#new yoke city gang

[angelkitty54]

Sonic Prime AU time! (coz this has been everywhere in the last month or so.) Basically just some ideas I had for shatterverse versions of Sonic and Shadow, set after the end of the series.

New Yoke City: Based on the idea in SA2 where it's kinda implied Sonic was also made on the Ark like Shadow (which is never brought up again). Basically Nine stumbles across a pod that contains the New Yoke version of Sonic (Spirit) and excitedly wakes him up. However he quickly finds that this is not the Sonic he met before; Spirit has never been out of his bio-tank thingy before, he is basically a newborn in a full grown body, with the mentality of a newborn too. Spirit is a wide-eyed innocent child, sweet, kind and trusting, a stark contrast to the world around him and the people in it. Nine is having a hard time adjusting, especially since Spirit's keeps chewing on all his power cables. He is also constantly being accused of having cloned Sonic. Which he totally did not! He found this Sonic fair and square thank you very much!

Meanwhile, having lost their power source, the Chaos Council has lost a lot of ground to the resistance. In searching for new power sources and weapons, they discover Project Umbra (three guess who this is). Umbra leans a little more into his alien side than Shadow does, he is also less of an angsty teen and more of a scared, grieving child lashing out at a world that hurt him. He agrees to work for the council only due to the distant family connection, but he doesn't particularly like them or care about their goals. He just wants to see the world burn. Of course, things change when he finds out his baby brother survives the raid on the Ark. Tho he is not particularly happy about this strange fox hanging around, acting all buddy buddy with Umbra's brother. Ugh, the nerve of that guy!

Boscage Maze: Got inspiration from movies like Nausicaa and Origin: Spirits of the Past. So the instead of the prism, the massive jungle was actually caused by a bio-experiment gone wrong which set off an apocalypse. There are effectively three groups of survivors, those that escaped into space (mainly GUN people), those that survived on the surface (whose descendants became groups like the scavengers) that live more or less in harmony with the jungle, and those that made it into underground shelters and were put into stasis chambers where they have slept for several hundred years. The latter two group are often at odds with each other, one wanting their old world back, the other wanting the jungle to stay as is. Dr Nightshade Robotnik and his assistant, Sunny, are among the stasis group.

In this universe Gerald went down the road of cybernetics as well as genetic engineering when creating his Ultimate Lifeform, Nightshade. Their Maria got to live her life to it's fullest, becoming a scientist like her grandfather. Nightshade also dedicated his life to science, wanting to follow Maria's dreams of making the world a better place, even after she passed away. Sunny benefited from their research, as it's thanks to their work into cybernetics that he is able to walk (and run) again. Upon waking in the post-apocalyptic world, Dr Nightshade has made it his mission to find out what caused the plants to grow out of control and hopefully reverse the effects. Sunny, someone who sees the benefits of both the old and new world, hopes that he can help the good Doctor find balance between the natural and mechanized worlds. Meanwhile GUN is up to something rather suspicious up there in space...

No Place Sea: Yay pirate AU!! Honestly didn't have a lot of ideas beyond just pirates tho... Shadow is Captain Blackheart and is like super duper cursed. He is captain of a ghost ship, whose crew is also super cursed and/or undead. All save a single member, his navigator Tempest (Sonic), who is immune to the effects curses due to him being half siren. Tempest does not speak much as his voice is imbued with the charming power of a siren, which he lacks much control over. He has a knack for reading the winds and currents making him an ideal navigator in treacherous waters. He is both drawn to and fears the water, as something in those dark depths keeps calling to him, eager to drag him down down down into darkness... However he can't bring himself to stay away despite the danger, and luckily whatever is hunting him seems to steer clear of the ghost ship. In exchange for shelter aboard his ship, Tempest is helping Blackheart track down and decode ancient sea charts that will lead them to a great treasure he's been hunting. One said to be able to grant wishes: the chaos emeralds!

[baldy-wan-kenobi]

The Mechs of my mech setting: A summary

So, my mech setting, for the most part, has four main categories of mechs, separated into Generations. These generations mainly differ based on what power source they use, getting larger and more advanced with each generation. In-universe, they're called "Combat Frames", or just "Frames", colloquially.

Generation One mechs are little more than powered armor, battery-powered exoskeleton suits that provide protection, and enhanced physical characteristics to the wearer. They are usually either immensely heavy, durable and slow, to enable the user to act as a one-man tank, wielding heavy weapons with ease, or extremely agile and fast, to enhance the mobility of its wearer to a superhuman degree. While knowledge of their construction was not lost to the ravages of the Long War, it is rare to find them outside of the security forces of city-states or the Knights of Svalbard, as they do not provide much utility to Tinman mercenaries or raider gangs, due to their higher maintenance requirement and lesser capability, in comparison to the similarly-expensive Gen 2 mechs.

Generation Two mechs are squatty, angular machines, reminiscent of the style of mech seen in fifth-generation Armored Core games, with limited vertical mobility, but able to maintain ground-skimming hover maneuvers for a significant amount of time. They are, without a doubt, the most common type of Frame in the world in the aftermath of the Final Armistice, and many of the largest corporations in the world specialize in producing parts for them. They are in the hands of every force on Earth, from the private armies of city-states to the marauding bands who roam the wastes. However, their most famous pilots are the Tin Soldiers, soldiers of fortune infamous in the new world as tools for the interests of City-States and corporations. They are somewhat limited, with directed energy weapons being rather rare and valuable, though some Gen 2 Frames are greatly enhanced, through the use of Old World Tech or the installation of a Cortical Control Augmentation system, which I'll discuss momentarily. They use specialized fusion engines, and are, with the exception of mechs retrofitted with a CCA system, controlled via two control yokes and several panels of buttons, switches, and screens.

Generation Three Frames are a new technological leap forward from the squatty, clumsy mechs of the second generation, using their Esoteric Reactors to power massively enhanced systems, extreme mobility equipment, and devastating weaponry. They are, more or less, at the level of mecha that Armored Core 6 operates on, with insanely fast mechs capable of extreme vertical mobility and immense destruction. They are used heavily by the Knights of Svalbard, though there are others in the hands of the powerful and enigmatic individuals known as the Veterans, whom I will discuss at another time. For generation 3 mechs, a Cortical Control Augmentation system is necessary to pilot it, which means the pilot must undergo two critical procedures that prepare them to use their Frames:

In surgery for Cortical Control Augmentation, the subjects synapses are enhanced, and among other things, augmented with networks of fiber optic cable, increasing the speed of signal transmission in the brain by a great deal. This is done to massively upgrade reaction times and parallel processing ability. Implants are also installed that tap into the nervous system to "bypass" the motor functions of the brain, rerouting them to the mech itself, such that a pilot with CCA implants is capable of using a mech like it is their own body. It also allows them full use of the mech's enhanced perceptive suite, though with no sense of touch, pilots report difficulty in controlling the mech's immense strength.

Finally, Generation Four mechs are defined by their use of the mysterious energy source known as Miyazaki Particles, which essentially function by giving the laws of physics as we understand them the finger and a handwritten permit that says 'I do what I want'. They are defined by their insanity, and most have little in common besides exploiting the power of Miyazaki particles. This means that they can range in their level of power from the level of the NEXTs of AC4A to the reality-bending shenanigans of the mechs of Lancer. They are exclusively Old World Tech, as they were only ever prototypes by the end of the Long War, and their use is banned, seeing as Miyazaki radiation is immensely harmful to all life, and the inherently unstable Miyazaki reactors at their hearts can cause immense damage if they go critical. In fact, the city-state of Budapest was destroyed entirely when a Fourth Generation mech that had been recovered from a local cache of Old World Tech went critical in their research labs.

[sheriffknuckles]

hi sorry just posting my awesome google slides on why i think captain dread should die in season three of sonic prime thanks. this was made for a friend presentation night so i apologize for the extra information that yall are probably already going to know. that being said some things might look missing just because of this fact alone. ALSO SORRY FOR TEXT BEING HARD TO READ I NEVER INTENDED FOR PEOPLE TO REALLY READ THIS. sorry if theres oversimplification of things this is for ppl who dont know sonic v well

"Disclaimer: This is literally one of my absolute favorite characters of all time. He literally got me into Sonic. That being said, Captain Dread is a piece of shit. He needs to rot in hell and pay for his crimes against humanity. But also, it would make sense narratively. I’m here to explain why."

"Shatterspace counterparts are the versions of Sonic’s friends from each of the worlds. Despite having the same route person, each of the different versions of one character are vastly different. Out of Tails, Amy, and Knuckles, each of these characters get a “featured spot” in each of the shatterspaces. For example, we can conclude that Tails’ counterpart from the New Yoke City world, “Nine,” is the featured counterpart. In Boscage Maze, Amy’s counterpart “Thorn Rose” has the most important role. Leaving Knuckles’ counterpart, “Captain Dread” as the most important role in the No Place world. That being said, each counterpart is still different in their own ways."

"Each shatterspace counterpart is representative of a trait that the original character has. Ex; “Thorn Rose” is Amy’s personification of her love of nature and all things living, and how much she is willing to fight for it. (That being said, they may stray as well, seeing as they are still their own fleshed out characters.)"

"Knuckles The Echidna 101 - To understand Knuckles' counterparts, first we need to understand Knuckles. -The Guardian of Angel Island, a hidden island in the sky and the hiding place of the all-powerful “Master Emerald.” Knuckles’ duty is to guard this emerald and the island. He takes this duty very seriously, often refusing to leave the emerald unguarded.

-Knuckles grew up isolated from others like him, only having company of the fawn and flora.

-Quiet and adamant on independence. Claims to prefer to do things alone, relying on his own power.

-Very protective of the Master Emerald, generally quite wary and cautious.

-Met Sonic and Tails when he was 16, initially in the assumption that they were there to steal the Master Emerald, but was only being tricked by Eggman who’d crash-landed there after the events of Sonic 2. He eventually makes peace with them and sees them on their way.

-Knuckles eventually grows envious of Sonic’s care-free lifestyle, his ability to go “where [he] wants, when [he] wants.” Due to his duties, Knuckles feels he does not have these opportunities. He enjoys spending time with his friends, though does enjoy being alone as well."

"There are three different counterparts to Knuckles in Sonic Prime! Each are important to Knuckles as a character, so let’s go over the ones we’re not majorly focusing on briefly to get a better understanding of how these counterparts make up the characters they represent. “Knucks” is the New Yoke counterpart. He resembles the part of Knuckles that is part of the team, loyal to his friends and determined to protect them. He fights for his world, but puts his friends first. He’s the most similar personality wise to Knuckles - he’s usually very serious. “Gnarly” is the Boscage Maze counterpart. He’s Knuckles’ paranoia, his nativity, and his general distrust. “Act first, questions later.” He’s honestly just incredibly impulsive and stupid."

