#so picture this - for a while there's an organized effort to seek out and destroy all remaining eggs to prevent what could be a disaster

[mist-the-wannabe-linguist]

Fuck it

*makes a ra'zac oc*

[cursedfortune]

What were Mortem's deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now? Is she holding on to something in the past?

@pathopsychological

Disillusions can just be a matter of perspective. For Mortem and any witch, it's important they see reality for what it is. It's all the more reason why she doesn't tend to act without gathering then necessary data first in order to determine a way forward that does not go against her purpose.

A witch's purpose is their life and existence. Without it, they come undone. They are not human/whatever species they are born into. A witch's bloodline may begin with a soul's will breaking the confines reality to some degree, ascending them into something that exists between mortal and immortal. Any children spawned by them will be the same - souls more akin for forces that exist in an organic body.

Morality is not based on a human standards. Even a witch with a "smaller" purpose, like being an alchemist that lives out their life doing such, must see the wider picture. Which is why witches rarely have to go against one another.

I think the closest thing that she gets to this would be her inability to acknowledge regret. Feeling remorse, guilt, etc. is off limits and a consequence when it comes to purpose-oriented decisions she makes. It's a consequence that can oneshot kill her (break her purpose) if she doesn't cut it off. That's not to say Mortem can't feel those things outside of her purpose, though. Personal engagements that are unrelated to it are safe.

An example of this: After the first war she was exiled and condemned as a traitor. A long time later a second war broke out while she was in isolation and during it a comrade and friend was murdered. But she cannot feel remorse over such because while his death was indirect to her in present day, it stems back further to when she was actively betraying him. The wars, the people involved are directly related to one another even if the context has slightly changed - all the same, that relation is enough to prevent her from risking herself. It's just as powerful as if she stabbed a friend. No matter how direct or indirect, chances are she will be unable to allow herself to experience regret and similar emotions so long as it's related to her purpose.

The logic behind this is that because witches are based on will and perception, if she were to feel regret it would question her will (which includes compromising her soul, identity, etc) and it would alter her perception. Both would directly affect her purpose, aka her life force and reason to exist to begin with. Regret is a catalyst that sets off a chain reaction of destroying her. It's one thing to ponder a choice she made and decide on how to do better going forward. It's another thing to lament over it and call into question everything surrounding it (and herself). On top of that, witches tend to believe that it's disrespectful to do so because it insults those they are forced to transgress against (and the efforts of those people).

Maybe mortals (humans and whatever else) tend to feel differently on this. Those that have burned and tortured witches seeking their guilt so rarely receive it because it's not just a matter of preserving their lives, but it's also a matter of preserving the dignity of those they've wronged. Committing to their choices is the most honorable thing they can grant any mortal they crush and leave in their wake for their purpose, to ensure no life is meaningless. Even witches who act on the evil spectrum of morality (by others standards) and view life as something petty still have this belief.

This is the closest thing to being a disillusion because it just comes down to whether you agree with their species, understand it (regardless of agreement or not), or outright disagree.

Mortem harbors a great many of things she's holding onto. She collects her regrets and sets them aside to gather. In life, she'll never be able to confront them. In death, she will. The after-life I've designed is specifically made with witches in mind. She'll enter and have a moment of being proud of her achievements before she allows herself to feel the full brunt of the horrors and regrets that exist because of her choices. Only when she's dead can she respect those she has transgressed against and the mistakes she made in a way a human would.

[thechekhov]

So glad you decided to play Undertale! I think it would really suit you so I’m so happy you got into it! Could I have your thoughts about the game? I would LOVE to hear them. I’m ALL for long essays and rants, that’s my jam, but even just a small review from you would make me ecstatic!

Alright alright alright alright. 

I am ecstatic that someone asked because I have a lot to say AS ALWAYS. 

I’m gonna try to keep this readable, I swear. Will add pictures in between to keep things interesting. 

However, due to the length this will SURELY achieve, AND due to spoilers (and yes, laugh at me all you want, the game has been out for 5 years) I’ll put this under a cut. Read at your own (f)risk.

Metagaming - the game plays YOU

When I first started Undertale, I ‘knew’ these things:

there’s a stabby one with a knife, their name is chara

there’s a flower everyone hates

something something sans something something

and the last, and perhaps most important thing

you can spare your enemies to avoid killing them

The thing is. The THING IS. 

I did not realize how pervasive this strategy was. My thought at first was ‘okay, so I don’t have to kill EVERYONE.’

I had no idea that the reality was that I didn’t have to kill anyone.

I’m sure many others have already said this, but Undertale kind of changes the way you think about other games. It forces to you examine simply fighting your way through the RPG by introducing completely non-murder-y ways to resolve issues. This conversation-based combat style is not the first of its kind, I’m sure, but it’s also incredibly well done. It ties into the story, it ties into your decisions.

It ties into your decisions SO MUCH that it changes everything else in the outcome.

Undertale is a game well known for breaking the 4th wall. However, it does so in a strangely eerie, heart-wrenchingly real way. It teaches us that there are other solutions to conflicts - and it really... it really TEACHES us, you know?

Which is funny because to be honest, it took me a while to get the lesson.

(You may already be fully aware of this but yes, my first True Neutral Route was extremely organic. I legitimately had no idea that there was even more than one ending. I was just stumbling about er... killing. Out of habit.)

The beauty of this is that the game drives home that point even more effectively because I was fully unaware of my own bias. I had assumed that some enemies would require killing - DESPITE TORIEL SPECIFICALLY TELLING ME TO TALK TO THEM, and the entire Ruins tutorial being about Mercy. I killed the Dummy on accident (granted, it was due to me pressing the key too fast a few times) and didn’t think much of Toriel’s disapproval. I killed a few monsters because I saw my level was low and decided to automatically grind a little bit. 

By the time I got to Toriel, I was still not comfortable with the mechanic. I knew I could Spare her somehow - after all, she was a kind monster, and clearly an important character - but the Spare option didn’t yield promising results the first few times I chose it. I ran out of patience and decided that maybe... maybe it was like pokemon! 

Maybe I had to get her health down to a certain level before she would allow me to pass through.

Funny thing though.... you know what happens if you attack Toriel one too many times? Even if she has most of her health left? 

Yeah uh... it activates that one-hit-KO thing from No Mercy Route.

So of course, what happened? I hit her one too many times... and killed her! And of course, immediately panicked and reset. 

I got back to my previous save, Spared Toriel PROPERLY this time, and walked out of the ruins only to be confronted with my own reliance on the magical ‘redo’ button which was... apparently... not that magical.

Because it WASN’T a clean redo. Flowey apparently remembered. 

The idea that the game would KNOW about my previous attempts beyond the save file snapped me out of my casual Undertale playthrough. I realized that something was up - this game was not going to be like the others.

I think it was from this point on that I tried to be more careful, but again - I still hadn’t quite gotten the memo about not killing. I took down a few monsters around Snowdin. And when I got to Papyrus, I grew frustrated about not being able to beat him (I ended up losing several times and coming back to try again) and went off to grind SOME MORE because I figured that could raise my HP and increase my chances of holding off long enough to Spare him. 

(The incredible thing about this game is that actually, raising your level gives you only a slight advantage. You can be level 1 and carrying no items, and as long as you’re relatively proficient at dodging the bullet hell style projectiles you will have no issues.) 

Anyway, the point is that I realized I could spare the big monsters and did so readily - but I didn’t bother to spare many of the smaller ones. 

I figured it didn’t matter. 

And then I successfully evaded Undyne, gave her a cup of water, etc... and then went to her house to meet Papyrus, fully expecting her to befriend me anyway. 

And you know what happened?

“She said she won’t hang out with a murderer.“

I think that probably hit me the hardest at that point in the game. 

I had a bit ‘....oh’ moment at that point because I realized that the game would punish me for killing even the ‘not-important’ civilians of the Underground. It wasn’t about just sparing the ‘boss monsters’. My actions had consequences beyond just the ‘elite’ characters that we all tend to focus on.

Because yes, it made sense. It wasn’t about just Undyne - why WOULD she randomly be my friend after I killed tons of living beings?

From there on, I spared everyone, but didn’t reset. I decided to see how it would unravel.

The thing I want to talk about, which is a little difficult, is that...

It took me that long to learn that kindness was the answer. And that, in itself, ends up being a metaphor. 

It’s difficult to be kind if you have not been show how to be.

It’s difficult to change the way you behave (in a game or out of it) if all you know is using other methods.

It was hard enough to spare Toriel before I realized I had to just be very patient and trust that her attacks wouldn’t hit - though at first I thought she would just kill me! 

It was hard to avoid Papyrus’ attacks and I had to die several times before I successfully got through it. 

It was near impossible to fight Undyne because I legitimately had no idea Fleeing was an option. I struggled for ages at her stage, and I had to ask for help to understand what I could do.

And that’s actually honestly very true to life as well.

Being kind takes risk. Being kind takes effort. And sometimes, being kind means asking others HOW to be kind. 

When you choose to be kind, you risk being hurt, and you risk being trapped (Toriel). When you choose to be kind, you need to expand a lot more energy to succeed (Papyrus). When you choose to be kind, you need to sometimes reach out to others to show you how to properly do it (Undyne).

The rest of the playthrough probably went about as you expect. I completed the game, didn’t kill any Boss Monsters, fought to the end and... got that really unsatisfying Neutral Ending which felt strangely bittersweet. 

And of course, after I was done, I was prompted to go back and do a proper Pacifist Run. Which I did. I learned about the background of Determination, about Chara and Asriel... and about how everything came to be the way it was.

The thing that gets me the most about this game is how it serves as a direct parallel to how we use videogames. In fact, Undertale is a videogame... about videogames. 

Chara appears to be a direct metaphor for the people that use videogames to escape - to cope with whatever happened to them in The Overworld. Bad family life, or bad relationships or whatever we suffer - escapism through games is not, in itself, a new theme. 

Chara arrived in Undertale by dropping themself down a hole in the mountain, perhaps even seeking to end their life. They dropped into a world which offered them comfort and companionship, a new family and a new life - but in the end, their nature was destructive because their means to finding a solution inadvertently used other people as fodder. Asgore, Asriel - they used everyone else to complete their plans. It wasn’t about forming connections - it was about Completing the Quest. 

I wonder - did Chara even HAVE access to a MERCY option? 

Was their world one without the option of sparing someone? Did they only have the choice of acting - and was Mercy in the hands of whoever attacked them? I wonder how difficult it might have been for them. I wonder how that, in itself, shaped their perception of the world. 

I wonder if that’s why, during the No Mercy run, people recognize you as Chara? If they come back and attach themselves to your resonating DETERMINATION?

If this is true, was MERCY perhaps created later, brought into existence once Asriel himself made the choice to NOT fight, to turn back and flee, even after being attacked by humans in the Overworld? 

(It would be a nice parallel to Asgore DESTROYING the Mercy option when you enter the fight with him...)

...

In the end, I think Undertale is about many things, including video games. 

But it’s also hurting - and being hurt. 

It’s about how trauma can shape us, how we deal with feeling grief, and loss, and depression - and not being able to feel anything.

It’s about how we focus on goals and use DETERMINATION to keep going - even when whatever it is that’s driving us no longer has any SOUL. 

It’s about how our action have consequences, but they also carry the weight of a choice, and how powerful those choices are, and how powerless we feel when we aren’t given a choice - not to fight back, nor show mercy. 

I think that’s probably the reason this game resonated with so many people. It really brings something we love about videogames to the forefront - that ability to fight back, to have full and total control of our own lives...

And it also shows us how having that endless loop of repetitive grinding and fighting with zero consequences can lead to an incredible hollowness and make us numb to how we interact with real-life people. 

Anyway. 

Good game. 

[be11atrixthestrange]

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Here’s an angsty DH tent fic I wrote for @voldemorts-tap-shoes! Enjoy some passive-aggressive romione flirting! And special thanks to @remedial-potions for organizing the 2020 HPRomione Discord Secret Santa Exchange! (And for writing my summary!)

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

Summary: Ron's journey as he seeks forgiveness from Hermione upon returning to the horcrux hunt, and how a certain maroon jumper brings them together.

******

-December 26th, 1997-

Ron was almost to his bed when he nearly tripped, but luckily he steadied himself against the frame before he could actually fall. Thank Merlin he did, because he could sense her watching him from her position on the sofa, and there was no need for her to see him making a fool of himself— again. He crouched down to see what his foot had caught on, only to discover his old, worn-out jumper.

