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skinsharpenedteeth · 4 years ago

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RNM After Dark, Day 2!

Today's story is... different. Medical kink, lab sex, milking machines, barebacking, comeplay... it's a real mixed bag. Definitely rated Explicit. 6883 Words.

Here's a link to the story on AO3!

"Compromised by a Foreign Body"

Alex knew the way they were going about it was wrong. No matter how many times his father told him the aliens were nothing more than violent, seditious predators from another world, it never sat right. But, when it was time to do his duty, Alex had stepped into line. He’d even managed to pull his best friend, Liz Ortecho, into working in the biomedical lab for Project Shepherd. Being a Manes meant that even in what should be a strict, military hierarchy, Alex was a prince. So he made his own job, helped out where he wanted, and tried to not think about the things he’d done or seen when he went home at night.

“Alex, can you help me with the specimen extraction this week? I’m really behind on some notations from last week’s experiments. It would be a great help to me,” Liz said one afternoon. He’d been aimless all day, simply walking around the base to look busy but without an actual task. His stomach clenched, however, at the request. Specimen extraction brought him into very close contact with aliens, and there was one whose eyes never seemed to stay on the ground where they belonged. There was one whose eyes followed him, seeming to see through his fatigues and tracing every line of his body underneath.

“The females and males?” Alex asked, clearing his throat to get rid of his nerves. Liz gave him a curious look at the show of anxiety. She knew him well. She could tell this wasn’t something he wanted to do.

“Just the males. I just need a semen specimen. We’re seeing what happens if we crossbreed them with human female eggs and how that effects the DNA and RNA structures of any resulting hybrids. Just grab the three youngest and put them in the collection rooms. One sample from each should be plenty,” Liz went on, already returning to her microscope slides and file notations. Alex made sure to keep his face neutral as she glanced up to studied him while giving her instructions. He nodded shortly and left the lab, already mentally listing the tasks he’d need to perform in order to do a collection.

Alex had been given basic medical training when he’d been taken on at Project Shepherd. It was explained that at any point, one of their captives might have to be taken down with an injection if brute force was inadvisable. He’d also received extensive hand-to-hand combat training. Alex had found it interesting that de-escalation techniques hadn’t been taught as part of his training before coming onto the base. So far he’d only had to use the bare minimum of force to get his job done. He’d turned into something of a Jack-of-all-trades, however, when it came to medical or scientific technical procedures.

First, he stopped by the captive holding area and signaled his brother Flint over from the guard station. Flint gave him an annoyed scowl, but came over to where Alex was waiting.

“What’s up?” Flint asked, always informal to Alex by way of blood. If their father had seen, Flint would’ve been disciplined. Alex, though younger, outranked Flint and therefore should always be treated with the respect of a superior officer. Alex didn’t care as much. Flint was a stooge and would never be more than a glorified prison guard. His pantomimed respect wasn’t needed for Alex to know he was above him. But Alex knew if their father saw Flint being too familiar at work, he’d chastise him with a fist.

“I need male captives Max, Michael, and Noah to specimen collection,” Alex informed Flint formally. Flint gave him a speculative grin, but didn’t say anything. He nodded and went back to the guard desk to inform the other two soldiers on duty. Alex saw them share a glance and chuckle as Alex started towards the pharmacy. His next task was to pick up some Tri-Mix injection and then to make sure a few rooms were set up with the correct equipment for the procedure.

Alex tried to keep his mind on the business at hand. The laughing of the other soldiers needled at him in the back of his mind. He’d done this job a few times, but he didn’t take any pleasure from it. If the other guys could see what was involved in the process, maybe they’d realize that it wasn’t as sexy a scenario as they imagined. Maybe if Alex wasn’t gay, it wouldn’t have been an issue at all. Maybe if the aliens looked more… well… alien and not just like humans, it could’ve just been an abstract curiosity, a shitty work detail. They would’ve just commiserated with him for drawing the short straw. But he was gay, and they didn’t understand what happened behind the closed doors of the extraction rooms and these three aliens in particular were very attractive by human standards. He shuddered to imagine what deprived fantasies they’d built around him and the aliens. This only happened, of course, when he had to work with the males.

He made his way to the long hallway of rooms they used for technical procedures. Alex looked through the monitors over the tech’s shoulder at the monitoring station. Only one room was in use currently, and it looked like an autopsy was taking place. Alex grimaced inwardly to think they’d lost another alien to the ravages of time.

“Anything scheduled in rooms 5, 7, or 9 for the next hour?” Alex asked the monitor tech quietly. The soldier blinked up at him, as if just now aware someone else was in the small room with him. He cleared his throat and picked up the scheduling clipboard from the corner of his desk. Alex’s eyes strayed back to the occupied room, and he watched with sick fascination as things were taken out of the alien’s abdomen and loaded into bowls.

“Uh, looks like they’re free. Need to book ‘em, sir?” the young soldier asked, remembering protocol at the last moment.

“Yeah. Captain Alex Manes. Max, Michael, and Noah are being brought in for specimen extraction,” Alex told the soldier for his notes. He nodded and wrote down the details on his paper copy of the schedule. He’d type it into the online schedule later as well as any observational notes. With a last glance towards the wall of screens, Alex left the room and went to get the equipment cases out of storage.

Each case held a milking machine which included a cylinder with a latex liner, a connector hose, and a suction machine. Alex placed one in each room and plugged in the power supply to the suction machine so it could start warming up. He rifled through the cabinets that lined each room’s walls and found the lubricant, prostate stimulation equipment, and massage wands. He’d never needed to use the extras, but something about their presence made him feel like he was actually there to do a job. The machines would do most of the work. He was really just there to monitor and make sure the samples were collected and labeled correctly for Liz.

As he was just double-checking all his equipment, Dr. Valenti walked into the room he was in. Alex turned and eyed his ex-best friend warily. Kyle had been making strides towards repairing their friendship, but Alex was still skeptical.

“Hey man. Liz said you were doing a collection. I brought you the Tri-Mix injections. Mind if I help out?” Kyle asked, showing him the preloaded injection pens.

“Sure, I guess. There’s not much to do. Just inject them, sleeve them, turn on the milkers, and go get a cup of coffee until the sensors go off,” Alex said flippantly.

“You don’t do any manual or electrical stimulation before you sleeve them?” Kyle asked, sounding a bit shocked. Alex tried to shrug nonchalantly. He didn’t want to admit that manual and electrical stimulation felt like he was crossing a line somehow. He logically knew these were not humans with human feelings or cultural constructs about consent, but in his own mind it was a step too far. The injection made it medical, but if he actually started probing and touching… then it might just be what those soldiers at the containment area thought it was. Kyle must’ve read his thoughts, because he clapped Alex on the shoulder and gave him a patronizing grin.

“You get better samples if you stim them. I can show you on one if you like? Just so you can see it’s not what you think it is,” Kyle offered, squeezing Alex’s shoulder affectionately. Alex absolutely did not want to see… except that he did. He was going to hell for it, but he was curious. In fact, he was fucking fascinated, and he hated himself for it.

“I mean, if you’ve got the time?” Alex said, trying to give Kyle an out.

“Hey, what’s the joke about doctors and always being busy except they’re really golfing? Think of this as my golf break. I’m getting out of the clinic and getting to do something fun for a little while,” Kyle said with a laugh.

As if on cue, the sound of wheels in the hallway alerted them that the captives had arrived. Alex turned to see two men rolling in Max, the largest physically of their aliens, already naked and strapped to a gurney, gag in his mouth (to protect him from biting his tongue while coming off any medications used during the procedure). Alex felt a quick flash of rage that they hadn’t left him clothed or thrown a blanket over him. The guards placed his gurney in the middle of the room, locked the wheels, saluted to Alex and Kyle before they left. Alex watched Kyle’s eyes rove up and down Max’s body covetously. Max had been gagged and given a mild, but quickly dissipating sedative. Alex could tell that he was relatively aware of where he was, but couldn’t fight the bonds. He hardly did, even when the sedative wore off.

“Here, let’s reposition him a little. If we’re going to stim him, I need to have better access to his body. Did the guards flush their systems before they brought them up?” Kyle asked, already unstrapping one of Max’s legs. He reached under the gurney and pulled out a heel stirrup that he gently placed Max’s foot in before re-securing him for safety. He did the same with Max’s other leg, spreading him wide.

“Uh….,” Alex started, completely out of his depth. He looked up at Max who met his eyes and nodded, color infusing his cheeks like a blush. Kyle was finishing with the other foot when Alex finally answered. “Yeah. They did.”

“Good. That means I don’t have to,” Kyle replied with a laugh. He was transforming the gurney from a long bed into practically a chair in front of Alex’s eyes. Alex had no idea the gurneys had so many bells and whistles on them. With his legs spread wide, hips strapped down to the table, and naked, Max looked utterly exposed to them. Kyle was leaning over Max’s upper body, using a pen light to check his responses. “God, the meds they have now are remarkable. He’s already becoming cognizant again!”

“Yeah, they come to pretty quick,” Alex remarked dryly while he watched Kyle do a quick examination, checking reflexes.

"Let's get some gloves on and I'll show you what I mean about the manual stimulation. If he doesn't react, we can always give him the Tri-Mix, but this can sometimes remove the need to even use it," Kyle explained, moving over to the instrument cart and pulling out two pairs of non-latex gloves. He and Alex snapped them on and Kyle rolled the instrument cart over to beside the table. He grabbed a rolling stool that had been left in the corner of the room from another procedure and sat himself down between Max's spread legs. Alex could see Max's confusion as he lifted his head to try and see what Kyle was doing.

"Okay so," Kyle started, drawing Alex's attention back from Max's dark eyes to where he was covering two fingers in a copious amount of lubricant. Alex watched as he used the non-lubricated hand to spread Max's ass cheeks and expose his dusky, puckered hole. Max's leg muscles flexed against their restraints at the feeling. "Just like with human males, these guys have got something like a prostate. You'd stim it the same way you would for a human."

"I usually like my partners to be hard before I go sticking things into their asses," Alex mumbled, trying for a joking tone. Kyle beamed up at him.

"That would be preferable. But if that's the problem, you can stimulate the prostate first and the penis should start getting erect after. Have you worked with these captives before? Do you know if this one is able to get hard without the injection?" Kyle asked. He still held Max's cheeks open, exposing him as he carried on his conversation with Alex. Alex risked a glance up to see that Max was staring resolutely at the ceiling, flushed but stoic to his treatment. Alex wished they were allowed to speak with the captives and that they didn't have to stay gagged when out of confinement. He'd just ask Max if getting hard was an issue, or if it was just the degradation of being used as a lab rat that kept him flaccid.

"I don't know. Like I said, I've never tried to stim them before suctioning. Max has never come in already hard, but his body responds well to the Tri-Fix," Alex replied, trying to ignore the fine tremors he could see in Max's stomach muscles. Kyle was rubbing a thumb in contemplative circles over Max’s hole, spreading the lube from his fingers and almost seeming unaware of what he was doing as he and Alex talked.

"I bet he can! He's a hell of a specimen. Before we try the prostate, let's see if he responds to some other stimulation," Kyle said with an excited clap. He stood up abruptly and walked to the side of the table. Alex stood on the other side, promising himself he would be polite and watch but wouldn't participate. Kyle took his time looking over Max's physique. In a familiar gesture, he set his hands high on Max's chest.

"Hey handsome," Kyle crooned. He slowly rubbed his hands up and down Max's chest, trailing his fingers lightly over the skin. Max darted his eyes to Alex in obvious confusion and alarm. Kyle followed his gaze. "Ignore him. I'm going to take care of you today."

Alex let his eyes slip away and back down to Kyle's hands. They smoothed over Max's skin, down over his ribs and stomach, then back up so his thumbs could tease lightly over Max's dark pink nipples. Max shifted under Kyle's attention.

"You've got to convince the blood to come up to the surface of the skin," Kyle murmured to Alex while he kept eye contact with Max. Kyle started to rub over Max's nipples more firmly, stroking over the tightening nubs. Pleased with their erectness, he hummed thoughtfully before trailing his hands down to rest on Max’s hipbones. Alex noticed the uptick in Kyle’s breathing and dilation in his eyes as he moved one hand to cup Max’s cock. He rocked the heel of his hand gently before circling his thumb and first finger around the shaft and stroking. Max’s body started to respond to the attention, his cock plumping up in Kyle’s grip as he kept stroking over him smoothly.

“That’s it,” Kyle cooed encouragingly. Max shifted under him as much as he could, head pressed back against the gurney and staring resolutely towards the ceiling. His face was flushed and the red stain seemed to be moving down towards his chest the harder he got. Alex jumped when a hand came into his view suddenly. “Put some more lube on my fingers.”

Alex obeyed Kyle’s order and watched him push one slick finger into Max’s hole, making the alien jump in surprise. Expertly, Kyle crooked his finger and within a few searching thrusts was able to locate Max’s prostate. Alex glanced up to check Max’s cock and was surprised to find him almost painfully engorged. Kyle followed his line of sight and smiled, turning to look at Alex triumphantly.

“Told you man, nothing to it. Hand me the suction canister and we’ll get him hooked up and pumping.” Alex shuddered at the excitement in Kyle’s voice, the eagerness, but he did was he was asked. As soon as the canister was lowered over Max’s cock, cool plastic resting against his belly, Kyle flipped a switch to began low suction. Max’s cock jerked in response to the tight pressure build and release of the machine, and Alex heard a low groan escape from behind his gag. Kyle had managed to work two fingers into his hole while Alex had watched the machine begin its work and was thrusting them in time with the machine. A glance further down and Alex could see the solid outline of Kyle’s own cock straining against his scrub pants.

“Uh, I’m going to go get started on one of the other captives,” Alex spoke up, feeling awkward at continuing to stand by the scene in front of him. Kyle gave him a friendly smile, fingers and wrist still working away.

“Sure, go do Michael. Noah, from what I understand, is a tougher case and I’d like to commit my full attention to him. After this, we can go do lunch if you want?” Kyle offered easily. Alex nodded and made a non-committal sound before turning and quickly exiting the room. He wasn’t fast enough to not hear Kyle murmuring softly to Max before he left. “You’re doing so good, Max. Look at these balls, man. You’re going to give up a big load for us today, huh?”

Alex wished he could bleach his brain.

He quickly closed the door behind him and moved towards the room he knew Michael to be in. He’d seen Michael around the compound. He was hard to miss with his curls, sharp smile, and sad eyes. Alex had tried to ignore him, but he found himself more and more aware of him each time they crossed paths. When he entered the exam room to find him naked and conscious, strapped and gagged the same as Max on the gurney, he flushed hot with a mix of embarrassment and want. He shut the door quietly behind him.

“Hey Michael,” Alex greeted him quietly. Michael’s eyes roved up and down his body, undressing him, challenging him despite his position. Feeling exposed, Alex moved towards the gurney slowly. The closer he got, the more of Michael’s body he could see. His cock was nestled serenely against his balls, a short, dark thatch of hair surrounding his groin and leading up his stomach and over his chest. Alex wanted to run his fingers through the hair, tangle himself in it, bury his face against it… but he knew that was inappropriate. No matter how attractive he found him, the alien was not in any position to consent to anything, and Alex knew it. He was still tempted, however.

To try to hide the awkwardness he was feeling, Alex busied himself with positioning the cart next to the gurney. He gloved up and reached for the lube, immediately dropping it when Michael cleared his throat next to him. The bottle clattered loudly on the metal cart, knocking the milking canister onto the ground. Alex fumbled to try to catch it before it rolled too far away. A knock sounded at the door and one of the guard’s voices came through.

“You okay, sir?”

“I’m fine!” Alex called back, face flaming in embarrassment. He looked at Michael who gave him a smug and superior grin around the obstruction in his mouth. Alex set the canister back on the table and bent over Michael to hiss at him. “Don’t be a dick!”

Michael gave him a raised eyebrow in response as if to say ‘who, me?’

“Yes, you,” Alex snapped. He moved back over to the table and picked up the lube again. Again, Michael pointedly cleared his throat. Alex abruptly turned to look at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What?!”

Michael just looked at him for a moment, waiting for him to catch up. With a huff, Alex moved to block the view of the camera and loosened the gag enough to slide it out of Michael’s mouth. He watched Michael moved his jaw around and swallow convulsively a few times, resisting the urge to get him some water, while he waited for Michael to speak.

“What do you want, Michael?” Alex asked, trying to put steel into his voice to cow Michael’s nonchalant, almost playful attitude.

“I was going to say, you could at least buy me dinner before you start sticking probes into me,” Michael replied, his voice rough but steady. Alex stared at him incredulously.

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” he asked, unable to stop himself. Shock was an adequate description for how he was feeling about this turn of events.

“No. I am flirting with you, private,” Michael replied, giving Alex another once over before continuing. “How am I doing?”

“This is the least sexy situation I could possibly imagine being flirted with in,” Alex answered flatly.

“Well, you refuse to come visit me in my cell, so this is what I’ve got to work with. Besides, you’re about to have to get me hard enough to spurt for science. Maybe you should work on your bedside manner.” Alex stared down at Michael on the table. His eyes moved down to his exposed cock, still flaccid, and then over to the milking machine on the table. His ears felt warm and he was sure he was blushing.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. After all, I could always just inject you with Tri-Fix if you don’t want to get hard naturally,” Alex countered, trying not to let how flustered he was feeling show through in his voice. Michael gave him a frankly filthy grin in response.

“With the right stimulation, I’ve never had a problem getting hard naturally. Besides, have you ever had one of those tubes on your dick before?” Michael whistled low in apparent appreciation. “Science is wonderful. I’m all for science.”

“No, I’ve never--” Alex started, affronted at the mere idea that he would use government property for his own pleasure that way.

“Maybe you should climb up here and give it a try….” Michael suggested in a conspiratorial tone.

“There’s no way. There are cameras in here,” Alex protested, wondering why he wasn’t shoving the gag back in Michael’s mouth and getting on with the sample collection.

“I can fix that, ya know. These drugs they have us on dull my powers quite a bit, but I’m still pretty good at shorting out electronics when I need to,” Michael countered. He rushed on as Alex opened his mouth to respond. “You can keep me tied down. You can, uh… manually… collect your sample for the lab from me and take a spin on the suck tube at the same time.”

“I could never…” Alex protested weakly. He hated that he was even considering it. He didn’t know what Michael’s plan was, but he was pretty sure getting his dick sucked by a robot was not acceptable protocol under any circumstances.

“You can gag me again if you want to keep me quiet,” Michael said, voice almost a purr. Alex contemplated the idea, eyes straying from Michael to the milking canister and then surreptitiously up towards where the cameras were. Curiosity was getting the best of him. Curiosity and hormones. This close he could smell the petrichor and salt scent of Michael’s skin and make out the green flecks hidden amongst the amber of his eyes.

“If you can take out the cameras…” Alex started, but before he could finish he heard a faint cry of dismay from the observation room. Panicking, Alex shoved the gag back into Michael’s mouth and hoped to God it hadn’t been visibly out on the video. A second later, one of the monitor techs came into the room looking thunderous.

“Everything okay?” Alex asked the tech who had grabbed a chair and angrily shoved it into a corner. He started to climb up onto the seat, his eyes trained on the small dome on the ceiling that held the camera.

“This fucking piece of shit. Always shorts out on me. Goddamnit,” he cursed, removing the protective dome to look at the wiring beneath. He cursed again and hopped down, coming over to stand in front of Alex. “I’m going to have to replace the whole thing. Something major burned up. Do you want to postpone this procedure or--”

“No!” Alex cut in, his voice sharply cutting off the tech. The tech gave him a wide-eyed look. “I just… I’m not going to have time later. Look, he’s secured down. There are guards outside the door. I’ll be fine. He’s not going to cause me any trouble, will you?”

Alex directed the last question at Guerin who looked between him and the tech and lolled his head as if he were still slightly dopey. The tech squinted at him, but seemed to take the act at face value.

“Fine. Just give me a heads-up when you’re done so I can get in here. And don’t fucking undo any of those straps, got it? They’re there for your protection!” Alex gave him a grave nod and the tech turned and strode out of the room. As soon as the door snicked shut behind him, Alex turned and stared wide-eyed at an obviously unrepentant Michael. Alex removed his gag again, bending close to his ear before speaking.

"If you tell anyone about this, I will have you thrown into solitary for a week," Alex threatened in a low voice. It felt empty because he knew if Michael told anyone, his father would find him and put him in a hole in the ground. There was something about Michael's offer though… a feeling between them that made Alex sure the risk would pay out.

"I won't tell," Michael replied quietly. There was a sadness in his voice that pierced Alex's heart and he moved to be able to see Michael's eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, each searching for something needed but fragile and better left silent between them. Alex ended their silent back and forth by bending down and pressing their lips together. It was sweet and chaste, a seal for their understanding, and when he pulled back he felt like their bargain was solidly struck. Quietly, Alex moved the extra chair from the corner under the broken camera and wedged it under the doorknob. When he turned back to face Michael, he immediately began to unbutton his shirt enough to pull it and his undershirt off over his head. He leaned against the table to tackle his boots, pants, and prosthesis. With an embarrassing lack of grace, Alex proceeded to climb onto the gurney and straddle Michael's thighs.

Michael's eyes were wide and darkened with lust as they scanned over Alex’s naked body. He looked hungry in a way Alex was all too familiar with. Alex noted to his smug relief that Michael’s cock had gotten half hard at his striptease and was growing firmer beneath him. Without a word, Alex reached over and grabbed the lube bottle, squeezing some into his palm before slicking Michael's cock with it. The friction made Michael groan quietly, his eyes fluttering shut as Alex stroked him with a firm hand and brought him to full hardness. Alex’s own cock was beginning to throb and ache with neglect, but he didn't want to touch himself too soon. The risk of the situation was turning him on almost as much as Michael beneath him, his hips flexing into Alex’s grip in aborted thrusts.