(sidenote - my opinions on what gnarly represents have shifted a wee since i made this, but he wasn't super relevant to my argument anyways. my b gang)

"CAPTAIN DREAD."

"What's his deal?

To put it in the basics of basics, Dread is the captain of Angel’s Voyage. When we first see him he appears to be a laid-back and quite frankly way-too-joyful captain. We learn he only likes to party, take it easy, etc - much to the disliking of his crew, who are neglected to the life of a real pirate. This is because he ship-wrecked trying to obtain a fragment of the paradox prism in this shatterspace, which he deems as the “Devil’s Lighthouse,” a mysterious treasure. After getting attacked by his old crew, he’s shown to be a coward, backing down and hiding in the fight and encouraging the same for his crew. He later straight up abandons them, needing HEAVY motivation from Sonic to come back. Only once he speaks of Dread going down in history and being known as legendary does he come back - though, he outright says, it’s not for his crew."

"He creates a plan to go back to the Devil’s Lighthouse, a bit of obsession shining though. Through the whole thing, he shows little regard to the wellbeing of his crew, even saying they’re expendable [after eventually receiving the shard]. Once he gets his hands on this shard, he goes full golem mode. He’s obsessed. He does anything to keep it in his possession. He gets violent and angry whenever it’s taken from him. There’s no stopping this mfer lemme tell ya"

"Breaking It Down

So what’s this mean for Knuckles, if Dread is supposed to represent a part of him? He seems like an asshole! Well, Dread represents the following: - Knuckles’ obsession with the Master Emerald. Guarding it. Protecting it. It’s not his, but he’ll use possessive pronouns on occasion for it. He will do anything to get the Emerald back if stolen. - His independent side. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s a loner - all he needs is himself. That’s all who he can fully trust. It’s him and the Emerald against everyone else."

"The Conflict Scene

'I get why you guys don't like me, but YOU guys should be friends!' - Sonic, speaking to Dread & Knucks

In this scene, Dread and Knucks face off. But not before respectively stating these following lines in response to Sonic.

Knucks: "Not gonna happen. I already have enough friends." Dread: "The only friend I need is me beauty."

This is a representation of Knuckles’ sides of companionship and isolation literally fighting head-to-head. To be with his friends, or to stick to his duties in guarding the master emerald - both of equal strength. This follows Knuckles’ ACTUAL inner conflicts. We know he would like to do other things that aren’t bound by duty, but he has such obligation to it. It’s hard to do anything else."

"The Importance of Death

After all of that being said and done, we know that Dread represents a part of Knuckles that struggles. It’s his sense of duty to the Master Emerald. He can’t let go of it or let himself free from it - it’s such a strong sense of self for him, but one that keeps him bound. He’s, again, said it himself. He envies the free lifestyle, and his part of himself is really only holding him back. Dread dying would represent that part of himself - the obsessive, protective emerald guardian - faded. That gives him so much more freedom, which is all that he longs for."

"But, but!! (Counterarguments)

“There’s no proof these counterparts are parallels of the cast!” There’s not any outright statement of this, but if you look at it in a more analytical perspective, it works itself out quite nicely. It’s called having an IMAGINATION. Besides, not all media spells things out for you. This is a KIDS show, of course they’re going to make it easy for the kids to digest. These kids dont know the sonic characters like I do

“Knuckles isn’t even guarding the emerald before the prism shattered” Its a kids show they don’t have time to establish all that. It’s not the focus they’re not going to DWELL on it it ain’t that deep (i say as i make it that deep)

“Sonic Prime isn’t about Knuckles!! Why would they focus on him!” Who cares hes in the series. also if you like squint there’s development for all of the main counterparts in representative of Amy and Tails, too. Nine and Thorn Rose both have their fair share of issues that can connect to their original characters!! But this aint about them"

thats all thanks

[heckinconfusedparade]

Another question: What would happen if the Wachowski family went to Nine’s world/dimesion. How would it go? Like they went there by accident? Can they go like when Prime Sonic goes back to New Yoke for the second time and the Wachowski’s also land where Prime Sonic lands?

The family of 5 somehow managed to get to New Yoke City. The air they breathe in is musky and toxic, causing then to cough.

They try asking around about where they are and gather close to nothing until something flies by dragging a banner saying “NEW YOKE CITY” on it. This is where Nine is from!

They then begin their search for any sign of him.

Then a rush of blue charges up to to Tails “TAILS IS THAT YOU?? KNUX??” It’s Prime Sonic! Prime gives them a hopeful look, only to change to sadness when Tails says “I’m not the right Tails.”

Then he spots Sonic. His eyes go wide and he starts circling him “I’ve never seen another me before! Hi other me! Lookin handsome today!” “Why, thank you. You’re looking rather handsome today too, good sir!” Sonic grins. Besties immediately.

Prime is about to ask about Tom and Maddie before he hears an explosion somewhere “sorry guys.. I gotta blast!” Prime rushes off, but Sonic follows him “what’s going on??” “I think The Resistance is battling those Badniks. I hope they’re not mad at me, I kinda left them high and dry back there, but it wasn’t my fault!” Prime speeds up.

“Yea, Nine mentioned not knowing where you were!” Sonic says, causing Prime to slip up a bit “wait, you know Nine?” “LOOK OUT!” Sonic beats down a robot that was about to attack Prime. Prime gives him a thankful nod before they catch up to the main battle.

“Hey Gang!” Prime ducks under cover with Knucks and Rebel, who are in fact, unhappy with him. Knucks starts laying into him, asking where he’s been, and why he left them for dead. Prime tries to explain that he had no choice in the matter. Then he asks Knucks where Nine was, and Knucks asks him the same question. Then Sonic buts in “he’s travelling the multiverse. He never said why.”

Rebel growls ignoring the fact there is another Sonic “the kid left us for another reality. Fine, we don’t need him.” Rebel had faith in that kid. Knucks headshots a bot with his gun “not like he woulda been useful hacking Rusty Rose back onto our side!”

Suddenly, 4 tiny disks are thrown into the robot horde. The disks create a large blast, sending the robots up in the air and crashing back to the ground, destroying them. Holes are popped into the surviving bots.

The Rebellion try to see through the smoke, and once it’s clear, there stands Tails with his little weapon backpack, Maddie with some of Tails’ weapons, and Tom with a regular pistol he just happened to have on hand, like a true American would.

Sonic cheers “good shot!” Knucks and Rebel stare in disbelief. There’s more of em! Sonic leads them all to the cover.

Maddie immediately notices that Knucks is covered in scars “oh, baby.. what happened to you? You’re covered in scars.” She reached to touch and examine his facial scars, but her hand is swatted away.

Knucks sneers “I don’t know who you are. Do NOT. Touch me.”

“Oh do not worry other me, she is my mother!” Knuckles pats his moms shoulder. Knucks stutters and looks away. Rebel laughs “awe, how adorable~” Knucks mutters “shut up.”

Tom is checking on other Sonic who’s currently chilling out from the adrenaline rush. Prime has been through too much today.

Meanwhile, Tails has returns after slipping away. “EVERYONE COVER YOUR EARS!” He calls out. Everyone listens. There are several explosions heard as the ground shakes. Tails just single handedly destroyed a whole wave of bots. The others are impressed! This kids gonna be useful!

The replacement wave comes with Dr. Deep in tow. The Wachowski bros get into battle positions, chaos energy crackling around their bodies.

The family is able to stick around until that battle is calmed down for a bit.

Prime spots Nine in the air. HE GOT A PLANE! He uses air robots to bounce himself up there. Then they’re gone.

Everything just sorta went in a flash- maybe someday when things are better, they will meet again.

[welcome-to-green-hills]

Hooray! Dread's with the rest of the gang! I was worried about his sanity after we last saw him…

They’re gonna become Shatterverse Pirates and travel across dimensions… They all fly back to New Yoke City to help the rebels.

[ask-the-kitty-crew]

(If the New Yoke City Gang still exist in the season 3 AU (post-incident), idk how they will work there- Especially Nine (the real one)- :/)

(May or may not give Beta PTSD, that's for sure-)

- Wolf (@minusgangtime's mod)

I think it would be relatively unchanged except for giving PTSD-

[xherry7816]

holy moly xherry7816 you've reached 50 likes !!!! ive been working on some gi designs for the ninja but ive been struggling to show off their individuality while still looking like their gi but i havent actually looked up reference of gi so in pretty sure that should be the first step.

ok so the au (still unnamed) taking place in a slightly canon divergent season 5 MORRO is currently after the realm crystal in his attempts to bring the PREEMINENT (?) to NINJAGO and like destroy it or whatever, solid stuff. except whats different here is that MORRO does not go and posses LLOYD as his first step because he'd struggle more as a human than if he were a ghost so he and his ghoul gang decide to get the hard stuff out the way, the ninja chasing them to put a stop to him obviously. also in this au NYA is not told by WU that she is the water ninja, instead she receives her awakening when defending one of the team from a ghost and then hes like omg :0 !#!%#!$#??

the au starts off with the mission to retrieve the realm crystal on time (before MORRO) because even if he beats them to everythinf else MORRO cant do anything without the crystal. unfortunately for them !!! MORRO is already a few steps ahead and when they reach the resting place of the FSM they find the ghost, crystal in hand. boom boom battle !! and theyre all fighting anf there are ghosts everywhere (NYA is not here bc remember KAI isnt supposed to know hes the water ninja yet) and MORRO is very clearly goig after LLOYD. wait, ok wait i need to type up my thinking process rn or else it wont make sense when i read everything back bc isnt only a spinjulistu master able to find the tomb,,,,, ermmm OK LLOYD possesion- no i cant do that to him. its an au whatever, so yeah MORRO'S in there crystal in hand going after greenie and KAI kicks in yk the brother stuff so theyr fighting anf stuff and like idk MORRO knocks KAI off his feet anf starts heading towards LLOYD again so as a last ditch effort KAI fires towards MORRO and it hits the crystal aaaa ! even thought i cant possibly imagine the crystal being so weak i can just say the power of love made him stronger bc those tight family bonds (im a sucker 4 found famiky but who isnt these days). and then its kinda like the scene in SONIC PRIME where the prism goes boom !! and theres a shockwave and it looks cool and then u see SONIC traversing through the SHATTERVERSE 4 the first time and then he ends up in NEW YOKE, except its KAI landing in the PRIME EMPIRE CITY with all his friends looking different and jazz. the whole mission is to retrive the realm crystal shards and put them back 2gether so he can get home and finish the fight with MORRO. for the og universe i kinda just imagine time stops so 4 the ninja itd look like KAI disappears for a few moments and then comes right back. as i did mention when i was vaugely describing universe 1 (PRIME EMPIRE divergent i hope im usong that word right btw) KAI doesnt stay long in that universe so just like in SONIC PRIME he will return to some universes, whether on purpose or not, to retrieve the shards

i was wondering if i should write a fanfic bc thats what most people seem 2 do but im not really good with keeping up the motivation to write, i used 2 have a miraculous ninjago crossover on ao3 (literally called miraculous bc im unoriginal) but after like 5 updates i did updates like one every 3 months and then deleted it lol so im probably jist going to let this au die when i get tired of it !!!! tbh i need to rewatch ninjago bc im forgetting all my facts (and a SONIC PRIME rewatch not that i really need to but its very good har har)

btw i hope its obvious that my username was supposed 2 be CHERRY, like my name, but i misspelt it and thought it looked cool.

should i make a tag 4 this au ??? its not really hard 2 find it since its pretty much all i post and i dont even know what 2 call it,,, ill just think abt it 4 now :D

[universalzones]

👪

"Well, there's my mom. Supportive, kind, smart, and caring. Can't say I wouldn't have made half the stuff I have without her encouragement and support. She's also super cool. I remember she used to tell me stories that she was a part of a biker gang, went around helping people out with whatever. Can't say I seem myself doing anything like that. Oh, she's an amazing cook too. Also made the best gumbo in New Yoke City and any leftovers went to a food kitchen." Suddenly a beeping sound would go off on Nine's glove. "Sorry, gotta go back to work. Besides, if I don't stop now I'd go on for hours." It seems the fox thinks highly of his mother and isn't afraid to make it known how much he looks up to her.

