the vibrant colors of the rainbow together, you get a chromatic neutral. And that’s a concern to me. What does that trend do for our ecosystem?

Another issue is that, as more work goes in-house, and fewer agencies are fighting over the remainder of the work, they’re beginning to underbid and trying to reduce their cost to secure the work. Many agencies have moved to offshoring, and what you’re seeing is the agency ecosystem begin to cannibalize itself.

For me, that’s pushing everything to a quite logical conclusion that, for an agency, what was once double-digit profit is now going to be single-digit profit, or a sea of red.

Until the last decade or so, it made a lot of sense to open an agency. It was profitable, and you could do good work. What we’d see was big brands nurturing a wider ecosystem than would provide healthy grounds and a system for new talent to emerge. But what you’re seeing, I think, is this kind of ecosystem collapse: there’s such a pressure on pricing and a procurement-department mindset that, actually, this ecosystem in which the next generation of talent should develop isn’t being sustained.

The fundamental challenge faced by the creative class is being paid for time. And that’s what’s leading to the consolidation, that’s what’s leading to the downward pricing, that’s what’s leading to the degraded environment in which we do our work.

Bleak. If that’s the case, what needs to happen?

The only way for us to escape and build a new prosperous place, a new happy place, is to basically break that model, break that bond which I call a form of “prison island” that we built ourselves decades ago—the “paid for time” client service model.

You say being paid for hourly work is at the core of the industry’s problems. Tell us more.

I believe that actual human creative output is limited to five hours a day, therefore keeping people late is creating unhealthy working conditions and is counterproductive. I recently went to a conference with some very high-level design leaders in the tech space. I asked everyone “Look, how many hours of creativity do you think a human has in a day?” I counted down the hours from 10. No one put their hands up. When I got down to six and five that’s when the majority of the hands went up. Of course this is definitely not applicable to rote tasks like outputting a hundred variations of an image. But the real creativity tops out at five hours. I believe in building a working environment around that.

So what would you recommend? How can there be a better pay model, not necessarily related to hourly work?

As it’s happening is it’s going to get harder and harder to have an agency with healthy profits. I still think that there are studios that are great, that do really good work, and they’re going to prosper. Those people usually have a good process—they agree on high-level requirements based on ‘Must have, Should have, Could have, and Won’t have’ (or “MoSCoW”) rather than fixed cost and scope arrangements. They’re focused on product rather than marketing.

But for the agency structure—the only way we’re going to escape that is for the creative class to begin to define new models—new vessels within which we can do our work and prosper.

In your case, you decided that the best next step for you was to do venture-only work?

Yes, I guess the point is for me it doesn’t really matter what model you choose. For me, the path I chose was to explore venture where the model is funded. Funded models allow us to do the work we want to do. It doesn’t mean there’s no pressure. It just means it’s a different dynamic.

You say the talent drain is already well under way. Where are people going?

Agencies—and very good ones—are increasingly losing people to Google, Twitter, Facebook, Spotify. I think that trend is going to grow. It’s almost impossible for agencies to match a tech company’s packages and benefits. If you were working at an agency doing 70 hours a week on a campaign or for a bleach brand at 30 percent or 40 percent less salary than you’d get paid at Google or Facebook, then why on earth wouldn’t you leave? I’m not saying it’s easy working in a tech company, but to work fewer hours and have a better work-life balance and be working with a bit more purpose, at significantly better benefits? It’s something to think about.

You’ve put together a big proposal and shared it out in the open. Have you received comments from anybody who’s like “I completely disagree with this and here’s where I think you’re missing the mark?”

In the week since it went out, I’ve had overwhelmingly positive comments. I’ve also had people pull me aside and go, “I’ve tried this. It doesn’t work.” And that’s fine. The point for me is I don’t have as much care for the industry as I do for the creative class within it. So if you do read the piece, you’ll see a lot of it comes from a place of care for the creative class. That has always been my mission. If you’re an individual in the creative class, there are some important questions we need to be asking ourselves. I believe that by having a more open-source mentality, by sharing what works and what doesn’t work, publishing contracts and as much information as we can, then we can get everyone to a better place. And a more healthy ecosystem for everyone is what I want. I am completely committed to that philosophy.

I remember starting the piece thinking, “We’re all doomed.” And by the time I got to the end I felt surprisingly positive about everything because you had shared. Did you mean for it to be encouraging in that way?

Yes, the feedback I’ve had, especially from younger people in the industry, is that they’re really excited after the reading the piece. I was trying to give a systematic exploration of what I see, what’s wrong with it and what the new avenues are for the creative class. The beauty is you can really have an opinion and be forthright about it. I think the problem in our industry as a whole is that that the emperor has been naked for the last five to eight years. That’s how we got here. 

If somebody is at an earlier point in their career and they haven’t committed to a path yet, what advice would you give to them in terms of the path they might consider?

I’m not really in the advice-giving game, but I think I’d definitely be weighing up which industries have longevity, which areas in the industry have too many people with a certain age and mindset who are more vested in the status quo than not. The way I like to phrase it at the moment is this: you’re either revolutionary, or you’re not. And I think that’s the moment we have to be in now. We have to be revolutionary because if we don’t know how to build these opportunities then we’ll go down with the ship.

For more, check out Ehrhardt’s full 60-minute read: State of the Digital Nation 2020.

[simonplays28]

Day sixteen: Crew evaluations 20430216-EL51

This play is staged in a room with no defined stage area. There are no curtains, no lights, no set dressing. There are rows of chairs for the audience and a single chair at the front of the room facing the audience.

SETTING: The chair is empty as the audience takes their seats. After a few minutes, AALIA EL-SAYED enters and sits in the chair at the front of the room. AALIA is a Anglo-French woman in her forties. She wears a practical jumpsuit and a hijab and carries herself with self-assurance.