Alex let go of Michael and lifted onto his knees. Keeping eye contact with Michael, he took his still slick hand and reached behind himself to push two fingers into his hole. It was almost too much too soon, but Alex liked the burn and needed this part to go quick. He didn’t realize his eyes had slipped shut, unable to concentrate on anything but the stretch and pressure of his digits as he rocked his hips back and twisted his fingers to make the stretch go faster.

"Oh shit," Michael breathes out beneath him. Alex opened his eyes and pinned Michael with a hard stare before swooping down to kiss him again. This kiss wasn't sweet. It wasn't chaste or simple. Alex licked at the seam of Michael's mouth once and barely gaves the other man time to accept him before he was pushing his way in. If Michael was hungry, Alex was fucking starving. Not that he’d gotten a taste, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

Michael moaned into their kisses, his body shifting restlessly, claiming as much movement as he could against the restraints.

"Shhhh," Alex warned, breaking their kiss. He shuffled forward enough to be able to reach behind himself and grasp Michael's cock. Goosebumps broke out over his skin as he pressed the blunt tip to his wet hole. Biting his lip, Alex forced his body to relax and accept Michael's generous girth. It was almost too much and after a few slow drags where he only managed to shove a few inches at a time into himself, Alex pulled off and added more lube. The next time he pushed down, it was like his body just accepted Michael and made room accordingly. Both he and Michael let out harsh, gutted breathes when Alex managed to fully sheath Michael inside him.

"Fucking christ," Alex groaned, trying to stay quiet but already feeling his body scream for him to start fucking himself stupid on the perfect cock stuffed in him. Beneath him, eyes squeezed shut, Michael nodded and Alex watched as his hands and fingers flexed in an echo of Alex's own need to move. Slowly, Alex began to rock his hips and get his first exquisite taste of the pull and push of Michael's cock lighting up his insides. Wrapping a hand around his cock, Alex noted how wet and messy his shaft was from the leaking precum drooling out of the tip. He used that wetness to ease the way as he stroked himself lightly in time with the undulations of his hips.

"Please," Michael gasped out beneath him. "Oh fuck, please."

Alex knew what he wanted, wanted it himself, but also knew they made a plan. Carefully, he reached over to the instrument table and picked up the plastic cylinder end of the milking machine. Inside it was a PVC sleeve that molded itself around the recipient's penis once the suction was started. Then, according to the dials on the machine, the sleeve would go taut and relax with a rhythmic click and hiss, effectually sucking off the wearer until he blew his load and the sample collection sensor went off. The load would then be scraped from the inside of the sleeve and collected into a tube to be given to the lab. Alex knew all of that, had the technical knowledge down pat in his brain, but was unprepared for the foreign feeling of sliding his own cock into the smooth, cool fabric of the milker cylinder. With a barely trembling hand, he pressed the ‘on’ switch and waited for the first pull.

He didn't know what he’d been led to expect, but it wasn't the vice-like, fluid pressure that made his hips hitch forward instinctively to get more of that tight clutching feeling. Alex felt a moan get dragged past his lips, echoed by Michael as he began to fuck forward against the milker and then back onto Michael's cock.

"Oh god," Alex moaned brokenly, curling forward over the cylinder in helpless abandon. The angle pressed Michael's cock hard against his prostate, and Alex indulged himself in a few shallow thrusts that brushed the head of Michael's cock against that spot over and over. His body felt like it was getting expertly rung out, and he now understood why there wasn't more of a revolt against the collection process by the alien captives. They were getting an expert blow job by a robot on the government's dime.

When Alex could drag his eyes open, he looked down and saw his own helpless pleasure echoed on Michael's face. His lips were parted in an "oh" of surprise, eyebrows drawn together like he wasn't sure if he was in pain or in ecstasy, and sweat beaded his hairline and neck. He looked like a ravaged Greek demigod laid bare at Alex's whim. The sight made Alex’s body shudder with a wave of lust for the alien beneath him. He didn’t know if it was because he was alien or because Alex was in the midst of intense pleasure, but he wanted to never leave in that instant.

"Fuck, look at you," Alex couldn't help saying. He pushed back, arching and reaching until he could brace his hands on Michael's legs to grind back down in his prick. The cylinder jut from his groin obscenely between them, position change not effecting its mechanical precision. Michael opened his eyes and stared up at Alex, a look if wonder on his face.

"I wanna touch you," he said, voice quiet enough to almost get lost under the hum of the machine. Alex smirked down at him, feeling fuck drunk and bold at his naked worship.

"Where do you wanna touch me? Tell me," Alex demanded, voice breathy.

"I want to touch your neck. I want to twist my hands in your hair and put you where I want you," Michael said, voice serious like he was in a confessional booth telling his sins. Alex hummed in response, sitting up straight and moving his hands up his chest to his neck and then into his hair.

"Like this?" Alex asked, smiling at the covetous, feral look on Michael's face as Alex acted out his words. He let his eyes slip shut so he could imagine that instead of restrained, Michael was simply dictating his desires to him.

"Yeah. Like that," he agreed. His eyes trailed lower and he began talking again. "I want to rake my nails down your chest. I want to pinch and suck your nipples, abuse your tits until you're begging for me to stop."

Alex let his hands fall from his hair down to his chest. He raked his fingers down the front of his pecs and stomach, not stopping until he was almost at his pubes. He slid his fingers back up to his nipples and plucked at them with savage, twisting, pinching fingers. The zings of pain shot down to his groin, where his balls were drawing up tight to his body, the finish line in sight for him. The rhythm of the machine picked up and Alex opened his eyes in time to see Michael looking intently at the knots that controlled speed and intensity.

"Where else?" Alex gasped, the increased setting of the machine making him tip forward to brace himself with his hands on Michael’s chest, so he could fuck himself harder onto Michael's cock in time. He could see in Michael's face he was getting close too, trying to hold out until Alex busted.

"After I come in your ass, I want you to sit on my face and let me eat you out. I want to taste you and me on my tongue. I wanna watch you squirm, oversensitive and mewling as I tongue fuck you into a second orgasm," Michael managed to say through a gasping, pained groan. His hips were flexing minutely under Alex, trying impotently to reciprocate the harsh pounding he was getting as Alex rode him.

"Fuck!" Alex almost yelled, his body starting to seize at the thought, thrusts going erratic as he rode through his orgasm on with his body on automatic pilot. A beeping sensor on the machine went off and the machine automatically shut itself off. Gingerly, he broke the suction around the base of his cock and slid the cylinder from his body. Feeling wrecked and still impossible full of cock, Alex looked down at Michael who was breathing hard and looking pained at the full stop of their activities. Alex gave him an evil smile when their eyes met.

"Your turn, cowboy," he said. Michael looked at him in momentarily confusion until Alex pulled off his cock with groan. He felt so empty without Michael inside him. He felt like his ass was gaping where his legs were still spread on either side of Michael’s hips. He twisted around and slid the used cylinder over Michael's hard-as-nails prick. Machine in place, Alex reached over and flipped on the machine again, overriding the collection sensor and making sure to turn up the speed to bring Michael off swiftly. He turned back to Michael's face, watching him go from shock to stricken within seconds. Alex bent low, resting some of his body weight on top of Michael’s chest, and mouthing at his jaw and neck. He felt the vibrations of whimpers and quiet moans against his cheek as he nibbled at Michael's ear.

"Once you cum in the cylinder, I'm going to make sure you get a taste of us before I dump the sample due to compromise by a foreign body. That means we'll have to do this again tomorrow. And tomorrow? I'm going to fuck your throat while the machine gets a clean sample from you," Alex whispered into his ear. Michael made an unmistakable noise of release, a tight, gasping sob as his cock was milked dry. The selection alarm chimed again and Alex turned off the machine with an easy flick of his wrist.

Good to his word, Alex twisted and broke the suction of the cylinder. Because of the double load, when he moved it off Michael's cock, he could see their combined spunk coating Michael's length in a pearlescent sheen. Inspired, Alex bent down and dragged his tongue down the length of Michael's softening cock. He turned back to Michael, dumping the cylinder haphazardly onto the instrument cart before sealing his lips over Michael's. Michael opened his mouth hungrily, tongue tangling against Alex's and greedily stealing all traces of their combined flavor for himself. When they broke apart, Alex smiled down at Michael for a moment, giving him one last kiss, before moving off of him and the gurney.

He once again leaned against the side of the gurney and put himself back together. By the time he was completely re-outfitted in his fatigues, his mind was once again on business. He turned and pushed the gag back into Michael's mouth before he could say anything. Michael stared at him in confusion until Alex grabbed a hand towel and laid it over Michael's lap to cover his nudity. He gave Michael a sad smile before he went and removed the chair from in front of the door and stuck his head out into the corridor.

"Captive is ready for transport back to the pen," he called to the guards on duty. He backed away when they came back in the room and unlocked the wheels of Michael's gurney. Michael stared at him in something like betrayal as he was wheeled away. After he was gone, Alex washed out the cylinders sleeve and wrote a note on Michael's chart to schedule him for a second collection the following day.

Alex wasn't sure how he felt about what had just happened. Now, in the quiet of the empty collection room, he wondered if it had been an elaborate dream. He wondered if he'd wake up soon in his own bed, tired and disoriented and dreading another day of work at Caulfield. He also couldn't deny that what had just happened definitely wasn't a dream if the ache in his muscles and the slick feeling between his ass cheeks were to be trusted. He felt guilty for judging Kyle’s lasciviousness when he couldn’t stop himself from riding his captive like a rodeo bull. Was he as bad as the other guards thought, or was it just Michael? Alex couldn’t imagine doing anything that had just happened to another captive or man that he knew.

One thing was for certain, he was already in too deep to want to stop. He hadn’t come that hard since he’d learned where his prostate was. He just didn’t know how he was going to schedule in more time for him and Michael to see each other after tomorrow. With a sigh, he left the room and went back to his office to think through his actions. A flask of bourbon waited in his desk drawer to help him find the answers.

#rnmafterdark2021 #rnmafterdark #malex fic #malex #michael guerin #alex manes #blink and you miss it valevans #medical kink

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desdemonafictional · 4 years ago

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Tarnma, “Don’t cry. I promise I will love you and protect you to the best of my ability, til death do we part.” please?

(I spent more time on this one than any of the others, I think ^^; )

In Pharma’s defense, it had been in the drunken aftermath of his third breakup with Ratchet, and the only thing on his mind had been the half-crazed conviction that he would never again subject himself to the idea of being another mech’s secondary. If Ratchet wouldn’t have him, after he’d swallowed down his ego mouthful after mouthful for so many years, just waiting to become the prize that Ratchet never seemed to want--well, to hell with the whole institution, Pharma wouldn’t be anybody’s second.

He put in his application to the arrangement firm as a Primary Conjunx, hit send, and passed out several hours later in a haze of engex.

A month later he’d been presented with the saddest little empuratee on Cybertron, all haunting single optic and clumsy tapping talons.

Pharma whirled on the matchmaker. “What is the meaning of this! I asked you for a secondary and you brought me junk!”

“Doctor,” the matchmaker said, clearly disapproving of the outburst. “Damus is a rare outlier, and has brilliant test scores at Shockwave’s Academy. He’s young, willing, and perfectly fertile despite the unfortunate, hem, adjustments. He’s also a very talented musician, aren’t you, Damus?”

“Yes,” Damus said, very softly. He had a surprisingly deep voice for such a little creature.

“Well there you have it,” the matchmaker said. “Everything you asked for. Culture, intelligence, and submissive temperament.”

“He’s a criminal!” Pharma said, throwing his palm wildly in the smaller mech’s direction. “Think of my career! I’ll look like some kind of--of--”

“We do have other candidates,” the matchmaker said, sighing to himself. “Give me a moment, I have to speak to my secretary…”

He turned and let himself back out the front door, taking a turn toward the garden that Pharma shared with his nearest neighbors. Pharma grimaced at the would-be conjunx in his living room. It wasn’t that Damus was entirely ugly, if you got past the empurata. Pharma did like wheeled vehicles. And he was a good height, not taller than Pharma, but not too small.

“So what did you do,” Pharma asked (very rudely, but he was in a bad temper). “You’re not a murderer, are you?”

“No,” Damus said. “It was for sedition. I was caught at a protest.”

“Really,” Pharma said. He considered it. Ratchet’s clinic was borderline seditious anyway, so it wasn’t as if Pharma had it in him to be particularly shocked about the existence of civil unrest. “Well,” he decided, “That’s alright then. As long as I’m not about to be stabbed in my sleep.”

Damus made a sound somewhere between a buzz and a laugh. He seemed tired. “No wonder no one wants me,” he said, “if that’s what you’re all thinking.”

“...I suppose you’ve been given the run around with a few before me,” Pharma said, feeling an unwanted pang of unhappiness, or sympathy, or something.

“Seven,” Damus said, with dark humor.

“Seven,” Pharma said, and then felt annoyed at himself for being surprised. He hadn’t wanted Damus, so why should he be surprised no one else did? But Damus seemed charming enough in his own way, unlinking single optic aside. Pharma switched tracks. “Why do you even want a conjunx, anyway? It’s not exactly suited to the life of a lone rebel.”

Damus looked at him for a silent moment, and then turned his head to the window. “I don’t know that you’d understand,” he said. “Your home is beautiful, your job is prestigious, you have enough career to be worried about it--I’m not sure you could understand what it would mean for me, doctor.”

“Try me,” Pharma said, impatiently doubling down.

“I guess I’d just like to feel…” Damus went over to the window. “Safe, again. Like I belong somewhere.”

Pharma stared at his back for a long stretch of silence. Outside, the wind ruffled a set of hanging chimes.

“Alright,” the matchmaker said, bustling back in with a ‘pad in his hand, “if you want to see the other options, or defer--”

“No,” Pharma said, suddenly, “let’s give this a try, I think. You have trial periods?”

“Oh,” the matchmaker said, and then hurriedly, very enthusiastically, “yes, yes, the handfasting period is already built into your contract with us if you’d like to utilize it--”

So Damus moved in. Pharma was irritable and techy about the whole thing, about which things were to be placed in what spots, but Damus didn’t have so many things of his own and really it was just a matter of berating the mover bots until they did as Pharma wanted.

The first night was. Strange. Damus very politely waited in the doorway of the berthroom until Pharma--equally nervous and trying not to show it--snapped at him to come lay down already, the morning alarm wasn’t getting any farther away. In the dark, their frames several inches apart, Pharma watched Damus’s hands lift, and flinch, and fall back silently to the berth.

There were meals. Pharma had shifts. The novelty of coming home to someone who was waiting for him, wanting to know about his day, was intoxicating. Damus had any number of passionate opinions on any number of subjects, and would happily make them known at length over the complicated spread of fuels he’d put together for Pharma’s evening return. He soaked up information like a sponge too--any obscure medical treatise or bit of gossip Pharma brought home was eagerly considered and dismantled.

But still… they did not, actually, touch each other.

Pharma thought about it. Most nights. Sometimes during the day. He wondered how far Damus would let him go. He wondered what Damus would look like, pressed down into the pillows, helplessly wriggling on Pharma’s spike. The allure of it spun Pharma’s head around with unease and confusion--no one fantasized about empuratee frames except the worst kind of fetishists, the lowest of the low, and Pharma hated to think he might be one of those, the type that wanted muck and dirt and crying.

Damus went sometimes to see friends, and was out long late nights, in which Pharma lay curled on the berth that was really built for one and felt terribly, horribly hollow. He did not actually have friends, he had realized. There had only ever been Ratchet.

The handfasting period dwindled to its appointed end. They were only a few dozen days away from the end of it when the news came, screaming neon light on the billboard in the quarter square which stopped Pharma dead in his tracks as he made his way home from the hospital--Senator Shockwave, missing, found finally with his frame mutilated by unknown assailants. They flashed the picture. The glaring yellow optic in the expressionless helm, so like Damus’s, made him almost sick in the street.

He transformed and flew home, heedless of sky laws. Clouds whipped past, stream of ice bit his nosecone. He let himself into the house without knocking, door shoved aside, and it was only when he found himself face to not-face with Damus in the metal that he realized what he had been afraid of. But Damus was fine. Physically, anyway. If he’d been crying, it was impossible for anyone to tell.

“I,” Pharma said, and then had no idea how to finish. He felt naked, like armor stripped to protoform.

“So you saw,” Damus said, in a very even, very reasoned voice, and then abruptly spoiled it by making a horrible grizzled sobbing sound down deep in his throat. The overhead lights flashed and popped, spraying glass over their helms.

Pharma discarded reservations entirely. He surged forward, cupping the blazing monstrous helm in both hands as gently as he could, and said, “Damus, my darling, you’re safe here. There’s no safer place in the world than here with me.”

“I’d love to believe that,” Damus managed. The voice came out busted and hazed with static, each syllable like a horrible little scratch against Pharma’s spark. “But Shockwave, he was our--Shockwave is a senator, if he--”

Pharma pulled the smaller body against his own, mouth a thin line, the back of Damus’s helm cupped in his palm. His visions, in that moment, were grim and bloody.

He was the primary. It was his job to make sure that Damus was cared for, safe, that nothing in the world touched him.

“Don’t cry, Damus,” Pharma said, “your conjunx is here.”

His thumb stroked the curve of Damus’s helm, absently tender, as a thousand vicious certainties flashed behind his eyes. In that moment, career and politics were the furthest they had ever been from Pharma’s mind.

“I promise I will love you and protect you to the best of my ability,” he said. “Til death do we part.”

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ninja-muse · 4 years ago

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i’m trying to branch out and read outside my genre (fantasy) do you have any book recs for someone whose heart is in fantasy but needs to see what else is out there?

Hi anon! Thanks for the ask! Fantasy’s such a wide genre, and this is such an open ask, that I’m mostly going to be recommending books with similar feels or themes from other genres, to push you a little outside the fantasy bubble and introducing you to different genres and types of storytelling. If you have a favourite subgenre or trope or author, I can maybe get a little more specific or offer read-alikes.

Also, I don’t know if you knew this before asking, but fantasy is my favourite genre too, so some of these recs are books that pushed me out of the genre as well, or that I found familiar-but-different.

And this is getting long, so I’m going to throw it under a cut to save everyone scrolling.

Science fiction

the Vorkosigan saga by Lois McMaster Bujold - This is space opera, which means it’ll have fairly familiar plots except with science-y things instead of magic. There’s an heir with something to prove, heists, cons, and mysteries, attempted coups and assassinations, long-suffering sidekicks, and a homeworld that’s basically turn-of-the-century Russia but with fewer serfs. It was one of the first adult sci-fi books I read and genuinely liked.

The Book of Koli by M.R. Carey - I finished this recently, and the second book of the trilogy just came out. This is post-apocalyptic sci-fi, but not grim or particularly complex. (Some SF gets really into the nuts and bolts of the science elements; this isn’t that.) Basically, Koli’s a teenager who wants more than his quasi-medieval life’s given him, and finds himself in conflict with his village (and then exile) because of it. I could see where the story was going pretty much from the start, but I loved the journey anyway.

The Martian by Andy Weir - This doesn’t have much in common with fantasy, but it’s my go-to rec for anyone who’s never read science fiction before, because it’s funny, explains the science well, and has a hero and a plot you get behind right away. In case you haven’t heard of it (or the film), it’s about an astronaut stranded on Mars, trying to survive long enough to be rescued.

Foreigner by C.J. Cherryh - This is an alien first contact story, about a colony of humans in permanent quarantine on an alien planet. The MC is the sole social liaison and translator, explaining his culture to the aliens and the aliens to the human, and working to keep the peace—until politics and assassins get involved. It’s been over a decade since I read this, so my memory’s blurred, but I remember the same sort of political intrigue vibes as the Daevabad trilogy, just with fewer POVs.

Who Fears Death by Nnedi Okorafor - One from my TBR. It looks like dark fiction about women, outcasts, and revenge, which sounds very fantastic and the MC can apparently do magic—but it’s post-apocalyptic Africa.

Speaking of political intrigue and sweeping epic plots, the Expanse series by James S.A. Corey has both in spades. Rebellions, alien technology, corrupt businesses, heroes doing good things and getting bad consequences, all that good stuff. It takes the science fairly seriously, without getting very dense with it, and will probably register as “more sci-fi” than my recs in the genre so far.

Oh, and Dune by Frank Herbert is such a classic chosen-one epic that it barely registers as science fiction at all.

Graphic novels

It’s technically fantasy, but assuming you’ve never picked up a graphic novel before, you should read Monstress by Marjorie Liu. Asian-inspired, with steampunk aesthetics, and rebellions and quests and so many female characters. It’s an absolutely fantastic graphic novel, if you want a taste of what those can do.

I’d highly recommend Saga by Brian K. Vaughan. It’s an epic science fiction story about a family caught between sides of a centuries-long war. (Dad’s from one side, Mom’s from the other, everyone wants to capture them, their kid is narrating.) It’s a blast to read, exciting and tense, with hard questions and gorgeous tender moments, and the world-building somehow manages to include weaponized magic, spaceship trees, ghosts, half-spider assassins, and all-important pulp romance novels without anything feeling out of place.

Historical fiction

Hild by Nicola Griffith - Very rich and detailed novel following a girl growing up in an early medieval English court. It’s very fantasy-esque, with battles and politics and changes of religion, and Hild gets positioned early on to be the king’s seer, so there’s “magic” of a sort as well.

The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry - A widow goes to the Victorian seaside to heal and reawaken her interest in biology. Slow, gentle, lovely writing and atmosphere, interesting characters and turns of plot. Doesn’t actually deliver on the sea monster, but still has a lot to recommend it to fantasy readers, I think.

Yiddish for Pirates by Gary Barwin - The late-medieval Jewish pirate adventure you didn’t know you wanted. It’s funny and literary, full of tropes and set pieces like “small-town kid in the big city” and “jail break”, and features the Spanish Inquisition, Columbus, the Fountain of Youth, and talking parrots, among other things.