[minusgangtime]

(Uhh- Big brain moment?)

(The gang from the New Yoke City universe will look identical to the originals cuz they're meant to be copies of them from the original universe, so they will recognize Shelby right away after a bit of convincing, or at least that's what the mod said :v)

(But the gang from Boscage Maze and the No Place universes will look kinda different (with slightly different colors and styles) with no memory of Shelby whatsoever cuz they're different copies, but soon will befriend her while finding a way back to her own universe, along with Noise who is randomly there to help)

[kylobith]

The Inner Battle - Chapter 2

The Cloaked Figure

Raindrops whipped the ground as clouds blown by western winds huddled in the Mantellian sky. Earthy perfumes emanated from the grass, hanging in the cool and foggy air. Water gathered on the tree leaves and grass, dripping onto roots in a regular rhythm, playing their calming lullaby to rodents hidden within the tree trunks, pressed together to maintain their heat. Puddles began to form, turning dry dirt into mud, reflecting the few patches of visible stars peeping through the dark veil of the overcast night.

At the exit of a tunnel hidden by tall weeds appeared a silhouette with a backpack across its shoulder and a stained rag used as a bundle in its hand. It shuddered and looked all around, trying to find its precise location in the dark.

On its side, a roar resonated while a bright light took the silhouette by surprise by shining upon it. Blinded by the luminescence, it lifted an arm before its eyes, attempting to identify its source. A succession of beeps filled the night, triggering joy in the stranger’s heart.

"R2!"

The figure, who was no other than Teebasha, ran up to the droid, who had the brilliant idea of turning on the engines of the Jedi Interceptor as soon as she resurfaced from Horle’s den. The hunter knelt down beside her friend and rested a hand on its side.

"It's so great to see you! How did you know it was me?"

The droid answered with excited chirps, bouncing from one foot to the other. 

"You saw them take me to this tunnel, then... They were right next to us from the beginning. Anyway, I'm glad I managed to come out. Let's leave this place, I wouldn't like to fight against some other gang."

Standing up, the bag she held in her hand bumped against the droid’s body. He stared at it quizzically, triggering a proud smile on the young woman's face. She opened it to show its content to R2, who let out a horrified scream.

"Shush, R2, calm down! It's Vonar Horle's head,” she laughed, tying the top of the bag. “I can't believe how easy it was to find and kill him. Looks like the Force was with me all along!"

Without waiting for her order, the droid unlocked the starship. The canopy of the cockpit slid open above her, enabling her to throw the bag with Horle's head inside, as well as her backpack. She and the droid both settled in the ship, preparing for takeoff. Whilst she was pushing some buttons, she slipped her headset around her forehead.

"Alright, R2. Let's find a safe place to spend the rest of the night. In the morning, we're returning to Ord Mantell City. There's… something I must do there."

The engine purred and hiccupped until the ship took off, flying over the lakes and desert lands, where herds of animals slept or fed themselves under the attentive look of nocturnal predators. Life pursued its course there, undisturbed and untouched, if not for the tunnels and caves tainted by criminals. Everything had its own order — seasons passed in silence, whilst death visited every so often to claim its dues, reaping lives only to enable new ones to bloom, pure and full of potential.

Buds peeked from underneath the leaves, too shy to burgeon, whereas other plants flourished in their prime, their bright colours compensating for the dull and grey of the city hundreds of miles away. Flowers bent in the rainfall, while the reeds on the banks of the rivers and lakes stood solid and proud, only bobbing as the breeze passed.

As the Interceptor ripped through the air, eastward bound, Teebasha admired the frozen and still landscapes passing before her eyes, massaging the back of her head, still painful from the blow. She tried to remember what it looked like when she used to live there, long before the First Order burnt cities and villages down for its own enrichment.

Ord Mantell had suffered from a tormented history and under the yoke of different forms of evil having plagued the galaxy. For thousands of years, the constant wars between the Republic and the Empire roared upon its ground, devastating its landscapes and destroying lives. Later on, the Empire, syndicates and the First Order drained its resources, stealing food from the population’s hands, leaving many to die. The New Republic turned a blind eye as the population called for help, begging them to take action.

When the day came that the Hosnian system was reduced to ashes by the mysterious superweapon of the First Order, no tear was shed by Mantellians. Only a lingering terror deepened at the prospect of yet another colonisation, which would cost the lives of thousands.

After three hours of travelling under the Order’s radar, Teebasha caught a glimpse of the high illuminated towers of Ord Mantell City, far in the horizon. Its hills loomed over the lower districts, amongst which the broad spaceport stood, its gaping mouth providing a way out of the gloom of this once prosperous place.

If you want to read more, the rest of the chapter is available on Ao3

Tag: @emmanuellececchi

[nights-nonsensical-ramblings]

So right now it seems like Thorn’s conflict is resolved. She and the scavengers have reconciled and are friends again. And unless they want to emphasize the shards messing with peoples heads having her go back to pushing her friends out wouldn’t feel right

But that doesn’t mean she has to be done causing problems.

Picture this. What would happen if the chaos council invaded the boscage maze and attempted to take over?

If Thorn snapped over her friends carelessly over using resources how would she react to an invader intentionally trying to industrialize the jungle?

She would be livid.

There’s no way she would let that happen, she would definitely take up the shard again and fight back.

But this time the others would be by her side. (I just love the idea of the jungle group being a feral little family. Makes the shutting out even more angsty)

Like it would be such a cool nature vs technology battle. (Like that scene in Rio 2 where the birds are sabotaging the loggers equipment.)

But then imagine her learning about New Yoke only having one tree left. If she ends up there somehow imagine her turning the city into and overgrown cyberpunk type thing

Yo but actually overgrown cyberpunk sounds like a really interesting aesthetic.

Putting the jungle gang in a city with practically zero plants could lead to some really interesting scenarios.

Gnarly would not be okay. He has no concept about any of this. Without knowledge of robots, technology or any kind of large scale civilization I wonder what his mind would come up with to rationalize what he would be experiencing.

Mangey skitters off to investigate something and some people try to help this lost child and get bit.

I don’t think Hangry would do much better in this environment.

Prim would probably have it the most together though

and then if they meet their counterparts.

oh boy would that be strange for everyone involved.

[therealvagabird]

Unbridled

You can also read the full setting intro HERE.

“We live at the turning of an age. New empires rise from the embers of war. The fairy tales of yesteryear lay dead and buried, and yet beneath the clamor of time’s passing, older forces stir. This is an age of glory. Of power for any with the will to seize it, by steel, or spell, or stranger craft. An unfettered age. An unbridled age.

Who would be strong enough to steer the fate of Arius?”

Hierarch Pios VII Enkrates

Less than a century has passed since the end of the Great War of Liberation, when the peoples of the world arose to throw off the yoke of the Old Vasileia. The end of that vast revolution did not spell an end to the bloodshed, however. Across the lands, cold war festers unceasing. Empires, kingdoms, rebels – from the lowliest wildling barbarian to the mightiest mage-king, all must contend with a new dawning age. The world is changing. Machines and magics of unthinkable power become ever more commonplace. Dark and ancient knowledge is forgotten, swept beneath the passing of history like stones before a river. Chaos reigns despite all who attempt to stop it, and the world’s peoples look towards tomorrow wondering what great upheaval is to be next. It is a time of opportunity – of wonder as well as terror – and great heroes have arisen from the most unlikely places to try and shape the future. For fame, or destiny, or desperation, all must answer the call.

Ninety-five years ago, the mainland of Arius was dominated by a single great empire – the Second Vasileia. Also known as the Old Empire, the Vasileia had once been a grand alliance founded by heroes and legends which had since devolved into a hive of tyranny and corruption over the course of its millennia-spanning reign. Mercantile ambitions, once the driving factor in Vasileian diplomacy, had since turned towards something darker. Near all the Empire was dominated by colossal Trade Houses, whose greed knew no bounds. These in turn were held under the thrall of the Holy Imperial Church and the iron fist of the Kaishan – the Emperor. Any lands not subject to Vasileian rule were targeted to be drained of resources and conquered. With the rise of House Auceptor, last of the Second Empire’s Kaishans, the final pretenses of Imperial nobility were thrown off in favor of an era of brutal oppression.

From a minor noble hold in the Imperial heartland, there came an unlooked-for salvation. A young Kynaz by the name of Leon Isidore was driven into exile after his family and people were destroyed by the Trade Houses for their refusal to sacrifice precious resources which had been discovered on their lands. Leon fled into the wilds, living as a wanderer and a mercenary, a raider and an outlaw, subsisting off of what talents for magic, combat, and persuasion he had gained from his noble upbringing. It was in the wastelands that he met a group of nomadic mystics – the Ardentite Schismatics. The Asur – the celestial-kin – were an ancient race who had given rise to the religion of Ardentism, which has first been adopted by the Ava seafolk in the west, before becoming the theology of the First and Second Vasileias, evolving over time into the corrupt modern form of the Holy Imperial Church. To the Schismatics, the Empire had lost its way, and there was soon to come a great reckoning with the very powers of Heaven.

Leon was taught secret arts by these mystics, and through his quick mastery the Asur saw the promise of a Chosen One. Isidore was taught secrets long thought forgotten by the civilized rulers of the Vasileia, and in time he was named Romasa – the Lamb and the Shepherd.