The tent could only block so much of the icy wind from outside, so stumbling upon his warm jumper was a relief. He was anxious for a change of clothes, but most of his warmer things were still in Hermione's bag, and there was no way she would let him dig around in it just yet. Ron was quickly coming down from the adrenaline rush of destroying the locket, and his awareness of the cold grew stronger with every misty breath he could see leaving his lips. He pulled the jumper over his head just as his teeth started to chatter.

There was something peculiar about the jumper. Not only did it appear to have been recently washed, but it also smelled different than he remembered. Although distinct, it was still familiar enough that he could name it— oak and vanilla. Easy, and not because he was particularly gifted at identifying scents, but because he had already spent significant effort trying to decipher that exact aromatic component in Slughorn's Potions class last year. The Hermione-ness of Amortentia— and now his jumper— was what confirmed his attraction to her— it was warm, cozy, and inviting. The irony of that was not lost on Ron, considering Hermione's current position on the sofa, looking as frigid and inhospitable as the winter storm outside.

The only reason he didn't bring the jumper with him when he left was that Hermione had been wearing it. When they were first on the run, he would offer it to her whenever she looked cold, and by the time he left, she was accustomed to borrowing it on her own. She sat bundled up with a blanket and The Tales of Beedle The Bard, and the jumper she wore instead of his didn't look nearly as warm. Compared to his, it looked awkwardly small on her, which gave her the appearance of a disgruntled goldfish angrily bobbing inside her too-small fishbowl. Clearly, Hermione had worn his jumper much more recently than the night he left, and the thought filled Ron with hope. Maybe there was still a part of her that didn't want to be angry. Maybe he was wrong to assume they'd never recover from this.

That hope helped keep him warm when he stumbled into bed, cold and hungry, but more content than he'd been in a while.

-January 1st, 1998-

The harsh cold persisted over the next few days, effectively undermining any allusions of the tent's hospitality. Unwilling to expose his skin to winter's aggression for more than a few seconds, Ron rarely took off his jumper, and it's comforting warmth was starting to fade into something strictly physical. He should have been sleeping in preparation for his own watch shift, but he couldn't— so he sat on his bed where he could see Hermione bundled up at the tent entrance, keeping watch and looking miserable. She was shivering underneath a heavy pile of blankets and conjuring up her bluebell flames for warmth. Like it did from her body, the icy air greedily extracted any heat from the mug of tea that sat beside her, its contents escaping into a thick ribbon of steam.

He was still enduring Hermione's silent treatment, and he expected he would have to for a while longer. This particular method of punishment was all too familiar to him, and he knew he'd have to ride it out, but in order to respect her boundaries, he had to figure out where they were. He slid off of his bed and grabbed an extra blanket from his bunk before making his way toward the opening of the tent, determined to uncover exactly where Hermione had drawn the line.

If she heard him approaching she didn't show it. Instead, she kept an intense owl-like focus on the woods outside. He laid the blanket next to her and carefully sat down, making sure to set a respectable distance between them, to avoid earning himself an extension of her silent treatment.

"Hi," he said brightly.

She didn't answer, but he saw her eyebrows knit together slightly, and that counted as an acknowledgment for him.

"I've always loved those flames," he continued. "You're good at them."

Silence.

"I could never get them right," he pressed on, hoping a little bit of flattery would soften her up. "And they don't stay warm when I do it."

Hermione sighed and turned to look at him. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Talking to you."

"Yeah, well. Please don't," she said before turning away again.

"I really missed you," he said, a little more earnestly this time. With Hermione, honesty was a great choice when it flattered her.

Hermione shrugged. "Good."

Ron couldn't help but chuckle at her nonchalant answer. To him, it was a clear confession that her silent treatment was intentional, which meant it required effort to keep up. Hermione's scowl that she hadn't been expecting him to laugh.

"You should really be in bed," she said.

"I know," he said. "I can't sleep. And you looked like you could use some company—."

She groaned, dropping her face to her hands in frustration. "You're infuriating. I'm trying really hard not to talk to you. Can you please just give me some space?"

Her clear confession wasn't nearly as satisfying as her accidental one. He had already given her weeks of space, and never wanted to let that happen again, but he held his tongue. A line had been drawn. "I'm sorry. I can leave you alone. If that's what you really want."

"It is," she said.

Ron's heart sank— talking to her was the only way he could confidently win her forgiveness. Her attention turned back to the woods, and Ron could almost feel the wall she had built restraining him. "Is that really what you want?"

"Oh my God, Ron," she said exasperatedly. "Stop talking to me."

"Ok, ok," he said as he stood up. Then he reached for the hem of his jumper and pulled it off.

"Now what are you doing?" she asked.

"You seem cold. I'm giving you my jumper."

"I don't want it."

Ron held it out to her anyway, but she shook her head. "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"Ok then. I'm off to get some beauty sleep," he joked, tucking the jumper under his arm.

"Like you need it," he heard her grumble.

He whipped back around to face her, his face brightening into a smile. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," she stammered. "Just that you said you couldn't sleep, and that's probably because you got more than enough rest at Bill's. Unlike Harry and I."

Ron grinned at her infuriating redirection— she was always an expert at churning his own words around to remind him of his wrongdoings. It kept him on his toes, pissed him the hell off, and was one of his favorite things about her. "Well, that's disappointing. For a moment I thought you were calling me beautiful."

She turned away from him, and Ron thought he caught a reluctant smile on her face. He had his own version of her little game.

"Goodnight Hermione," he said as he turned back toward the bedroom.

She didn't respond, but that's ok. He didn't expect her to.

-January 15th, 1998-

Ron awoke in the middle of the night to a crisp and howling wind. He opened his eyes to see a shivering Hermione sitting up in bed, digging around in her bag. She huffed when she couldn't find anything warmer, and dropped her bag to the floor. Ron's stomach sank, knowing she was so cold, but he also knew that she'd most likely reject his offer to wear his jumper, so he remained silent. She gathered her blanket around her and stumbled off her bed toward the loo, dragging the billowing bedding behind her like a cloak.

Ron figured that Hermione rejecting his jumper was just spiteful stubbornness, and she'd happily wear it against his knowledge. Now alone in the room, he sat up, removed it, then tossed it casually on the floor somewhere between his bed and hers. When he heard the bathroom door open, he quickly dove back underneath his covers, hiked the blankets up to his neck, and assumed a credible sleeping position.

She reentered the room, tugging her blanket along, and nearly tripped when she stumbled into the jumper.

He heard her groan before muttering, "lumos."

Ron cracked his eyes open to observe, making sure to keep the rest of his body perfectly still.

"Ronald," she whispered to herself. "He never puts his stuff away." She crouched down to pick it up and glanced cautiously in his direction.

Ron closed his eyes when she turned to him, this time letting out a muffled— hopefully convincing— snore.

When he heard Hermione crawl back into her bed, he opened one eye to observe again. Luckily, she wasn't even paying attention to him. She sat in her bed, bundled her blanket, holding Ron's jumper in her hands. It looked like she was considering putting it on, and Ron couldn't help but picture her making a pro and con list in her mind about wearing it.

Pro: It smelled like him. Or was that a con?

Con: He might see her wearing it. But maybe that was a pro?

She shook her head as if to erase any hesitations, and slipped the jumper over her bushy hair, which erupted through the neck hole like a volcano. The oversized sleeves dangled lazily off her hands, reminding Ron of the time Harry had lost all of the bones in his arm. The hem bundled and bunched at her hips, and the waist was big enough to hide a second Hermione, yet for some odd reason, it still appeared to fit her better than her own jumper. No longer shivering, she settled back into her blanket, closed her eyes, and smiled softly. He turned onto his side, the same grin etched across his face, and settled back into sleep.

-January 30th, 1998-

The following morning, Ron had discovered his jumper crumpled up on the floor near his bed. Hermione had never returned something unfolded before, and Ron smiled at her attempt to make it seem like she never wore it. He imagined her precariously placing his jumper on the floor so that it looked just careless enough to throw Ron off her scent.

It became their new routine. Every night he would place his jumper somewhere on the floor between their beds, and every morning he would find it again, somewhere else but nearby. And every morning, without fail, he'd put it on and catch a hint of his amortentia, which was growing stronger by the day.

On this particular morning, Ron left the bedroom to find Hermione reading on the sofa, buried in her blanket.

"Morning," he said softly.

She didn't answer, but that was ok. He still didn't expect her to. She did, however, look up from her book momentarily to acknowledge him. Progress.

"I'm making tea. Would you like some?"

Again she was silent, but she smiled and nodded.

With two swift flicks of his wand, Ron conjured up some water in the kettle, and ignited a fire on the stove. Hermione had turned her attention back to her book, content to ignore him, as was their routine. This time her expression remained friendly, and the wall between them felt a little less icy.

It had been just over a month since his return, and although they rarely spoke, he had learned that they didn't really need to speak to communicate. He knew her facial expressions and could read her emotional state with ease. He could tell if she wanted space by the way her eyes focused intently on her book, his greeting eliciting no reaction whatsoever. Recently it didn't seem intentional or pointed, but any attempts to pull her out of that collie-like focus would fail. He knew she was open to an interaction when she placed herself on the edge of the sofa, making room for him, and read distractedly with a bookmark in hand, ready to be used should Ron have something more interesting to talk about. And sometimes, her exaggerated yawns and pointed looks before she went to bed hinted that she wanted him to leave his jumper on the bedroom floor. Accidentally, of course.

The climate between them had improved in more ways than one. They were short on space, and they couldn't avoid close contact. Sometimes they'd touch each other when passing, or rummaging around in the kitchen. At first, she would whip her hand away if it unexpectedly brushed his, but recently, if they made contact she'd linger. It happened more frequently too, but just like leaving his jumper out for her, he didn't dare make those moments look intentional. Every touch was an accident, and they were very clumsy.

But of course, he wanted more. Every morning when he put that jumper back on, it felt almost like a hug. He couldn't just hug her, so instead he looked forward to the closest thing he could get, and wondered if she felt the same when she stole his jumper every night.

When the water boiled, he poured two cups of tea. One with cream and two sugars, and one black. Hermione looked up when he approached and smiled warmly as he handed her the tea.

"Did I get it right?" he asked hopefully, even though he knew he did.

"Yes," she said. "Thank you."

They settled back into a comfortable silence. The blistering cold of the last few weeks had finally loosened its grip. Ron was sitting directly in a sunbeam, and his jumper suddenly felt unnecessary.

He caught Hermione's attention when he sat up abruptly, and pulled it over his head. "What?" he asked.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked, tightening the blankets around her.

"Nah, it's quite warm in the sun, actually," he said, playfully toying with his jumper. "Why, are you cold?"

Sighing, she leaned back and crossed her arms. Ron had to resist laughing at her adorably forced scowl. "Yeah, I am quite cold."

"That's too bad," he said, as he dropped his jumper on the floor between them.

Hermione pursed her lips together as if trying to prevent a smile. "Ron," she asked hesitantly. "If you're not going to wear it, can I borrow your jumper?"

Ron beamed at her. "Thought you'd never ask."

Her smile broke as she leaned forward and grabbed his jumper off the ground. "I thought I'd never have to," she said with a blush before putting it on.

-February 14th, 1998-

Harry had just gone to bed, and Ron was due to take over watch from Hermione in two hours. He had tried to pass the time by reading her copy of Beedle The Bard, but there were only so many times one could read A Warlock's Hairy Heart and still be entertained by it. He put the book back down on the coffee table, before standing, stretching, and making his way toward the kitchen to make tea.

He made the usual, two cups of tea, one with cream and two sugars, and one black.

"Tea?" he called to Hermione. It was just a formality at this point, a warning that he was coming over to bring her tea and invade her space. Lately, she didn't seem to mind.

"You don't have to be out here for two more hours," she said.

He grinned, set the tea down between them, and took a seat across from her. "You're welcome for the tea."

She smiled. "Thank you."

They sat quietly for a few moments, before Ron took a chance, and inched himself closer to Hermione so that he was sitting next to her. She didn't move away from him at all.

"Is this ok?" he asked.

She nodded. "Of course."

"It's kind of cold though," he said. "Don't you think?"

He didn't need to see her face to know that he had earned an eye-roll. With an exaggerated sigh, she shifted her blanket so it now covered them both, and moved closer so their legs pressed together. "Better?"