The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett - A thousand pages about the building of a cathedral in England, mostly focusing on the master builder, the monk who spearheads the project, and a noblewoman who’s been kicked off her family’s land, but has several other plots going on, including a deacon with political ambitions, a war, and a boy who’s trying so hard to fit in and do right.

Sharon Kay Penman - This is an author on my TBR, who comes highly recommended for her novels about the War of the Roses and the Plantagenets. Should appeal to you if you liked Game of Thrones. I’m planning to start with The Sunne in Splendour.

Lady of the Forest by Jennifer Roberson - Either a Robin Hood retelling that’s also a romance, or a romance that’s also a Robin Hood retelling.

Hamnet & Judith by Maggie O’Farrell - A novel of the Shakespeare family, mostly focused on his wife and son. Lovely writing and a very gentle feel though it heads into dark and complex subjects fairly often. A good portrait of Early Modern family life.

Mystery

There’s not a lot of mystery that reads like high, epic, or even contemporary fantasy, but if you’re a fan of urban fantasy, which is basically mystery with magic in, then I’d rec:

Cozy mysteries as a general subgenre, especially if you like the Sookie Stackhouse end of urban fantasy, which has romance and quirky plots; there are plenty of series where the detective’s a witch or the sidekick’s a ghost but they’re solving non-magical mysteries, and the genre in general full of heroines who are good at solving crimes without formal training, and the plots feel very similar but with slightly lower stakes. Cozies have become one of my comfort-reading genres (along with UF) the last few years. My intros were the Royal Spyness novels by Rhys Bowen and the Fairy Tale Fatale books by Maia Chance.

If you like your urban fantasy darker and more serious, and your heroines more complicated, try Kathy Reichs and her Temperance Brennan novels. Brennan’s a forensic anthropologist, strong and complicated in the same ways of my fave UF heroines, and the mysteries are already interesting, with a good dash of thriller and a smidge of romance.

Two other recs:

Haunted Ground by Erin Hart - The first of four books about a forensic anthropologist in Ireland, who’s called in when the Garda find bodies in the peat bogs and need to know how long they’ve been there. They’re very atmospheric—I can almost smell the bog—and give great portraits of rural Ireland and small-town secrets, and since not all the bodies found in each book are recent, they also bring interesting slices of the past to life as well.

A Burnable Book by Bruce Holsinger - This is essentially a medieval thriller about a seditious book that’s turned up in London. I liked the mystery in it and that it’s much more focused on the lives of average people than the rich and famous (for all that recognizable people also show up).

Classics

Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift - I swear this is actually one of the first fantasy novels but few people ever really class it as such. Basically, Gulliver’s a ship’s doctor who keeps getting shipwrecked—in a country of tiny people, a country of giants, a country of mad scientists, a country of talking horses, etc. It’s social satire and a spoof of travelogues from Swift’s time, but it’s easily enough read without that context.

Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll - Another, slightly later, fantasy and satire! Even more amusing situations than in Gulliver’s Travels and, while it’s been a while* since I read it, I think it’ll be a decent read-alike for authors like Jasper Fforde, Genevieve Cogman, and that brand of light British comic fantasy.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare - Also technically a fantasy! I mean, there are fairies and enchantments, for all it’s a romantic comedy written entirely in old-fashioned poetry. It’s a pretty good play to start you off on Shakespeare, if you’re interested in going that direction.

On the subject of Shakespeare, I would also recommend Much Ado About Nothing, Macbeth, and King Lear, the first because it’s my favourite comedy, the others because they’re fantasy read-alikes imo as well (witches! coups! drama!).

the Arthurian mythos. Le Morte D’arthur, Crétien de Troyes, The Once and Future King by T.H. White, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain, etc. - I’ve read bits and pieces of the first two, am about 80% sure I read the third as a kid (or at least The Sword in the Stone), and have the last on my TBR. Basically, these stories are going to give you an exaggeratedly medieval setting, knights, quests, wizards, fairies, high drama, romantic entanglements, and monsters, and the medieval ones especially have different kinds of plots than you’ll be used to (and maybe open the door to more medieval lit?) **

Beowulf and/or The Odyssey - Two epics that inspired a lot of fiction that came later. (There’s an especial connection between Beowulf and Tolkien.) They’re not the easiest of reads because they’re in poetry and non-linear narratives, but both have a hero facing off against a series of monsters and/or magical creatures as their core story.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley - The first real science fiction novel. It’s about the ethics of science and the consequences of one’s actions, and I loved seeing the Creature find himself and Frankenstein descend into … that. It’s also full of sweeping, gothic scenes and tension and doom and drama.

* 25 years, give or take

** There are plenty of more recent people using King Arthur and associated characters too, if this "subgenre” interests you.

Other fiction

Vicious by V.E. Schwab - I don’t know if you classify superheroes as science fiction or fantasy or its own genre (for me it depends on the day) but this is an excellent take on the subject, full of moral greyness and revenge.

David Mitchell - A literary fiction writer who has both a sense of humour and an interest in the fantastic and science fictional. He writes ordinary people and average lives marvelously well, keeps me turning pages, plays with form and timelines, and reliably throws in either recurring, possibly-immortal characters, good-vs-evil psychic battles, or other SF/F-y elements. I’d start with either Slade House, a ghost story, or Utopia Avenue, about a ‘60s rock band. Or possible The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, which I fully admit to not having read yet.

Devolution by Max Brooks - A horror movie in book form, full of tension and desperation and jump scares and the problems with relying on modern technology. The monsters are Bigfeet. Reccing this one in the same way I’m reccing The Martian—it’s an accessible intro to its genre.

Son of a Trickster by Eden Robinson - Contemporary fiction with a slight literary bent, that doesn’t pull its punches about Indigenous life but also has a sense of humour about the same. Follows a teen dealing with poverty and a bad home life and drugs and hormones—and the fact that his bio-dad might actually be the trickster Raven. Also features witches, magic, and other spirit-beings, so I generally pitch this as magic realism.

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones - Another Indigenous rec, this time a horror novel about ghosts and racism and trying to do the right thing. This’ll give you a taste of the more psychological end of the horror spectrum.

Eliza and Her Monsters by Francesca Zappia - A good example of contemporary YA and how it handles the complexities of life, love, and growing up. Follows the writer of a fantasy webcomic who makes a friend who turns out to write fic of her story and who suddenly has to really balance online and offline life, among other pressures. Realistic portrait of mental health problems.

Non-fiction

The Book of Margery Kempe - The first English-language autobiography. Margery was very devout but also very badass, in a medieval sort of way. She went on pilgrimages to Jerusalem, was possibly epileptic, frequently “saw” Christ and Mary and demons, basically became a nun in middle age while staying married to her husband, and wound up on trial for heresy, before talking a monk into writing down her life story. It’s a fascinating window into the time period.

The Hammer and the Cross by Robert Ferguson - A history of medieval Norse people and how their explorations and trade shaped both their culture and the world.

A Time of Gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor - Travel writing that was recommended to me by someone who raved about the prose and was totally right. Fermor’s looking back, with the aid of journals, on a walking trip he took across Europe in the 1930s. It’s a fascinating look at the era and an old way of life, and pretty much every “entry” has something of interest in it. He met all sorts of people.

Tim Severin and/or Thor Heyerdahl - More travel writing, this time by people recreating historical voyages (or what they believe to be historical voyages, ymmv) in period ships. Severin focuses on mythology (I’ve read The Ulysses Voyage and The Jason Voyage) and Heyerdahl’s known for Kon-Tiki, which is him “proving” that Polynesians made contact with South America. They both go into the history of the sailing and areas they’re travelling through, while also describing their surroundings and daily life, and, yes, running into storms and things.

Hope this helps you!

#bookblr #booklr #fantasy #read-alikes #answered asks #book recommendations #rec lists

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eponymous-rose · 5 years ago

Text

Fic: Prank War (Jester, M9 | 2000 words)

(Written for @lumateranlibrarian‘s prompt!)

Prank War

Someone's been pranking the Nein, with surprising effectiveness. Someone who isn't Jester.

It's not that she's jealous or anything. It just seems like this is the kind of thing they could be working on together, and anyway, why wouldn't this someone come to her for advice?

One thing's for sure: whoever they are, they've crossed the wrong detective.

“You’re a fantastic detective,” Nott says, which is both super unhelpful and super true. “You’ll figure it out,” she adds, which is still unhelpful, but definitely more of a ‘maybe’ on the truth scale.

Jester scratches her chin, staring at the perfectly placed bird’s nest teetering alarmingly on the top of Caduceus’ head. “And you’re sure you didn’t put it up there yourself?”

He blinks. “Well, no, I didn’t. I feel like I’d remember something like that. I just fell asleep leaning against a tree, and when I woke up, here it was.” He glances up, half-crosseyed, at the nest and its three perfectly pink eggs. “Sorry, guys.”

“How about let’s put the bird’s nest back in the tree where it belongs,” Fjord says, and Jester turns to squint at him suspiciously. He stares back, and the exasperation in his eyes seems pretty innocent, really. Another dead end.

“It’s evidence,” Nott points out.

“Definitely evidence.” But the image floats to Jester’s mind, unbidden, of a momma bird frantic with worry... “But no. Put it back, I guess.”

Beau marches over, snatches the nest from Caduceus’ head, and leaps up to hook one arm over the lowest branch of the big tree overhead. “I’m honestly not convinced this isn’t some sort of longer scam you’re running,” she calls, nonchalantly balancing on the end of a narrow-looking branch and bending to place the nest in a safer locale.

“The Traveler works in mysterious ways,” Caleb murmurs behind her.

Jester heaves a sigh, moving up to offer Beau a hand down from the last branch. “I wish, you guys! This is good stuff! I just don’t understand why someone keeps doing all this cool stuff without telling me! The dick-shaped scuffs on the cave wall. The little tunnel dug around our campsite that filled up with water overnight and turned into a moat. The thing with Nott’s flask--”

“We don’t talk about the thing with Nott’s flask,” Nott says, primly.

“I’m saying, the Traveler loves this!”

Beau shrugs. “So why not ask the Traveler?”

Jester flings her arms up, then flops back into the grass with a groan. “He just laughs when I ask him!” Even now, she feels the warmth of someone else’s amusement running up and down her spine. It’s really irritating, and she kind of hates that it bothers her so much.

Nott has been tapping one finger against her lips, thoughtfully. “Hey. Hey, what if we did, like, a proper interrogation? Just sat down and went through each candidate, one by one?”

Jester props herself up on her elbows. “Could we do that?”

“We are on a bit of a timetable--” Caleb says.

Beau snorts. “Gotta be honest, that sounds fuckin’ hilarious. I’m in.”

“Our pay is time-sensitive--”

Fjord folds his arms. “Only if Nott gets interrogated as well. I don’t trust her in this as far as I can throw her.”

“The farmer was rather insistent that--”

Nott actually sticks out her tongue. “You can’t throw me at all.”

“Listen, if we--”

Fjord straightens, grinning. “That was the idea, yes. That’s how little I trust you.”

“Maybe we should--”

“I accept the premise of this self-burn but not its result.” Nott turns to Jester. “I’ll submit to your draconian questioning, if only to clear my good name!”

“I don’t think--”

Jester claps her hands. “Perfect! Let’s settle down here and set up an interrogation room. Caleb, can you make some really bright light I can shine in people’s eyes?”

Caleb winds down, fumbling over the last of his protests. “Okay,” he says. “So this is happening.”

---

Caleb sits with surprising good grace, given his earlier protests, and blinks politely at her while she tries to figure out the best way forward. “Do you--” she starts, then scowls. “Aw man, the sun came out. Can you make the light brighter?”

“Ah, sort of?” He waggles his fingers a moment, and the light behind Jester flickers. “Better?”

She glares at him; belatedly, he puts on an exaggerated squint, as though staring into a blinding light. “It’ll do,” she says, and decides to try to put him off-balance. “Why did you draw dicks around the campsite?”

“I didn’t,” he says.

She pauses, but a great interrogator never gets sidetracked by such small things as inconvenient facts. “Well, what about the moat around the campfire?”

“Not me, either.”

“Oh.” She tries another glare, but he only squints back. “Okay, Widogast. You win this round. But we might have more questions for you. Don’t leave town.”

He says, “I wouldn’t dream of it,” and Jester decides not to comment on the unnerving sincerity in his words.

---

“You may be wondering why I’ve brought you here today.” Jester leans in, her shadow eclipsing Caleb’s little bobbing light in what she hopes is a properly ominous manner.

Beau yawns. “Not really, no. You... you kind of spelled it all out.”

“I always knew you were clever,” Jester says, pacing slowly, stroking an imagined beard. “But are you--” She whips around. “--too clever?!”

Beau shrugs. “Honestly, I’d rather be an accessory after the fact than the main perpetrator.”

Jester deflates. “Oh.”

Another shrug, this one vaguely apologetic. “Almost as much fun, but a shorter prison sentence. You know how it goes.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry. But if you find who did all this without you, I’ll beat ‘em up for you. With you, if you like.”

Jester considers this generous offer. “I mean, I think it’s probably going to be one of our friends, Beau.”

Beau cracks her knuckles, grinning, and Jester can’t help but smile back.

---

Caduceus sits down a little too eagerly, Jester thinks, grinning broadly, which isn’t the proper attitude for an interrogation at all. “Oh, this is interesting. Okay, I think I’m ready. What are you going to ask me?”

Jester raises a scolding finger. “I’ll be the one asking questions here!”

“Yes, I--” Caduceus scratches his beard. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“Another question! You just don’t learn.” Jester leans in. Caduceus leans back a little, politely giving her more space. “Did you or did you not conspire to scheme to plot a seditious conniving of treacherous, um. Treachery?”

He gives that one some thought. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.” He shifts. “This is awkward, but I’ve never done an interrogation like this before. Is that the right thing for me to say?”

“You’d probably protest your own innocence, then break down at the most dramatic possible moment. Probably.”

“Oh.” He gets a bit of a worried look on his face. “That sounds like a lot. I guess I could try?”

She glares a moment longer, then sighs. “I guess you wouldn’t put a bird’s nest on your own head.”

He brightens. “Oh, is that what this is about? No, that wasn’t me.”

Reaching for a properly interrogatory closing, Jester blurts, “But maybe sleep a little lighter and notice next time?”

“That seems fair.” He schools his features to a semblance of seriousness. “Can I go now, uh, copper?”

Jester claps her hands together. “Oh, you have been listening! You’re good at this, Caduceus!”

He beams. “Thanks.”

---

This one, Jester thinks, is going to be a tough nut to crack. Start cool. Cool and chill. No problem. “It’s no secret that you’re basically positioned to learn how to be a criminal mastermind, being half of the greatest detective agency of all time.”

Nott sneers. “The same could be said of you.”

“Where were you on the night of the...” Jester pauses, doing the math in her head. “The night of the other night?”

Nott makes a show of thinking it over, then springs to her feet. “But the same could be asked of you!”

Jester gasps, putting a hand to her chest. “You’re accusing me? Your own partner?”

From somewhere behind them, she hears Fjord muttering, “This is... such a good use of our time.”

“Though it breaks my heart to do it, I must! I must stand for justice!” Nott’s pose is straight out of a melodrama. Jester applauds briefly, then goes back to glowering in order to better represent her agony of the soul. “If I can’t trust you, and you can’t trust me, who can trust who?”

Jester blinks. “Wait, is it whom?”

“Whom?” Nott thinks about it for a second. “Youm.”

“Well, you know whom you can trust. Youm can trust? It’s me, Nott! I’m your partner!”

“Can I? Can I really? Or can we even trust... ourselves?”

“Okay,” Fjord says, marching between them and waving his hands. “Okay. Nott wouldn’t do this without roping you in, Jester, and we all know it. I’m up next.”

Wiping a single artful tear from her cheek, Jester sighs and steels herself for the next interrogation.

---

“No,” Fjord says. “For the third time, it wasn’t me doing the moat, or the dicks, or the nest, or the thing with Nott’s flask--”

A shrill voice, somewhere beyond the circle of interrogation. “We don’t talk about the thing with the flask!”

“Regardless, it wasn’t me. And you can cast Zone of Truth on me if you want proof.”

Jester blinks. “Oh. Right. That. Wow, that probably would’ve saved some time, huh?”

Fjord groans, rubbing at his face. “Can we just chalk this up to a mysterious and unexplained phenomenon and move on with our lives? Unless I wake up with my bootlaces all cut tomorrow morning, I’m not going to go around accusing our family of--” He pauses, like he wasn’t quite expecting that word to come out, then shrugs and keeps talking. “--of doing weird things for no particular reason. That’s pretty much all we do!”

Jester sighs defeat, watching as Caleb’s interro-globe vanishes from thin air. “Okay, okay. I just... I guess I just couldn’t figure out why someone would do cool stuff and not invite me.” And, more than anything, she kind of hates the way her voice goes weird and small at the end.

His exasperation softens, and he glances over her shoulder to where the others are watching. “Look, Jester, whatever this joker’s doing, they’re obviously building up to something big and ridiculous and fun, and that’s got your name all over it. I’d see it as an homage. A tribute. Would the Traveler set you up to be hurt by something like that if it didn’t have a good payoff?”

Jester inhales slowly, because professional interrogators emphatically do not sniffle. “No. He wouldn’t.”

“Well, there you go. We’ll see how it goes. Okay?”

With a heavy sigh, Jester lets the interrogator persona drop from her shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak. “Okay. Let’s get back to work.”

---

That night, though, Jester lies awake, watching the stars wheel overhead and thinking about what it feels like to be missing out on something big, to have to just know some big party’s out there somewhere and let it go on without knowing when or even if you’d get invited. She figures maybe that’s what Caduceus keeps talking about, faith and everything else. Maybe that’s the Traveler’s brand of faith: having to trust that someday you’ll get let in on the joke.

She thinks faith kind of sucks, sometimes.

With a sigh, she rolls onto her side, watching Frumpkin make his nightly rounds, hunting down mice and pouncing on leaves and doing the cat-stuff he does when Caleb’s asleep—which he is now, apparently, judging from the faint snoring over on his end of the campsite.

But... wait. She squints, taking in the scene, and feels a giant grin threatening to break across her face.

Across from her, Frumpkin is hunkered down over Fjord’s boots, industriously biting through the laces.

“No way,” she breathes, softly, and two eyes glowing with reflected firelight, and maybe a little fey light of their own, flash up to meet hers. Jester winks. One of the faint lights flickers out in response.

This time, the warmth of the Traveler’s laughter is a deep comfort that follows her into delighted dreams.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #jester lavorre #critfic #eponymous fic 2019

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and-then-there-were-n0ne · 5 years ago

Text

On Judith Butler

For a long time, academic feminism in America has been closely allied to the practical struggle to achieve justice and equality for women. Feminist theory has been understood by theorists as not just fancy words on paper; theory is connected to proposals for social change. [...]

In the United States, however, things have been changing. One observes a new, disquieting trend. It is not only that feminist theory pays relatively little attention to the struggles of women outside the United States. (This was always a dispiriting feature even of much of the best work of the earlier period.) Something more insidious than provincialism has come to prominence in the American academy. It is the virtually complete turning from the material side of life, toward a type of verbal and symbolic politics that makes only the flimsiest of connections with the real situation of real women.

Feminist thinkers of the new symbolic type would appear to believe that the way to do feminist politics is to use words in a subversive way, in academic publications of lofty obscurity and disdainful abstractness. These symbolic gestures, it is believed, are themselves a form of political resistance; and so one need not engage with messy things such as legislatures and movements in order to act daringly. The new feminism, moreover, instructs its members that there is little room for large-scale social change, and maybe no room at all. We are all, more or less, prisoners of the structures of power that have defined our identity as women; we can never change those structures in a large-scale way, and we can never escape from them. All that we can hope to do is to find spaces within the structures of power in which to parody them, to poke fun at them, to transgress them in speech. And so symbolic verbal politics, in addition to being offered as a type of real politics, is held to be the only politics that is really possible.

These developments owe much to the recent prominence of French postmodernist thought. Many young feminists, whatever their concrete affiliations with this or that French thinker, have been influenced by the extremely French idea that the intellectual does politics by speaking seditiously, and that this is a significant type of political action. [...]

One American feminist has shaped these developments more than any other. Judith Butler seems to many young scholars to define what feminism is now. Trained as a philosopher, she is frequently seen as a major thinker about gender, power, and the body. As we wonder what has become of old-style feminist politics and the material realities to which it was committed, it seems necessary to reckon with Butler's work and influence, and to scrutinize the arguments that have led so many to adopt a stance that looks very much like quietism and retreat.

It is difficult to come to grips with Butler's ideas, because it is difficult to figure out what they are. Butler is a very smart person. In public discussions, she proves that she can speak clearly and has a quick grasp of what is said to her. Her written style, however, is ponderous and obscure. It is dense with allusions to other theorists, drawn from a wide range of different theoretical traditions. In addition to Foucault, and to a more recent focus on Freud, Butler's work relies heavily on the thought of Louis Althusser, the French lesbian theorist Monique Wittig, the American anthropologist Gayle Rubin, Jacques Lacan, J.L. Austin, and the American philosopher of language Saul Kripke. These figures do not all agree with one another, to say the least; so an initial problem in reading Butler is that one is bewildered to find her arguments buttressed by appeal to so many contradictory concepts and doctrines, usually without any account of how the apparent contradictions will be resolved.

A further problem lies in Butler's casual mode of allusion. The ideas of these thinkers are never described in enough detail to include the uninitiated (if you are not familiar with the Althusserian concept of "interpellation," you are lost for chapters) or to explain to the initiated how, precisely, the difficult ideas are being understood. [...]

Divergent interpretations are simply not considered--even where, as in the cases of Foucault and Freud, she is advancing highly contestable interpretations that would not be accepted by many scholars. Thus one is led to the conclusion that the allusiveness of the writing cannot be explained in the usual way, by positing an audience of specialists eager to debate the details of an esoteric academic position. The writing is simply too thin to satisfy any such audience. It is also obvious that Butler's work is not directed at a non-academic audience eager to grapple with actual injustices. Such an audience would simply be baffled by the thick soup of Butler's prose, by its air of in-group knowingness, by its extremely high ratio of names to explanations.