Romasa would go on to spearhead a great rebellion, assembling the Army of Liberation. He beseeched the elder Ava and Verg peoples in the west and drew up great support from within the Imperial heartlands in the east. Sovereignty was promised to all those myriad folk and nations who chafed under the rule of the Auceptor Kaishan, and the Great War commenced. The power and ingenuity of the rebels was not to be understated, but the legions of the Vasileia were like a sea. It became clear that, in their lust for power, the high commanders of the Vasileia had heeded the temptations of daemons and leveled dark and terrible powers against their upstart foes. Black magics and hordes of monsters threatened to engulf all of Arius, and Romasa was pressed to defeat the Kaishan before the entire world could be given over to the predations of daemonkind. At great cost was the Liberation achieved, however, and by Romasa’s word was the corrupt Old Empire overthrown at last.

Yet peace was not to follow, despite the victory of the Liberation. Romasa, in his ongoing mastery of numerous magical arts, and scarred from his service in the War, had changed from the young man he once was. All were shocked when, at the victory of the rebellion, he declared the founding of a new Vasileia, and crowned himself as Kaishan. In the name of order and stability, it was Kaishan Romasa’s command that all need submit to the new authority of his Prime Eternal Vasileia, forgetting the promises of sovereignty and drastic change he’d offered in exchange for a single-minded dedication to reconstruction. Romasa’s former allies were incensed. In the west, the Ava seafolk of Lindath were primed to declare their succession from his new Vasileia, having been among the foremost supporters of Romasa at his promise of Lindathi independence as in the ancient days. With them came several human nations, as well as the bulk of the Delvers, the Verg; and the Myaatu beastfolk of the northern Auroran Desert.

Following in the wake of the Liberation there was a new conflict which was known as the Winter War – the first seed of the later Long War which would plague the continent for near a century after. Dueling for territory and power, the Accord and the Third Empire spread across the lands, forcing every independent nation to choose one side or another in the vicious battle. The Accord promised freedom, common purpose, and a heroic return to the mythic and glorious elder days, while the Empire offered power, order, and the opportunities of a new industrial age. Insurgencies and rebellions flourished during the Winter War as numerous lands defied the offers of both factions. Most prominent among these groups were the Kaynists – populist armies of laborers and peasants united in a spiritual revival based on the writings of the Asur philosopher Anaxagoras Kayne. The Kaynists caused massive losses to both sides of the Winter War, drafting up great populations of refugees and disaffected folk from out of the debris of conflict.

The Accord dominated the west – the Verg underhomes, the Ava ancestral riverlands of Lindath, and the Bastions of the Myaatu north of the Auroran Desert first of all. To their banner came the kingdoms of Theod and Tiber – confederations of westron humans who had long been allies of the Ava and Verg and had been at the core of the First Empire. The desert sultanate of Afqar came as well, following their Myaatu neighbors in declaring holy war against the treacherous Empire. As the Accord grew, so did their ambitions, keen on bringing the light of freedom to all countries in defiance of the Kaishan. Diplomats found headway in the distant land of Yang, whose Dynast was besieged on all sides by Imperial forces. Likewise, to their south, there lay the Serpent Kingdoms – an offshoot of the Ngara scaledfolk of Cretah who preferred the tradecraft and civilization of the mainland over the more bloodthirsty ways of their cousins. Neighboring Lindath and Theod, the Accord set about in the colonization of the lands of Broadleaf and Stormcleft. These were the homes of the Hyldun – the smallfolk; and the Emim giantkin. The Accord offered protection to the ancestral lands of these peoples if they would join their alliance and contribute their resources and power to the cause. Both Broadleaf and Stormcleft were annexed regardless, but many of their natives chose exile, forming a longstanding grudge against the Accord in the process.

In the east, the Third Empire of the Kaishan Romasa retained much of the former Vasileian heartlands. These were centered about the holy city of Dameseka, seat of the Holy Imperial Church which had been reformed under the Ardentite Schismatics, who placed themselves as the new spiritual leaders of the overall fractious Asur people. The lands neighboring Dameseka – the Tsardom of Kleos, and the Khanates of Tular and Midnah – also fell under the Imperial banner, refusing to follow any power weaker than the mighty Kaishan. Seeking dominion over the Dynast of Yang, the Kaishan at last sought a treaty with the reclusive Genke Shogun of Azakuni, succeeding in assembling a new and diverse Empire for the modern era. Last of all, there were the Jia. Also known as “fiends” or “batfolk”, the Jia were a monstrous race not over two centuries old. They had appeared in the latter days of the Old Vasileia, under the rule of the Auceptor Kaishans, and their origins were unknown. Some claimed they descended from daemons, and they had been brought into the world to serve as foot-soldiers for the dark Auceptor legions. After the Great War, most of the disparate Jia tribes and gangs had fled into the steppe and beyond, persisting as pests and battling all they encountered. Yet the Kaishan saw promise in this folk and a chance for salvation, perceiving how they had begun to form their own societies and cultures in the absence of their former overlords. Romasa elevated the mightiest of the Jia clans above all others, and proclaimed their chieftain the first Overlord, securing the Jia hordes to the service of the Empire. Last among the new core of the Vasileia were the Ngara of Cretah, a minor continent off the southeastern shores. Scaled, bestial creatures who nonetheless had a great dynastic civilization going back beyond all human histories, the Ngara Dynasts were zealous, xenophobic, and enduring, thriving in the jungles and deserts of their inhospitable homeland, raising great cities built on rigid caste systems and bloody theocracy. The Ngara refused to submit to any outside power, but the Kaishan’s spies were able to identify fractures in their defences. With Imperial backing, a coup lead by the great Ngara warrior Jayak Courthand overthrew the last Dynast and installed himself as dictator in preparation of a new Dynasty allied to the Third Vasileia. Following this coalition, the Empire managed to also secure the might of the Three Chosen Tribes of the Emim, warlike outliers of the otherwise peaceful giantkin; the Flamespire Verg, who shared the Empire’s vision of a new era; and the Ava of Antilhia in the west, who were a fearsome offshoot of the peaceful Lindathi Ava keen on vengeance against their traditional foes.

As for the rebels caught between the two bulkheads of the Winter War, prospects became bleaker and bleaker as both the Accord and the Empire grew in power. A once successful guerilla war on a hundred fronts was dismantled piece by piece, with the Kaynists taking the brunt of the assault. Their leaders were killed, their bases destroyed, and the Kaynists – most organized of all the insurgent groups – were in time forced into the cold desolation of the northern mountains. Yet in that unforgiving land there came a second rebirth. In the mountain clefts, the exiled rebels came into contact with the Emim giantkin, whose nomadic numbers had grown since the displacement of the Stormcleft tribes. There were also the Hyldun of Broadleaf. Those of the smallfolk who had not stayed under the Accord, nor fled to the Empire-dominated Hyldun country of Nuri, had chosen to move north. All three of these banished peoples feared and distrusted each other, until the chill of winter began to set in once again. To the surprise of all, a common culture of cooperation existed amongst all three groups. Kaynist diplomats reached out to the clan elders of the Hyldun and the tribal shamans of the Emim and learned of the history of oppression they all shared. The Hyldun and Emim learned of the greater world from the humans, while forgotten secrets of nature were imparted on the Kaynists in turn. A new coalition was formed – known as the Crimson Compact, which was signed in the blood of the disaffected and would spread their revolution across the world. The Compact resurged, bolstered by mighty barbarian warriors and elder magics. Uprisings once again began to fester within the Vasileian heartland, while emissaries of the Compact sought out any and all fringe groups which shared a common animosity for both the Accord and the Empire. On the northeastern continent of Wildland, the forest-dwelling Ruadh Confederacy pledged in the name of their fire-keepers to repel Accord colonialism in exchange for Compact trade. South of the Auroran Desert, the wilder Myaatu joined the cause, along with the human coalition known as the Union of Mwene. To the far east, deep in the jungles of the Ngara homeland, and among the islands of the Great Eastern Sea, there were discovered the tribal warriors of Mazakara, and the Shiplords who followed great Aliki admiral-chieftains. Casteless Ngara unsworn to the Serpent Kingdoms or the Dynast, fringe Verg houses, Greenwater Ava of the inland who shirked the high civilization of their cousins, and even Jia who sought to leave their bloody pasts behind. Pirates, rebels, scum, and heroes. From a thousand fractured sources, from the cities and deep wilds, the Compact was formed – disorganized but still united by a common purpose, and now powerful enough to stand against their foes on equal ground.

The Winter War raged on, and few can say when it ended. For over ninety years since the fall of the Old Vasileia, the Long War has plagued the lands of Arius. Outstripping even the great reach of the empires of old, no stretch of the world has been free from the ambitions of these three sprawling factions. Yet change has been ever present. After just shy of two decades of rule, the Kaishan Romasa disappeared. None know what became of him, even to this day, but for a time it appeared to the forces of the Accord that victory was assured. The vying powers of the Imperial Trade Houses threatened to tear the New Vasileia apart, until the Church reestablished itself as a force of arbitration. Under the direction of Hierarch Pios VII Enkrates, a new order was established within Imperial dogma. The figure of the Vanished Kaishan was created as a synthesis of Ardentite theology and the former Kaishan’s own philosophy. It was this unity that saw the Empire endure in the coming Long War, proving to be the ongoing bane of both the Accord and the Compact.

Yet despite the conflicts of mere mortals, forces of grander and more ancient power continue to roil behind the veil. Within the Unseen, daemons whisper and spirits reach into the material plane. Gods and devils vie for supremacy, and the promises of unfathomable knowledge evermore tempt the peoples of a world wracked by strife. The time may soon come when the world would face total annihilation, made all the surer by the schisms and chaos the Long War has birthed. Unless new heroes and wise leaders could stand against the tide.

[galadrieljones]

That he may hold me by the hand: chapter 8

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason  

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes and Situations, Violence, and Sexual Content)

Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph

Chapter 8: St. Denis was never enough.

“Goddam cemeteries,” said Arthur. He was loading his volcanic. It was early night, and they were creeping through the mausoleums. It had become imperative for them to play errand boys, running out grave robbers in their final push to bring Jack back. It was by far the most ridiculous bullshit with which they had ever been tasked. There was a dog barking somewhere amongst the tombstones, and they kept finding vagrants crouching here and there as if the dead could somehow keep them warm. It all made Arthur feel sick in his bones. “This place is hellish.”

“I appreciate you being here,” said John. He seemed nervous, but not by ghosts nor vagrants. He was terrified about Jack. “Seriously.”

“Of course I’m here,” said Arthur. "Don't be a moron."

“Braithwaite Manor weren’t no picnic. I still smell like smoke.”

Arthur lit a cigarette. He was smoking it and feeling dry in his throat and in his eyes. He was tired. He hadn’t slept properly in two days. “Ain’t sure what you expected.”

“Dutch is losing his mind, Arthur,” said John. “Don’t you think? I ain’t too keen on what I see.”