"Much better." It was the most physical contact they'd shared since before he left. "This is perfect, actually."

He felt her head rest on his shoulder, and she didn't even flinch when he accidentally brushed her hand underneath the blanket. They paused, as if daring each other to make the next advance, before he slipped his hand over hers and their fingers intertwined.

He could have stayed like that all night, gently rubbing his thumb across her hand and listening to her breath in his ear. Two hours felt like two minutes, and when his time to take over watch came, he considered not saying anything at all, but that would have been selfish.

"Hermione?" he asked.

"Hmm?" she asked into his shoulder.

"It's my turn. You can go to bed, if you want to." He tried to emphasize that last part. Maybe she didn't want to.

She lifted her head from his shoulder. "It'll be cold."

Ron didn't want to press his luck by asking her to say, so he tugged at the hem of his jumper, and gave it to Hermione.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

She turned toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair as she entered the tent. "Ron?" she asked when she was halfway there.

"Yeah?"

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Ron smiled. He was wondering if she had realized the date. "Happy Valentine's day, Hermione."

-March 1st, 1998-

After that night, Hermione never gave him back his jumper, and he didn't mind one bit. It was getting warmer every day, so he didn't need it anymore, and it looked better on her anyway. Additionally, Valentine's Day turned out not to be an isolated event. At this point, Ron could generally expect their watch shifts to overlap for some time, while they held hands under a blanket, and their tea turned cold.

It was Harry's night for watch, which meant that Hermione and Ron were alone in the bedroom. She was bundled up in multiple blankets, and his jumper, and appeared to be pretending to sleep. He was quite warm, so he wore a simple vest, one blanket, and he was absolutely pretending to sleep.

"Ron?"

He smiled at her voice in the dark. "Yes, Hermione?"

"I'm cold," she whined.

Ron laughed and flopped back onto his pillow. "Well, I'd give you my jumper, but you haven't taken it off for two weeks."

She buried her face into her pillow. "I know,' she groaned.

"And I'd give you my blanket, but then I'd be cold."

Hermione turned to face Ron, eyes narrowed as if sizing him up. "Maybe we could share?" she asked tentatively.

Ron's eyebrows shot up his forehead. She wanted to share. "You won't hex me if I come over there?"

She shook her head, before inching toward the far edge of her bed.

Ron felt his ears turn pink as he slipped out of his bed, and approached hers. It was the first time they'd ever shared a bed, and Ron had always imagined it would happen differently. In his envisioned future, this moment would take place after a first kiss, but he wasn't about to complain. He slid under the covers almost too eagerly, then momentarily froze, unsure where to put his arms and legs. He wanted to pull her close and wrap his arms around her, heck he wanted to do much more than that. What he really wanted to do might provoke another silent treatment, a hex, or worse— flock of canaries. What exactly was she expecting?

She answered his question when she took his hand, interlacing their fingers, and turned to her side, facing her back to him. She pulled his arm along so he had no choice but to settle in behind her. She fit perfectly, as he'd always imagined she would, and he hoped she felt the same way too.

"Still cold?"

She laughed. "Nope."

Ron had lost all desire to sleep. He could have laid there all night, his head in her hair, holding her hand, savoring every minute.

"Ron?"

"Hmm."

"Happy Birthday."

He hadn't even realized the date. "Is it really—?"

She nodded. "What do you want for your birthday?"

From his current place— in bed with Hermione, he honestly couldn't think of anything more, or at least anything more he was willing to tell her. "Could I have my jumper back?"

Hermione laughed. "No."

"Oh," he said, trying to feign disappointment. "Worst birthday ever, then."

"You don't mean that."

He smiled as he slipped his arms tighter around her. "I don't."

And he didn't. In fact, he'd be more than fine if he never got his jumper back. Brilliant, even.

[reynesofcastamere]

Jagged Crowns(1/2)[β]

(A/N: I had a bit of an internal debate as to whether I should keep writing while...Well, some parts of our world are in a rapid spiral towards a fascist dystopian nightmare due to centuries of institutionalized racism, ignorance, and hair-trigger violence, among other things. I understand that I will never fully comprehend what POC have suffered, because the system has been rigged in my favour since before I was born. There is much and more that can and has been said on the subject, but to summarize: It is not my intention to further harmful ideas/depictions or to hurt people via this self-indulgent outlet. If I have done so(and not given appropriate warnings), please do not hesitate to inform me so that I may correct this. That said, warnings for: gore, violence, death, intrusive thoughts, mental breakdown/hallucinations, and suicidal ideation. The prompt for this was ‘Ahsoka helping Maul through his own struggles, since he’s pretty much on the verge of insanity at all times.’ Unbeta’d.)

In the end, there is no need for a chosen one. No bright, wide-eyed youth to take up a burning sword and the incalculable burden of ridding the galaxy of an oppressive evil. The reality turns out to be less of a legend and more of a horror story.

The Royal Palace is littered with the dead and dying, but there is only one that matters. Sidious is still immensely powerful, but his body has grown old and slow, and there are only so many guards he can sacrifice to protect himself. Overcoming his Force lightning, preventing bones and organs from being crushed, protecting their minds from invasion and violation: That is much harder. But finally, finally Maul strikes off the Emperor’s head as Ahsoka’s twin ‘sabres pierce his shriveled, black heart. She steps back. He keeps going, slicing and hacking until the throne is in pieces, the floor is a cross-hatch of burning lines, and what was once an Emperor is nothing more than a pile of charred meat and cloth.

“Is this...Am I free? No, this was too easy. Master always has a contingency plan.” He does not even realize he is voicing these thoughts, too occupied with searching the Force for something, any trace of Sidious’s presence. Foolish child. You thought you could defeat ME? I know your every pitiful thought, every scheme you concocted while you wriggled, a blind maggot encased in filth. “Be silent.” Maul snarls, fingertips coiled around his anterior horns, palms pressed into his eyelids. “Focus. Focus. Search for him, he cannot hide from us.” There is another voice, outside his head, but he cannot hear it. He has to know. Yet despite the venomous hiss that tries to steal away his concentration, there is...nothing. The Dark Side is empty of even the barest wisp of his Master. “Gone. Gone at last. Finally I have achieved Bane’s will...” He laughs, long and erratically pitched. Not a comforting sound, or even a sane one. Wait. There is something. He uncovers his eyes and re-opens them. Someone before him, unlit ‘sabres in hand. Another rival apprentice. Another test. “Have I not done enough to prove myself?” Maul whispers, disbelieving and enraged all at once. No. You must destroy all who would stand in your way if you wish to claim my power. Prove that you are worthy and strike them down! “Yes, my Master.” He had dropped his sabrestaff before -careless, stupid, he could have been killed-, but it leaps eagerly into his hand and activates as he begins his assault. He cannot seem to get a clear picture of his opponent, their form shadowed and not entirely solid around the edges. He sees their weapons clearly enough, though, especially when they clash with his own. His rival is on the defensive, parrying his strikes but not counterattacking. He cannot hear their words past the blood rushing in his ears, infuriated by this insult. Is he so weak that they do not even think him worth the effort of assaulting?! Maul drives them back, seeking to disarm, to maim, to kill, but he cannot connect. He resorts to yanking their legs out from under them with the Force, lips curled in a feral snarl as he raises his sabrestaff for the final blow...Then the Light bursts into his mind with the force of a battering ram, and he can feel-These thoughts, this presence, he knows it-Mine, this warmth is mine, cast from the star forever out of my reach. Ahsoka Tano looks up at him, eyes wide from exertion and fear. “Maul. Please, stop.” His legs give out from under him, weapon deactivated and slipping from his suddenly-nerveless fingers. He does not know how long it takes for her to come to him. Seconds, or perhaps years, her hands circling his face as their lips meet. He pulls her close, fervent and desperate in his passion. Yes. This is fitting. One last time, before the end. “You must kill me.” A whisper when they part for air, watching her blink in confusion. “What are you talking about?” “I have never fought for your hope of a restored Republic. You know this. You have prepared for it. Sidious is dead and I will inevitably take control of his Empire. Unless you stop me.” “I don’t have to murder you to accomplish that.” “Ah, so you are content to truss me up like a rabid animal and let your superiors toss me in a cage or cut off my head. How noble.” “No.” “Why? Because you believe that they will not take the opportunity to rid themselves of a long-standing nuisance? Or that they will simply leave me in peace because our goals aligned temporarily?” He summons her shoto to his right hand, snarling in frustration as he presses it to her left. “You are neither sentimental or naive, Ahsoka Tano. Do not hesitate.” For a moment, it seems as if she will go through with it. As if white light and the deep blue of her eyes will be the last things he sees. It is not the nature of the Sith, to surrender to death’s embrace so readily. But Maul has...never been a true Sith, and he is so very tired. The voices in his head are blessedly silent, yet it is only a temporary reprieve. Without purpose, without vengeance or ambition, he will lose himself again. “Stop running, Maul.” Her voice is firm, and oh, she burns bright enough to blind him, but he cannot tear his eyes away. Ahsoka takes her weapon from him, sets it down, and entwines their fingers instead. “You’re right. I know who you are and what you can do. I also know you’re capable of more than that.” He cannot breathe. What has she done, to make him feel this way? That there might be hope of being...something other than this? “Did you really think I didn’t notice all these years? The small acts of compassion and honour...Palpatine didn’t rip those away from you.” She is so warm, so willing to offer up these things he has blatantly denied himself and others. “A foolish dream.” Maul rebuts, but there is no real strength behind it. His left arm holds her more tightly, both for emotional and practical purposes. He is not certain how much longer he can remain even partially upright. “It doesn’t have to be. Join me.” Ahsoka offers. “There’s still Vader, Thrawn, and a whole mess of other Imperials to defeat or force surrender from. But after...We can try to build something of our own.” Her right thumb lightly brushes over his cheek. “Won’t be easy, but it’s a chance for both of us to try something different.” “You will regret this decision. Soon.” He points out dryly. There is only so much optimism he is willing to endure, even in this state. She only laughs. “And you haven’t driven me insane. Yet. I don’t expect either one of us to be perfect at this from the start. Just to try.” Her hand curves down and around, lightly dragging her nails up his nape and eliciting a low rumble from him. “Aren’t you going to give me your answer?” Her smile cements the fact that she is utterly devious beneath her relatively-harmless exterior and he will get her back for this later. “You. Are an unrepentant tease. And I will greatly enjoy administering your punishment.” He growls, both impressed and frustrated by her manipulation. “But I am willing to see whether this insane notion of yours will work.” His agreement brings a smile from her, but not before she rolls her eyes and gives a small, exasperated exhale. “‘Yes’ would have worked fine, you know.” “And since when have I ever passed up the opportunity to frustrate you, my Lady?” “Ass. Mmmmph...”

“Care to rephrase that?”

“No. You are the worst. But I might be persuaded to change my opinion.”

“Let us see if I am up to the challenge, then.”

This is merely the beginning of a very long, hard road. Yet neither one of them will walk it alone, and that makes all the difference.

(A/N:Things I didn’t include in the top note because it was getting a bit wordy: This is set around 5-ish BBY, so Thrawn isn’t a Grand Admiral yet, only an Admiral(or possibly Commander, depending on when his promotion happened). Obviously certain canon events didn’t happen (ie Malachor), and Maul and Ahsoka have been in a sort-of relationship for about a decade at this point. Also, sorry, they didn’t have sex in the throne room. Just makeouts and soul-searching. This is absolutely a starting point. Neither character is ‘cured’ of their various issues/traumas by the end of this installment even if they are being semi-cute and flirty. This is...not what I would consider a realistic way to handle someone being triggered/having a delusional episode, but I digress. *notices that fics that have started with gore or violent imagery have mostly ended in fluff* -_-....Hm...Well, that’s a pattern. Or possibly a problem. Cheers, everyone!) 

[thefugitivemango]

FFAF; unfortunately I’m unsure which muses are yours, so let’s solve that :) can you give me a paragraph summing up each of them? Feel free to add in why you like them so much!

Sure thing! I could talk about my characters all day! I’m like that mom at the park that bombards other moms with pictures of her kids! In true mom fashion, I’ll even talk about them in their “age order”! It’s a lengthy answer, but you asked for it! Literally!