To whom, then, is Butler speaking? It would seem that she is addressing a group of young feminist theorists in the academy who are neither students of philosophy, caring about what Althusser and Freud and Kripke really said, nor outsiders, needing to be informed about the nature of their projects and persuaded of their worth. This implied audience is imagined as remarkably docile. Subservient to the oracular voice of Butler's text, and dazzled by its patina of high-concept abstractness, the imagined reader poses few questions, requests no arguments and no clear definitions of terms.

Still more strangely, the implied reader is expected not to care greatly about Butler's own final view on many matters. For a large proportion of the sentences in any book by Butler--especially sentences near the end of chapters--are questions. Sometimes the answer that the question expects is evident. But often things are much more indeterminate. Among the non-interrogative sentences, many begin with "Consider..." or "One could suggest..."--in such a way that Butler never quite tells the reader whether she approves of the view described. Mystification as well as hierarchy are the tools of her practice, a mystification that eludes criticism because it makes few definite claims.

Take two representative examples:

What does it mean for the agency of a subject to presuppose its own subordination? Is the act of presupposing the same as the act of reinstating, or is there a discontinuity between the power presupposed and the power reinstated? Consider that in the very act by which the subject reproduces the conditions of its own subordination, the subject exemplifies a temporally based vulnerability that belongs to those conditions, specifically, to the exigencies of their renewal.

And:

Such questions cannot be answered here, but they indicate a direction for thinking that is perhaps prior to the question of conscience, namely, the question that preoccupied Spinoza, Nietzsche, and most recently, Giorgio Agamben: How are we to understand the desire to be as a constitutive desire? Resituating conscience and interpellation within such an account, we might then add to this question another: How is such a desire exploited not only by a law in the singular, but by laws of various kinds such that we yield to subordination in order to maintain some sense of social "being"?

Why does Butler prefer to write in this teasing, exasperating way? The style is certainly not unprecedented. Some precincts of the continental philosophical tradition, though surely not all of them, have an unfortunate tendency to regard the philosopher as a star who fascinates, and frequently by obscurity, rather than as an arguer among equals. When ideas are stated clearly, after all, they may be detached from their author: one can take them away and pursue them on one's own. When they remain mysterious (indeed, when they are not quite asserted), one remains dependent on the originating authority. The thinker is heeded only for his or her turgid charisma. One hangs in suspense, eager for the next move. When Butler does follow that "direction for thinking," what will she say? What does it mean, tell us please, for the agency of a subject to presuppose its own subordination? (No clear answer to this question, so far as I can see, is forthcoming.) One is given the impression of a mind so profoundly cogitative that it will not pronounce on anything lightly: so one waits, in awe of its depth, for it finally to do so.

In this way obscurity creates an aura of importance. It also serves another related purpose. It bullies the reader into granting that, since one cannot figure out what is going on, there must be something significant going on, some complexity of thought, where in reality there are often familiar or even shopworn notions, addressed too simply and too casually to add any new dimension of understanding. When the bullied readers of Butler's books muster the daring to think thus, they will see that the ideas in these books are thin. When Butler's notions are stated clearly and succinctly, one sees that, without a lot more distinctions and arguments, they don't go far, and they are not especially new. Thus obscurity fills the void left by an absence of a real complexity of thought and argument.

Last year Butler won the first prize in the annual Bad Writing Contest sponsored by the journal Philosophy and Literature, for the following sentence:

The move from a structuralist account in which capital is understood to structure social relations in relatively homologous ways to a view of hegemony in which power relations are subject to repetition, convergence, and rearticulation brought the question of temporality into the thinking of structure, and marked a shift from a form of Althusserian theory that takes structural totalities as theoretical objects to one in which the insights into the contingent possibility of structure inaugurate a renewed conception of hegemony as bound up with the contingent sites and strategies of the rearticulation of power.

Now, Butler might have written: "Marxist accounts, focusing on capital as the central force structuring social relations, depicted the operations of that force as everywhere uniform. By contrast, Althusserian accounts, focusing on power, see the operations of that force as variegated and as shifting over time." Instead, she prefers a verbosity that causes the reader to expend so much effort in deciphering her prose that little energy is left for assessing the truth of the claims. Announcing the award, the journal's editor remarked that "it's possibly the anxiety-inducing obscurity of such writing that has led Professor Warren Hedges of Southern Oregon University to praise Judith Butler as `probably one of the ten smartest people on the planet.'" (Such bad writing, incidentally, is by no means ubiquitous in the "queer theory" group of theorists with which Butler is associated. David Halperin, for example, writes about the relationship between Foucault and Kant, and about Greek homosexuality, with philosophical clarity and historical precision.)

Butler gains prestige in the literary world by being a philosopher; many admirers associate her manner of writing with philosophical profundity. But one should ask whether it belongs to the philosophical tradition at all, rather than to the closely related but adversarial traditions of sophistry and rhetoric. Ever since Socrates distinguished philosophy from what the sophists and the rhetoricians were doing, it has been a discourse of equals who trade arguments and counter-arguments without any obscurantist sleight-of-hand. In that way, he claimed, philosophy showed respect for the soul, while the others' manipulative methods showed only disrespect. One afternoon, fatigued by Butler on a long plane trip, I turned to a draft of a student's dissertation on Hume's views of personal identity. I quickly felt my spirits reviving. Doesn't she write clearly, I thought with pleasure, and a tiny bit of pride. And Hume, what a fine, what a gracious spirit: how kindly he respects the reader's intelligence, even at the cost of exposing his own uncertainty.

Butler's main idea, first introduced in Gender Trouble in 1989 and repeated throughout her books, is that gender is a social artifice. Our ideas of what women and men are reflect nothing that exists eternally in nature. Instead they derive from customs that embed social relations of power.

This notion, of course, is nothing new. The denaturalizing of gender was present already in Plato, and it received a great boost from John Stuart Mill, who claimed in The Subjection of Women that "what is now called the nature of women is an eminently artificial thing." Mill saw that claims about "women's nature" derive from, and shore up, hierarchies of power: womanliness is made to be whatever would serve the cause of keeping women in subjection, or, as he put it, "enslav[ing] their minds." With the family as with feudalism, the rhetoric of nature itself serves the cause of slavery. "The subjection of women to men being a universal custom, any departure from it quite naturally appears unnatural... But was there ever any domination which did not appear natural to those who possessed it?"

Mill was hardly the first social-constructionist. [...] In work published in the 1970s and 1980s, Catharine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin argued that the conventional understanding of gender roles is a way of ensuring continued male domination in sexual relations, as well as in the public sphere. [...] Before Butler, the psychologist Nancy Chodorow gave a detailed and compelling account of how gender differences replicate themselves across the generations: she argued that the ubiquity of these mechanisms of replication enables us to understand how what is artificial can nonetheless be nearly ubiquitous. Before Butler, the biologist Anne Fausto Sterling, through her painstaking criticism of experimental work allegedly supporting the naturalness of conventional gender distinctions, showed how deeply social power-relations had compromised the objectivity of scientists: Myths of Gender (1985) was an apt title for what she found in the biology of the time. (Other biologists and primatologists also contributed to this enterprise.) Before Butler, the political theorist Susan Moller Okin explored the role of law and political thought in constructing a gendered destiny for women in the family; and this project, too, was pursued further by a number of feminists in law and political philosophy. Before Butler, Gayle Rubin's important anthropological account of subordination, The Traffic in Women (1975), provided a valuable analysis of the relationship between the social organization of gender and the asymmetries of power.

So what does Butler's work add to this copious body of writing? Gender Trouble and Bodies that Matter contain no detailed argument against biological claims of "natural" difference, no account of mechanisms of gender replication, and no account of the legal shaping of the family; nor do they contain any detailed focus on possibilities for legal change. What, then, does Butler offer that we might not find more fully done in earlier feminist writings?

One relatively original claim is that when we recognize the artificiality of gender distinctions, and refrain from thinking of them as expressing an independent natural reality, we will also understand that there is no compelling reason why the gender types should have been two (correlated with the two biological sexes), rather than three or five or indefinitely many. "When the constructed status of gender is theorized as radically independent of sex, gender itself becomes a free-floating artifice," she writes.

From this claim it does not follow, for Butler, that we can freely reinvent the genders as we like: she holds, indeed, that there are severe limits to our freedom. She insists that we should not naively imagine that there is a pristine self that stands behind society, ready to emerge all pure and liberated. [...] Butler does claim, though, that we can create categories that are in some sense new ones, by means of the artful parody of the old ones. Thus her best-known idea, her conception of politics as a parodic performance, is born out of the sense of a (strictly limited) freedom that comes from the recognition that one's ideas of gender have been shaped by forces that are social rather than biological. We are doomed to repetition of the power structures into which we are born, but we can at least make fun of them, and some ways of making fun are subversive assaults on the original norms.

The idea of gender as performance is Butler's most famous idea, and so it is worth pausing to scrutinize it more closely. She introduced the notion intuitively, in Gender Trouble, without invoking theoretical precedent. [....] Butler's point is presumably this: when we act and speak in a gendered way, we are not simply reporting on something that is already fixed in the world, we are actively constituting it, replicating it, and reinforcing it. By behaving as if there were male and female "natures," we co-create the social fiction that these natures exist. They are never there apart from our deeds; we are always making them be there [and this is regular feminist theory]. At the same time, by carrying out these performances in a slightly different manner, a parodic manner, we can perhaps unmake them just a little. [this is not] [...]

Just as actors with a bad script can subvert it by delivering the bad lines oddly, so too with gender: the script remains bad, but the actors have a tiny bit of freedom. Thus we have the basis for what, in Excitable Speech, Butler calls "an ironic hopefulness." [...]

What precisely does Butler offer when she counsels subversion? She tells us to engage in parodic performances, but she warns us that the dream of escaping altogether from the oppressive structures is just a dream: it is within the oppressive structures that we must find little spaces for resistance, and this resistance cannot hope to change the overall situation. And here lies a dangerous quietism.

If Butler means only to warn us against the dangers of fantasizing an idyllic world in which sex raises no serious problems, she is wise to do so. Yet frequently she goes much further. She suggests that the institutional structures that ensure the marginalization of lesbians and gay men in our society, and the continued inequality of women, will never be changed in a deep way; and so our best hope is to thumb our noses at them, and to find pockets of personal freedom within them. [...] In Butler, resistance is always imagined as personal, more or less private, involving no unironic, organized public action for legal or institutional change.

It is also a fact that the institutional structures that shape women's lives have changed. The law of rape, still defective, has at least improved; the law of sexual harassment exists, where it did not exist before; marriage is no longer regarded as giving men monarchical control over women's bodies. These things were changed by feminists who would not take parodic performance as their answer, who thought that power, where bad, should, and would, yield before justice. [...] It was changed because people did not rest content with parodic performance: they demanded, and to some extent they got, social upheaval.

Butler not only eschews such a hope, she takes pleasure in its impossibility. She finds it exciting to contemplate the alleged immovability of power, and to envisage the ritual subversions of the slave who is convinced that she must remain such. She tells us--this is the central thesis of The Psychic Life of Power--that we all eroticize the power structures that oppress us, and can thus find sexual pleasure only within their confines. It seems to be for that reason that she prefers the sexy acts of parodic subversion to any lasting material or institutional change. Real change would so uproot our psyches that it would make sexual satisfaction impossible. Our libidos are the creation of the bad enslaving forces, and thus necessarily sadomasochistic in structure.

Well, parodic performance is not so bad when you are a powerful tenured academic in a liberal university. But here is where Butler's focus on the symbolic, her proud neglect of the material side of life, becomes a fatal blindness. For women who are hungry, illiterate, disenfranchised, beaten, raped, it is not sexy or liberating to reenact, however parodically, the conditions of hunger, illiteracy, disenfranchisement, beating, and rape. Such women prefer food, schools, votes, and the integrity of their bodies. I see no reason to believe that they long sadomasochistically for a return to the bad state. If some individuals cannot live without the sexiness of domination, that seems sad, but it is not really our business. But when a major theorist tells women in desperate conditions that life offers them only bondage, she purveys a cruel lie, and a lie that flatters evil by giving it much more power than it actually has.

Excitable Speech, Butler's most recent book, which provides her analysis of legal controversies involving pornography and hate speech, shows us exactly how far her quietism extends. For she is now willing to say that even where legal change is possible, even where it has already happened, we should wish it away, so as to preserve the space within which the oppressed may enact their sadomasochistic rituals of parody.

As a work on the law of free speech, Excitable Speech is an unconscionably bad book. [...] But let us extract from Butler's thin discussion of hate speech and pornography the core of her position. It is this: legal prohibitions of hate speech and pornography are problematic (though in the end she does not clearly oppose them) because they close the space within which the parties injured by that speech can perform their resistance. By this Butler appears to mean that if the offense is dealt with through the legal system, there will be fewer occasions for informal protest; and also, perhaps, that if the offense becomes rarer because of its illegality we will have fewer opportunities to protest its presence.

Well, yes. Law does close those spaces. [...] For Butler, the act of subversion is so riveting, so sexy, that it is a bad dream to think that the world will actually get better. What a bore equality is! No bondage, no delight. In this way, her pessimistic erotic anthropology offers support to an amoral anarchist politics. [...]

The great tragedy in the new feminist theory in America is the loss of a sense of public commitment. In this sense, Butler's self-involved feminism is extremely American, and it is not surprising that it has caught on here, where successful middle-class people prefer to focus on cultivating the self rather than thinking in a way that helps the material condition of others. Even in America, however, it is possible for theorists to be dedicated to the public good and to achieve something through that effort.

Many feminists in America are still theorizing in a way that supports material change and responds to the situation of the most oppressed. Increasingly, however, the academic and cultural trend is toward the pessimistic flirtatiousness represented by the theorizing of Butler and her followers. Butlerian feminism is in many ways easier than the old feminism. It tells scores of talented young women that they need not work on changing the law, or feeding the hungry, or assailing power through theory harnessed to material politics. They can do politics in safety of their campuses, remaining on the symbolic level, making subversive gestures at power through speech and gesture. This, the theory says, is pretty much all that is available to us anyway, by way of political action, and isn't it exciting and sexy?

In its small way, of course, this is a hopeful politics. It instructs people that they can, right now, without compromising their security, do something bold. But the boldness is entirely gestural, and insofar as Butler's ideal suggests that these symbolic gestures really are political change, it offers only a false hope. Hungry women are not fed by this, battered women are not sheltered by it, raped women do not find justice in it, gays and lesbians do not achieve legal protections through it.

- Martha Nussbaum, The Professor of Parody

#judith butler #postmodernism #martha nussbaum #the professor of parody #feminism #radical feminism #intersectional feminism

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narkinafive · 5 years ago

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information exchange in the gffa

been thinking about news in the gffa (what else is new) and the conundrum of how no one seems to know anything about the jedi despite the fact that they were fucking around IN LIVING MEMORY during the empire, and it occurred to me that the ONLY information exchange in the republic or the empire comes from the holonet. which i should have realized sooner tbh; i spent all this time thinking that the gffa probably has some sort of social media, except why would they? in the 1970s obviously there was zero concept of a social media-esque system of connection and exchange, and in-universe, we can assume that both the ot and the bulk of the pt are operating under some kind of martial law, which most likely restricts information access as well

in terms of canon telecommunication networks, we’ve got:

the holonet, republic-then-imperial central news agency (like a gffa bbc world news) (we assume that it’s HEAVILY regulated by the ruling state)

infonet, a net specific to the planet of kupohan in order to share weather updates to help ships land (heir to the jedi)

darknet, which hosts the video of the death star blowing up, among other things (from a certain point of view)

shadowfeed, which looks like it could be similar to twitter, was originally used by the separatists to spread anti-republic propaganda, before being mostly shut down by republic intelligence (tarkin, and also my rebel sketchbook)

so while there is some sort of dark-web/underground communication going on, it appears to be EXTREMELY underutilized, if not outright unknown to the general populace. the difference here is that irl, social media is or can be utilized by literally anyone and everyone on the planet, provided they have a phone or a computer and a working network--even in authoritarian or totalitarian regimes, there are people crafty enough to work around internet blocks, so when i say literally anyone, i mean literally anyone--whereas in the gffa, networks like these appear to be only really used by people who a) know about it b) actually understand how it works in the technical sense c) are actively involved in seditious activity... which, if found out, would get you a one-way ticket to a labor camp

while also being a neat little critique of the dangers of hyper-centralized information, this could actually go a really long way to explaining... well, a lot. i don’t have the source on me, but i do recall in sw propaganda that focus on the republic war effort shifted from the jedi to the clones very early on (at the request of the jedi, even), so it isn’t too off to imagine that palps was engineering a mass cultural forgetting of the jedi from that long ago.

another key point that i constantly forget and then remember later is that there just really aren’t that many jedi at any given time. even at the height of republic, 10,000 jedi compared to however many fucktillion sentients in the galaxy, sentients whose news is controlled by a proto-fascist state which is actively committed to both disgracing the name of the jedi and erasing them from existence in order to better facilitate the transition from democracy to autocracy, means that your average citizen just straight up won’t know about them. it seems crazy to us now, but there just really is no free informational exchange in star wars (at least, not in canon; there are several examples in legends, but i’m choosing not to count those for obvious reasons)

which seems obvious but is also just lowkey blowing my fucking mind

#swmeta #i guess?#my posts

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kendrixtermina · 5 years ago

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Compare and Contrast: The ‘Rival’ Characters

In each house there’s like this one guy who doesn’t really get along with the House Leader

I swear this is the last rambly essay. Or... second to last.

Felix

Perhaps the most “typical” rival - The Blue Lions in general are designed around basic fantasy or anime archetypes with a twist here and there so its not too suprising that Felix starts off like a less chliched/ more reasonable variant of your basic anime rival.

He’s your basic ‘Arrogant Kung Fu Guy’, a loner, not very friendly, focussed on gaining strenght, used to be friends with the MC once, not a fan of “the power of friendship” but not immune to it either... though unlike most examples he’s not envious or obsessed with beating Dimitri nor actually particularly arrogant. When Leonie beats him with a trap in their support he’s like “Wow thanks, you made me aware of a potential weakness”

Like your classic anime rival he is the strongest of the Lions apart from Dimitri himself, but has a contrasting fighting style - Dimitri is big, tanky and has immense brute strenght, but is clumsy; Felix is lithe, agile and has a very skill-based fighting style. The second strongest deer or eagle would not be Lorenz and Ferdinand. It’s definitely Lysithea for the deer, and probably either Hubert or Petra for the eagles.

Also like your classic anime rival, he’s got a backstory that parallels the hero’s. He also lost a beloved relative in the tragedy of Duscur and also still feels a lot of attachment to people who are gone, but he deals with it very differently than Dimitri. Unlike most cases you can’t really say that one of them did ir ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ both have their dysfunctionalities resulting from the loss if anything Felix is more level-headed though his rejection of all attachment isn’t grounded in maturity either.

They managed to have the classic “ideals are BS, only strenght matters” line actually make sense in a non-voldemordy way for once if you consider the context where he grew up, he definitely has a point. Though he would protest the notion he actually has a moral code of his own (Dimitri clearly offends it - though mostly he’s really thrown of by/ doesn’t know what to make of the Dr. jekyll and Mr. hyde situation) he just wasn’t ever told that it “counts” as it’s not what passes for morals in Faerghus. He’s present and results oriented, rather than guiding principles or rules of thumb he likes to focus on wether it actually saves lifes. (”We’re protecting your subjects not your ego”)

Likewise it makes more sense for him to be the team contrarian when Dimitri actually does have no plan or regard for safety while he’s in Avenger Mode, but ultimately he very much wants Dimitri to succeed.

Another thing of note is that since Claude and Edelgard are revolutionaries, their rivals are the token traditionalists of their respective teams, whereas Dimitri is someone who wants to reinstate the order - He doesn’t like oppression any more than the others but he thinks the existing social institutions have their merit; As he sees it they’d work just fine if they were just carried out virtuously and as a service to the people, not selfishly abused. Hence his rival is one of the two more independent-minded Lions.

Lorenz

Of the three he’s probably the one who most dislikes their leader and who is most genuinely flawed at the start of the game.

With Ferdinand it’s not more than a passing first impression you quickly notice that while he may be naive about how he comes across he isn’t actually arrogant nor does he hate or have seditious intentions toward Edelgard, he’s actually a deeply good guy, a straightforward hero to contrast Edelgard as an anti-hero. He lived an easy live in a good environment which allowed him to develop his potential to the fullest whereas Edelgard was forced to resort to things she doesn’t like because of her harsh life and precarious situation. She just wants to live quietly in peace but had to to grand impactful actions because someone needs to fix the broken system and she happened to have power she never asked for, meanwhile Ferdinand really wants to be a politician and go down in history but is afraid that he’s not making enough of an impact. Felix is more complex, he truly IS mean and spiteful as a real character flaw (with Dedue and Dimitri he has arguably valid principle-based reason to dislike them; But with Sylvain and Ingrid he’s just being mean for meanness’ sake due to his own issues with attachment and says some genuinely awful things to them) but its the one sharp edge on an overall principled dude who actually does care for his comrades, Dimitri included, and he is not a bad person.

Lorenz meanwhile is certainly not what he seems either, he’s not just a superior twat and actually very dutiful, believes that the nobility should actually live up to their obligations and is sort of a cautious shrewd political mind, surely not half as naive as Ferdinand. At the same time he has real shortcomings, at the start of the game he’s somewhat immature and frivolous (very apparent in his pre-timeskip supports with Sylvain and Byleth), though his intentions are not per se impure (he really wants to marry and is actually picky and romantic), he just doesn’t get it in his head that those girls he’s hitting on find him annoying.