"I don't see much of anything no more."

“I ain’t sure how much of it I see neither. Seems an awful waste. Of a life? All this time, and running? I don’t even know what he’s talking about half the time.”

“You really ought to leave,” said Arthur, looking around. There was a sad dove singing somewhere nearby. It was creepy. Arthur swore under his breath.

“Leave and go where?” said John. He stopped, like he had got confused by his location.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Anywhere. We get Jack back, and then I reckon you ought to wrangle him, Abigail, and leave. Ain't no reason to stick around no more if you don't follow.”

"What about loyalty?" John said.

Arthur said nothing of it at first. In his mind, he had traveled far from the notion of loyalty. His loyalties had changed. He didn't know what the goddam word meant anymore. "Be loyal to what matters," he said, pulling words out of his ass. But they sounded true.

John seemed pensive on this. He had stopped cold and Arthur along with him. They were officially lost, but neither of them seemed to care, or even notice. “Interesting,” said John. "Real interesting. What about you then?"

“What about me.”

“You and Albert.”

Arthur looked at him, taken off guard. John was unwavering in his resolve, gazing through the fog. “Come on,” said Arthur, ignoring the question. “Let’s get a move on.”

“You can tell me the truth,” said John, following behind. “I ain’t—I would never judge you, Arthur. Not for that.”

“For what?”

“For loving a man. It ain’t like that. And hey, maybe I’m wrong? But I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“You ain’t wrong,” said Arthur. He had the cigarette crammed between his lips. He’d started to get freaked out by the atmosphere of the cemetery, so he holstered his volcanic and opted instead for his repeater. He looked back at John who was earnest and reminding him of a dog who had wandered into a field of corn. He looked so young, thought Arthur. He looked as young as he had the day Arthur took him out that noose in Chicago. Arthur remembered how he’d had ligature bruises on his neck as if he had been dragged for a mile, and when they got him back to their camp in Putnam all the way over on the Illinois River, he did not speak for two days. It still broke Arthur up inside, to think of it.

“Arthur?”

"It’s just—” He shook his head out, to get brave. “You ain’t wrong. Okay?”

John nodded. He didn’t push nor prod. He just said, “Okay.” He seemed satisfied. “I think the place we’re looking for is just ahead.”

“Thank Jesus.”

They finished the job upright and got out clean inside twenty minutes. As they rode home, John struggled with Jack, who seemed enamored of the brief, fancy life he had lived while sequestered at Mr. Angelo Bronte’s. He talked in ecstatic, shiny terms, which intimidated John at first. Arthur mostly found it amusing, though he understood. He was relieved to have Jack back. He was relieved. He had known all along how bad it could have gone, and he had to close his eyes to shake the old fear from his heart.

It wasn’t long before they were back at Shady Belle, and the gang was celebrating Jack’s heroic rescue along with the false comeuppance of all those who had wronged them. Arthur smoked idly and stood off grooming his horse so as to avoid Dutch and even more so Hosea who was sick and getting sicker and whose love he knew to be true but constantly misguided by his thirst for the life. Arthur had never felt any such lust for anything and standing now, in the swamps of southern Lemoyne, he felt farther away from his own life and his own love than he ever had. It took him a great deal of will to finally enter their camp that night. A big haunted house in a big haunted country.

It had been four days, and Albert, in a fit of boredom and cabin fever, rode his horse out of the city and to a safe camping spot, north of Rhodes near Dewberry Creek. It had been so long since he’d slept outdoors that he was beginning to wonder if any of it had ever happened. The creek was an Arcadian dream, full of Whitetail, fox, rabbits. Scarce boar. He tracked a twelve-point buck for a while and took its picture, felt free and alone and calm. He built a fire and his tent, fished a fish in the creek, cleaned and cooked it up for his dinner in the manner taught to him by Arthur. He poured a glass of bourbon whiskey and ate as the sun went down behind the tangled tree line, feeling proud.

Before he had left St. Denis, Albert stopped at the post office where there was waiting for him a letter from his mother. He had been looking forward to her correspondence for a couple weeks now. Before he went to sleep that night, he leaned against a fallen tree trunk, sipping more of the whiskey, and he read that letter by the light of the fire. His mother’s letters were long, requiring time and commitment. They often read like opinion editorials full of immaculate grammar and journalistic observations upon her own life and his and the lives of those she deemed worthy of conversation in the high society of Philadelphia. She was a good writer, educated at Vassar College prior to marrying Albert’s father, the son of a prominent businessman from New York. She was into her mid-fifties now, living in Philadelphia, and she had been alone for many years. He worried about her, sometimes. She had always seemed a tough cookie, but knowing Arthur had tough him well that a strong armor is worth little more than the human sadness it protects.

In his last letter, Albert had told his mother of Arthur—not in a bid for her approval. He just wanted her to know.  The letter he received in return now was several pages long and full of life, but it did not mention Arthur until the very end. He smoked several cigarettes as he read, and by the time he got to the final paragraph, he was happily drunk and sat up off the fallen tree, leaning closer to the fire, for what he read would serve to change his life—

Well, dear Al, we are nearing the end of this most current exchange, and in the spirit of your previous letter, I would like to close things with a quaint proposition for you. You remember my brother, your Uncle Matthew, who recently purchased a large stake of land out on the central coast of California? Well, Matthew has taken a wife, and together they have purchased a home in San Francisco. In the wake of things, he has offered the ranch to me, free and clear. I have taken him up on his offer, of course, and plan to leave in three weeks time. As you well know, I have been aching for departure to the west for many years, and as a result will be closing up the Philadelphia estate indefinitely.

The property in California is comprised of 200 acres of terrain with water, plus a wide stable and two free-standing homes. It also holds a significant quarters for farmhands and stable boys and finds its end on a cliff that drops off into the wide, blue Pacific. I have seen photographs, and it is quite beautiful. Obviously, it is far too much for me to occupy by myself, however, and what I mean to propose is that, should you and your Arthur find yourselves in need of a home once your stretch in St. Denis comes to a close, you should pack your bags and get on a train to Monterey. Technically it is in a little place called Carmel-by-the-Sea, but you catch my meaning. I hope you’ll come. I am certain you would discover a wealth of inspiration for your work out west, Al. And Arthur as well, for I know how you mentioned he is an artist.

Please be in touch, hastily, as if the two of you plan on coming to stay, I will need to ready the property. I like to be prepared! Good luck with your opening, and remember how I love you. Give Arthur my warm regards. I do hope to meet him soon. You sound happy.

Your Loving Mother,

Cynthia

Much later, with the night winding down, Arthur stood chain-smoking on the swamp as a thunderstorm now raged over the horizon of the Lanahechee. With the adrenaline wore off, his body felt beat as he looked at the dark water ahead of him. It seemed endless and humid. Behind him there was the party, still going on and on as ticker tape. Javier played the guitar while Karen sang with Miss Grimshaw and they drank whiskey by the fire.

The colors of the world in which Arthur lived were changing, all around him. He felt sour and uncomfortable there, held up inside and anxious to unleash himself from the life to which he had been yoked for so long. Having forged a life of his own, separate from the interests of the gang, this was now all that Arthur could think about. He knew that it was selfish but he could not remember any other time in his life in which had allowed himself to entertain his own needs long enough to even register what selfishness felt like. He was bored and agitated as he looked out at the swampy river’s edge.

Mary Beth came down at some point and stood beside him, a welcome surprise. She had a pale scarf tied around her hair as if to protect from the occasional blowing rain. Arthur gave her a cigarette, lit it for her off the burning end of his own. Together they stood, looking at the lightning for a while, and smoking like old times.

“You did good, Arthur,” she said after some time. She glanced at him from behind the scarf like she was hiding part of herself. Thunder went off in the distance and shook the land. “Getting Jack back. It was a real good thing you did for John.”

“I know,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that Dutch wants to talk to you.” She said it half-heartedly. She did not even look at him.

Arthur said nothing.

“Anyway, John’s inside,” Mary Beth went on, smoking. “He’s with Abbie and Jack. Things seem good between them, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth.

He looked at her, sensing the curiosity and the concern on the edge of her voice. She wore it so often with him. They had been friends a long time. “What is it?” he said.

“I’m gonna ask you something,” she said, watching the water, “and you don’t have to answer. I won’t mind. I promise. But if you do answer, please tell me the truth. Don’t spare my feelings.”

“Go ahead, Mary Beth.”

Out on the edge of the horizon, lightning threaded the sky. The storm was moving fast. It was headed to sea.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, looking at her hands, “do you love him?”

He smoked. He finished his cigarette, tossed it to the earth and put it out with the heel of his boot. He nodded, gripping his belt, glancing to her and her freckled cheeks. “Yes,” he said.

Her breath did not catch, and she did not hesitate. She simply nodded, took a drag, and blew the smoke out in the air. “Okay,” she said.

“Mary Beth,” said Arthur.

“It’s okay,” she said. She smiled at him, through a fierce façade, as if she were trying desperately not to cry. “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you found somebody, Arthur. Somebody decent. I surely am, as I want you to be happy. You deserve love.” She put the hair behind her ears and looked at her cigarette. “I never held no expectations for us. I know it sometimes seemed that way but I swear.”

“I know,” he said, studying her. “I know.”

“We’re friends. Ain’t we?”

“Always.”

“Good,” she said, like she was relieved. “You know I used to be filled with all these fantasies, especially when I first joined up with you boys. Knights in armor, all that. They saved my mind for many years. You always fit that bill.”

“I ain’t no knight, Mary Beth.”

“You are to me,” she said. “And I ain’t forgotten.”

“I will always protect you,” said Arthur. “Any way I can. And I am thankful for you. Taking care of me after all that nasty business, in ways that no one else would. For listening to me. You will find love, Mary Beth. If that is what you desire. I know it.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome.”

They smoked. The sky churned. “I been saving up, you know,” said Mary Beth, finishing her cigarette, throwing it into the water. She adjusted the scarf in her hair. “I got more than $800.”

“Saving up for what?” said Arthur.

“For leaving the gang,” she said, like a revelation. “It won’t be long now. I been reading a lot, about the Midwest. There are places up there I could live forever, on a much longer dime. I could get a room, with a desk. Maybe even a cabin. A place to write all these stories I been cooking up in my mind. I don’t doubt they’re terrible, but still. They’re mine. I want to make something, Arthur. I can’t do that here. Try as I been, it’s too much running, too much uncertainty.”

“I get that,” said Arthur. “And I think that’s a fine plan.”

“You should go, too,” she said, growing wistful, like she had stars in her eyes. “With Albert. He loves you. He has money. He can take you away from here. From all this. You should let him, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at her, and then he glanced back to the party where he could not see nor hear nothing but debauchery. It was a mixture of those he loved and those he no longer understood, and he knew that in time, all would draw to a close, and it would make no difference. None at all. The hour was growing late now. The night was long. He did not go to see Dutch. He breathed.