Bey’ron Everblaze ( @lordbeyron ) is one of my oldest and most complex characters. He’s gone through a few rewrites and adjustments, but his main core themes have always been cunning, pride, and a lust for power - and all these shine through in his current and hopefully final iteration. A renown Sin’dorei Magister and member of the esteemed Sun Council, Bey’ron sees himself as something of a puppetmaster on the political stage of Quel’Thalas. While he wouldn’t say it aloud, his sights have long been set on becoming the Sun King. And everything he does moves him in that direction. I love playing Bey’ron because of how others react to his haughty self-aggrandizing, his smug confidence, and his condescending tone. But those who look beyond or wade through his douche-baggery often find something in Bey’ron they can relate to - good or bad.

Argonas the Ironclad ( @argonas ) is a Draenei Vindicator and poster-child for the Light’s Justice! As lawful-good as my characters come, Argonas seeks to protect his people and advance the Light’s design to bless Azeroth, and all worlds beyond it. In his own mind, he’s a paragon! But in reality, he’s not without his shortcomings; grief over losing his beloved wife Sinafay ( @sinafay1 ) plague his motivations as of late. And his acute xenophobia makes it difficult for him to forge relationships with non-Draenei. I love playing Argonas because it’s such an interesting mindset to step into. When does lawful good become more damaging than helpful? How does zealotry undermine purity? And how far over the line can blind faith drive someone? I have a lot of fun exploring these questions and more through playing Argonas!

Gattius Starfrost ( @gattius-starfrost ), formerly Gattius Lightmourn, is a Sin’dorei doctor and Blood Knight reservist. His story began as a story of coping with great loss. His beloved partner Alteris was taken from him during the Pandaria campaign, and he had a difficult time coming to terms with it. But through delving into duties as a medic of a military organization, and reconnecting with his childhood friend (and now beloved wife, @syrielle ), Gattius is proof that helping others also helps one’s self. Playing him is a lot of fun because of how his values and flaws collide. He’s a doctor who chain-smokes like a chimney, supportive of his wife’s political goals though hates the Magistry, feels strongly for many people but regards himself a strong proponent of monogamy, and often lets his good intentions get derailed by his own jealousy. All in all, Gattius is among my favorite characters to write!

Avehi the Adamant ( @avehi-the-adamant ) is easily my favorite character on my roster. The dichotomy of a Draenei Death Knight has long intrigued me! Also a Vindicator like Argonas, Avehi’s path took an abrupt left turn when she died in the Plaguelands serving alongside the Argent Dawn. But her story didn’t end with her death - it was only the beginning! Now an abomination in the eyes of the Light she once so devoutly served, Avehi struggles with maintaining a connection with her fellow Draenei as well as contending with their mass mentality and belief system which casts her out. She’s been especially fun to play and write recently, ramping up into the upcoming Shadowlands expansion! So closely tied to the afterlife, Avehi’s picked up on disturbances beyond the veil. Her investigation has led her to concede on some of the more unsavory powers Death Knights possess in her pursuit of a truth most mortals find too outlandish to believe! As I said, she’s my absolute favorite character at the moment, and I love every chance and opportunity (or excuse) to play and write her!

Brent Sunborn ( @brent-sunborn ), aka Brentius Lor’aran, is an antagonist character written up during my Phoenix Guard days. A former Farstrider who fled Quel’Thalas after the Scourge Invasion, Brent got heavily involved in the Twilight’s Hammer cult. After playing his villainous role in the Guard’s story towards the end of Legion, Brent was reborn as a Void Elf Ghostblade! The fun thing about Brent is his youth. To him, things have always been very binary - good or bad, black or white. But through not only his tenure as a “PG Bad Guy”, but well beyond to even current storylines, he’s learning more and more that things aren’t always one thing or another. Coming to terms with those layers and gradients has been a journey for him. As of late, he’s struggling with adapting to the fall of the final Old God, N’Zoth, and the undoing of the Twilight’s Hammer cult he’s been a part of for so long! Despite now living through TWO end-game scenarios for him, Brent’s story is still very much building up! However, most of it happens in writing and planned interaction. The edgy loner Void Elf Rogue troupe doesn’t play well in-game for walk-ups, I’m afraid. x.x

Grakkar Gorefang ( @grakkar-gorefang ) is an old Mag’har Orc, facing the decline of his life. In his prime, he was a Warsong Raider of great skill, strength, and speed. And while he still possesses those traits, his advanced age is catching up to him every day. Hailing from alternate Draenor, Grakkar was a soldier of the Iron Horde. But following Gul’dan’s assumption of command, he renounced the fel-corrupt organization and fought alongside his Frostwolf mate Neela once more to see Draenor free of tyranny. At least... until the advent of the Lightbound Draenei. Losing his beloved Neela during that dark and terrible time for Draenor, he found comfort and companionship in an unlikely place - alternate Sinafay! ( @sinafay-the-defiant ). Opposing the oppression the Draenei had turned on their Orcish neighbors, Sinafay, Neela, and Grakkar worked together to liberate Orcs taken from their homes and forced to adhere to the Light. Now having escaped alternate Draenor, the two of them live together on Azeroth raising their newborn daughter - named after Neela, their beloved friend and partner who brought them together. Grakkar’s been fun to play as a character unbound by the factional divide. While the Horde saved him from alternate Draenor, he has no strong allegiances to it. And given he’s in love with a Draenei, that’s probably for the best! Still, playing and writing him through the Battle for Azeroth story line has been an interesting and fun experience!

Dahlyah Grimshatter ( @dahlyah-grimshatter ) is a young and outgoing Dark Iron Bounty Hunter. She built her martial experience as an Anvilrage Reservist. She moved on from simple soldiering to become a Mountaineer when the Dark Iron fought back against the Blackrock orcs and Black Dragonflight. But after the fall of Emperor Thaurissan and subsequent rise of Queen Moira Thaurissan, which led to the Dark Iron nation becoming part of the Alliance, Dahlyah separated from formal military service to go freelance! Her father’s something of an antagonist in her story, despite being largely absent. But more will come of that soon, to be sure. She’s good-natured, friendly and amicable most of the time. But once she’s on the job, her fiery Dark Iron blood takes over, and she becomes quite relentless and aggressive! She’s rarely without her trusted hunting companion and best friend, Ridley - a Dark Iron Bloodhound!  Dahlyah is a relatively new character of mine, and one I’m eager to flesh out! I’ve always had a love for and interest in the Dark Iron Dwarves since I started playing World of Warcraft, so I was absolutely thrilled when they became a playable race! I’m very excited to play her more and build up relationships and stories for her!

Finally, Tyrellius Duskfury ( @tyrellius ) is a sin’dorei Demon Hunter looking to reintegrate back into society. He’s an older elf who has experienced a great deal in his long life. Formerly a merchant and caravan runner, he became a Royal Guard to help protect his homeland. After the Scourge destroyed the Sunwell, he followed Prince Sunstrider loyally, and became a Blood Knight. Later, he was selected to serve Lord Illidan in an effort to strengthen ties between Prince Sunstrider and the Demon Hunter. He became an Illidari, and fought tooth and nail against the Legion! Now, with the wars against the Legion, Old Gods, and Alliance coming to a close, he’s struggling to rejoin society as peacefully as he can, despite the demons of his past he - literally - carries with him! Tyrellius is my newest RP character, rolled up and fleshed out in just the past 2-3 weeks as of this posting! I’m excited to play him, and build up interactions and relationships to better help his story unfold!

Whew! That was a long one! Thanks @unabashedrebel for the ask! ^^

[prorevenge]

Power hungry president sucks the joy out of a local artist collective, ends up having to leave town.

A warning and an apology: this is long.

For background, my older sister, who I'll call Beth, is married to her high school sweetheart, who I'll call Craig. Beth is a pretty laid-back person, but she has one hot button trigger that causes her to have zero chill: anyone treating her beloved Craig poorly. Craig is very quiet and kind, just in general a mild-mannered, good-natured guy who's not great at standing up for himself, so he often attracts bad actors who view him as an easy mark, and because he alwaysassumes that other people have good intentions, he's not great at realizing when he's being mistreated. Beth is usually pretty relaxed about things, but she will basically turn into a howling, vengence-seeking banshee if anyone takes advantage of Craig.

Which brings us to ~2-3 years ago. Craig works a white collar job remotely, but he's an amateur artist/craftsman as a hobby. He does wood carving, a little bit of light metalwork, and 2-D art (mainly pencil sketches and pen-and-ink illustrations). He joined an artist's collective/makerspace where he could work on these hobbies around likeminded people, and he absolutely loved it. Whenever I hung out with him and Beth around this time, Craig would excitedly talk about the space and his projects there with infectious enthusiasm. His eyes were practically beaming out of his head whenever it came up. Beth joined too to learn/improve on her own hobby of fiber arts (mainly weaving and dyeing), but she was way less into it than Craig.

Some time after this, the president of the makerspace stepped down. It was essentially a volunteer position, though it came with a small (mostly symbolic) stipend. Since the makerspace had no actual staff, being president of the makerspace was a huge undertaking that involved being a one-man show for everything--for a start, coordinating with the board, keeping day-to-day operations going, and chasing the grants that kept the lights on. The current president just couldn't do it anymore with his full-time job, and announced his intention to vacate the role. Craig had come to love the makerspace, and he figured he had the resources to be an effective president. His job is entirely remote and deliverables-based (he can work whatever hours he wants as long as he's meeting his objectives), so he figured he could work out of the makerspace on his laptop and be available there if anyone needed him, and then do the heavy lifting of the role outside work hours. So he threw his hat in the ring.

Enter Jamie, a recent industrial design grad. Jamie was known to be flaky and very dramatic, but he'd been a member of the makerspace for a couple of years, almost as long as it had existed, and he felt entitled to be handed the presidency because he had seniority. He lost his damn mind when he heard that Craig had the audacity to go for the same role and complained to several members about how Craig was massively overstepping. This got back to Craig, who didn't really take it seriously, and it also got back to Beth, who, of course, was already irritated that Jamie was shit-stirring, but kept it to herself.

Long story short: Jamie won the member vote by a small margin, which Craig was very gracious about. Craig congratulated Jamie on the victory, then settled back into business as usual. Jamie... was not so gracious. He was enraged that Craig had gotten so many votes, and made it known to everyone that he was trying to figure out who had voted for Craig, and that they "would pay." Many of the members who had voted for Jamie passively because he'd been around forever and they didn't really know Craig were shocked by this behavior and started privately expressing regret to each other. But it gets worse. The makerspace had always offered members the perk of sponsoring workshops, meetups, and classes that anyone, members or non-members, could attend; all you had to do was sign up for the space on a first-come, first-served basis and kick up 20% of any profits to the makerspace if you charged a fee. Jamie started preemptively cancelling classes and workshops sponsored by anyone on his shit list by blocking off all available reservations during the regular times certain classes would be held. So Craig had traditionally sponsored a popular casting workshop on Wednesday evenings, and suddenly all Wednesday evenings were booked solid before the sign-up sheet was even available. He tried switching to Thursday, but after just one rescheduled workshop, suddenly Thursday evenings were out too. He tried Tuesdays, but because it was so early in the week, no one could come. Craig was bummed, but was still too good-natured to realize Jamie was intentionally sabotaging him out of spite, despite a righteously angry Beth trying to paint the picture for him of what was going on.

Beth. Was. Pissed. But she wasn't banshee pissed yet. Not until...Jamie selectively told the people on his shit list that member fees were going up. By almost double. He presented this as a makerspace-wide policy, but he made one crucial error. Somehow, Jamie never picked up on Craig and Beth being married, probably because he was never around both of them at the same time. So Beth flew under his radar, and he didn't raise her member fees, just Craig's and some of Craig's known friends, which confirmed to her that he was intentionally retaliating against Craig.

At this point, Beth had steam coming out of her ears and went to go talk to the board, since they have the power to cite or even throw out the president. They were uneasy about what she told them, but they said the president was technically allowed to set member fees, and they'd keep an eye on things.

Beth didn't really believe the board that they'd be keeping an eye on things, because Jamie was already dropping the ball all over the place, and the board wasn't making a peep over it. He wanted to be president because of the prestige, but he was never willing to do the work, so he just--didn't do it, and things were falling apart. The makerspace was getting late notices on unpaid bills, basic maintenance of the space wasn't getting done, materials weren't being restocked as they ran out, and the record keeping was nonexistent. It got so bad that the previous president who had stepped down because he couldn't handle the time commitment anymore (who had run the makerspace from its inception) quit as a member altogether because he was so saddened and disgusted by how bad things had gotten. He'd put his blood, sweat, and tears into this place, and stepped down from a role he treasured because he believed it was in the best interest of the organization, and now he had to watch Jamie run this place he loved into the ground out of sheer laziness. Craig was also losing his excitement over the makerspace, because he no longer had the space or resources to do the things he enjoyed there.