But eh, he was like 18 at the time. More damning is his callousness and lack of perspective. He doesn’t really look past his immediate surroundings and the self-interest of himself and his own, and at several times alledges that he wouldn’t have particularly minded if Claude wound up dead in a ditch. He doesn’t know him and genuinely doesn’t care about him, making cold, dissing comments all the time in early part 1.

Of course when you get more context and get further in both their support chain and the plotyou find that he actually has good reasons to distrust Claude, it’s not just snobbishness and prejudice he just really cares about the Alliance and doesn’t trust it to someone who just showed up out of nowhere under suspicious circumstances after the previous Duke had an ‘accident’ (which, ironically, was the work of Lorenz’ own father) - but that doesn’t change that he’s genuinely a little callous.

If you don’t spare Claude on the empire route Lorenz stands out as the only person who will diss him - everyone else, imperial leadership included, is either sad or gives him the worthy opponent treatment, even Hubert who’s not usually the sort to point out his enemies’ redeeming features. He will also diss him in the Kingdom route and express spite that he didn’t get to be Alliance leader.

Indeed while Ferdinand and Felix will wind up supporting Edelgard/ Dimitri if they’re not recruited, Lorenz always opposes Claude unless you’re on the GD route. Even some of the arrogance is real, see his A support with Byleth, he really thought that commoners were ultimately less consequential/influential even though, as he later admits, Byleth was right in front of him the whole time.

To some extent this might be due to his upbringing his father was very much a “Look out for Number one” sorta person who cares only for the wealth of his own territory the rest of the Alliance be damned. Compared to that starting point Lorenz is already a whole lot more considerate as he thinks that his father at least ought to consider the rest of the Alliance, and would certainly NOT stab a rival in the back or callously kill commoners as collateral damage, even at the start of the game.

I don’t wanna get too down on Lorenz tho, once you get to know him he’s adorable and sensitive (his caution comes from actually being somewhat afraid/anxious underneath) and as a friend he is very helpful generous and considerate. I love that support where he keeps offering Ignatz jobs, it’s probably his best moment. He got layers and ultimately ends up having a positive political legacy. And if you’re playing GD or CF he even gets more open-minded by the end.

He also makes for an excellent contrast to Claude - both are somewhat self-interested, opportunistic and distrustful, but Lorenz is cautious and conventional, whereas Claude is unconventional and a risk-taker. Ultimately what brings them together is appreciation for the other’s shrewdness and good intentions, they’re both natural politicians. They also both love poetry.

And Claude’s storyline is one of bringing different people together and convincing them to come to his side/ have them come around. He uses deception to accomplish it, yes, but ultimately he wants people to see his point - Even someone who is as different from him as Lorenz is. After all he wants to build a world where there’s a place for everyone. So when he finally wins over Lorenz halfway through part 2 it means a lot to him. Claude probably half doubts that it’s possible but he wants everyone to truly come around.

Whereas Edelgard would surely prefer convincing as well, but failing that she’d strongarm or eliminate someone like that. (Though it has to be said that she would do so because she cares deeply about the net result and one priviliged twat’s feelings, or even her own, are not more important that ending oppression asap IMHO Both have a point and both have their shortcomings.)

Another Detail is that while Ferdinand and Felix are each from the Second most Powerful house in their respective countries, the number two spot in the Alliance is probably held by the Gonerils; But the Alliance by nature is more flexible and there is more rising and falling in influence based on wealth merit and your ability to convince and rally the other nobles. Lorenz actually could take Claude’s job, and early on, actually wanted to, so he’s the closest to a real political rival - and Claude’s strenght is more in politics and planning than it is in punching so this is fitting.

The other two are more one-sided, as Dimitri flat out ignores any hostility coming from Felix and would really like to be friends again (also Felix wants Dimitri on the throne ‘cause he’s still vastly better than Chaos or Cornelia, he’d just like him to act reasonable and get his act together, and is ready to support him once he does) and Ferdinand, try as he might, is simply no match for Edelgard in any way as she is the single strongest individual among the younger characters, she’s evenly matched with Byleth in the Church Route reunion scene and ends up with the highest total stats out of all the playable characters.

Ferdinand

Though he’s introduced as always trying to one-up her, makes sure to tell you that he’s the one in charge when you first walk in (no doubt naively repeating something his father said), can end up being full-blown enemies with her in 3 out of 4 routes including the Church route, he doesn’t actually have any sort of personal beef with Edelgard and out of the three ‘rivals’ he probably has the least actual issues with/ dislike toward his respective house leader.

Even when they wind up as enemies he’s actually one of the characters who speaks of Edelgard in a respectful fashion after her death (in GD he mentions how she wanted the next ruler to be chosen based on merit and how she really believed it), and at one point offers Hubert to let the two of them flee right under the Church’s nose if you have them fight. (Especially notable since the Church route is probably the least sympathetic toward Edelgard)

He IS the one who gets the classic rival trait of being competitive, jealous and attention-seeking - I tend to hate these sorts of characters but that’s usually because they are petty, spiteful people who begrudge other’s happiness and are always putting others down so I expected to hate him but actually ended up loving him to no end because he isn’t like that at all. He’s deeply good and has a heart of pure gold. He never lashes out. If someone dislikes him, his reaction is usually to come up some grandiose elaborate gesture to prove his worth and make them like him (Mercedes, Bernie, Dorothea etc.)

Ferdinand was raised by an actual supervillain who clearly wanted to bring him up with an ellbow mentality but that clearly bounced off his inherent goodness like teflon. His sheltered luxurious upbringing might’ve left him a bit naive pre-timeskip in ways that make him come off a tad arrogant or annoying, but he doesn’t think he’s superior to anyone - indeed he works hard to be worthy of his inheritance and justify being in the position that he’s in. He’s somewhat aware that his father’s a crook but his response to that disillusionment is to become the real thing himself. He wants to actually be exceptional and live up to the hype. The old man surely told him that he’s got to make the princess his bitch with some thinly veiled euphemisms but he kinda didn’t catch the seditious treasonous parts of it.

He doesn’t hate Edelgard nor does he wanna doublecross her or put her down, rather, he figures that he’ll be a pretty poor Minister if he can’t hold his own against her he must have something of his own to offer and just generally strives to constantly improve himself. He also strongly believes in thinking for oneself (in that sense he’s kinda like Felix but its a more intellectual thing for him) - In the Church route that’s why he views it as his duty to oppose Edelgard even if it costs him alot. If he sticks with them instead, he eventually realizes that she and Hubert are actually all for independent thought and actually pretty open to his input once they come to trust him (which doesn’t really happen on the other routes). If recruited to the Kindom he’ll also not be afraid to criticise Dimitri. Can’t recall any scene where he criticises or defies Claude right of the bat but then again Claude doesn’t exactly go around saying what his objectives are.

He certainly sticks out among the eagles the way Felix does among the lions - not quite to the same extent cause he’s not that polished and inadvertedly annoys people a lot early on, but they’re all pragmatic, antisocial or both and also largely unconventional and quirky, whereas Ferdinand is very sociable, optimistic, has high ideals and traditional. He’s the one among the nobles who actually wants his father’s job, he’s also the one believer among the largely secular Adrestians, though he’s not exceptionally devout. Though he values collectedness, he’s an expressive romantic sop and very genuine in contrast to the more stoic and unsentimental Edelgard and Hubert (as well as Byleth if they’re on the team), i mean Dorothea’s also extroverted and friendly but she’s often wearing a mask and kinda jaded too. Caspar’s nice and honest but he basically lives to fight. Basically if the Crimson Flower cast were Section Nine, Ferdinand would be Togusa - and like the Major, Hubert and Edelgard actually appreciate him for that though this is not immediately obvious to him.

Ferdinand obviously matures some as the storyline continues but - consider that Lorenz basically gets schooled and Claude is 100% right, and Felix gets to get over himself and stop being so tsundere, he’s not all wrong but he’s not right either and in his Kingdom route endings usually winds up continuing his dad’s legacy after all, even winding up in one of those chivalric tales he used t hate in his paired endings with Dimitri. Lorenz’ position is understandable, Felix has a valid point and comes from a good place, but largely, they are wrong. Ferdinand does somewhat change what he thinks but it’s more of a hegelian synthesis. He’s a helpful ally who contributes a lot and Edelgard and Hubert kinda know this before he does because he was busy comparing himself to her. He’s not gonna beat Edelgard at Edelgard stuff but he has a lot to offer precisely because he’s Ferdinand, and because he’s different from them and actually helps them improve and refine their plans.

After all if you want to replace a flawed system you’ve got to understand why it persisted and your new system has to solve all the problems the old one solves and then some, if it is to last.

Unlike Felix Ferdinand’s very proud of his country, but this is in the context of the Eagles’ main storyline being to put right what their parents done fucked up (or, in the case of Dorothea and Petra, what created the sucky circumstances they lived in) whether they do it with Edelgards revolution or through reconciling their homeland with the church.

Of course Ferdinand isn’t blind to his homeland’s flaws and wants to fix it because he cares about it.

Leonie

Now onto the MC’s own designated rival.

She probably can be said to be have a shade of petty jealousy but since it’s centered around a shared mentor figure and largely harmless it comes off with a distinct annoying-younger-sister vibe more than a more serious rivalry. She never really gets overly upset that she can’t beat Byleth; She just kinda keeps trying undeterred; Might as well shoot for a high target.

Notably she is actually a remarkably chill person in her other supports and has a lot more characterization than just the jeralt thing, with her poor village background and frugal, pragmatic outlook being pretty interesting, she just doesn’t get along with Byleth, but since they’re the POV character and Leonie is kinda constantly aggro at them that works in her detriment. For all that I’m frequently praising how even the more gimmicky characters are seldom one-note I still think they could’ve eased up on the gimmicks now and again.

On the other hand, it shouldn’t be so strange that even Byleth can’t immediately get along with everyone xD

Much like most of Bernadetta’s supports start with her freaking out and running away, Byleth’s usually go like this: At C the various characters act largely how they act toward everyone else (the nice characters are nice, the blunt ones are blunt etc.), then at B they spill their life story and worries and Byleth is like “pat pat”, by the second half of part II the monastery dialogues also evidence some level of fondness and familiarity even with the students that aren’t in your house (which is important cause most of them are pretty sad and apologetic about having to fight Byleth later on)

But of course there’s exceptions here, you have cases like Felix and Edelgard who instantly like them because of obvious similarities, people who take distinctly longer to be won over such as Hubert and Dimitri but ultimately do click with them after a certain point, and then there’s cases like Claude and Dorothea who DO like Byleth but are still somewhat stumped by their somewhat unreadable demeanor, they’re used to dazzling ppl with their charm, not getting the expected reaction and hence their defense mechanisms are lowkey active, indignation for Dorothea and suspicion for Claude.

Leonie doesn’t fit either category she sorta tries to apologize for her latest outburst each time but then ends up going off again.

On the one hand the fact that she isn’t overawed isn’t always a negative thing, it’s like she’s part of the family, and particularly the human side of it.

After they merge with Sothis most the students are awed and excited about their new power/looks and comming divine revelation - some of the eagles are notably cooler on this as they’re not as religious, Bernie’s lowkey scared, Dorothea seems kinda worried about them/ that this will distance them from normal people, Edelgard is secretly heartbroken cause she takes it to mean that they’re destined to be enemies - they’re not the only ones tho Lysithea notably worries about side effects (she would), but then there’s Leonie who’s like “But it’s still you inside there, right? That’s what important.” Like... I think Byleth really needed to hear that.

Instead of “wow everyone mysteriously likes you, you must truly be blessed” she’s like “you accept ppl as they are just like your dad no wonder people like you. ”, she just looks at them with a different perspective.

I mean Cyril and Catherine get a bit jelly that they get so much of Rhea’s attention but then that’s tied up in their own adulation of Rhea and so ultimately the magical destiny thing.

Even the infamous B support evidences a somewhat different, less distanced dynamic - Anger is a natural stage of grief but she’s going off in Byleth’s face when they’re still half in schock, which is a not so great situation but also different from the usual dynamic where Byleth is the calm in-control leader person while their conversation partner spills their soul - they can’t be, because they’re involved. Jeralt’s death affects them both in different ways and that leads to a rather painful clash.

Contrast wise Leonie is maybe what Byleth might’ve been like if they had been born normally. She’s also kinda sassy has a pragmatic fighting style and comes from a common, nonfancy background where she had to work on her own survival by catching her own food. But she doesn’t have the magical destiny/ random religion ready to throw itself at her feet, as she often points out she doesn’t have a crest or money so she has to be shrewd to even get her hands on good equipment instead of having a mystical legendary artifact just falling into her lap.

One wonders if Byleth and Edelgard ever ended up hiding out in some odd place in order to escape from two lance wielding redheards looking to duel them XD

Outcomes

Though Ferdinand gets this dialogue where he wonders about what might’ve been and laments the “Adrestia-shaped hole in his heart” his endings are actually pretty similar regardless of what faction he ends up with. He almost always becomes a statesman or politician of some sort.

He didn’t rely on things just falling into his lap so when they stop doing that he still succeeds, besides with his optimistic go-getter attitude and determination, it’s not a surprise that he’d be fine no matter what happens. It’s a big shock to him when his land gets confiscated on non-empire routes but he always deals somehow and comes out on top through the trials and tribulations.

By contrast Felix gets tons of unique dialogue for each route (with the most, but not complete overlap between VW and SS) and his endings are vastly different depending on wether he sticks with Dimitri or not to the point that even paired endings with the same characters can be vastly different. Generally speaking if he sticks with Dimitri he suceeds his dad and becomes Dimitri’s Right Hand Man (or Left Hand Man depending on where Gilbert and Dedue end up) whereas on the other routes he becomes a wandering mercenary and kinda doesn’t seem as satisfied with the independence and strenght that he used to want so badly.

Only Bernie and Alois come significantly close to having such hugely divergent endings based on route (He becomes the leader of the Knights of Seiros - unless he turns against them then he just chills with his family. Bernie gets a lot more “confident” endings in CF, the one with Byleth is a 180 and the Hubert one is similar, also she’s out of her room a lot more and talks about traveling etc. and even there it’s not ALL endings nor quite as pervasive. )

As for Lorenz there’s three ways it can go. If not recruited he plays ball with the empire out of self-preservation and, its implied, to save his father who’s not worth half of him, and gets killed in the process should the empire lose.

If he’s on your team there’s 2 basic paths depending on whether you’re on one of the ‘revolutionary’ routes (VW and CF) or the ‘restore order’ ones (SS and AM) Either he initially follows to pursue his own interests but eventually comes around to Claude’s and/or Edelgard’s ways of thinking, or, you spare him, since he joined the empire ‘cause they looked to be winning he’ll have no qualms jning you when you appear to win, esp once you nap that pesky bridge through which the Imperial troops would’ve marched in, so he has more leeway to do what he actually wants to do, ie oppose the empire and go down in history like he always wanted. He doesn’t change as much but gets plenty of opportunity to show off his more gallant side and redeem himself for the initial turncoatery.

As far as Leonie’s endings go, it’s nice to know that there was someone to take over Jeralt’s mercenary troupe - Byleth probably always thought they would do it but now they’re off being King/Queen/Archbishop/ eating cake with Edelgard

So she needn’t have worried/ eventually was able to take on Jeralt’s legacy like she wanted precisely because she isn’t magic

Of course there’s also the outcome where she dies somewhat ironically either at Gronder (”Can’t back down because I know you I’m a proper mercenary”) or Myrrdin (particularly ironic since Jeralt didn’t trust Rhea one bit and Solon and Kronya did, not, in fact, report to Edelgard. She was ostensibly trying to get Jeralt on her side post Remire.), in either case to fulfill her dream and become like her mentor she’s pitted against that mentor’s own kid, no option where she can be truly true to her allegiance.... slightly less so in the empire route since she believes she has good cause for revenge here, und understandably so. Edelgard can’t exactly go around yelling “I mean to DOUBLECROSS you!” where the slitherers can hear so she did look guilty.

It is supposed that she died offscreen at Gronder in the church route. :( Better recruit her. And Alois, if you’re doing CF, so poor Byleth doesn’t have to hack through all their remaining quasi-relatives.

#fire emblem three houses #fire emblem: three houses #fe3h #ferdinand von aegir #lorenz hellman gloucester #felix hugo fraldarius #leonie pinelli

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eliteprepsat · 4 years ago

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How many of you have been in this situation? You’ve spent hours pouring everything you can into your college application to produce quality essays. As the application deadline approaches, you add any finishing touches, and then focus on filling in the tedious parts as quickly as possible: family info, school info, grades, activities list, etc.

But what if I told you the essays are not the only part of your application in which you can tell a compelling story?

Today, we are going to take a look at one of the often-overlooked components of the college application process.

While it’s obvious that the essays and supplements tell much of your story, the activities list also tells a story: the story of how you spend your time outside of the classroom. The activities list gives admissions officers a sense of where your passions lie and what experiences have shaped you into who you are today. As such, you must make sure to use the allotted space appropriately.

Speaking of space, historically, there hasn’t been much room to explain your activities. That remains true of the Common Application, but as of this year, the University of California application offers much more room to write your activities list. There is strategy involved in telling the most dynamic, compelling story to have your application pop among the many that admissions officers read each season.

Extracurricular Activities on the Common Application

For Honors & Awards, there are five entries with a maximum 100-character count for description.

For Extracurricular Activities, there are ten entries with a maximum of 50 characters to describe any position held and the organization name & a maximum of 150 characters for details, honors, and accomplishments. As you can see, space is limited, so make every word count.

Use abbreviations and symbols when you can, but don’t sacrifice clarity for conciseness. The admissions officer still needs to understand the information you’re including. Not everyone will fill up all the honors & extracurriculars sections; however, some of you may have more to include than fits in the given space. In those cases I suggest you add your resume in the additional information section.

Extracurricular Activities on the UC Application

The University of California Activities List offers much more space for activities and awards. You have up to 20 slots to fill out six categories: Award or honor, Educational preparation programs, Extracurricular activity, Other coursework, Volunteering/Community service, & Work experience.

You can fill up the 20 slots with any combination of the six categories that you like. If any category does not apply to you, you need not fill it out. For example, not every student has work experience or educational preparation programs.

Each slot also allows 500 characters to describe the activity and 500 more characters to describe your role/responsibilities. However, more space does not mean that you must fill up the entire box. As always, less is more—just make sure you are telling the complete story with each entry.

Writing your Activities List

Create your list in order of significance Give admissions officers a sense of what has been most meaningful and formative to you and your development. Doing so will help demonstrate your values and priorities.

Be as specific as possible Take the time to truly reflect back on all that you did for each activity. Leave no stone unturned.

Use active verbs Instead of using complete sentences, list your responsibilities using a variety of active verbs. You can find a list of strong action verbs here categorized by the type of role in which you were involved.

Estimate actual time spent Many students underestimate how much time they spend on any given activity. Consider the time spent outside of the actual club hours, and add those to your hours spent per week.

Highlight concrete details Many students tend to generalize their activities list, but a general activities list will result in a general impression. To create a standout activities list, focus on measurable details and emphasize their significance. Include facts and numbers to tell the full story of your involvement.

Think outside of the box Not every activity needs to be an official club or organization. Anything productive that you have spent your time on outside of the classroom can qualify as an activity, so do not limit yourself or feel as though you have nothing to add.

Remember that your entire college application tells a story. Give enough attention to each part of the application, and make sure that you are sharing the whole story that you want to tell.

Your activities list is a key element of this process and can be the difference between a good college application and a great one!

Jon G. is originally from Houston, Texas. He holds a Bachelor’s degree from Harvard University and is currently one of the resident English gurus at Elite Prep Los Angeles. Nothing makes him more proud and pumped up than watching his students succeed. When it comes to hitting the books, Jon recommends starting early and studying in increments to avoid burnout. He’s a huge basketball fan, loves green tea, and his favorite vocabulary word is “seditious.”

#appblr #college application #Common App #activities list #extracurricular activities #activities #high school #college prep #go to college

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stephicness · 6 years ago

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So Thinking About Episode Ardyn -- Prologue...

I can’t help but sort of wonder why the events throughout the story are a little bit convoluted, if you will. We kind of get this image of what happens, and yet there’s kind of alot that happens that we kind of are confused that it did happen? Basically, the excuses of why things occur throughout the FFXV lore is that it’s from one skewed perspective, so that’s what we ultimately get. So would Episode Ardyn be from Ardyn’s perspective and how we view his side of the story? To show us just how much he was painted as a monster? Or was Ardyn truly the hero of his story, only to be betrayed in the end?

For me... I think it’s a bit of everything because everyone’s an asshole in this story. But that’s because this is basically some political drama unfolding -- and kind of that revenge story of brothers.

LET ME EXPLAIN...

So the thing specifically that kind of got me with Episode Ardyn was that right off the bat BOOM, Somnus is doing some pretty goddamn awful things -- burning people alive if infected by the Starscourge, being all evil and plotting as he hunts down Ardyn for reasons kind of unknown, crashing Ardyn’s coronation by saying that ‘JK! I’m the king, bitch!’ -- Somnus is painted as pretty hella douchy throughout fifteen minutes of Episode Ardyn. Which, I’m not gonna lie -- he is a pretty big pricky.

But he’s not solely to blame for his actions, I think. Not apologizing for him and all. But in the realist sense that he’s painted in, Somnus knew he had to do some pretty ugly things in order to make Lucis strong. A plague broke out, so his method of remedying it was to purge the source. Keep it from spreading as it got more and more out of hand by, sadistically and rather cruelly, burning people and daemons alive. Which, as grim as it is to say, isn’t an unusual sight -- considering that this is how the plagues during the 1300′s were treated as well. Burning down entire villages with people -- affected or potentially infected -- to keep disease from spreading. That was the ‘ye old vaccination’ method.