The next morning when Albert returned from his camping trip on Dewberry Creek, he opened the door to his apartment and found Arthur inside, waiting. He had been sitting on the sofa, sketching furiously, and when Albert came in, he looked up, relieved, stood and closed his journal.

“Where you been?” he said.

“Arthur,” said Albert, happily surprised. He set down his valise and his tripod, and he removed his hat. “How did you get in here?”

“I uh—I picked the lock,” said Arthur. “Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said Albert.

"I got here late last night. You wasn't here."

“I went for a ride,” said Albert. “Don't worry. Did you find Jack? Is he okay?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “He’s back with his family now. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course,” said Albert. “I’m relieved. It seemed so serious.”

They stood across the room from one another now, as if yet too hesitant to cross. Both of them looked at their shoes for a moment, very still in this liminal space.

At some point, Albert finally came over, and both of them sat down on the couch. Albert reached for Arthur’s hand and held it steadfastly. They looked at each other. Arthur studied Albert’s face closely and said, “So, you went for a ride, huh? You look a little windswept.”

“Yes,” said Albert. “I went out camping, just one night. Over on Dewberry Creek.”

“Dewberry Creek?” said Arthur. “That’s pretty country over there. Bold move, Mr. Mason."

“Well, we are untamed," he said, smiling to himself. "I got some wonderful shots of a twelve-point buck. I caught a fish as well.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“Very good."

“Thank you,” said Albert. He blushed. “I got a letter from my mother yesterday.”

“That sounds nice,” said Arthur. He ran his thumb across Albert's knuckles. His whole body calm, safe. His heart was quiet. “What did she have to say?”

“A lot, actually,” said Albert.

“Oh yeah?”

The morning sun was pouring in through the windows, soaking the room and making it warm. There were some loud and joyful noises then, coming in through the wide open French doors from the bustling street outside. It sounded like a bunch of kids, getting loose, playing tag, being free.

[chiseler]

HAUNCH, PAUNCH, AND JOWL

You probably can't call screenwriter Samuel Ornitz one of the stars of the Hollywood Ten. His name doesn't resonate like, say, fellow blacklisters Dalton Trumbo's or Ring Lardner Jr.'s do. Most of his films are now forgotten. Before he went to Hollywood, though, he wrote a semi-autobiographical novel that's still read for its marvelous details on the lives of Lower East Side Jews at the turn of the twentieth century.

Ornitz was born there to Polish immigrants in 1890. His family wasn't poor, like so many others in the neighborhood. His father ran a successful dry goods business. Ornitz's older brothers went to work for their dad, but Samuel rebelled and went into social activism. As a young man he worked for the Prison Association and spent much time in the notorious Tombs. He later worked for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children as assistant superintendent.

Meanwhile he was writing. His first novel Haunch, Paunch and Jowl was published in 1923 as "an anonymous autobiography." Meyer Hirsch, the narrator, is a Lower East Side Jew who claws his way to wealth and power by any means necessary. Early chapters are rich with details of growing up on the streets at the end of the 1800s; the second half of the book is a pretty hard look at the corruption and graft that riddled city politics in the early twentieth century.

The story starts when Meyer is nine and jockeying for status among the other Jewish boys in the Ludlow Street Gang. They do a lot of fighting with a rival Jewish gang, the Essex Street Guerrillas. Both sides team up to fight the Irish kids, using fists, sticks, brickbats and stones. They disrupt local business, breaking shop windows and overturning sidewalk stalls, but the cops don't get involved -- it's just Sheenies versus Micks. The Jewish boys' nickname for a cop is Shammos, Yiddish for a synagogue caretaker. By the 1920s Shamus, as it was usually spelled, would be familiar slang for a cop or private detective, found everywhere in noir literature and films -- Bogart's Philip Marlowe refers to himself as a shamus a few times in The Big Sleep. It's not clear whether that derived from Shammos or from the Irish name Seamus, given that so many New York cops and detectives were Irish. Probably it was a confluence of the two.

As they get a little older the boys prowl the Bowery, which Ornitz describes as a "succession of saloons, bedhouses, two-cent coffee places, second-hand clothing stores, oyster stands, rescue missions, and second-hand shoe cellars... Underfoot it is slippery with chew-tobacco juice. Everybody is busy spitting. The old-timers, the right-at-home bums sun themselves in the doorways of lodging houses and at the corners. Panhandlers look for live ones. Fake cripples and blind men, offering pencils or shoe laces, whine for pennies. One drunk mutters, another speechifies, one sings or curses, and another lies prone in everybody's way and nobody pays him the least notice. Sailors, stevedores, oilers, stokers, firemen, hobos and street walkers crowd the sidewalks. Country boys, threadbare and hungry-eyed, fortune seekers stranded in the big city, and tired-looking, jobless men from everywhere, wander in this land of the down and out... Here is the city's back-wash of sewerage..."

Like Irving Berlin, another Jewish kid on the Lower East Side at the same time, Meyer and his teenage pals earn small change busking and serving as singing waiters in the concert saloons that infested the Bowery and Chinatown. Ornitz's kids work in one joint where the young Berlin actually sang: Scotchy Lavelle's saloon and dance hall at 14 Doyers Street. Lavelle was a famous hoodlum who had run with Patsy Conroy's gang of waterfront thieves in the 1860s and 1870s. Ornitz changes Scotchy's name to Frenchie, but otherwise gives us a documentary look inside the joint. A piano player -- Piano O'Brien in the novel -- accompanied the waiters on the keys as they belted out ballads, romantic tearjerkers currently popular on the street, and ragtime tunes. Ornitz writes:

'The art of a singing waiter is in a class by itself. It consists of carrying a song over a multitude of busy doings, remarks, orders, servings, making change and cleaning tables, all done during the song. Occasionally you interrupt the song to sing out the order, and then you must immediately take up the last word and note where you left off... During the heartrending moments of the piece you may have to make change for a two-dollar bill and reckon up the amount due, put down the change, receive your tip, move to the next table, mop its surface dry, remove empty glasses on a tray, call at the little door for your ordered drinks, pass out the right brass tags for the checker, show people to the tables, smile to known frequenters, laugh at a friendly gibe and stoop to pick up a coin thrown as a compliment to your vocal efforts."

Bowery and Chinatown dives drew an extraordinarily wide range of customers and looky-lous, from bums to toffs; even European royalty included a descent to the area on their New York itineraries. Ornitz:

"The East Side and West Side, uptown and downtown, drift in, singly, and in merry batches... curious lads, feeling adventurously grown up... young men with cigarettes dangling from their lips, careless-mannered, desperately affecting the nonchalance of rakes... little cliques of married men, thrillingly frisky and wicked with the matrimonial yoke cast off for a night... old men seeking youth at the fountain of folly... clean-faced college boys furiously living 'the life' ... swaggering gunmen, guerrillas and gangsters who five the place a tone... chummy groups of sailor boys and marines after a long practice cruise with faces as free and fresh as the open sea, consciously on a hell-raising shore leave... race track hangers-on and touts and jockeys in loud-patterned clothes... pimps aflash with jewelry and nobby clothes... puffed up one-horse politicians... cheap gamblers, loaded dice and cold deck artists...sneak thieves, hold-up and second-story men... husky yeggs... roving panhandlers... steerers to gambling and bawdy houses... flitting, temperamental fairies, the queer effeminate men... slumming parties, distinguished by their full dress... a world of men."

Then there were the prostitutes who "wind in and out of the table spaces like a garland of strangely strung and varied flowers... rumpled and faded, soiled and drooping with rough handling."

While some of Meyer's pals graduate to burglary and "the dreaded House of Refuge on Randall's Island," the first juvenile reformatory in the country when it opened in the 1820s, he goes to City College, the immigrants' school, "the rusty old chapel on Twenty-Third Street; vine-covered, with an air of scholarly detachment; of cloister quiet and dignity." He becomes what he calls a "Professional Jew," a lawyer and Tammany fixer, wooing the Jews away from the Socialists, organizing the pushcart men, working crooked deals in the courts and with the union bosses, sinking farther and farther into graft and greed, and growing fatter and fatter on the proceeds. Meyer sees himself as representative of his generation of ambitious young men:

"It did not take them long to see that the straight and narrow path was long and tortuous and ended in a blind alley... Politics stank of corruption and chicanery. Big business set even a worse example. Daily the people were treated to scandal after scandal in commerce, industry and government... The order of the day was -- PLAY THE GAME AS YOU SEE IT PLAYED... It was a sordid generation, a generation creeping out of the mud into the murk... It was the time and process of finding ourselves, a sort of evolutionary process that began as a creeping thing in the scum... I had taken root in the morass; I didn't dare try transplantation."

In time Meyer becomes a Superior Court judge and lives uptown on Riverside Drive, which he calls Allrightniks Row. Allrightniks is his term for Jews who'd made it, "who came in as impoverished immigrants" and "were made dizzy and giddy by sudden riches."

In 1929 Ornitz joined the droves of New York writers who headed out to Hollywood. After sound was added to commercial films in the late 1920s, the studios developed a ravenous hunger for people who could write to the new medium. The Coen Brothers' Barton Fink is a cartoon of the Ornitz generation of New York Jewish writers who went out to Tinseltown with their lefty ideals and social-realist scripts in their suitcases. Ornitz seems never to have fully committed himself to the studios, and never made it big there. He worked on a lot of B pictures. Even when it was a B for RKO or Republic, he tried to work a message in. His first movie, The Case of Lena Smith -- he wrote the story but not the screenplay -- reflected the injustices Ornitz had seen at the Tombs. Josef von Sternberg directed. Hell's Highway is about the mistreatment of a prison chain gang. In The Hit Parade, an ex-convict who jumped bail (Frances Langford) tries to hide her past when she makes it as a singer. Ornitz collaborated on some scripts with Nathanael West, and was one of the small army of writers who contributed to the 1934 adaptation of Fannie Hurst's novel about race relations, Imitation of Life.

In maybe his oddest Hollywood assignment, Ornitz and another New York transplant, Budd Schulberg (best known for On the Waterfront), wrote a 1938 Paramount adaptation of Little Orphan Annie. What we know now as a sickly-sweet musical was in the 1930s an extremely controversial comic strip. Cartoonist Harold Gray was a staunch Republican who hated FDR and built a lot of anti-union and anti-New Deal messages into his strip, outraging liberals. The New Republic denounced the strip in 1935 as "fascism in the funnies." Predictably, Ornitz and Schulberg turned Gray's politics upside-down in a version that was more class struggle than comic strip.