Beth, at this point, had gone from furiously angry to strategically angry. Suspecting that Jamie was being shady in more ways than one, she spent a few days being friendly to Jamie and sucking up to him, and then sprung on him the offer to help with the organization's bookkeeping and records. Still not realizing that she was Craig's wife, but knowing that she worked as a project manager in her day job, Jamie saw a chance to get some skilled work done at zero effort to himself, and he happily agreed, and gave her access to the makerspace's Google Sheets (not the most high-tech operation). For a little while, Beth bided her time, bringing the financial accounts up to date and continuing to be diabolically friendly to Jamie.

After a while of this, she calmly pulled together six copies of documents comparing the official organizational income that Jamie was reporting to her with the actual income, which Jamie was completely unaware she was tracking. These documents proved that Jamie was not only skimming money off the top of class and workshop fees, but was actively stealing money from the grants the makerspace was receiving, which is highly illegal. Beth gave the six board members her impeccably compiled proof of what was happening.

Almost immediately, the board "fired" Jamie and issued a lifetime ban from the makerspace. They were afraid of losing their grants if news came out about the gross misappropriation, so they didn't report Jamie to the authorities, but instead gave him 48 hours to return the stolen funds, the implication being that they would report him if he didn't. He panicked and complied, selling his car quickly to do it and scrounging up the difference in a ton of quick loans from friends, many of whom were makerspace members not aware of what was going on (no, he never paid them back). He's now persona non grata with all of his former friends, and while he still has a clean criminal record, word traveled pretty far in the local artist community, which means he was black listed from most of the industrial design jobs in the area and couldn't use his degree if he wanted to stay in town. As far as Beth and Craig knew, he moved away about six months after all this went down, but they haven't kept up with him, and don't know where he is.

The makerspace board realized their setup was bad, so instead of a single president, they restructured to have a panel of volunteer officers running the operation. Craig is one of them, and has happily thrown himself back into wood working and metal casting. Beth still helps out with the books.

TL;DR: Power hungry industrial designer tries to sabotage my brother-in-law's hobby; gets his life destroyed by my protective sister, who reveals that he's embezzling.

(source) (story by SisterSist)

[chrysalispen]

xv. dying, not mortal overmuch;

Only a handful of weeks later, Aurelia's solution initially appeared to present itself. It had all started with a damp morning, the muddy pathways made more slippery with dew. Once again she had been relegated to the most menial of tasks while she put her leg through its each paces (not that she would have had a choice in the matter either way; even could she use it the aetheryte crystal, broken beyond repair, had been disposed during her first sennight in the city), and on that particular morning it had meant the creation of field dressings from hempen bolts and the organization of the quickly dwindling alchemical supplies on hand within the Fane's storehouse. 

About her milled the Guild's grey-robed conjurers of varying ages and sizes and races, from Hearers to the greenest of novitiates to chirurgeons, and finally menial laborers and prisoners on work detail. Aurelia didn't really consider herself to be in their employ as a chirurgeon, given they had yet to actually trust her with a scalpel. 

Or, she thought wryly, perhaps there simply wasn't anyone in Gridania quite desperate enough to go willingly under the knife when it was wielded by a known enemy of Eorzea. 

Most of the townspeople simply made a point of ignoring her presence just as they did the others, clearly unhappy with the Seedseer's decision to take in imperial prisoners for the rebuilding effort but unwilling or perhaps unable to gainsay it. Her reception after that first day, when E-Sumi-Yan had introduced her to the others, had been about what she expected: cordial, but very chilly. 

It remained thus as she lingered about the far edges of the conjurers' notice, performing tasks that many either deemed beneath them or simply had not the time to complete. While Aurelia certainly did not find this state of affairs to be what one would call 'ideal', she supposed it was a measurable improvement upon having rocks thrown at her face by the surviving people of the city. 

So in the meantime, dressings it was. Dull work, but important all the same, and she was not like to be harassed or interrupted by hecklers so long as she kept herself relatively scarce from public sight. 

She'd barely paid attention to the robed figure hurrying past her station until a scant few moments later there came a yelp and the sound of breaking glass. A softly hissed "oh *fuck me*" was quick to follow on its heels, and with a frown Aurelia set aside her scissors and ventured out towards the source of the small commotion.

A young man in a novitiate's robes knelt on the ground, the expression he wore a picture of tragedy as he stared at the remains of a broken glass vial. His hands were bleeding from the glass shards but he barely seemed to notice the cuts. 

"Shite," he began with an audible gulp at the sound of her footsteps, "I'm so sorry, I wasn't-- oh, it's you."

The flat, faintly hostile tone stopped Aurelia in her tracks. 

"What's happened?"

"I've bloody broken the last vial of Azeyma rose oil we had on hand, that's what's happened, and Hearer Oswold will have my neck."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I quite understand," she said cautiously. "If it's merely a matter of needing rose oil, there are-"

"Don't even finish that sentence." At her raised eyebrows, he let out a disconsolate growl and wiped his fingers on the grass. "Look, I'm sure you mean well enough, but a foreigner wouldn't understand. The number of calming ceremonies we've had to perform in the last two moons to keep the Greenwrath at bay - not quell it, mind, just to keep the settlements safe enough for basic survival - has eaten through our supply. And before you ask: no, it can't just be any rose oil, it has to be that kind, and most of the botanists' fields were destroyed in the fire."

"Might I be of assistance? Gardening was my hobby back home, you see, and-"

"This isn't going to be solved by hobby gardening, imperial. Were that the case I could walk up to any cosseted woman of means and just ask for-"

"If you would kindly let me finish?" Somewhat taken aback by the quiet retort, he fell silent before finally offering a grudging and sullen nod. "It's been my experience that in most instances the plants one needs for recipes, reagents, and the like can be found in the wild if needs must. Should your elementals insist upon a very specific type of rose for your rituals, then I would imagine surely that is the case here as well?"

"As it happens," he said slowly, "the Azeyma rose does grow in the wild. I'm told the sort grown by the botanists is actually cultivated from a type of wild quince, for larger hips and easier harvests. But the botanists have no one to spare to go seeking it in the Shroud. Nor do we for that matter."

"Of course you do. I'm certain someone else can be found to make field dressings in the meantime."

The expression on the young conjurer's face changed into some cross between burgeoning hope and consternation. 

"...Are you volunteering to go find it yourself?"

"I believe that is what I'm doing, yes."

"I thought you and yours weren't allowed to leave the city."

"Not alone, no, but that is easily remedied. You can come with me to fetch my escort if my intentions concern you. Either way, if you describe the flower you need, I should be able to harvest enough of what you need to create the oil for your ceremony, at the very least."

There was still a hint of lingering suspicion there as they'd gone in search of Keveh'to, but for the most part his attitude seemed considerably warmer when they parted.

==

Not a bell past, Aurelia found herself on the edges of the city with a large burlap crossbody bag and a pair of shears. The forest still bore an acrid burnt smell, but weeks of rains had dampened the scent and green had, slowly but surely, begun to overtake the ashes, with tree saplings and grass-blades poking tentatively through the deadfalls. While the damage was quite evident it was not so overwhelming that it provoked those gut-wrenching flashes of memory, for which she was quite grateful.

Her eyes scanned the undergrowth looking for the rose the man had described, her trail taking her closer to the creekbeds. She could feel Keveh'to's eyes on her and made sure to keep her movements slow and easily seen; all it would take for him to unsling his bow was an instant of suspicion and she'd have an arrow in her back. 

After a surprisingly short amount of time she saw the flower the novitiate had described. A small pink-red bloom, peeking shyly through a patch of weeds. There, she thought. That might be it. 

The thing she actually grabbed was decidedly not a flower of any kind. 

As soon as her fingers closed about the stem she heard a startled, high pitched squeaking and the sensation of something... warm and fluffy? flailing frantically at her searching fingers. The weeds rustled as loudly as though she'd disturbed a bird's rookery. 

"Kupopo?!"

Wincing, she immediately drew her hand back. The creature burst out of the bush in a shower of green leaves and small twigs. It was small and white with fluffy fur, leathery little black wings, and what she had thought at a glance to be the rounded, plump flower of a wild quince was simply a large, pink tuft of fur, dangling atop the animal's head from a slender stem of some kind. It was not a bird, or any kind of predator- but nor was it anything the Garlean had ever seen before in her life.

Aurelia set the small knife on the ground at her feet with the bag so as not to frighten it again, then held out her empty palms. 

"Terribly sorry," she said in a soft and conciliatory voice as if she were gentling a spooked animal, though she doubted it could understand her. "I... appear to have mistook you for a flower."

The creature didn't answer. It zoomed towards her face from one angle, then another, then just as immediately skipped out of her reach midair, its wings still fluttering wildly. It seemed curious, but still wary, taking her measure from top to bottom.

"Kupo," it huffed, and then swept away with the same surprising burst of speed towards deeper reaches of the forest.

"Miss Laskaris! Are you all right?" 

Keveh'to was running towards her, weapon drawn. With a slow blink Aurelia glanced back towards the copse where the small... mole? bat? mole-bat? had fled, but there was no sign of it now. 

"I heard something in the bushes. A wolf? There's word that they've been preying on-"

She shook her head.

"No, not a wolf. I’m… not certain what it was, truth be told. A very odd creature. I've never seen its like before. This little fluffy thing with what looked like- bat wings, almost."

The expression he gave her then was the strangest look she'd seen from him yet: a slight narrowing of the eyes, then a guarded grin - as though he thought she was having a jest at his expense for some reason. 

"That must have been very strange indeed, Miss Laskaris," he smiled. "What did it say to you?"

Aurelia's eyes narrowed. He was definitely humoring her. 

"It wasn't really a word? Just a noise- then it flew away into the trees." She exhaled, sheathing the knife and folding it back into the bag. "I rather think I frightened it, actually."

"Well, there's all sorts of wild animals out this direction. It probably isn't safe to be wandering about too far beyond the guard station. Have you got that flower the conjurers sent you out for?"

"Unfortunately not. I suppose we could try the far riverbank and see if there's aught to be found."

There was not. 

Her foray into the east-central Shroud was a much longer affair and, for the next handful of bells, unfruitful. She didn't know the area so she didn't know what plants were native, what could be feasibly harvested and what was useless and where the roses they needed were wont to grow unchecked. 

As the sun climbed into the sky she called for a rest, and took the opportunity to lean against an elm tree to get her bearings. Once she was certain Keveh’to was not in hearing range, she cursed under her breath. 

Foraging and gardening were two entirely different undertakings, she thought--

The rustling sound emanating from a growth of nearby sumac caught her attention. With a thoughtful frown, she approached it on slow and careful footsteps. 

A glance at her back told her that her minder was still within sight, watching her with a curious tilt of his head. She was probably pushing her luck doing this. Even did he not become suspicious of her behavior, he'd mentioned something about wolves-

But she... heard voices?

Very small, high-pitched voices, but- no, she thought, 'twas no mistake. There were two of them. Talking.

"We shouldn't be out here alone!"

"You know we can't return empty-hand-"

"There could be Ixal or worse, kupo!"

Aurelia knelt, took a handful of leaves and brush in one hand, and pushed it back to reveal two of the small white bat-winged creatures she'd encountered before. Both of them let out cries of alarm and flew past her through the opening she'd made to flutter about the air in obvious panic.

"Ixal! We must flee!" one of them cried. "Flee for our lives!"

The second reached to its companion and caught it by its whisker, dragging it backwards. "She's a Hyur, not an Ixal!"

"She's not a Hyur, kupo! Far too tall! An Elezen!"

"No, she's not! The ears are all wrong!"

Aurelia could think of nothing to say so she said the first thing that came to mind. 

"Hells below, you lot can talk?"

Their argument cut off into abrupt silence at her (rather blunt and untoward) exclamation. 

Its fear quite forgotten, the first of the pair now spun about in tight and indignant circles mere ilms from her nose and waved its tiny paws furiously in her face. The rounded little sphere bobbed erratically on its thin black whisker as she shrank back, blinking in surprise. 