Ardyn, however, was the perspective of the idealist and dreamer, as the episode so clearly defined. He believed in the notion that everyone can be saved, and yet this is just that: a dream. Which FFXV really does play alot upon, the idea of what you dream of versus the cold-hard reality of what’s to come. And Ardyn, unfortunately, found that out the hard way. Wanting to take the path of the idealistic ‘I’ll save everyone’ approach is what got him to become so corrupted and tainted. He learned that by trying to save everyone, he couldn’t save himself or the people he vowed to protect. In a way, this was a similar mentality that Noctis had during the start of FFXV -- the mentality of an idealist and a dreamer.

In real life, in a way, the views of a realist are often negative and people don’t often like to see eye-to-eye with them and the horrors of what reality has to offer. It’s why many people viewed Ardyn as the true king. Hell, this is an important word in grammar, but in a quick search, Adagium (later shorted to Adage), according to TheFreeDictionary means...

This was the phrase that wasn’t used for Somnus or Aera, but for Ardyn. They, the people, saw him as the true king because they wanted Ardyn to save everyone. However, that’s not how to save everyone. Corrupting yourself into a giant mess of a man will only cause you suffering and ultimately leads to the fall of the kingdom.

Which is why Somnus stepped up, I think. He became the villain in Ardyn’s story because -- even if he looks up to Ardyn -- knew that Ardyn’s idealistic image of how to save the empire wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work, because not everything can be dream-like. And I think this is why Somnus bring Ardyn out -- calls him out even -- before the Empire. It wasn’t to paint Ardyn as the evil one, I don’t think: it was to make himself out to be the bad guy.

There is that line calling Ardyn a ‘seditious traitor.’ But I think that was more of a reference to Ardyn and how he brought hope to the people with his words of trying to save everyone. It countered Somnus, so Somnus retaliated and basically took the throne from Ardyn by force if he had to. He had to make the people want him as king because Ardyn -- even if he had more of a following -- wouldn’t be fit with the dreams of an idealist. Not when there was going to be a whole lot of dirty things he would have to do to make sure the kingdom stood in its glory and health. In order for Somnus to be accepted as the king, he unfortunately needed Ardyn to denounce the title of king and let Somnus rule over the kingdom.

The people chose Ardyn, but the Crystal chose Somnus. But what the heck’s a rock going to do compared to an entire kingdom of people?

Thus, I feel like Somnus lured Ardyn out to get him to public say that Somnus could become king, so the people could let Somnus rule and handle the kingdom -- regardless of how awful some of the things he needed to do would be. But then that plan went down the drain really quick. Ardyn was on the run, Aera wasn’t really going to help Somnus out when Ardyn was the more well-liked of the two brother rulers, and then when Ardyn wouldn’t step down, a fight occurred and Aera was killed in the process of it.

But I almost feel like Somnus wasn’t looking for a fight to begin with. Things just got screwed over even more because, it’s kind of hinted with Aera’s face and dialogue about ‘having her trust’ and how she reacted when Somnus was all ‘JK! I am king!’ But she seemed to have lied about Ardyn being the true king. It was a hope that everyone wanted, but it wasn’t true. Somnus was a better fit because he did what he could to keep the kingdom going in the long-run. Ardyn was doomed to a terrible fate. And behold! A terrible fate indeed. And the corruption within Ardyn is what, I think, the gods found in Ardyn’s being. And why the picked Somnus in the long run.

But even Somnus wasn’t anticipating just how twisted Ardyn’s corruption became. So when Ardyn unleashed his inner daemons, that’s why I think Somnus spoke with such melancholy, contrary to his cocky attitude prior. ‘He’s become the monster I made him out to be...’ Somnus only wanted the people and the gods to pick him as ruler, so Ardyn wouldn’t be with the burdens, I feel. He’d be the monster of a ruler, so Ardyn can still be viewed as a savior to the people and the idealistic ruler overall. He wanted Ardyn to still be loved by the people. But if the people wouldn’t listen to Somnus and only Ardyn, how could Somnus rule? He couldn’t. Not with Ardyn there.

So I think in the long run, alot of Somnus’s actions (that I interpret, at least) have alot more of rationale behind it, just as Ardyn’s devotion and kindness is seen in it. But not all of these guys are bad people, but they aren’t good either. Somnus needed to do what he could to keep the kingdom together, but he went about it in a devious and despicable way. Ardyn was the voice of the people, but he didn’t understand the consequences of his actions or that a dream cannot trump the harsh reality of life. And Aera, had she had not let her devotion to Ardyn blind her to the reality of what needed to be done to save Ardyn, the people, and the kingdom, could have possibly deterred alot of the stuff that went down.

Despite this being a story of revenge and tragedy amongst brothers, it’s ultimately a political drama at its core. And in the end, the fantasy is based on reality. But it’s just that: based on what reality actually is.

#stephic writings #theories #character analysis #final fantasy xv #ffxv #episode ardyn #episode ardyn prologue #somnus lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #aera nox fleuret #somnus #ardyn #aera #just me rambling late night #but also my thoughts on episode ardyn anime #because yooooo #it was weird

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margsld · 7 years ago

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Outlander Epi 3.07 Recap

Crème de Menthe mixed with lemonade is dreadful.

This week's episode saw an unfamiliar writers name on the title cards, for fans. Karen Campbell is credited and by the surname, sounds like she comes from good Scottish stock! We like her already. It was another difficult part of the books to cover which drew mixed reviews but I actually enjoyed this episode.

We start in the middle of the previous episode’s cliff hanger which had our fresh-from-the-clouds lass Dr Claire, in da house or kittle hoosey to be exact. She was scarily caffeine deficient and fighting that accountant thug for her life! To distract him she asked what Pi times 3,562 was and while he couldn’t resist such a juicy random calculation, she grabbed the nearest knife. Go Claire!

No caffeine makes Claire very nasty so he had to dodge her viper-like advances which sent him tripping, smashing into the fireplace’s stone hearth like a pumpkin falling from a great height. The resulting thunk meant Mr H&R Block was not going to be lodging any returns anytime soon.

The cavalry arrive too late as usual. Jamie, Fergus and Madame Jean/Jan burst into the room after hearing the kerfuffle. Claire was sipping her cup of Joe by then calmly declaring "He’s dead, chillax!"

Suddendly Mr H&R Block aka Blockhead stirs on the hearth and Claire rejoices that he hasn’t died. She's like a cat playing with a half-dead mousey.

Now fully caffeinated and firmly under the Hipocratic Oath, examines him and diagnoses a severe swelling on the brain. Hitting stone from a height will do that to a head, Claire. Much to Jamie's chagrin, she's determined to give him a second chance and knows it will kill him if she doesn’t do something fast.

#AccountantLivesMatter!

Jamie can’t hang about and watch though as the excisemen who hired Mr Blockhead, will be looking for him soon. He organizes the last of their smuggled casks & barrels hidden in the basement to be moved. He then sends Fergus and Young Ian to negotiate their sale on his behalf so that he can pretend nothing is going on if/when they are raided.

Claire races to the local apocothary for brain surgery supplies and pushes in like a two year old waiting to get on the jumpy castle. Another customer, a Mr Archie Campbell takes opposition to her impatience and she offers to pacify him by visiting his sick sister (as an experienced healer or killer in the next few minutes, if you don’t move). He accepts this offer and Claire leaves with her supplies, keen to dig her scalpel into Mr Blockhead’s smashed-in noggin. Party on!

Ian (all of 16, making him a master negotiator) talks their customer into buying all the barrels for a good price and throws in 3 Crème de Menthe barrels to sweeten the deal. As you do. Nothing dodgy about Crème de Menthe sold by a 16 year old. Nope.

Back in the Brothel, Claire is prepping for building a shed. Errh sorry, saw a drill and jumped to conclusions. No.... she’s drilling a massive hole in her assailants head. Mayhap so he can get better Wifi or you know...live. Same same.

Downstairs Madame Jean is pulling out her hair and all her charm school knowledge as the shifty Sir Percival arrives with his henchman, the freaky Mad Eye Moody doppleganger. Creepy much?

Claire is like a ghoulish kid in the candy store and is soon drilling a hole in Mr Blockhead’s block head. Yi Tien Cho is her surgical assistant/cheer squad through the process. Eventually and after some classic grinding/sucking sounds, blood gushes out and we assume Mr Blockhead will live to ride the excise wagon again. *Cheer!

In the basement, Sir Percival is unhappy to find the floor is bare apart from some spilled water. At least we hope it was water. I'm not touching it.

With the coast clear, Jamie heads back to check on Claire. Unfortunately, Mr Blockhead will not be lodging his tax next year and has died. That bed needs to be burned now surely?

Claire is unhappy to lose her patient because her God complex is firmly ingrained after saving people for 14 years. Jamie is his usual supportive self and says she can save someone else another time. Moving on. Whisky anyone?

To celebrate their successful barrel clearance sale, Fergus and Ian chug a few coldies down at the pub. Soon it’s clear that Young Ian has goo-goo eyes for the barmaid Brighid. Fergus calls her over and leaves Ian with her to get cosy. Fergilicious is the best wingman ever!

Ian is a virgin and inexperienced with women but followed Fergus' advice even though he was nervous af. Bridhid is taken with his cuteness so agrees to have a drink with him. In the background Mad Eye Moody quietly watches on giving Ian serious side-eye. Not the good sort either. Ominous music alert.

Claire is still sulking about the dead guy in her bed. Building a bridge, she decides to go find another patient that needs her and is not likely to pop their clogs before sunset. She goes to visit Archie Campbell and his ailing sister Margaret.

Like my husband in his cave on a Wednesday night, Margaret isn’t in the mood for company. Archie introduces Claire to Margaret and Margaret unexpectedly springs to life, ranting wildly about blood and Abandawe. I love her, she's fun.

Archie explains she is known as a Seer and people pay well to hear her visions. Seems Scotland had a lot of cray crays errhh, I mean Seers in this era.

Claire provides the recipe for some wicked herbal teas before suggesting another visit tomorrow. Archie declines her self-invite explaining they are catching the red-eye to the West Indies on the ‘morrow, to see a rich client. Oooh la lah!

Young Ian has turned the Printshop into his private Love Shack and is wooing his new GF with songs and kisses. Stop! You are killing us with cute.

Claire returns to the Brothel to find Jamie at the table. The king was in his counting house, counting out his money.... along came a frustrated Claire and said it’s time to move. Burning the bed wouldn’t be enough for me either, Claire.

As always, they are interrupted by a knock at the door announcing Ian Murray Senior is down stairs. Stuff a duck, it's peg leg! I've missed him so much.

Ian is very happy to see Claire but he’s frantically looking for Young Ian. He’d run away from home again, the wee pest. Jamie lies to him and Claire is trying to think of England so Ian can't see she knows something. Ian is really distraught and it tugs at all our heartstrings. Jamie promises to bring him to Lallybroch if he turns up.

On the way out Ian asks Jamie if Claire knows the big SECRET. She doesn’t. OMG to the max. Ian runs/hobbles all the way home to share the gossip with Jenny McHappypants.

Over in the Love Shack, Ian’s cherry has been carefully popped, stuffed and mounted on the mantelpiece for prosperity. They have company though and hear someone breaking into the shop.

Ian sends Brighid scarpering and goes to confront the intruder - Mad Eye Moody. MEM is looking for the smuggled barrels and is searching high and low. Ian tells him there is nothing to find and to leave but as happens, a fight breaks out. After a bit of shovey-lovey, MEM bumps a secret door and out pops some hot-off-the-press seditious pamphlets. Bugger.

Ian struggles to grab the pamphlets off him. MEM pushes Ian off, pulls out his pistol and shoots at Ian, missing him but accidentally starting a fire. Things soon escalate into a scene from a Burning Man festival in Carfax Close. Oh Lordy there's a fire! *pass the marshmallows�� Young Ian finding himself trapped, waits for help.

After Ian has left, Claire confronts Jamie about lying to his family. She's upset that Jamie thinks he knows what’s best for Ian Jnr instead of letting his parents know he's ok. Claire tries to reason with the stubborn gingernut but he thinks she should be used to lying, having lied their way around Paris. Typical bloke logic to bring up something that happened 20 years ago. Ugh.

Claire throws the “you aren’t his parent” line at him and he returns a volley of bitterness for having missed Bree’s upbringing. Turns out Jamie is jealous of Frank too. Duh, Frank was a sexy spy!

Before they can throw ashtrays and start slamming doors, Jamie is alerted to the fire and races to the Printshop with Claire close behind.

On arrival at the Printshop and finding it ablaze, Jamie realises Ian is still inside and goes to his rescue. We all love the nod to Batman as Jamie jumps from the top level down to young Ian with full super hero drop slow mo. Rounds of applause please.

Checking Ian is breathing and looking for a way out, Jamie finds the miniature of Willie and stuffs it in his pocket. Sentimental fool, there's a fire! Get out now! Throwing Ian over his shoulder like a Santa sack, he climbs a press, squeezes through a window, down the front stairs to safety. Just in time to see the Edinburgh fire department squirt a tiny water pistol at the inferno. Good job fellas.

Knowing his life in Edinburgh is now cooked. *pun intended Jamie instructs Yi Tien Cho to go pay Leslie and Hayes for their work. Fergus is sent to try and intercept Mad Eye Moody before he can give the pamphlets to Sir Percival and make Alex Malcolm a very wanted man. After that, he instructed Fergus to then round up Ned Gowan (Solicitor from Season 1) and get him to Lallybroch. Jamie wants him to help sort out the fact he has another wife there. Confucius say WHAT!!!! That is a pretty yucky Secret Mr Fraser.

The End.

Can't wait for next week! Thanks for reading.

#ANZOFs OutlanderFanRecap

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thealphabetlr · 8 years ago

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Independence Day special: Some of the most ridiculous laws in India

So many countries with so many strange laws, most of which we’ve all heard of. India isn’t far behind, though, when it comes to having some downright outdated or silly laws on the planet.

Most of which won’t impact everyone in the country, but you still have to think about it and go, “Hmm.” Maybe followed by a facepalm.

This 71st Independence Day, here’s a list of a few of those weird Indian laws that you should know, lest you find yourself laughing your way to lockup at some point.

Kite Runners beware. The Aircraft Act, 1934 declares negligent kite flying as an offense punishable with two years of prison or a fine of Rs 10 lakh. According to the Act, kites are considered as an aircraft and the same laws that apply for planes are applied for flying kites as well. So in a nation that holds events for kite flying, remember, it’s all under “expert supervision”. Never thought kite flying would have a disclaimer attached, didya?

Public celebrations. Prevention of Seditious Meetings Act, 1911 states it is illegal for more than 10 couples to dance together on a dance floor. According to a law formulated in1911, no public meeting or discussion of any subject likely to cause disturbance or public excitement or for the exhibition or distribution of any writing or printed matter relating to any such subject is punishable. In case, to hold such a meeting, a written notice of the intention, time and place of such meeting has to be acknowledged to the District Magistrate or the Commissioner of Police at least three days prior to the event.

More than two kids. This applies only to Kerala. Like China, there is a law here prohibiting families from having more than two children. A little more lenient on the form of punishment than China, thankfully, parents are slapped with only a fine in case they do go ahead and have a third child.

Women are not adulterers. This funky law of Section 497 of the Indian Penal Code was drafted during the 1860s under British rule when men used to have more than one wife and women had little rights. Although, if you look at it, it almost seems like women have more rights in this regard. According to the law, a man can be jailed for cheating on his spouse but women can basically be with any number of non-husbands as they want without any legal action being taken against them.

The Indian Post Office is the be all and end all of delivery. According to the Indian Post Office Act, 1898, it is illegal to send letters through any other service apart from the Indian Post Office. Realizing that we don’t really send handwritten letters anymore for whatever reason, imagine one day all our online deliveries, express posts and official documents just relying on snail mail. Federal Express my ass!

Drums are to be beaten to drive away locusts. The East Punjab Agricultural Pests, Diseases, and Noxious Weeds Act, 1949 requires citizens of Delhi to get out on the street and go crazy showing off their percussion skills in order to ward off locusts. So next time someone tells you to keep it down in the middle of the night, claim to have seen a locust flying about. It’s your duty to create a racket in the interest of public safety. Good on you!

Andhra Pradesh’s Motor Vehicle Department. The Indian Motor Vehicles Act, 1914 pretty much states that the most important qualification one needs in order to be an inspector in Andhra Pradesh is to have good teeth. Go figure. When was the last time you saw one of these guys smile? I mean, really smile. Remember, though, they all must have some killer incisors hiding behind that frown.

Male Adoption. The Indian Majority Act, 1875 allows men to be able to adopt a child at the age of 18. Remember what you were doing at 18? I’m guessing nothing responsible, and probably a bunch of stuff that’s actually illegal – drinking, skipping voting day, promising everyone who smiled at you that you’d marry them – Well, all you’re legally allowed to do at 18, however, is adopt a child. Wow. Apparently it’s too much responsibility to be able to get married and share a toast at your wedding at that age, but if you feel like looking after delicate human life you can go right ahead. However…

Gender specific adoption. The Hindu Adoptions And Maintenance Act, 1956 makes it illegal to adopt a child of the same sex as one you already have. So in case you want to start off early in life and go all Genghis Khan, grow your own army and take over the world, be warned, the system is trying its best to make it really hard for you to do that.

Varying legal drinking ages. Indian Alcohol Laws are pretty cool! Every state has its own take on when a human being is mature enough to handle his/her booze. Again, most states think you’re old enough to vote for a government, but not old enough to handle a drink. But fret not, just drive down to a neighboring state and you’ll probably be seasoned enough to sit with the big boys. Let’s be honest, though, do they really even bother at clubs and pubs anymore?

Suicide…Attempts. Section 309 of the Indian Penal Code states you’re your useless self will be locked up for a year if you fail to kill yourself as you planned to. Overlooking the fact that they don’t give enough importance to physiological counselling and eliminating the root causes for mental diseases, the Indian government believes that putting you through a walk of shame in handcuffs, a trial and then a year in prison is a good way to punish you if you don’t value your life and sadly want to end it all. That is, if you don’t succeed at it. Geez!

(All images from Getty Images or Social Media)

#slideshow #photos #indian laws #independence day #iday2017 #india #laws #absurd laws #bypassModal

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comicgirl08 · 6 years ago

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Supergirl recap: Dreamer girl meets world

We’ve got four separate storylines this week, so let’s start with—ugh—Ben Lockwood, who’s lost his flair for rhetorical dazzle in recent episodes and has devolved into a bit of a one-dimensional shouty bad guy. The Children of Liberty (and his actual child, George) have all donned armbands now that they’re deputized by the president, and they’re setting out to round up known aliens.

George expresses uncertainty about their actions when the wife of one target objects to her husband’s arrest, and Lockwood warns, “We can’t humanize them, son. Don’t ever mistake them for anything but the roaches they are.” Bad parenting, exhibit A.

Meanwhile, Brainy, Lena, and Alex work together to help James, whose PTSD is being exacerbated by the Harun-El in his system. Lena’s frustrated because she can’t get the tech scavenged from Lex’s prison cell to work, so Brainy proposes entering James’s memories to find the root of his trauma, reasoning that if James can control his anxiety attacks, he can control his powers.

Brainy assumes the trauma is Lex-based, but the source is actually his father’s funeral when he and Kelly were children. James didn’t attend because he was accidentally locked in a bathroom, which Kelly tells Alex was upsetting for her as well, as she really needed her big brother. Brainy gently (for him) suggests that James has told himself this story so many times that he now believes it, and we eventually learn that in fact, two bullies found him that day and locked him into a casket in the basement. Yiiiiikes. I’d suppress that memory, too.

When Brainy pushes him to work through the memory, James ejects him from his mind palace, so Kelly agrees to slap on a forehead amplifier thingy and give it a try. She finds James and urges him to fight back and change the narrative. James pulls a Thanos on the bullies in his memory and helps his younger self out of the casket. When he wakes up in the lab, he’s levitating. Success!

Kara, meanwhile, is committed to bringing down Lex Luthor through a journalistic exposé that finds her flipping through the L Corp black budget and trying the “investigator tapes up photos and scrawls manic notes on a window” approach. She quickly realizes how central Amertek is to the mystery and that Franklin the Dryad 1) has been sleeping at work for safety and 2) has a sister, Edna, who works at Amertek.

After some convincing, Edna agrees to let Kara look through the Amertek files for a Lex link. She finds paperwork on a suspicious Rubnia missile base tied to a Sebastian Melmoth, but Edna refuses to look further because she’d have to use her personal ID number. “You don’t know what it’s like to walk around with a target on your back because of who you are,” she tells Kara.

The Amertek visit pays off when Kara realizes she saw the name Sebastian Melmoth in the L Corp budget, so she pays Lena a visit. Lena, though, isn’t pleased that she’s seen more of judgy, judgy Supergirl than her actual best friend, who now wants to use her as a source. To be fair, though, Lena’s super frustrated that her attempts to remove Harun-El from her test hearts keep causing them to explode, so she was already on edge.

While Kara’s doing journalism, Dreamer steps in to fill the Supergirl void, even though Brainy warns there’s a 63.6 percent chance she’ll be apprehended. During her patrol, she discovers that several terrified aliens have taken refuge at the alien bar.

Then the Children of Liberty goons bust in, and George Lockwood is shocked to see his friend Charlie hiding there. This armband-wearing child has the audacity to ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Thankfully, Charlie’s got enough spirit left to serve some attitude when he replies, “Why do you think?”

Then the episode jumps into campy overdrive in a way that may have worked for you but didn’t quite work for me. In the melee, the jukebox starts playing American Woman, and Dreamer fights off the Children with her light powers and her quips. She’s impressive, and I get what that song means for her on a number of levels, but it was a little *jazz hands* in its showiness. Cool but jarring, I guess. Anyway, the encounter leaves George wondering if they’re doing the wrong thing, but his proud mother assures him that he’s helping save the country.