(AALIA sits in silence staring forward for a minute.)

AALIA: (as if reading back from memory) Aalia El-Sayed, crew number EL51, animal behavioural specialist aboard the spaceship Thavma. If and when we encounter the entity, I will be part of the team making assessments on it's composition, it's behaviour, and it's emotional state.

(AALIA sits in silence for a minute.)

AALIA: (more casual now) I'm doing OK today actually. I'm feeling a lot better than the past few days anyway. The sickness has passed: I think there was just something in the food that didn't agree with me. I think we can probably dial these evaluations back to once a week again now.

(Silence for a few seconds.)

AALIA: Sure, we can try that.

(Silence for a minute.)

AALIA: The rest of the crew seem to be OK. I mean, I've always been good with the behaviour of animals: less good with the behaviour of people. Qing seems nice: we've had a few good conversations. We played Trivial Pursuit last night. She has an incredible general knowledge! You know, for a PhD. In my experience, they tend to be hyper-focused on their area of specialism and not so much on... everything else. Abe is a white man so he's an asshole. The captain is outrageously hot in that kind of stern way that Muslim men of a certain generation have.

(Silence for a few seconds.)

AALIA: I don't think I've met her. I don't have much call to go to the engine quarter.

(Silence for a minute. AALIA starts to look exasperated.)

AALIA: Well, that's not really the engines, is it? As you seem to know, I go to that little utility closet just before you get to the engine quarter.

(Silence for a few seconds.)

AALIA: Because it's the best place to pray. Look, it was really nice of the ship's architect to set up that little prayer room in the living quarter but I'm guessing the ship's architects weren't Muslim. Or didn't read the documentation on Muslims in space. Listen to me: "Muslims in space". As if that's exceptional. The whole point of the living quarter is that that portion of the ship rotates to simulate gravity, right? The rotation makes it...

(AALIA counts on her fingers.)

AALIA: ...a. difficult to point myself to Qiblah to begin with and b. impossible to remain pointed that way while I pray. So I go to the utility closet. It's no big effort.

(Silence for a few seconds.)

AALIA: No, it's no big deal. You can sort of get the mat flat enough even without gravity. No-one minds. Like, I'm not doing much aboard the ship anyway until we get within range of the thing. Just reearch, scheduling, coordinating, and preparing for every eventuality I can think of. I told everyone when we were preparing for the mission that I will be doing salah five times a day and I will be disappearing to find the best place to point to Qiblah. The easiest way to point that way is just to point at Earth and since I know that we're flying away from Earth at great speed, the obvious direction to point is towards the engines. If I'm near the engine quarter, I know exactly which direction the engines are pointing.

(Silence for a minute.)

AALIA: It feels like an absolute point. Like, the rest of the crew, I think, think of themselves as adrift in space. We're only a few light-years from Earth and already they imagine themselves lost and abandoned in an endless cosmos. They have this kind of Western, you know, postmodern nihilistic existentialism that's so popular. You know, your Nietzsche and your Easton Ellis and whoever. "There's no meaning, we're adrift in an uncaring universe", you know. That kind of attitude that people think is edgy but it is so boringly rote. The attitude of every teenager that somehow has spread to an entire society. Anyway, you can tell that everyone else on the ship thinks they're all alone all of a sudden for the first time in their lives. I just don't think that kind of thinking is good for your mental health. Especially on a spaceship. Especially on a 400 year voyage. But I always feel anchored. There's an absolute point among all this darkness that I'm thinking about and pointing myself towards every day. It's not all meaninglessness and nothingness: there are fixed points in the universe and they matter. Five times a day I point myself at one city in country on one planet and I know where I am. I know where I am and who I am. I'm pointing myself at the source of my faith. And I guess my family, my friends, my home.

(Silence for a few seconds.)

AALIA: Yeah, I suppose the captain does the same. But I've never talked to him about it. We're not that close. We'll probably be taking the long nap before we get too close. Unfortunately.

(Silence for a few seconds.)

AALIA: No, I wouldn't really... Yeah, I know. I'm not going to do anything.

(Silence for a long minute.)

AALIA: They're important to me. These old ways of doing things that my family have been doing for centuries. That define your life in the most routine ways and come to shape how your behaviour. They're the scaffolding of your life. It comes back to what I was saying. That's what traditions are. They're an absolute point. Fixed practices and events that you do again and again. You orient your life around them and they make you as stable as the Earth going around the Sun. No matter how far away from Mecca we get, I'm still going to pray to it five times a day. As long as I do that, I'm still Aalia. I'm still human.

(Silence for a minute.)

AALIA: (fiddling with her hijab) Yeah, it gets a bit floaty but if you pin it down properly, it's not really an issue.

(Silence for a minute.)

AALIA: I guess I don't know what the thing is. But I know that Allah has a plan for it. His plans are the fixed point around which the universe turns. That's a bit corny, I know. "They plan, and Allah plans. And Allah is the best of planners."

(Silence for a few seconds.)

AALIA: (laughs) Yeah, 8:30. Sahih International translation.

(Silence for a minute.)

AALIA: I don’t really know how it’s going to end. We find the thing and then? Whatever. Or maybe we get sucked into a black hole on the way. Or maybe we all go mad. The most clichéd, most boring thing that could happen is what always happens in the movies on these long spaceflights. A scary saboteur on-board disrupts the whole mission. It’s always the enemy within. Nonsense. As if they’d send us up on this mission without rigorous psychological and physiological testing.

(Silence for a minute.)

AALIA: No, thank you. I'll see you in a couple of days.

(AALIA gets up from the chair and leaves.)

(END)