"Well! I never, kupo! That's a terribly rude thing to say," it huffed. "Of course we can talk! How would you like it if I said 'Goodness me, a talking Hyur!' You lot can talk, indeed!"

"And what of you and your friend, then? What are you?" Aurelia said, feeling rather a sense of whimsy in the vein of the absurd as she folded her arms over her chest in open amusement. "I met one of your, ah, people just this morning but-"

"Ha! See? I was right! I told you she can see us!" The second creature performed a delighted backflip. "Pleased to meet you! I'm Kupto Kapp, and this is Kapna Kugi! We're moogles, and most handsome moogles at that, kupo!"

She couldn’t quite hide her smile.

"I... see."

"...Don't you know what moogles are?"

"No, I come from a land quite far to the north. There's not any 'moogles' there, not that I'm aware, anyroad." She paused mid-explanation. "...Wait, what do you mean 'I can see you'? Am I not supposed to see you?" 

The pair exchanged meaningful glances but said nothing. Laughing softly, Aurelia raised her hands in mock surrender. 

"Never mind; forget I asked. I can pretend as though I never saw you, if you'd prefer it?"

"Quite all right, kupo!" Kapna Kugi chirped. "Did the Seedseer summon you to help fix the Twelveswood?" 

"Something like that. At the minute I'm actually trying to find Azeyma roses for the conjurers. Most of their fields were lost when-"

"The fires," Kupto Kapp mumbled, posture slumping forward for perhaps a single breath before he brightened with a cheerful wave of his tiny paws. "Oh! I think she's talking about the pretty pink ones that look like our poms! We know where you can find plenty of those, kupo! Follow us! This way! Watch your step!"

"All right. One moment..." 

She turned around, caught Keveh'to's eye, and waved, then motioned in the direction the moogles were already floating - it wouldn't do to get herself shot trying to fulfill this request - before adjusting the crossbody bag and venturing into the undergrowth by the riverbank.

Her first friends in the Black Shroud, Aurelia thought with a soft chuckle as she watched the pair dance happily through the air before her eyes. Very small and strange little friends (and she knew someone would probably have themselves a good laugh at the irony of a Garlean befriending what her people would have immediately designated as a beast tribe), but at this point she'd take any friendly overtures that came her way.

~*~

Alden Greene hauled another bucket from the back of the old cart and made for the debris-choked river. 

Truth be told, the middle-aged Midlander couldn't help his misgivings. The water smelled sulfurous and he'd heard talk from some of the other refugees that they'd seen the bodies of fish downstream, floating in the pools half-rotted and glassy-eyed ever since the fires that had ravaged the area over a moon past. But he was too exhausted and desperate to let himself be overly cautious. It had been days since they'd had fresh water of any kind and their food source had long since been reduced to the mealy, weevil-ridden hardtack from Resistance rations. 

They'd boil it, the Ala Mhigan thought. It would be fine.

Like countless others he'd taken advantage of the chaos in the wake of Dalamud's fall to slip across the border. While the Empire normally kept a close eye on Baelsar's Wall, even their warmachina couldn't be everywhere and there were rumors the XIVth had deserted Gyr Abania entirely, substantiated at least in part by the far leaner perimeter patrols in the fringes of the badlands as of late. It had been the perfect opportunity.

What he hadn't counted upon was the number of refugees in the Shroud itself, displaced by the destruction of their villages and as desperate for succor as he and his fellows. Most were on the road heading towards Gridania, though a fair number had spoken of leaving the forest altogether to seek solace in Thanalan. Ul'dah was a wealthy city and not as badly impacted; surely they would have opportunities aplenty. 

Alden didn't think there would be as many opportunities as some others wanted to believe, but he kept his opinions to himself and decided to try his luck with the forest folk. The last two hamlets they'd tried to shelter in wouldn't take them though- some rot about elementals and woodsin and the like that made no sense to him. 

Still, Gridania lay ahead and he'd heard they had taken in several families already. Perhaps they'd have better luck there. 

He shouted to Tilda to bring the stew pot and while he waited, he doused his grimy face and hands with the water in the bucket. A bath wouldn't be amiss either; maybe a quick swim in the creek was in order.

=

The first to sicken was old Edmund. The aged quarry worker was seventy-two winters, stooped and gnarled, already made frail from the rigors of a dangerous journey and a lung ague left to him from the unseasonably cold weather, so few thought much of it when he took to one of the wagons and was unable to leave it. 

Alden sent Tilda to tend him and did his best, in the meantime, to collect water and food for the others in the makeshift camp. They'd have to move on soon; there had been beastman sightings on the edges of the forest, Ixal no doubt lying in wait to harry their weakest remnant. The small handful of martially inclined still among them were watching the perimeter but it would not be enough if the birdmen made a concerted effort to attack.

Tilda wore a worried expression upon his return later in the day. The old man would take no water nor a scrap of food, she said, but his bowels were naught but liquid. She'd changed his bedding twice, and the reek had been enough to drive off all but the hardiest of stomachs, her own included. Only pity had compelled her to remain.

"Please, we have to break camp tonight," she begged. "He's taken so ill-"

"You think I don't have eyes, girl?" Alden growled, staring down at the half-eaten rabbit on its spit and not sure how much he really wanted another bite. Cursing softly, he flung the carcass into the fire pit and wiped at his lips with the back of one hand. "Aye, he's taken ill, all right. 'Tis the flux, no doubt. I've seen it before, at home and abroad with the army."

"But Da, I've never seen a case so bad. If we don't get him to a barber, and soon, he..."

He cut her off, voice a gruff rumble:

"He's like to die. I know."

Indignant, Tilda stood, wiping her hands on her apron and her dark eyes flashing fire. "How can you be so cold about it?! Over something so- so bloody unfair-"

"Because crying over one man's corpse won't save the rest of us!" 

Father and daughter glared at each other, shadows flickering against the backdrop of tree and cart. Tilda was the first to break eye contact, if only because she pivoted on one heel and stormed off towards their cart without another word. 

Alden watched her go before running a weary hand down one side of his face. 

His stomach turned at the thought of the dying old man alone and miserable in his own filth. The flux was a miserable way to pass. He'd seen it sweep through entire villages if left unchecked. They'd have to burn the body, the sheets, aught that had been touched by its victim, and pray it wouldn't spread any further.

Shivering in the chill night wind, he drew his cloak tight about his broad shoulders and poked at the burning wood until the fire had died to naught but embers.

=

When they awakened in the morning, the old man had passed. Five others had fallen ill in the night, unable to leave their beds, and the worry among the refugees had become palpable. 

Feverish and ill himself, Alden shouted to the others to break camp, that they made for Gridania. As his daughter helped to load their meager possessions for the last leg of the journey south, he and two other men cleared the area around the dead man's cart and set it ablaze. They didn’t dare attempt to douse the flames until all had burnt beyond recognition. 

"Godsspeed, Edmund," he muttered under his breath. Imperial law had forced him to conceal his faith for so long that it felt strange to speak the words aloud again without fear of reprisal. His fingers grasped at the well-worn talisman of the Destroyer still laid under his homespun, warmed by his bare skin. "Twelve keep you." 

As epitaphs went, it was a piss-poor thing, but there was neither the time nor the resources to spare aught else. 

Still, pity speared him deeply. The old man had survived a fearful and trial-filled flight through the harsh and unforgiving climes of the Gyr Abanian badlands, had escaped to safety beyond the great steel wall-- only to succumb to such an ugly and ignoble fate in the middle of the Eorzean wilderness. 

Fate was a cruel mistress, indeed.

Unaware of what this new misfortune presaged, the Ala Mhigan boarded the weathered cart alongside his daughter and huddled trembling in his seat, hands weakly clutching at the chocobo's reins. Before and behind, the train of struggling men, women, and children made their way towards the city. The skies loomed over them, grey and ominous. Time was short; they must be away. 

Within a bell, the rains came and washed the detritus of the camp into the fouled waters of the river stream.

Another day had begun.

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence, chapter 16

Summary:  After Xehanort's death, Demyx finds himself unexpectedly human in Radiant Garden. With nothing but fragments of his past and a cryptic statement from Xemnas, he's left to figure out who he is. When Ienzo asks for his help with a project, the two find common ground, but the trauma and secrets in both of their pasts could tear it apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Ienzo), post-KH3 canon compliant

Read it on FF.net/ on AO3

----

Excerpt of an audio recording from device 5.875.32.852 (admin is registered as EVEN [surname REDACTED]. Transcription programs recognize the speaking voice of the admin as well as one other distinct voice. Transcription errors due to colloquialisms, slang, accent, muffled speech, etc. are acknowledged and will be used in further evolutions of this program.

Recording commences at 16:03.

--I hope you do not mind that I am recording this. I assure you any we can redact any exceedingly personal information. This is for my edification only. I would never dream of letting it fall into unsavory hands.

--Uh. Sure.

--Can you state your name and age in its entirety?

--Yeah. I’m [birth name and surname REDACTED]. I still go by Demyx. I’m twenty-two.

--That’s your name? That’s not what I thought.

--Yeah, well. It seems like I’m full of surprises. I don’t care who knows it, but it doesn’t seem to fit right anymore. You know?

--I suppose. So. Can you tell me what you remember, as far back as you can, as comfortably as you can?

--I’ll try.

----

These memories don’t feel like mine.

It’s weird. I guess it’s more like I’m reading a book, or watching a movie.

“It” started, if by it you mean all this Keyblade crap, when I was five. I was my parents’ only kid. We were broke. Like, squatting and going to soup kitchens broke. There were the early days, when the Foretellers--the five chosen ones or whatever--were just building their unions and preaching about their ideas in the plaza. I’m honestly not sure if they were the first wielders, but they were definitely the ones that made it a thing, That promised this as the way to seek the light.

Heartless started coming--from the future, or so they said in the square. We needed a way to defend ourselves. So they started testing people for worthiness. Kids were always easier. Less corrupt. More full of light.

More manipulable.

They said they would take the kids from more troubled circumstances, and give them what they needed to survive. In my parents’ eyes, food and a place to live. The luckier ones could stay at home. So that caused a big influx of poor people sending their kids in to be tested and trained. While some of the better off ones saw it as a sign of honor, everyone else wanted to keep their kids safe. Even the ones with Keyblades were dying.

My parents figured Heartless were better than me starving to death. So they sent me, by myself, for the test.

The older ones could pick their unions, but the real little ones like me they chose a more “organic” approach. They take you inside, and there the Foretellers are with a little table of five toys. Apparently picking one shows some intrinsic quality they’re looking for, or whatever. I got chosen to be in Ursus. And just like that, my mom and dad hugged me goodbye and left me there.

It was hard. Physically, mentally. I missed my parents. The training was grueling, and it hurt. But whenever I would cry or get upset either Master Aced or one of the older kids would tell me to be quiet. Because I was lucky. And I had a chance to be something.

But you see, Even, it doesn’t matter how lucky I was. I was still getting razzed by Heartless, getting thrown in and out of time to these worlds, getting reprimanded for bunging off quests or not getting enough lux. I got kicked out of a few parties for that. Making friends wasn’t so easy when I got a reputation for being a crybaby and a coward, even though I was six or seven.

I still tried to see my parents when I got a chance. They moved around a lot. Dad tried to get steady work a few times, but I think he had some kind of mental illness or something, and he could never be on time, or do what he was told, or get out of bed, so they lost their apartments a lot. Mom was a street musician, and she took in students sometimes, but it wasn’t enough money.

She taught me, too.

Compared to Keyblade stuff, music was so easy. I was so good at it. Knowing I wasn’t terrible at everything gave me strength to go on. I had a way to take all the bad feelings, all the nightmares, and make something beautiful out of it.

I tried to quit the union.

You wouldn’t believe the telling off Master Aced gave me. “Why was I ashamed of my heritage”. “Why wasn’t I doing my part.” “What did I think I would become otherwise, I came from the gutter.” It was devastating. Without the Keyblade, they said, I was worthless. I didn’t want to believe that was true.

As the years passed, and this all kept happening, I tried to study music on the side. That’s when I started keeping the diary. I wrote these weird avant-garde compositions, but that wasn’t enough to salve the pain. So I wrote how I felt, and if anybody found it, I’d just say it was nonsense. But nobody did, though. During that time the tensions between the unions started to grow, mostly over who was getting the most light. Kids were fighting in the streets. Killing each other’s Chirithys--that’s how I lost mine. Even the most legendary parties fell apart. People were still dying.