Nia and Kara agree that they feel hopeless and helpless, so Kara hatches a plan to give the public a hero who can inspire hope as both an alien and a human. Nia suits up, and Dreamer and Kara sit down in the deserted CatCo office for a live, unscheduled interview that takes over the airwaves somehow, with Franklin running the camera. What follows is definitely not journalism, but it is emotional.

Dreamer explains that she’s a trans woman, born in America to a human father, who became her spine, and a Naltor mother, who became her heart. She says she prefers salty over sweet, that she’s a Gryffindor with a gray stallion Patronus, and that she likes nerdy boys who think too much. (Watching with Lena, Brainy asks, “What does love feel like?” Ha!) She urges viewers not to fear their differences and concludes by saying, “We don’t have to wait for a new day. We are the new day.”

While the speech is lovely, it’s kind of weird that Kara has the authority to air this non-journalistic interview just willy-nilly. But whatever. A good portion of the viewing audience is moved by Dreamer’s bravery and honesty. This includes Lena, who tells Brainy she feels paralyzed by being unable to fix James or find Lex. Brainy advises her to give trust in order to receive it.

Also touched by Dreamer’s message is one of Lockwood’s troops at the DEO, who texts Alex a warning that his boss is on the way to CatCo. By the time Lockwood arrives to arrest Dreamer for “seditious violent speech,” Alex’s team has shut down the lights, allowing Kara to use her super-powers in the dark alongside the other heroes.

Things that are awesome in the ensuing fight: Kara using her pink jacket as a weapon, Brainy and Dreamer battling back to back, Franklin jumping into the fray and Kara pretending he saved her, and a powered-up James arriving to break Lockwood’s hand and crumple his gun. “All I see are journalists exercising their rights of free speech,” James satisfyingly bellows. “Get. Out. Now.”

Edna also watched Dreamer and was inspired to use her ID to access the records Kara needs, even volunteering to go on record. Then Lena shows up to apologize and admit she worked with Lex for months, despite knowing he was manipulating her. Kara hugs her and tells her she’s strong, kind, and brilliant. Then they work together to decipher the Amertek clues.

Lena remembers that Sebastian Melmoth was an Oscar Wilde pseudonym Lex enjoyed using, and it leads her to pick apart his cipher, which reveals “Rubnia” to be code for Kaznia. And since L Corp transferred out $5.8 billion the same day that Amertek paid $5.8 billion for the missile base, Kara says, “Guess we’re going to Kaznia.”

George Lockwood, meanwhile, tosses aside a Children of Liberty mask in disgust and texts his friend Charlie that he’s there if Charlie needs him. But that might all change soon; Ben Lockwood catches sight of the woman who objected to her husband’s arrest at the top of the hour fleeing his home. Inside, he finds his wife’s body on the floor with a wound to the chest.

And the episode concludes with J’onn in Martian form on T’ozz, where he deposits his ancestors’ memories and spear for safe keeping. He smiles wistfully, and a huge Myr’nn face appears in the sand and tells him to go home to his family.

Snaps of the cape

What a strangely disconnected ending beat. Was it only there to answer the question of where J’onn was for the Earthly action?

So. James has powers. And if he wields them with the controlled ferocity we saw at the end of the episode, this could be interesting to watch unfold.

I cannot get enough of Kara secretly using her powers to stop the bad guys, whether it’s a purse-snatcher or a xenophobic jack-booted thug. If we have to be Supergirl-less for a while longer, I’m glad we have that to look forward to.

Dreamer’s also a lot of fun in action, although some of her quips are better than others. “I’m your worst nightmare” and “Sweet dreams”? Okay. But “Sleeping beauty” and “Try this reverie” might need to go back to the drawing board.

Where does Lena get all those experimental hearts? Do … do we want to know? Also, Katie McGrath is one of the best criers on television. Change my mind.

#Supergirl #KaraDanvers #Dreamer #BiaNal #NicoleMaines #LenaLuthor #JamesOlsen #Brainiac-5 #Brainy #AlexDanvers #KellyOlsen #CatCo #RedDaughter #Kaznia #NationalCity #TheCW

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zapiarty · 8 years ago

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Can you write the scene where Garashir get together for Milaverse?

Takes place just after Crossover in season 2.

As beginnings to a relationship went, theirs could, Julian thought, have gone better. It could, for example, have involved less shouting, no actual physical torture and…well, at least fewer lies. It would also, ideally, involve one participant not being a genetic augment whose very existence was a crime and the other not being a former operative of the Obsidian Order who probably hadn’t been lying about all the crimes he’d committed, but Julian probably wouldn’t have been interested if that weren’t the case. Still, that was no reason not to do things the right way now they’d started. Julian had dug out the one outfit he owned that didn’t make Garak wince at the sight of it, gone to some trouble to find a holoprogramme that might appeal to both their tastes and called in a favour from Dax to get her to babysit Mila for the evening. Still, he couldn’t help but feel oddly nervous when he knocked on the door of Garak’s quarters that evening, datarod in hand. Not of Garak himself, exactly, but…well, it had taken a full-blown argument to get Garak to believe Julian was interested at all, and it still wasn’t too late for him to decide to back out.

The door to Garak’s quarters opened a moment after Julian requested entrance, to reveal Garak with a look of mild surprise on his face. “My dear doctor, you’re not only on time for once, you’re early!”

Julian grinned, “Mila pretty much rushed me out of the door the moment I got her to Dax’s,” he said, “I’m not sure what they were planning to do with the evening, but it’s probably going to leave me owing Dax another favour or two.”

“All this, just for a single evening?”

“I live to impress,” Julian said wryly. “Is it working?”

“You are remarkably unsubtle. You’re not supposed to ask…you observe to see it is or not. Asking just ends the game.” Garak teased with a smirk.

“Patience was never my strong suit,” Julian said agreeably. “I’ve booked us a holosuite - thought it might be a bit more private than dinner at Quark’s, and it’s a chance to introduce you to a genre of human literature I don’t think I’ve mentioned before.”

“Oh? Well, I thank you for opting for the more private option, though I think I’ll have a word with Quark before we start…”

Julian raised his eyebrows, “I hadn’t heard he recorded goings-on inside the holosuites.” At least, he hoped Quark didn’t - there were a few things Julian didn’t want anyone knowing, even - make that especially - Garak.

Garak offered a wide smile, “Surely not. But it’s best to err on the side of caution.”

“Great. Shall we go, then?” Julian gestured broadly down the corridor, trying to resist the urge to fidget.

As they walked the hallway towards Quark’s, Garak’s eyes never once left Julian. “Tell me, just what genre are we experiencing?”

Julian grinned. “Spy fiction,” he said, “Do you have that on Cardassia? Or - is it considered seditious?”

For once, Garak’s surprised expression seemed honest. “Spy fiction? You have…a genre of literature where you reveal the secrets of your intelligence agencies?”

“…not quite.” Julian paused, trying to consider how to explain it. “A lot of the first writers in the genre were involved with intelligence - Ian Fleming was, and John Le Carre - but the genre…evolved beyond strict realism quite quickly. Well, Fleming’s did. Le Carre is a bit more grounded - remind me to lend you The Spy Who Came in From the Cold at some point, I think you’d like it. It’s cynical enough to appeal to you.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, from past experiences of you lending me books you think I’d like…”

“You admitted to quite liking Pride and Prejudice,” Julian pointed out, stung.

“Compared to the others, yes, until the end. Really, that book is unfinished.” Garak sniffed, looking for all the world like it was a crime to leave Pride and Prejudice as it was.

Julian stared. “It’s considered to have one of the neatest endings in literature - everything’s tied up, everyone’s married off, we know what happens to everyone…It’s actually been criticised for being a bit too finished.”

“Too finished! We know nothing of what happens next, it really is very frustrating-” Garak stopped and smiled, “But I believe we’ve gotten distracted. Tell me more about this…spy genre?”

Julian nodded, and tried to marshal what he knew. “Well, the genre is divided into several…I tend to think of them as ‘flavours’? The Le Carre-style very gritty, low-key approach, which tends to focus on political double-dealing, grey morality and the awful things people have to do to serve their countries and their causes at the cost of their own morals is one…but it’s not the only one, or even the most popular.” He grinned. “Then, there’s the style I tend to think of as ‘martini-flavoured’. Wildly unrealistic, fraught with improbably over-the-top-danger…there’s usually a deathtrap or two involved…sort of the glamorised image of what spying involved, although there were one or two people out there who actually did live that way, if we’re to believe the historical record. Granted, they usually didn’t do it for very long, but-”

“Fascinating. And which…flavor…are we trying?”

Julian grinned, “That would be option number three. Affectionately referred to in fan circles as ‘dirty martini’. It’s…marrying the two, I suppose. A lot of the absurdity and glamour of martini-style, but with the heavier political themes, grey morality and a bit of the cynicism of the first kind. It seemed like a good compromise.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll withhold judgement until after the game. Though, I’ll tell you now, that I’ll likely not be interested in just the…martini-flavoured. As a tailor, I take these things very seriously.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “I am shocked,” he said teasingly, “Shocked that you mean to pass up such an opportunity to mock our absurd Federation romanticism.”

Garak slowly looked Julian up and down before give a half smile, “Well…when you put it like that…perhaps I will consider it.”

“Glad to hear it.” Julian coughed. “This particular story is actually a few centuries old, and it’s been retold so many times that no-one quite agrees on what the proper characterisation should be, so we’re more-or-less free to do as we like. The original was actually partly written by Fleming in the early 1960s, so…four hundred years ago, give or take. It’s set around then as well and, unlike Fleming’s other stories, hasn’t been updated with the times. The history is kind of vital to the plot, for this one.”

“Vital? In what way?” Garak asked curiously, looking at least partially interested in the game, even if the rest of his attention was more on what Julian was wearing. He’d apparently chosen well.

Julian took a breath. “For most of the second half of the twentieth century, Earth was engaged in a cold war between two powerful nation-states. The Soviet Union and the…well, mostly the United States, but most of Europe, a fair bit of Asia and South America got involved as well. On both sides. Both sides knew that an all-out war would mean the annihilation of pretty much everything on the planet, so they tended to work through proxies and spies for the most part. The early James Bond stories used this as a backdrop, mostly but for this story it’s actually integral to the plot, as the two lead characters are from different sides of the Cold War. Illya Kuryakin, a Soviet agent, and Napoleon Solo, an American.”

“And what exactly was this war about? The climate?”

Julian shrugged, “Officially, political ideology, unofficially…probably power, control of as much of the globe as possible. And a bit of ideology. America and much of western Europe operated under a capitalist system, whereas the Soviets…at least claimed to have something a bit more like the modern Federation. Except backed up with the threat of horrifying prison camps, mass executions and torture. Oh, and quite a lot of corruption because this was pre-replicator technology and so the ‘sharing out’ of scarce resources tended to favour the ruling elite. It’s actually what led to-” What led to the Eugenics Wars, which had put an end to the Cold War by bombing Washington and Moscow simultaneously, breaking their power and establishing a new player on the board.

Garak raised a brow-ridge at Julian’s half sentence, but appeared to decide not to press him to finish it, “So a Federation that admits to what it is. Admittedly, perhaps a bit harsher in its methods than what would be done nowadays, I’m sure.”

“I like to think we’ve moved beyond that,” Julian said stiffly, and moved on before he could dwell on it any longer. “Either way. The story we’re going to play through is set in 1963, when two agents, one from each side of the Cold War, are forced to work together to solve a problem that affects both their governments. They then get assigned together permanently in an international taskforce intended to help keep their governments from destroying each other and the whole world with them.”

Garak blinked, “Rather a lot to put onto the shoulders of two agents.”

Julian shrugged, “Most adaptations agree it was largely a political gesture. And a way of avoiding any appearance of partisanship on either side, as the two of them would both naturally look out for the interests of their own side and, hopefully, keep each other honest. If you had two agents from either side, they could be accused of advancing their own interests at the expense of the other side, which would lead to an increase in tensions and possibly eventual war. And that’s leaving aside how many maniacal private citizens with access to advanced technology and an insatiable desire to destroy the world for their own profit seem to crop up in these things.”

“And these agents did not kill each other? I hardly see how one master liar could keep another honest.”

Julian smiled, as wickedly as he could manage. “Neither of them wanted the world to be blown up?” he suggested idly. “Also, in every single adaptation there has ever been, they’re at least close friends, and sometimes more.”

Garak snorted, “And their agencies allowed this? Well, you did say this was fictional…”

“In most versions, they go to a great deal of trouble to make sure their agencies don’t know. Same-sex entanglements were illegal in both the Soviet Union and the West during this period, even if they weren’t enemy agents. There are a fair few versions of the story where it ends pretty tragically, even if they aren’t my favourite - the real world’s miserable enough without inevitable defeat in the holosuite as well.”

“I don’t quite understand humanity’s struggle in accepting same-sex liaisons. There’s not even a chance for bastards in that case, just who does it harm?”

Julian shrugged, “Not my area. I think it was mostly religious, but I’d have to look it up. So…” he grinned, “You’ve got a choice of two characters - which side of the Iron Curtain do you want?”

Garak gave him a wry smile, “Which side do you think, my dear doctor? Though, tell me more about the agents themselves, what are their…basic personality traits?”

“…that is the most complicated question in the whole game,” Julian admitted. “They’ve been changed so often over the centuries it’s pretty much a free-for-all. Some bits of backstory have stuck around, though. Um…Solo, the American agent, is a former art thief on a very, very short leash. Got captured by the CIA and decided working for them was a step up from a decade in prison. His actual personality changes a lot between adaptations, though, as do his skills. And since the holosuite version lets you choose between quite a few different options there, it’s not really relevant. The other, one, Kuryakin…” he paused, trying to remember. “Born to a high-ranking member of the Soviet government who got convicted of treason and sent to the gulags - prison camps - after which his mother turned to prostitution to survive. He…varies even more than Solo, honestly. Sometimes to the point of being barely recognisable as the same character.”

“Why keep the names if you’re just going to change the core of the characters…” Garak sighed and shook his head, “I’ll pick Kuryakin. I have a feeling you like Solo more, being from the insufferably idealist State?”

“…what part of ‘capitalist’ says ‘idealistic’? Ideologically, I probably have more in common with the other side.” Julian sighed. “But, yes, I like him.”

“Perhaps not the correct word, agreed. Though I didn’t think you’d ever want to be part of a State that had prison camps, no matter how illusory the setting may be.”

Julian nodded. They were coming up to Quark’s now, the promenade still quietly busy with evening traffic. Quark himself was at the bar when they entered, and Garak smiled, wide and slightly predatory. He turned to Julian and wordlessly asked for his hand, which Julian gave with some bemusement. Garak brought it to his throat, or rather, just below it and held Julian’s hand there for a moment before saying, “If you’ll excuse me a moment?”

Garak disappeared off towards the bar, and Julian watched him go, feeling for a moment oddly giddy. Get a grip, he reminded himself. You’re an adult, act like one. But he was almost bubbling over with excitement now, even as he watched Quark’s expression freeze at the sight of Garak. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but he got the impression that the conversation was going all Garak’s way.

He craned his neck to try and get a better look, but before he did, Garak smiled, wide and apparently friendly, and stepped away, turning back towards Julian and snaking through the crowds to take his arm.

“Well?” he said. “Shall we, doctor?” and nodded towards the door through to the holosuites.

After choosing their characters on the panel before entering, Julian and he went different directions, to receive their briefings from their superiors. The entire situation was…remarkably close to reality, though he wouldn’t ever admit as much to Julian. Certainly not so soon after his recent visit to the infirmary. The moment his superior started speaking, his back straightened and he had his full attention on the slides as the information and his mission parameters were given.

“-the woman is, in and of herself, unimportant, but the information she holds cannot be allowed to fall into American hands,” his superior was saying. “Bring her back. Alive, if possible, but if not…we will understand. As for your opposite number-”

The slides clicked on. Julian’s face filled the screen. It was, Regnar had to admit, a clever bit of programming - Julian in some sort of military uniform of this century, smiling the familiar sweet foolish smile Regnar had got to know over so many lunches.

“-not typical of American spies,” his superior went on. “Indeed, he barely deserves the title. Less an agent than a useful tool. He joined the army at eighteen and was posted to Europe. When the war ended, he stayed on as part of the occupying forces, and soon discovered that there were vast profits to be made on the post-war black market. He seems to have dealt primarily in art and antiquities, stolen by Nazi forces and then by the Allied occupiers. He seems entirely self-taught, but do not underestimate him. His criminal ingenuity made headlines all over Europe. The police of four countries created a special task force for the sole purpose of bringing him to justice. And even then, it seems to have been pure luck that they caught him. His talents came to the attention of the CIA, who recognised that-” the next slide was put in upside-down, making his superior glare at the unfortunate projectionist, who apologised in a shaking voice. That one would be bound for the labour camps before long, Regnar thought.

“-who recognised,” his superior went on, “That this man’s extraordinary talents would be wasted behind bars. A deal was struck. Since then, Bashir has been their most successful and prolific agent. Kill him if necessary. But he must not leave Berlin with the woman.”

“Yes, sir.” Regnar replied promptly.

His superior nodded. “And, Agent Garak-”

He paused. His mind reeled and he barely resisted the urge to shake his head. Had he just- yes, yes he had, and he hadn’t even meant to… Garak’s posture changed just a bit and he turned his head to hear what the holo-superior was saying.

“-you know the consequences of failure.”

Oh, he most certainly did. “Yes, sir.”

Garak was escorted to retrieve the weapons available to him for the mission. They were all rather primitive, projectile weapons were practically primeval. They also gave him information on where he was going, which Garak was sure wouldn’t have occurred if he were really of this time period, as he’d have been expected to keep up on the state of affairs on his own. He was rather grateful for this further proof of fallacy. The city was cut in half, not for geographical reasons but political. How this was sustainable, Garak didn’t know. The basics of his mission were preventing one person from going from one half of the city to the other. Easy enough, especially with a wall as an obvious indicator of where that line was. Yes, Garak believed this could be a fun game, so long as he remembered it was a game.

Scene-transitions, in the holosuite, were always a bit unrealistic. In this case, Garak stepped out of a building in what he had been assured was Moscow, and into-

The city was grey. As grey as Romulus, almost, and Garak did not say that lightly. Grey and brown and brick and concrete and looked as if it had been levelled and rebuilt from the ground up at some point in the recent past. It was, put simply, the single least glamorous location Garak could imagine. Apparently Julian’s description of the subtypes of the spy genre had been rather more broad-strokes than he had made it sound.

There was a car waiting, and Garak knew this was the least glorious part of spy-craft, the waiting. Garak was exceedingly patient, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Thankfully, he had to have his whole attention on the people passing from one side of the checkpoint to the other, looking for Julian. When he finally spotted him, Garak had to suppress a smile, he looked even more naive and ripe for the picking than when Garak first laid eyes on him. It was surprisingly difficult to resist the urge to recreate that first meeting, the game’s plotline be damned.

Following Julian from a safe distance was simple, though the man was doing actually quite well in covering his tracks. Not enough to throw Garak off his trail, even if Garak hadn’t already been intimately familiar with his appearance, but enough to give him the impression that Julian had some real potential. Potential that only needed a bit of guidance…. Guidance Garak was only too happy to provide, and which seemed to have been paying off, since Julian managed to actually lose him. For a brief moment. The pride that caused him was a bit staggering and he pushed it down and away for the time being.

Julian’s final destination, it turned out, was a shabby little garage in what seemed to be an even-poorer-than-the-rest-of-it area of the city. He disappeared inside, and Garak hung back, and flicked on the rather neat little bug that he’d been informed that border control would endeavour to secret in Julian’s luggage. It buzzed into life without so much as a flicker, and Garak smirked. Julian had potential, yes…but only potential.

“-and a fat little dog named Schnitzel,” Julian’s voice said, coming out sharp and crackly. Garak stared, and wondered for one mad moment if Julian had actually worked out a code so completely bizarre Garak couldn’t work out what was a euphemism. The accent didn’t help - whoever had told Julian he could imitate accents ought to be shot. “All you need to do is sit down for fifteen minutes with my employers and answer a few questions as fully and as factually as you can. I think we both know it’s a step up from spending the evening with the Russians, hanging from a pipe having your toenails removed.”

Garak couldn’t resist the affronted look he gave the receiver at that, he’d be having a few words with Julian over that once this was all over. The day he needed to resort to such methods as ripping out toenails was the day he retired.

There was the start of another sentence, a woman’s voice. “And your superiors? How will they-” And then the reception cut off with a wet sort of noise, and Garak scowled. Had no-one in this insufferably backwards city thought to invent waterproof bugs yet? With a huff, he lightly tossed the now useless receiver onto the passenger seat and returned his attention to the garage. Not long after, a car left it with only the driver in view. Garak was not to be deterred, and started following them in his own. Twentieth-century automobiles were not, he decided, his favourite means of pursuit. Julian and his contact’s car, though, was going at what seemed to be an ordinary, civilised pace - trying to bluff him into thinking this was just an ordinary night driver? - and it should not take him long to draw level, except that every time he got close, they put on another little kick of speed. Nothing excessive, just enough to stay just out of his range. He considered for a moment, stopped, opened the window, leant out, and took aim at the car’s back tyre. The car skidded, half-spinning, and then-

Put on another, absurd, kick of speed. Limping, yes, half-dragging…but slowed. Slowed and obvious. Hmm. There was a small booth across the street, with an old-fashioned telephone inside it. He stepped inside, and called the police.

“Hello?” he said, using his very best ‘mild and harmless tailor’ voice. “Yes. I’d like to report a kidnapping.” He went on to report, sounding as worried as he could, the terrified, screaming child he’d seen bundled into the back of a black-and-white Trabant car with the right back tyre flat, and hung up feeling quite satisfied with himself. Julian would probably not be best-pleased by the nature of the accusations, but he was the one who brought a genuine Obsidian Order agent into a spy game. Really, it was all his own fault.