In 1933 Ornitz and two other future blacklisters, Lester Cole (nee Cohn, another son of Jewish Polish immigrants, who grew up in the Bronx and elsewhere) and John Howard Lawson (nee Levy, from a wealthy family in Yonkers), helped found the Screen Writers Guild. The three of them were among Hollywood's most outspoken members of or fellow travelers with the Communist Party in the 1930s. Lawson headed the party's Hollywood branch and would later be accused of leaning heavily on other screenwriters to pack as many lefty ideals into their movies as they could get away with.

In the Red Scare that swept up Hollywood after World War Two, they, along with Trumbo, Lardner and five others, refused to testify before HUAC. One of them, director Edward Dmytryk, later caved and named names, including Lawson's. They came to be known as the Hollywood Ten. They were all found guilty of contempt of Congress and drew prison terms of up to a year. Unlike Trumbo (Spartacus), Lawson (Cry, the Beloved Country) and Cole (Born Free), Ornitz never wrote a screenplay after that. He did write another novel about Jews in America, Bride of the Sabbath, and died in L.A. in 1957.

by John Strausbaugh

[americanlibertypac]

Senator Cotton: Immigration in the National Interest

“While we wish our fellow man well, it’s only our fellow citizens to whom we have a duty and whose rights our government was created to protect.” Senator Tom Cotton’s speech given at Hillsdale University.

Thank you. Thank you all. Thank you so much. That is such a warm welcome, and Larry, thank you very much for the kind introduction, as always. After an introduction so splendid, even I am interested in what I will say tonight now.

You know, Larry has had the occasion to introduce me on many occasions, and I’m always grateful for it because he gives such fine remarks. The only complicating factor is the height of these microphones. Fortunately, we’ve worked it out tonight. You know, Hillsdale studies many great statesmen. Two of the greatest would be Abraham Lincoln, who was 6’4”, and Winston Churchill, who was 5’6”. It’s an indication that the truly great men come in all statures and something to which we can all aspire.

Thank you all, Hillsdale, for having me back for my second Hillsdale Constitution Day celebration. At first, I thought this was an encore performance. But then Larry Arnn told me it was more of a shot at redemption. But whatever the case may be, it is always good to see so many old friends and patriots.

In a way, not much has changed since we gathered together two years ago. Yesterday, we celebrated the 230th anniversary of the signing of our Constitution. Earlier this year, Congress was seated for the 115th time under that charter of government. And last year, the American people once again expressed their judgment about our government through regular elections.

But I think we all know a lot more has changed in the last two years, that something more fundamental is afoot. For the first time in all those elections, our people chose as president someone with no high government experience. Not a senator, not a congressman, not a governor, not a cabinet secretary, not a general. It’s worth reflecting on why they did that.

I would suggest it’s because they’ve lost confidence in our governing class-of both parties, in both its competence and its intentions. Government now takes nearly half of every dollar our workers earn and bosses us around in every aspect of life, yet can’t even deliver basic services well. Our working class-the “forgotten man,” to use the phrase favored by Ronald Reagan and FDR-has seen its wages stagnate, while the four richest counties in America are all within inside the Washington beltway. The kids of those forgotten men are the ones who chiefly fight our seemingly endless wars and police our streets, only to come in for criticism too often from the very elite who sleep under the blanket of security they provide.

If you don’t understand this, if last year’s election came as a complete shock to you, then you truly need to spend more time outside of Washington, D.C.

Donald Trump understood those things, though I should add he didn’t cause these things. His victory was more effect than cause of our present discontents. The multiplying failures and arrogance of our governing class are what created the conditions for his victory.

***

Immigration is probably the best example of this. President Trump deviated from Republican orthodoxy on several issues, but immigration was the defining issue in which he broke from a bipartisan conventional wisdom. For years, all Democrats and many Republicans have agreed on the outline of what’s commonly called “comprehensive immigration reform,” which is Washington code for amnesty, mass immigration, and open borders in perpetuity.

This approach was embodied most recently in the so-called Gang of Eight bill in 2013. It passed the Senate, but thankfully we killed it in the House, which I consider among my chief accomplishments in Congress so far. Two members of the so-called Gang of Eight ran for my party’s nomination for president last year. Neither won a single statewide primary. Yet Donald Trump denounced the bill, and he won the nomination.

Likewise, Hillary Clinton campaigned not just for mass immigration, but also on a policy of no deportations of anyone, ever, who’s illegally present in our country. She also accused her opponent of racism and xenophobia. Yet Donald Trump beat her by winning states that no Republican had won since the 1980s.

Clearly, immigration was an issue of signal importance in the election. And that’s because it’s more than just another issue. Immigration touches upon fundamental questions of citizenship, community, and identity. For too long, a bipartisan, cosmopolitan elite has minimized the concerns about these things and put their own interests above the national interest.

No one captured the sensibility better than President Obama when he famously called himself “a citizen of the world.” With that phrase, he revealed a deep misunderstanding of citizenship. After all, citizen and city share the same Greek root word; in its classical meaning, citizenship by definition meant you belonged to a particular political community.

Yet many of our elites share this sensibility. They believe that American citizenship-real, actual citizenship-is meaningless, ought not be foreclosed to anyone, and ought not be the basis for distinctions between citizens and foreigners. You might say they think American exceptionalism lies in not making exceptions when it comes to citizenship.

This globalist mindset is, shall we say, foreign to most Americans. And it’s foreign to the American political tradition.

Take the Declaration of Independence. Our cosmopolitan elites love to cite its stirring passages about the rights of mankind when they talk about immigration, refugees, and so forth. They’re not wrong to do so. Unlike any other country, America is an idea-but it is not only an idea. America is a real, particular place with real borders and real, flesh-and-blood people. And the Declaration tells us it was so from the very beginning.

Before those stirring passages about unalienable rights and nature’s God-in the very first sentence in fact-the founders say it has become “necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands” that tie them to another-one people, one people, not all people, not citizens of the world, but one people. They’re speaking of actual, particular people who made up actual colonies. And they frequently use the words we and us throughout the Declaration to describe that people.

Furthermore, on seven different occasions, the Declaration speaks of “these colonies” and “these states.” The founders were concerned about their own circumstances; they owed a duty to their own people who had sent them as representatives to the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia. They weren’t trying to free South America from Spanish or Portuguese dominion, much as they might have opposed that.

And perhaps most notably, the founders explain toward the end of the Declaration that they had appealed not only to King George for redress, but also to their fellow British citizens, yet those fellow citizens had been “deaf to the voice of justice and consanguinity.” Consanguinity! That’s pretty much the opposite of being a citizen of the world.

So while the Declaration is of course a universal document, it’s also a particular document about one nation and one people. The founders pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor to each other, in English, right here in America-not in Esperanto to mankind in the abstract.

The Constitution carries forward this concept of American citizenship. It includes only one reference to immigration, where it empowers Congress to “establish a uniform rule of naturalization.” It’s worth pondering a couple points there.

First, what’s that word uniform doing? The Constitution only uses the word three times, when requiring uniform rules for naturalization, bankruptcies, and taxation. These are some of the things that could most closely knit together our union or blow it apart-taxation by the central government, the system of credit upon which the whole free-enterprise [system] depends, and the meaning of citizenship. On these things, the founders insisted upon a single, uniform, nationwide standard. Diverse habits and laws are suitable for many things in our continental republic, but not for all things. In particular, we can only have “one people” united by a common understanding of citizenship.

Second, that word naturalization implies a citizenship process by which foreigners can renounce their former allegiances and become citizens of the United States. They can cast off what accident and force have thrust upon them-race, class, ethnicity-and take on by reflection and choice a new title: American.

That is a wonderful and beautiful thing, and one of which we are all justly proud. Few Americans love our land so much as the immigrants who’ve escaped the yoke of tyranny.

But our cosmopolitan elites take it to an extreme. They think because anyone can become an American, we’re morally obligated to treat everyone like an American. If you don’t, you’re hard-hearted, bigoted, intolerant, xenophobic. And so the only policies that aren’t inherently un-American are those that effectively erase our borders and erase the distinction between citizen and foreigner: don’t erect barriers on the border; give sanctuary cities a pass; spare illegal immigrants from deportation; allow American businesses to import as much cheap labor as they want. Anything less is a betrayal of our ideals.

But that’s just not the case. Just because you can become an American doesn’t mean you are an American. And it certainly doesn’t mean we must treat you as an American, especially if you don’t play by our rules.

After all, in our unique brand of nationalism, which connects our people through our ideas, repudiating our law is kind of like renouncing your blood ties in the monarchical lands of old. And what law is more fundamental to a political community than who gets to become a citizen, under what conditions, and when?

While we wish our fellow man well, we only serve our fellow citizens. It’s our fellow citizens to whom we have a duty and whom our government is created to serve.

And among the highest obligations we owe to each other is to ensure that every working American can lead a dignified life. If you look across our history, I’d argue that’s always been the purpose of our immigration system: to create conditions in which normal, hard-working Americans can thrive.

Look no further in fact than what James Madison said on the floor of the House of Representatives in 1790, when the first Congress was debating the very first naturalization law. He said, “It is no doubt very desirable that we should hold out as many inducements as possible for the worthy part of mankind to come and settle amongst us, and throw their fortunes into a common lot with ours.” The “worthy” part, not the entire world. Madison continued, “But why is this desirable? Not merely to swell the catalogue of people. No, sir, it is to increase the wealth and strength of the community.”

“To increase the wealth and strength of the community.” That’s quite a statement, and quite a contrast to today’s elite consensus. Our immigration system doesn’t exist to serve the interests of foreigners or wealthy Americans. No, our immigration ought to benefit working Americans and serve the national interest-that’s the purpose of immigration and the theme of the story of American immigration.

***

Although when open-borders enthusiasts tell that story, it sounds more like a fairy tale. The way they tell it, America at first was a land that accepted all comers without conditions. But then, periodically, the forces of nativism and bigotry would rear their ugly head and restrict who could come to the country. They triumphed, for a time, with the Johnson-Reed Act of 1924. But eventually-but eventually-these forces of darkness were defeated by the spirit of Emma Lazarus and “The New Colossus” poem, with the passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, which again opened our shores and is still the law governing our immigration system today-and everyone lived happily ever after.

Well, if I were to grade that account, not even as strictly as Larry Arnn or a Hillsdale professor, I would give them an F for history and an A in creative writing-because the history of immigration in America is not one of ever-growing tides of huddled masses from the Pilgrims to today. On the contrary, throughout our history, American immigration has followed a surge-and-pause pattern. The first big wave was the Irish and German immigrants in the 1840s and 1850s. Then immigration tapered off during the Civil War. The second big wave was the central and southern European immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This wave ended with the 1924 Act and the years of lower immigration that followed. And now, we’re in the longest wave yet, the surge of immigration from Latin America and East and South Asia, which has followed from the 1965 Act.