One of these days, when I was almost seventeen, I was going back to the dorms after another quest. Master Ava--Vulpes’s leader--stopped me. She said she’d heard about me, and I braced myself for another lecture like the ones Aced liked to give. But it was my focus on the bigger picture of my life she liked, she said. She wanted me to join a special union she was building.

The Dandelions.

The reason she built this union was because she feared there would soon be war between the others, and that war would escalate to apocalyptic proportions. Remember, we’d all been training for years at that point, we all had way overpowered magic--even me. But because we had no foresight as to anything other than collecting lux, nobody could see the consequences of fighting.

She was going to take this special union, and she was going to teach us how to escape this world altogether, just to make sure somebody survived.

I know you’re probably dying to know how we did it, but I honestly can’t remember. It was some kind of spell, for sure. I know that each of us cast it, and we were all supposed to go together. But it’s one of those things too slippery and powerful to hold onto for long. Not to mention, this travel was supposed to wipe our memories of the trauma and give us a fresh start. So she said.

The war started earlier than expected. The only reason I went to the battle was to find the other Dandelions so we could leave. But I’m not sure if I missed a memo or something. They were gone. Then again, there were so many bodies that had been just so completely fucking destroyed that they could have been some of these people.

…

…

…

[Audio muffled or indiscernible; external knowledge of social cues suggests emotional distress.]

People were just fucking killing each other. They… they tried to kill me, too. I remember Keyblades hitting my armor and I panicked. And I guess instinctively I cast the spell and got out. Got somewhere, or I guess some when is the better word. I ended up in the same place, just later, surrounded by all these rusting Keyblades, my memories completely cleaved and running through my fingers like sand. I remember that, feeling it all drain away like a dream.

That’s when Xemnas found me. When things started to hurt. The shock and the armor made it hard to tell, but someone had stabbed me clean through the chest.

He was nice to me, too. He said he’d been waiting for me and that I was going to be okay. He could give me purpose. My wounds would heal.

I died, and Demyx was born. Memory-free.

You know the rest.

End recording, duration--25:17.

----

“Goodness gracious. ” Like a child listening to their favorite story, he’d been leaning forward attentively. He’d even started recording it on his gummiphone, which Demyx initially felt was a violation of his privacy. But considering how close-lipped Vexen had always been about his experiments, he knew, if anything, his words would be safe in Even’s hands. “This is a window into our history.”

“Yours, maybe.”

“You simply must tell me more about these Foretellers. How is this organization structured? What was their training regimen like? Who was their leader--did they have a leader?”

“It's a lot to talk about." His throat was dry from talking for so long.

Even exhaled. He paused the recording. “I suppose you’re right. Of course you must be very tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would say so.”

A beat of silence.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Even said. “I realize… it is not easy. Especially given our past relationship.”

“Like you said. Forgiveness.”

He nodded once, curtly. “Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“I think I’ll be okay. But thanks.”

“Well. Don’t get too used to it.”

Demyx looked at him. He didn’t know how else to be kind, Demyx realized. It must take immense effort. “Wake me up if anything changes with Ienzo,” he said. “Please.”

“You can be sure of it.”

----

The next several days, he felt utterly hollow. Demyx slept a lot. This was a sort of mental exhaustion. He was afraid to stray too far away from Ienzo’s side, but his condition remained unchanged. Guilt clung to him. He wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He cleaned his room, which took all of ten minutes considering his lack of possessions. Did laundry. Found a couple books to read which weren’t half bad. It was a toxic combination of boredom and stagnation. At the end of the first week of this, Dilan asked him to come play cards.

“I figure you could use a bit of a diversion,” he said. He offered a smile.

“I guess I’m being pretty pathetic, huh,” Demyx said. He forced a laugh.

“Given the circumstances? No. But wallowing must be horrifically boring.”

Dilan’s quarters were even smaller than Even’s. He and Aeleus shared a sitting room and kitchenette. A faint smell of garlic lingered in the room, along with something like eucalyptus. He had a small herb garden, each one meticulously cared for. Near this was a pile of puzzle boxes.

Dilan took out a pack of cards. Demyx sat gingerly on the couch. It was less stern than the other furniture, a bit more comfortable, a soft velor that felt good to touch. He was becoming increasingly reliant on the tactile to stay grounded. He didn’t know if this was one of his myriad issues, or an effect of being overwhelmed.

Dilan crossed to a small glass cabinet. “Would you like a drink?”

“God. Yes.”

He poured them each a few fingers of whiskey into small crystal glasses. It burned when Demyx sipped it, but he liked it. “What shall we play? It’s a shame we’ve no third. I’d rather have liked to play Blackjack.”

“It’s not like I have anything to bet.”

“Too, too true.”

They settled on Hearts. Demyx didn’t know what to say to Dilan. After winning the first game, Dilan got them another drink.

“I’m not sure how I feel about your newfound reticence,” Dilan said. “It’s so odd, to see how humanity has changed you youth.”

“How so?”

“You were hardly ever so reserved. Ienzo was never so friendly. You should have heard him, chattering away to Sora. ...I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t bother me. To hear his name. Either of them, I mean.” He felt only a shadow of the ping of anxiety he got when thinking about Sora. Of course, knowing what he knew now, it made sense that Sora’d had to strike him down. Psychically, there were bigger fish to fry.

“You’ve got a focus to you. An intensity. It’s like you’re more present.”

“I don’t feel very present.”

“Well. We’ve all received some shocks recently.”

The alcohol was making him warm and a little dizzy. Demyx wasn’t sure whether or not he liked the sensation. He slipped off his shoes and pulled his feet up under him. “Why did you become an apprentice?”

Dilan thought for a moment, shuffled his cards, and then drank down the remainder of his whiskey in one swallow. “Why indeed,” he muttered. “I was only a boy at the time, a bit younger than yourself. I needed something to do with my life. I’d always liked creating things. Building things. Ansem had passed some initiatives to make Radiant Garden a haven for the sciences. I applied to study engineering under him, and was accepted.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He chuckled. “Why did you choose to become a Keyblade wielder?”

“I didn’t,” Demyx said. “It chose me. I was poor. Being a wielder was pretty much the only way to survive.”

“I abhor such economies,” Dilan said sourly. “I cannot understand how some leaders will let their charges suffer for basic human rights.”

“I can’t really have a realized perspective of it. I was still a kid when I left.”

“What will you do now?”

“What will I… do?” Demyx repeated numbly. “Frankly, I didn’t think I’d get this far.”

“You and I both.”

He continued to pet the velor. He was feeling dizzier still, and heavy. “I want to be with Ienzo,” he said. “And I want to make friends. Real ones. But I don’t know where I’d fit.”

“What’s that old adage? “Be yourself?””

“Hasn’t exactly worked in the past.”

“It is a theory of mine that becoming a Nobody worsens one’s flaws and insecurities.” Dilan poured them another drink. “Our personalities devolved and repelled. Fed by darkness. Take your time. Be honest. That’s all.”

Demyx picked up the crystal cup and swirled the amber liquid around a little. “I guess.”

“What about that guitar of yours?”

“Sitar?”

“Yes. That.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll find out.”

---

The next day, it sleeted. The echo of the splotches of snow piling up outside was audible within the confines of the castle. Demyx went to the library, armed with a cup of coffee. He lit a fire in the hearth. Once it was large enough to tend to itself, he sat down cross legged in front of it.

For some reason he was nervous. This was akin to stage fright. He’d much rather be worthy of Arpeggio than the stupid Keyblade.

Demyx held out his hands and pulled from within. The Keyblade appeared. He sighed. “I don’t want you,” he muttered. Let it disappear. He remembered the way the sitar had felt, the perfect weight of it, the smooth varnished wood.

Keyblade again. Demyx had to resist the urge to just toss the damn thing. He stared down at it. Traced the smooth shaft, twisted the links of the chain.

“Please,” he said to it. “I don’t want to fight. I just want--”

Not to be an idiot talking to an inanimate object?

Vanishing. Reappearing. It didn’t matter how long he thought about his Nobody memories, of all the music he’d ever made with Arpeggio. Of the fights or occasionally lack thereof.

“Are you mad at me?” Demyx asked out loud. “I didn’t ask for this to all happen.”

Hadn’t he?

Oh, we do too have hearts. Don’t be mad.

“Shut up,” he hissed at himself.

The fire popped as a log settled, startling him.

“Is it because I’m not him anymore?” he continued. “I’m still the sa-- no. I’m not.”

Demyx lay back on the plush carpet.

Remembering death was not easy. Doubly hard now that he knew it wasn’t the first time he’d been slain with Keyblades. Some of them were sharp, most blunt. You’d crush your ribs before you drew blood. Which was what happened. He rested his palm on the spot were the scars were.

Sora, Donald, Goofy. So much rage. Realization that this was a murder-suicide. He was able to pin Sora twice before the pain was too much. Before fading. Before waking up. Before Braig, with a soft smile, and a boy with silver hair, and a hot stab to the chest. What would have happened, really, if he hadn’t been turned into a vessel? What would he have done? Run away? Spent his life friendless, unloved and alone?

Without Ienzo?

He needed connections. Without them he could never hope to be whole--at least, figuratively. He had to do better. To be better. But how? Fancy displays of heroism were functionally worthless if there was no real intent behind them.

Demyx stood. Despite it all, he sort of had an idea.

----

The winter coat he had was warm enough, but it was not quite waterproof, and by the time he’d waded through the slop he was damp and chilly. When he reached the door of the committee’s headquarters, though, a knot of anxiety overrode his physical discomfort. Demyx stood for several moments at the door as wet snow piled on his hat, unsure of what to say. Several times he reached up to knock and withdrew his hand. He had barely placed his palm on the doorknob before it opened of its own accord.

“‘Could’ve finished War and Peace in the time it took you to make up your mind,” a middle-aged blond man said gruffly. “Come on in, kid.” He was smoking a cigarette, and its smell mixed with the ambient woodsmoke. “Don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Cid.” He offered his hand. “Saw you unconscious, but I don’t think you remember that.”

“Not--exactly--” Demyx shook his hand.

“Let me take your jacket before you get snow everywhere.” He took the wet garments and hung them on a coat rack.

“It’s warm in here,” Demyx said, half in wonder. He was so used to the drafty castle that he’d forgotten what adequate heating felt like.

Cid raised an eyebrow. “‘Course it is.”

“It’s, um, the castle. Heating’s not very good.”

“I imagine it wouldn’t be.”

A beat passed. Demyx felt his anxiety rising and floundered for things to say.

“I’m guessing you’re here for Aerith?” Cid asked. He stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray.

“Well. Sort of. I want to help.”

“With what,” he said blankly.

“Anything. I mean I--” Demyx could feel himself turning red.

“In the middle of winter?”

He bit his lip and looked down.

Cid chuckled. “I’m messing with you, kid. We’re always happy to have an extra pair of hands. Any of ya’ll got a sense of humor over there?”

“Let’s just say it’s been a tough week,” Demyx said.

“I’ll say. Weather’s been driving us mad. I finally kicked out Yuffie and Leon to get some peace and quiet.”

“...Er. Sorry about that.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure one or both of them will be back soon. They know a bit more about the operations stuff than I do. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Demyx perched in one of the folding chairs. Cid sat back down at a computer and began absently writing code. He wondered if he should say something. Anything. Ask questions. He kept his hands knotted in his lap.

A door he hadn’t noticed previously opened, and out came Aerith, drying her hands on a towel. “Demyx? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Fine--well, enough. I’m here to help.”

She crossed over a plant on the table and cut off a few of its leaves. “Can’t do a whole lot in the winter other than plan, unfortunately.”

“What are you doing with those?”

“Making medicine.” She nodded her head towards the other room. “Want to see?”

He followed her. It was a small, narrow room, with a cot up against one wall. The other wall was lined with cabinets and some counter space. A few different types of dried leaves and blooms were stuffed in the myriad little drawers. She took the leaves, scattered them into mortar. To Demyx, the mix looked like a salad more than a medicine. She crushed it down, whispered a spell, and then with an odd little device began packing it into capsules. “Pectin,” she explained. “Goes down easier than the raw leaves. And doesn’t get stuck in your throat.”  She held up the tiny pill so he could see.

“What does it do?” Demyx asked.