It wasn’t difficult, either, to hastily rejigger the receiver to pick up on the local police radio, as reports came in of the black-and-white Trabant being spotted, and soon enough, Garak had a location. He called up the map in his head once again - where could they be going, if their route had taken them there? And then, all at once, he had them.

Figuring that in this case the advantage really did lie with the higher ground, Garak infiltrated a building near the Wall, and made his way up to the roof. He allowed himself a sigh, yet more waiting. It took a few minutes - how long was this part of the programme meant to be? But then, on the next roof over, he saw movement. Julian, and a young woman in khaki-coloured coveralls that did absolutely nothing for her. His quarry. He took aim, but Julian’s body was between him and the woman, and he couldn’t get a clear shot at her. Julian was fidgeting with- No. Flashing a light across the wall. A signal. Garak peered through the scope of the rifle, trying to work out what the plan was. And then- something shot across, from the far side of the wall. A cable, or…yes, a cable. Garak grinned to himself. Oh, surely not. Far, far too simple. Julian offered his hand to the woman, grasped something attached to the cable, and jumped.

He was perhaps halfway across when Garak fired, and the woman in Julian’s arms slumped against him, her head lolling, her grip on him going slack. She fell.

Garak drew back, a faint, satisfied smile on his face, and began matter-of-factly taking the rifle apart. Well. That was the end of that. Julian would probably sulk at being beaten, but Garak was quite sure he could find something to cheer him up. Although, he was rather at a loss to see how this could possibly have ended with their characters becoming friends. He could hear Julian’s shocked shout as he left the roof to begin making his way back to his car, but as he opened the door leading to the street, he found himself back in the KGB base. He sighed, he hated holo-scene transitions.

“Agent Garak.” It was his superior again, the same one as before. His handler. “Report.”

“There was no avoiding the target getting across the wall, so I shot them. The American, however, got away.”

His superior nodded. “I heard. His superiors approached us recently.” He smiled tightly, and it did not reach his eyes. “However, this does complicate the situation somewhat. I thought I said alive, if possible.”

“You did. It wasn’t possible.”

His superior glared. It was rather a pathetic glare, as glares went. The memory of Tain’s smile frightened Garak more than this illusion would in a fury. “The most dangerous secret is already out,” he said. “She might be dead, but she didn’t die before telling Bashir the thing we least wanted the Americans to know. The theft of the prototype plans for the next generation of weaponry, the thing which might shift the balance of power decisively in our favour.”

“Next generation of weaponry…sir?” Garak forced himself to add the ‘sir’, wouldn’t do to be perceived as disrespectful or unable to follow orders.

“You don’t need to know what it is, Garak,” his superior said shortly. “But we need to recover those plans, and the Americans are the only ones who know who she sold them to.”

“Does this mean we’re going to have to cooperate with them? It’s very unlikely that is going to work out well.”

“It will work out as we intend it. They’ve put forward a single agent, who will bear witness to the tragic destruction of the plans before either of you can get your hands on them.You will recover those plans, while making it seem to the Americans that they are lost. If they even begin to suspect what those plans are for…” his superior stopped himself. Even that was sloppy - no-one in the Order would even begin to reveal something unless they intended the person they were speaking to to know it. “Well. What happens next will no longer be your concern. They receive very little news in the gulags, I am told.”

“Of course, sir.” Garak almost rolled his eyes, but stopped himself. “And should the American learn things he shouldn’t?”

“You will have received no formal orders to kill him. His tragic accidental death would be…regrettable…but these things happen.”

“I see. Anything else, sir?”

“Walk with me. A meeting has been set up. Best to give the Americans no reason to doubt our good intentions.”

They walked through a doorway, and suddenly he could smell the waterside. Yet another horrible transition. There were tables all along the deck, overlooking the river. Julian was sitting at one, with what Garak assumed was the man’s own handler. Neither of them looked especially pleased to be there.

“Saunders,” his own superior said curtly.

Garak took a seat directly across from Julian, who was glaring at him with a rather adorable pout. Garak let some of his amusement slip through for a moment before schooling his features.

“Vassilyovich. God, your name is a mouthful. Can’t say that curtly at all. How do you take it?”

Garak’s superior smiled, mirthlessly. “It’s my cross to bear. You’ve briefed your…agent…I take it.” He drew out the word ‘agent’, so that Garak could hear the suggestion of something else underneath it, and though he too had been thinking that Julian would never last long in intelligence, he wanted to bristle regardless.

“Oh, he knows what he needs to.” Saunders waved a hand, and Julian looked as if he bit back a sigh. “Just point him in the right direction.”

“We intend to. Now. Your half of the bargain.”

“You’re impatient. I was enjoying a nice drink, I thought we could take in the scenery. Alright, have it your way. Target’s a former member of the British Union of Fascists, arms magnate, noted collector of antiquities. Name of Sir Arthur Galt. Now, your turn?”

Vassilyovich shifted. “What you’re looking for is a disc. Blue plastic, small enough to hold in your hand. Destroy it if you have to, but it cannot be allowed to remain in Galt’s hands.”

Garak nodded and the handlers exchanged a look before standing. Julian was still glaring at him. “We’ll leave you to get acquainted.” Saunders said with a smug smile, “Play nice.” Saunders clapped Julian on his shoulder as he passed him, causing Julian to flinch slightly. Garak’s eyes followed the handler with cold fury, then widened a little as every other group of diners in the cafe stood and walked out.

“Well,” Garak said brightly, as the last of them left. “This isn’t conspicuous in the least.”

Julian glared at him. “I can’t believe you killed her!”

Garak raised his hands up in defence, “I was ordered to! What was I supposed to do, let you take her across the wall and disobey orders? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t carrying out a mission the point of this game?”

“You could have,” Julian pointed out stubbornly, “It’s a holosuite, they can’t do anything to you if you don’t obey orders. Besides, that wasn’t the mission. That was…a trial run. To get us used to the setting and how the game works before the main plot gets started. I mean, if all we’re going to do is follow orders, we might as well ‘kill’ each other here and now. I know my superiors want me to kill you, and I can guess yours want you to kill me. Does that mean you’re going to?”

“You got orders to kill me? Well that’s unfair, I wasn’t given permission to. Now if you have an accident that’s another story.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “I obviously wasn’t going to!”

“Why not? I killed your informant.” Garak looked around them and waved with an arm, “This is, after all, a holosuite. It won’t actually do anything. At least, it won’t so long as the safeties are on.”

“Yes, but…well.” Julian smiled, wide and bright and startling, “I am trying to get you to agree to another date at the end of the evening. Killing you probably wouldn’t do much for my chances.”

Garak fought the smile that wanted to break through, and instead changed the subject, “My dear- could you please stop talking in that accent. I just, cannot take anything you say seriously.”

Julian actually looked slightly disappointed at that. “If you’re sure,” he said, thankfully without the accent. “I thought I carried it off rather well.”

“I’m not sure who told you that, but they were lying to make you feel better, it is awful.” Garak sniffed and offered a small smile to take some of the sting of his words out.

“We’re supposed to be going to Venice, next,” Julian offered, and smiled again, brighter still, “It’s half of why I suggested this game - Venice is supposed to be one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. I thought you’d like to see it.”

“And then probably destroy half of it in our attempts to save the world - you have a curious notion of how to appreciate a place.”

“We don’t have to destroy it,” Julian said, shaking his head, “It just…tends to happen, in these sorts of stories.”

“Of course. By the way…what in the world were you talking about earlier, with the dog?”

Julian groaned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “You heard that?”

“My dear, of course I heard it. You were bugged, I was supposed to be hearing you. Until you shorted it, which, no water-proof bugs? Really? How low tech is this?”

“Fairly - electricity has been used for…maybe a century, at the outside? The technology’s all still fairly basic.”

Garak put his hands on the table and leaned a bit closer, “So, since you were so upset I shot my target, how was it supposed to play out, in a general run-through?”

Julian shrugged, and Garak felt…was that a foot? Yes, he thought it was…hook itself around his ankle, under his trousers and just above the top of his shoe, warm toes digging into his calf. “I was expecting a much more direct pursuit,” he admitted, “I wasn’t reckoning on you somehow working out where we were going ahead of time, which - actually, how did you work that out?”

That foot was going to be distracting, but Garak would not let Julian cause him to trip over his own tongue. “I memorized the city layout, and there were only so many places where the wall was weak, after following you and gauging your general direction, I picked the most probable that you’d take. Then it was just a matter of slowing you down so I could get there first.”

“…that does explain the police cars,” Julian said, sounding slightly dazed. Those toes flexed against Garak’s leg, and then the foot slid down, pushing at the back of Garak’s shoe as if trying to coax it off his foot. “I never had a chance, did I?”

“Not remotely.” Garak replied, his eyes staring intently at Julian. “You ought to know better than to underestimate me, my dear Julian.” Without changing his expression, Garak slipped the foot Julian had been trying to get at out of his shoe and snagged Julian’s foot with his toe-claws.

Julian made quite an appealing soft sound in his throat at that, and Garak suppressed a grin.

“I suppose I should,” Julian agreed, “Though it’ll be interesting to see how this re-shapes the plot. Traditionally, one of us used her to get at the villain of the piece - Sir Arthur Galt, I suppose. This time we’re going to have to work out another way.” He twisted his foot in Garak’s grip, brushing his toes against the underside of Garak’s foot.

Garak’s hands clawed lightly at the table, though he didn’t take his eyes off Julian’s. “Playing this by ear, are we? Be the invisible man, beneath the notice of the target to get right where you need to be to hear everything?”

Julian tapped a finger against his mouth, considering - or pretending to consider. “Well. We could do that. But this is a holosuite. And a game. And there’s at least a bit of martini in this story…we might as well enjoy it.”

“I have yet to see a martini. In fact, I’m getting rather parched.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “Well, we can’t have that. Computer? Two martinis, please.”

Two long-stemmed, triangular glasses garnished with strange round greenish fruit shimmered into view.

Julian gave an apologetic smile, “Not quite the same as the real thing, but it should stave it off a little longer. Anyway, like I was saying…this is a game. We don’t have to do what would be the sane or the sensible or the realistic thing. That’s the point of the holosuites - to do things you’ve never tried before, or would never dare in real life, like-”

“Like ziplining over an active minefield with someone shooting at you?” Garak suggested dryly.

Julian smiled, small and slightly sly. “Exactly like that.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t want to hit you.” Garak said as he grabbed one of the glasses, giving it a sniff before trying a sip. It wasn’t as good as kanar, but it wasn’t as bad as what Quark had on stock. The flavour was still lacking, as all holofoods were.

“The safeties are on,” Julian reminded him, “The bullet brushed right past me. But the point is- is that we could do this the sneaky, sensible way, or we could do it ostentatiously, ridiculously and with absolutely no self-restraint without any risk to ourselves. Besides.” His smile widened, became faintly predatory, and he wriggled his toes again against Garak’s foot. “I rather want to know what you make of the death-trap.”

Garak kept eye contact as he drained his martini glass and licked his lips to get the last of the drops of alcohol. If they were going to continue playing this game, then he needed to stop playing the other one…so he let go of Julian’s foot after he gave it a final squeeze. “Alright, I’m curious…what death-trap?”

“There’s always a death-trap,” Julian said, with the certainty of a man declaring the sky was blue. “The hero - well, one of them - always ends up getting put in it, the villain always leaves before they’re actually dead, and they are always so over complicated and take so long that the hero inevitably escapes anyway. It’s the single stupidest literary convention ever invented by humankind.” For someone talking about their world’s stupidest literary convention, Garak thought, Julian sounded surprisingly gleeful.

“I’m glad you realize just how ridiculous that sounded, and accept it.” Garak said wryly, tilting his head to look at Julian from under his ridges.

“Of course it’s ridiculous,” Julian said, “That’s half the fun.”

“Mm, debatable. But, we’ll see.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so you have absolutely no interest in seeing me tied up and dangling over a tank of crocodiles?” he said in a low, purring voice that was as put-on as the accent from before had been, but rather less objectionable. “Completely helpless, bound, entirely at your mercy…”

“Not if I’m not the one who put you there.” Garak replied, “Though you paint a very…tempting…picture.”

Julian grinned. “I’ll add that to the list of future date suggestions,” he said blithely, “We could make it an actual competition - you play the villain and I play the hero and see who comes out on top?”

Garak’s smile was slow and positively devilish, “Enchanting idea, though I think it’ll always end the same… And I’m not one to beg for mercy.”

“Is this entire city floating on the water?” Garak asked, sounding almost breathless as he leaned out of the boat to watch the Grand Canal going by.

Julian laughed, and lent against the bow beside him. “It’s built on a chain of islands,” he said, “It’s mostly held up by anti-gravity, these days - it was sinking for centuries before that.” He didn’t need to ask ‘what do you think’. For once, Garak’s face was entirely readable, and alight with something like bliss.

“I would love to see it now, if this is it sinking.”

Julian swallowed a ‘maybe you will’. It was a very long way from a certainty that Garak would ever be able to, with the way things were tending on Earth right now. “Most of the city’s remained about the same for centuries,” he said instead, “The historic centre has, anyway. I’ve never actually been to the real place, but I’ve heard about it.”

Garak looked back at him for only a moment, but that moment conveyed without words his severe disappointment, “That is a crime. You were on the same planet as this place for how many years, and you never went?”

“I went to other places!” Julian said defensively. “Some of them…about as beautiful. I nearly lived in Paris, and it’s about as famous for beauty as Venice is. Just…not quite the same way.”

“Until I see this Paris, I shall continue to judge you.”

“Next time,” Julian promised, recklessly. “Or- There’s Spain. The Alhambra. I saw that on a school trip once. Or…or Cairo.”

“Cairo?” Garak asked curiously, eyes not on Julian as he was still taking in everything around them.

“I was born there,” Julian said simply. “My parents moved away when I was…pretty young…but I still remember parts of it.” He forced a smile, and added, “And it might be a more accommodating climate for you than Paris or London.”

Garak’s attention had flicked back to him and stayed there, and the Cardassian was quiet a moment. “If this temperature is accurate, then Venice is very similar to Cardassia’s winter.” Garak smiled, “Winter is the best time of year, you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Julian looked around, “We’re nearly there,” he added, “St Mark’s Square - come on.”

True to his word, the boat - an old-fashioned speedboat, not one of the glossy black gondolas drifting serenely down the canal - drew to a stop just minutes later, and Julian clambered out, doing his best not to slip and slide and horribly aware that he wasn’t succeeding.

Garak had an insufferable smile as he watched Julian flounder, but thankfully said nothing. “Where to next, Agent Bashir?”

“The hotel first - then, there’s this.” He produced something from out of his jacket with a flourish that he would never admit to having practiced. “My superiors have a contact who managed to wrangle an invitation for one…Julius Eaton, plus guest. Apparently Mr Eaton is a dealer in antiquities, and Galt has a passion for those.” The alias wasn’t what he’d have gone for - Julius was just a hair too close to ‘Jules’ - but objecting now would draw attention to it, and that was the last thing he wanted.

“Do you have my alias as well, or shall I be creative?”

“Nothing hard-and-fast,” Julian admitted, “If your superiors didn’t provide you with one, I’d say you have the choice.”

“Hmm. What is my character’s name supposed to be, again?”

“Illya Kuryakin,” Julian replied, slightly taken aback. “Though, this is the middle of the Cold War, a Russian name might just cause more trouble.”

Garak gave him a wide-eyed look. “I thought you wanted me to take risks, Mr Eaton?”

“I do. All right, then, Mr Kuryakin, shall we go? It’s all on foot from here, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

Waving one arm, Garak motioned for him to lead the way, “After you.”

Their hotel was, according to the travel documents that had manifested themselves during the scene change, on the Grand Canal itself, an old red building that had probably been a palazzo at some point. It was also almost offensively beautiful, with a view that even made Garak stop bitching under his breath about the utter tastelessness of mid-twentieth-century human decor.

“Should I just pause the game and let you stare for the rest of the programme?” he teased, coming up behind Garak.

“No…” Garak turned to face him with a wicked smile and looked Julian up and down, “There are other beautiful things to look at.”

Julian snorted, “And you have the nerve to criticise my lines?”

Garak’s expression turned innocent, “We’ve only seen part of the city, surely there’s more to it?”

“Definitely, I just don’t know how much the makers of the programme thought players would want to explore.” Julian leant a little against the window-frame, watching Garak as much as the canal outside. “If you like we could go and-” Find out, he had meant to say, but he wasn’t given the chance. Garak’s mouth was on his, Garak pressing him up against the window-frame and making it very difficult to concentrate on suspected Soviet weapons or the end of this whole little holographic world.

Hands snaked their way up his sides and behind his back, pressing him even further into the Cardassian’s chest. Garak’s mouth was cool, and tasted not quite like a human’s, no trace of the holographic martini he’d had earlier lingering on his lips or his tongue. His hands were cool too, even through Julian’s shirt, and when they finally broke apart, Garak’s forehead, bumps and ridges and spoon and all, fell against Julian’s and stayed there.

“I knew you’d be warm, my dear, but I didn’t think you’d run this hot.” Garak murmured, his breath ghosting over Julian’s face, “I dare say it’s going to be…very difficult to let go of you.”

Julian kissed him again, to avoid having to reply, and clung on, pulling Garak closer against him. The fork of Garak’s tongue felt strange against his own, and he could feel rough scaling as he slid a hand up and under Garak’s tunic. Just as Julian was losing himself in Garak, there was a chirp from the computer, and that was all the warning either of them got before the holosuite turned off, and suddenly there was nothing at his back.

With the wall no longer supporting their weight, Julian fell back, Garak right on top of him. Julian let out a grunt as he hit the deck’s floor, and the wind was knocked out of him as Garak’s weight crushed into his chest. This was not how he had been expecting to become breathless.

“Time’s up!” the call came from outside, “I’ve got other customers waiting, y’know!”

Garak shifted on top of him, just enough to look over his shoulder and glare at the Ferengi. Julian couldn’t see Garak’s face, but he did see half of Quark’s as the man nearly yelped and scurried off.

“Garak?” he managed to gasp out, “-can’t breathe-”

Garak’s head snapped back to him, surprised concern written all over his face, “My apologies, my dear!” He put his hands to either side of Julian’s shoulders and lifted himself up, so all his weight was now on his knees and hands and thankfully off of Julian.

“…thanks,” Julian managed, and dragged himself to his feet, tugging Garak up after him with maybe a little more strength than a baseline human should be able to muster. “I suppose we should go,” he added, “Er…” He didn’t especially want the evening to be over yet. “Would you like a drink? A real one? Holograms don’t really help, even if it feels like it. And I’d be interested to hear what you thought of the game.”

The smile Garak gave him would have been answer enough, but Julian was still glad when Garak leaned closer until their noses almost touched and said, “That sounds delightful…”

And then, of course, Julian had to kiss him again, and they were quite happily occupied right up until the sound of something metallic hitting the ground jolted them back to reality. Julian looked around.

“…oh,” he said, in a strangled voice. “Um. Hello, Chief. We were just…uh…”

“On our way out.” Garak finished for him, giving his usual respectful bow to the chief. “Pardon us.”

Miles looked so disturbed it was almost comical, but nodded gruffly and moved aside to let them through, carefully avoiding Julian’s eyes. Julian smiled and sort of shrugged as he followed Garak out, the door of the holosuite sliding shut behind him as he heard the opening chords of the Flying Aces World War Two holoprogramme filtering out into the corridor.

“Drinks?” Garak asked and Julian snapped back to where he was, with Garak’s expectant gaze boring into him.

He paused, for a moment, and then caught Garak’s hand. “I’m starving,” he said, “Do you mind if we get dinner as well? I’ve heard good things about that Klingon place at the other end of the Promenade?”

“Loud, crowded, and boisterous? Are you sure that’s how you wish to spend your evening?”

“The Vulcan place at this end of the Promenade?” Julian suggested.

Garak gave him a look as if that were no better, “And be judged for our open emotionalism?” Garak’s gaze flicked down to where Julian still held his hand.

“The Celestial Cafe?” Julian tried.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Garak looked like he was questioning Julian’s sanity. “My dear, you recall I am Cardassian? I don’t think they’ll take kindly to my being there.” Just as Julian was beginning to think Garak was just making excuses not to have dinner with him, Garak pulled Julian’s hand back up to the same place he’d put it before. “How about…my quarters? Guaranteed privacy, quiet, and minimal judgement.”

Julian smiled. “I’d like that.” One last remnant of his common sense flared up for a moment. “I have to pick Mila up from Jadzia’s quarters in an hour.”

Garak feigned a put upon look, “Oh, very well. We shall just have to rush through dinner then. One of these days, my dear doctor, you’re going to sit down for a full Cardassian meal.”

“And just what would that involve?” Julian asked.

“You’ll find out, though perhaps we’ll have to work on your table manners first.” Garak smirked widely at that.

Julian huffed. “There is nothing wrong with my table manners!”

“My dear, I have seen people flee from danger slower than you eat. You practically inhale food.”

“So?”

“So? It is terribly rude.”

Julian stared at him. “…you aren’t just saying that because you happen to dislike it, are you?”

“I’ll have you know, that on Cardassia to eat so quickly is extremely rude, as it is either a sign of starvation or disrespect to one’s host.”

Julian blinked. “Really? Where exactly did that idea come from? Mightn’t a person simply be busy? Or in a hurry for some other reason?”

“Would you like me to lecture on how exactly proper table manners are done, or shall we head to my quarters?”

“…your quarters, please,” Julian said, because contrary to popular belief he did have some idea of when to stop. “You can fill me in on the finer points once I’m there.”

Garak chuckled, “Of course, my dear, I did not assume otherwise.” He took Julian’s arm, in public, without any apparent thought for the damage to Julian’s reputation he’d claimed to be so concerned about during that desperate argument after Julian returned from the other universe, and the two of them set off back towards the habitat ring.

#mila verse #garashir #ds9 #star trek #my writing #thanks to the wonderful #thornfield13713 #for the help in writing this one #Trekkie in Training #Anonymous

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