In this actual history-not the fairy-tale history-the 1924 Act is not an aberration, but an ebb in the regular ebb and flow of immigration to America. After decades of unskilled mass immigration, that law responded by controlling future immigration flows. One result of lower levels of immigration was that it allowed those earlier immigrants to assimilate, learn new skills, and move up the economic ladder, creating the conditions for mass affluence in the post-war era.

Now, there’s no denying that the story of American immigration also has its uglier chapters: the Chinese Exclusion Act, the national-origins quota system imposed by the 1924 Act, the indifference to Jews in the 1930s. We ought to remember and learn from this history. One important lesson, though, is this: if the political class had heeded the concerns of working Americans during the second wave, the 1924 Act likely would’ve passed earlier and been less restrictionist. The danger lies not in addressing our people’s legitimate, reasonable concerns about immigration; the danger lies in our leaders’ ignoring those concerns and slandering the people as bigots.

But then, we shouldn’t be surprised when politicians fail to understand fully the implications of their actions. Take the 1965 Act. That law ended the national-origins quota system, and at the time, was minimized in its importance. In fact, when President Johnson signed it into law, he said, “The bill that we sign today is not a revolutionary bill. It does not affect the lives of millions. It will not reshape the structure of our daily lives, or really add importantly to either our wealth or our power.”

How wrong he was.

***

The economy we’re living in today is in no small part a result of the 1965 Act because it opened the door to mass immigration of unskilled and low-skilled workers, primarily through unlimited family chain migration. And that’s not an economy anyone should be satisfied with.

Today, we have about a million immigrants per year. That’s like adding the population of Montana every single year-or the population of Arkansas every three years. But only one in 15-one in 15 of those millions-plus immigrants-come here for employment-based reasons.

The vast majority of them come here simply because they happen to be related to someone already here. That’s why, for example, we have more Somalia-born residents than Australia-born residents, even though Australia is nearly twice the size as Somalia and Australians are obviously better prepared, as a general matter, to integrate and assimilate into the American way of life.

In sum, over 36 million immigrants, or 94 percent of the total, have come to America over the last 50 years for reasons having nothing to do with employment. And that’s to say nothing of the over 24 million illegal immigrants who have come here as well. Put them together and you have 60 million immigrants, legal and illegal, who did not come to this country because of a job offer or because of their skills. That’s like adding almost the entire population of the United Kingdom. And it also says nothing of the millions of temporary guest-workers we import every year into our country.

Now, unlike some open-border zealots, I don’t believe the law of supply and demand is magically repealed for the labor markets. That means our immigration system has been depressing wages for people who work with their hands and on their feet, for people who have to take a shower after they get off work, not before they go to work.

In fact, wages for Americans with a high-school degree have dropped by two percent since the late 1970s, and for those who didn’t finish high school, they’ve dropped by a staggering 17 percent. And studies say, though immigration has a minimal effect overall on the wages of Americans, it has a severe negative effect on low-skilled workers, minorities, and even recent immigrants.

Is automation to blame in part? Sure. Is globalized trade partly to blame? Yes, of course. But there’s no denying that a steady supply of cheap, unskilled labor has hurt working-class wages as well. Plus which, among those three factors, immigration policy is the one that we can control most easily for the benefit of the American worker. Yet we’ve done the opposite by allowing immigration to consistently hurt our blue-collar workers.

Trust me, I know the response of open-border enthusiasts; I hear it all the time. They plead that we need a steady supply of cheap unskilled labor because there are “jobs that no American will do.” But that just isn’t so. There is no job Americans won’t do. In fact, there’s no industry in America in which the majority of workers are not natural-born Americans-not landscapers, not construction workers, not ski instructors, not lifeguards, not resort workers, not childcare workers-not a single job that over-educated elites associate with immigrants. Because the simple fact is, if the wage is decent and the employer obeys the law, Americans will do any job. And for tough, dangerous, and physically demanding jobs, maybe working folks do deserve a little bit of a raise.

“No American will do that job.” Let me just pause for a moment and confess how much I detest that sentiment. As I’ve said, it’s ignorant of the economic facts. Furthermore, it’s insulting, condescending, and demeaning to our countrymen. Millions of Americans make our hotel beds and build our houses and clean our offices; imagine how they feel when they hear some pampered elite say no American will do their job. And finally, I must say, that sentiment also carries more than a whiff of the very prejudice of which they accuse those concerned about the effects of mass immigration.

But it’s not only the harmful impact on blue-collar workers. There’s another problem with the current system. Because we give two-thirds of our green cards to relatives of people here, there are huge backlogs in the system, which force highly talented immigrants to wait in line for years behind applicants whose only claim to naturalization is a random family connection to someone who happened to get here years ago. We therefore lose out on the very best talent coming into our country-the ultra-high-skilled immigrants who can come to America, stand on their own two feet, pay taxes, and through their entrepreneurial spirit and innovation create more and higher-paying jobs for our citizens.

To put it simply, we have an immigration system that is badly failing Madison’s test of increasing the wealth and strength of the community. It might work to the advantage of a favored few, perhaps, but not for the common good, and especially not the good of working-class Americans.

***

And that’s why I’ve introduced legislation to fix our naturalization system. It’s called the RAISE Act: Reforming American Immigration for a Strong Economy.

The RAISE Act will correct the flaws in the 1965 Act by reorienting our immigration system towards foreigners who have the most to contribute to our country. It would create a skills-based points system similar to Canada’s and Australia’s. Here’s how it would work. When people apply to immigrate here, they’d be given an easy-to-calculate score, on a scale of 0 to 100, based on their education, age, job salary, investment ability, English-language skills, and any extraordinary achievements. Then, twice a year, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services would invite the top scorers to complete their applications, and it would invite enough high-scoring applicants to fill the current 140,000 annual employment-based green-card slots.

We’d still admit spouses and unmarried minor children of citizens and legal permanent residents. But we’d end the preferences for most extended and adult family members-no more unlimited chain migration. We’d also eliminate the so-called diversity visa lottery, which hands out green cards randomly without regard to skills or family connections, is plagued by fraud, and doesn’t even promote diversity since Europeans are the fastest growing beneficiaries. No offense, Penny. We’d remove per-country caps on immigration, too, so that high-skilled applicants aren’t shut out of the process simply because of their country of origin. And finally, we’d cap the number of refugees offered permanent residency to 50,000 per year, in line with the recent average for the Bush era and most of the Obama era-and still quite generous.

Add it all up and our annual immigrant pool would be younger, higher-skilled, and ready to contribute to our economy without using welfare, as more than half of immigrant households do today. No longer would we distribute green cards essentially based on random chance, nor would we import millions of unskilled workers to take jobs from blue-collar Americans and undercut their wages. And over a 10-year period, our annual immigration levels would decrease by half, gradually returning to historical norms.

***

And now, given current events, this legislation is timelier than ever.

Earlier this month, President Trump announced that he would wind down over six months the unconstitutional Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, also known as DACA. President Obama abused his authority with DACA, purporting to give legal status to illegal immigrants who arrived here as children and who now are in their twenties and thirties. As we’ve seen, the Constitution reserves to Congress the power to make uniform laws of naturalization. Even a part-time, left-wing law professor would concede that the president lacks that power-and, indeed, President Obama conceded it.

Because of President Obama’s unlawful action, about 700,000 people are now in a kind of legal limbo. President Trump did the right thing as a matter of law by ending DACA, though as a matter of policy he’d prefer its beneficiaries don’t face deportation. Democrats agree; a lot of Republicans do, too. So the question isn’t so much about deportation, but rather if and what kind of compromise Congress can strike.

And here’s where the RAISE Act comes in. We can, if we choose, grant citizenship to those illegal immigrants who came here through no fault of their own as kids and who’ve otherwise been law-abiding, productive citizens. But if we do, it will have the effect of legalizing through chain migration their parents-the very people who created the problem by bringing the kids here illegally. Some like to say that children shouldn’t pay for the crimes of the parents, but surely parents can pay for the crimes of the parents. And that’s to say nothing of their siblings and spouses, and then all the second- and third-order chain migration those people can create. So simply codifying DACA without ending chain migration would rapidly accelerate the wave of unskilled immigrant labor that’s been depressing the wages of working Americans.

An obvious compromise, then, is to pair any attempt to codify DACA with reform of the green-card system to protect American workers. A standalone amnesty will not do, nor will an amnesty with vague promises of “border security,” which never seem to materialize or get funded once the pressure is off Congress.

But if we were to codify DACA along with the reforms in the RAISE Act, we would protect working Americans from the worst consequences of President Obama’s irresponsible decision. President Trump has said chain migration must be ended in any legislative compromise and he’s highlighted the RAISE Act as a good starting point for those negotiations. I support that approach, and I’m committed to working with my colleagues, Democrats and Republicans alike, on a deal that protects America’s workers and citizens.

***

But it won’t be easy. Immigration has emerged in recent years as a kind of acid test for our leaders-a test they’ve mostly failed. Our cosmopolitan elite-in both parties-has pursued a radical immigration policy that’s inconsistent with our history and our political traditions. They’ve celebrated the American idea, yet undermined the actual American people of the here and now. They’ve forgotten that the Declaration speaks of “one people” and the Constitution of “We the People.” At the same time, they’ve enriched themselves and improved their quality of life, while creating a new class of forgotten men.

It’s not surprising, then, that the people rebelled last year. There’s probably no issue that calls more for an “America First” approach than immigration. After all, the guidepost of our immigration policy should be putting Americans first-not foreigners and not a tiny elite. Our immigration policy should serve the “wealth and strength” of our people, as Madison said in that first Congress. It should not divide our nation, impoverish our workers, and promote hyphenated Americanism.

Citizenship is the most cherished thing our nation can bestow on someone. Our governing classes ought to treat it as something special. We ought to put the interests of our citizens first, and welcome those foreigners best prepared to handle the duties of citizenship and contribute positively to our country. When we do, our citizens will begin to trust us once again.

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the one people of these United States.

Tom Cotton was elected to the U.S. Senate from Arkansas in 2014, following one term in the U.S. House of Representatives. He serves on the Senate Banking Committee, the Senate Intelligence Committee, and the Senate Armed Services Committee. A graduate of Harvard College, he studied government at the Claremont Graduate School and received his J.D. from Harvard Law School in 2002. In 2005, he was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant in the U.S. Army, rose to 1st Lieutenant, and served deployments in Iraq with the 101st Airborne and in Afghanistan with a Provincial Reconstruction Team. His military decorations include the Bronze Star Medal, Combat Infantry Badge, and Ranger Tab.

[ask-the-kitty-crew]

(Random question- Idk if it's possible but do Shelby variants of New Yoke City, Boscage Cage and the No Place exist or no? Since, y'know, all versions of the gang exist there)

(The outfits of the OG Shelby don't count-)

- Wolf (@minusgangtime's mod)

I’d say as of right now,no.

But I could make some~ >:3