“Cold cure,” she said simply. “We need lots of it this time of year. And colds always change. I’m forever tweaking it.”

A memory he hadn’t fully process washed in. He’d never been the best fighter in any of his parties, often left to provide background support. The spells then he’d used had been barbaric in comparison, but at least it kept people alive.

“When did you learn how to do all this stuff?” he asked. He was feeling odd.

“Oh, ever since I was a kid,” she said. “My mom and grandma before me were healers. They sorta taught me what I know now. And I’m also teaching myself.”

“Do you think it’s possible for someone else to learn?”

She crushed more herbs. “I’m sure it is. It’s magic like anything else.”

“What about--say--me?”

Aerith turned slightly. She appraised him.

“I’ve been wanting to help people and I don’t know how. You saved me. You saved Ienzo. I can’t do science, and I’m not a good fighter. But I have a good memory.” He considered the irony of that statement. But he’d always been good at memorizing.

“It’s a long road. This isn’t something you can do halfway. People’s lives could be at stake. But you know that.” She smiled a little. Tapped her forehead. “You’ve been through a lot in your life. Seen a lot of suffering.”

“Haven’t we all,” he said dryly.

“That’s… right.” She dusted off her hands. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or believe you can do it. But you’ve gotta have a certain kind of tenacity. An ingenuity. Tell you what. Why don’t you read some base healing theory? There’s no way Ansem doesn’t have books about it. If that doesn’t send you running for the hills, we can talk.” She winked.

Demyx nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

“Good luck.”

He stood.

“Was that the answer you needed?” she asked.

“I think it was.”

----

A week or so passed. He tried to do what Aerith said, and study. But Demyx had never been the most studious, and almost everything he learned sans the very basics he’d learned in the field. He spent these minutes and hours alternating between the text and the dictionary. Why were academics such bad writers?

Sometimes he studied near Ienzo, sometimes he didn’t. Ienzo slept and slept and slept. Demyx could feel the utter lack of presence like a missing tooth. Honestly, being around him and not being able to talk to him was nearly painful.

During one of these marathon reading sessions, Even came in to check Ienzo’s vitals, as he did several times each day. “EKG activity is still fairly limited. But improving. He must be dreaming.”

“About what?” Demyx asked.

“I’ve no idea. ...What is that?” He reached town and felt at Demyx’s temperature. “Are you quite alright?”

Demyx sighed, marked his place in the book, and shut it. “I’m studying. Sue me.”

“But why?”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “You’re just going to make fun of me.”

“I will… not,” Even said with great restraint.

Demyx raised an eyebrow.

“I must admit I am still getting used to the new you. Tell me. I will withhold judgement.”

“I’m thinking of learning to heal. Like. The magic.” He braced himself.

Even didn’t laugh. “Really? Why is that?”

“I want to help people. And this seems like something I can actually do.” He sighed. “I hate feeling helpless. If I can help someone not feel that way, it’d be nice. You know.”

“I admit I never put much stock in such magic initially. But seeing how that woman has cared for the two of you, I’m starting to change my mind.”

“Do you think I can do it?”

Even considered this. “You had a fairly potent magical ability in the Organization. I don’t see why not.”

“You don’t think I’m too stupid?”

He scowled. “I find it stupid that you hold my opinion in such high esteem.” Then, softening. “As you said. You’re not a scientist. But that really has little to do with practical intelligence.” He picked up the tome. “I’d be glad to help you, should you so want it. These aren’t exactly light reading. It’d be convenient to have another pair of hands.” He picked up another bag of saline. “Well. If you’re so interested, I might as well teach you how to do this much.” He showed Demyx how to change the IV and how to take base vitals. “I’m hoping we won’t need to do this for too much longer. But that’s all up to him.” Even patted Ienzo’s head.

“I miss him.” He felt tears in his eyes.

“As do I,” Even said softly. “Come. Are you hungry?”

---

The more Demyx studied, the more his memories became clearer. In those first shocked days, it had been hard to focus on any memory for very long. Now, not so much.

He’d been a healer then, but not a very good one. He’d still been a coward. More than once someone had gotten egregiously hurt because he hadn’t been willing to step up. He’d been kicked out of multiple parties that way.

He didn’t want to be a coward. It was time to be mature; a grown up. Deal with grown up things in a grown up way. Don’t run. Face it. The hurt will be over that much faster.

For the first time, he tried to summon the Keyblade because he wanted to. But that wasn’t what happened. Instead of cool metal, there was warm, varnished wood. Familiar. Well-worn. He held the sitar tenderly. Cried a bit out of relief.

He was still, despite it all, himself.

[maximiliangreiner-blog1]

The Chronicles of How Can I Steam Clean up My Couch in your house

For those who have not experimented with cleaning with steam, I strongly suggest it. Some opt to hire a specialist carpet steam cleaner to come to the home and clean the carpets for them. It is the best possible car steam cleaner you should buy for car detailing. A steam cleaner could well be an outstanding indicates to clean and disinfect them without having to haul them to a laundromat. شركة تنظيف منازل If you don't have a steam cleaner, lease one particular from the household enhancement or grocery shop. When deciding on a steam mop there are lots of things that you've got to take into account. A standard steam mop, such as the 1 pictured previously mentioned, ought to do the job for an excessive amount of the tips you may uncover below. A superb steam mop must have a big tank that is straightforward to fill with the capability to warmth water swiftly.

Type of How Am i able to Steam Clear My Sofa at Home

Steam cleaning fabrics and leather is Among the many safest solutions. Upholstery is an element of our working day-to-working day life and as a result of that, It really is rather crucial to totally grasp how to clean furniture effectively. Cleanse upholstery brightens up the entire area. Now which you understand what items to work with to effectively clear upholstery you'll need to Collect the correct cleaning provides. For anyone who is thinking about how to wash upholstery produced outside of leather, you've got come to the right place. The upholstery is your own home is your asset that amplifies the interior of your house. Go on looking through to find out all you'll want to study steam cleaning upholstery.

The brand new Fuss Regarding how Can I Steam Thoroughly clean My Couch in your own home

Recliner Couch is amongst the absolute most cozy types of sofas and homeowners enjoy them. There should be just enough humidity while in the fabric so it doesn't allow any to soak within the sofa's fabric. Usually, material sofas have tags which could allow you to out. Allow the baking soda remain about the couch for approximately 20 to thirty minutes. Suede couch is a favorite alternative among homeowners as They can be fairly uncomplicated to wash and repel stains and dirt buildup. If you want to know how to scrub a suede couch or no matter if you ought to find out how to wash a microfiber sofa then look no much more, utilizing a fabric cleaner will undoubtedly operate awesome items for you. A stained or uncleaned sofa or couch produce a terrible effect on the house's aura.

How Am i able to Steam Clean My Couch in your house in your case

Now not will you must maintain a bunch of highly-priced chemical cleaners for each and each job. Steam mops are incredibly well-liked especially with folks which are fastidious as they can obtain past just clean to a deeper level. Steam cleaners are amazingly practical and efficient in regards to cleansing your house. There are many low-cost automotive steam cleaners supplied but none appear close On the subject of steam strain. When it should do with furniture cleansing, most homeowners can take care of tiny spills, crumbs or dust by them selves with store-bought cleaning answers. On a regular basis deep cleaning your furnishings can even safeguard and lengthen the daily life span of your expenditure, preserving you much more income in the long term. Whenever you ebook our regional sofa cleaners you should not be concerned about anything. Steam cleaning is a superb approach to deal with quite a few residence cleansing Employment without making use of chemical cleaners. Normal deep cleansing also allows continue to keep the general search of upholstered furniture. We, Prolux Carpet Cleansing in London, are below to be able that may help you cope with your sophisticated front room selection. One thing you'll want to Take note would be the sorts of cleaners that are made for various sorts of fabrics. Slightly goes a techniques, and thus Will not be tempted to work with many any harsh cleaner. It's a mid range priced steam cleaner that packs a large amount of functions and Great performance.

The Nuiances of How Am i able to Steam Thoroughly clean My Couch in your house

Our home providers are made to generally be completely headache-free. Some steam cleaning businesses base their charges on the sort of carpet. Photo your organization and all the cleaning providers it provides. When searching for a prime excellent carpet cleaner, bear in mind that not all carpeting cleaning providers are made equivalent. Our cleaning expert services are not only restricted to simple upholstery cleaning but we also offer couch cleaning, couch cleaning and comprehensive lounge cleaning solutions in all metropolitan parts of Brisbane. Our ordinary leather cleansing service is priced to satisfy your budget. You may also think of choosing a steam cleaning organization to clean for you personally.

Locating the most beneficial How Am i able to Steam Clean up My Sofa in the home

Lots of steam cleaners involve equipment that let you to definitely absolutely depth your motorcar. You will be able to see below the difference in both equally filthy tracks and the two clean up tracks. In any other case, it is possible to observe a distinction between the clean spots and the remainder of the home furnishings. Future now's enough time to steam cleanse! Armed with the solution, you may perhaps see that at this stage you go all around your house seeking out the dirtiest areas so it is feasible to steam thoroughly clean them into cleanliness. In the event you reside in a bit condominium or studio a handheld upholstery steam cleaner is most probably very likely to certainly be a better choice, Particularly once you think about storing the unit. Steam cleaner units are equipped with quite a few cleansing heads.

The Basics of Does Steam Cleaning Destroy Mildew

In about you will have to eliminate mold in the carpeting, You furthermore may need to have to keep it from build up once more. In the function the mildew has reached the backing at the bottom with the carpeting, it'd get substantial effort to remove. Not less than, you understand the steps to acquire to remove mold from carpets. Mould tends to return, and Which means you would possibly should repeat your cleaning functions. By yourself, mould can cause a whole host of issues, specifically in youngsters as well as elderly. Occasionally mould may very well be a result of damaged brickwork google or leaking pipes in your inside partitions, which ought to be tackled by a specialist. Mould and mildew may be a symptom of the further difficulty, but it won't signify that it is a harmless just one. If you want to to prevent mould and mildew from ever returning, then you ought to reach the bottom of the issue. For those who develop into conscious of mould or mildew in the house immediately after several months of rain, it could be introduced on by a common achieve from the humidity with your home.

Why Nearly Anything You have Discovered About Does Steam Cleansing Kill Mildew Is Erroneous

If you must eliminate mold from the carpet absolutely, you will have to employ A selection of methods. You would Also do nicely to check with an expert just in case you have mildew covering a big region in your property, When you've got mildew inside your air ducts, or If you have any respiratory difficulties like asthma that may be produced worse by exposure to mildew in the course of the cleanup procedure. The primary reason why mildew is considered to be a concern does not evolve from the simple incontrovertible fact that It is an unattractive sight only, but instead that it poses pitfalls to the health. In the event the mold has grown throughout a sizable part of the backing, you could have to replace the carpeting. Finally, to produce certain that it is completely gone, You may as well apply slightly oil of cloves on the addressed spot. You're going to be pleased to are aware that it may get rid of molds and mildew inside the domestic. There are plenty of how to prevent mould but at the time it's present, you might want to consider steps straight absent. Why it builds up in the toilet is quite distinct. It is critical that you simply eliminate the mould on your own carpeting, instead of Permit it damage your wellbeing.

The Basics of Does Steam Cleansing Get rid of Mildew

Steam will provide most of the dampness mildew should develop and thrive. Acquiring a steamer which will work properly could be hard as you'll find this kind of numerous types of steamers within the marketplace. Flea steamers are among my favored methods of eradicating fleas. A flea steamer is an efficient make a difference to receive around each of the time in the event you have Animals.

The Nuances of Does Steam Cleansing Eliminate Mildew

Adhere to the Instructions within the merchandise label, considering that solutions range. Carpet cleansing goods which include deodorizers will remove the mildewy odor In combination with combating the mould itself. After getting purchased a reliable brand name, it's a blessing to acquire in your own home to cut off your cleansing time. If you intend to use a chemical cleaning products, air flow will minimize the potential for annoying your lungs and eyes.

The Argument About Does Steam Cleaning Kill Mold

Based upon the merchandise, you could possibly need usage of a wet vacuum to do away with it through the carpet soon after use. Let us equate the utilization of infant pores and skin treatment items by way of solvent cleaners round the property. There are several choices for steam cleaners.

The Unattractive Facet of Does Steam Cleaning Eliminate Mold

In the event that the carpet is soaked in the backing, not merely the upper fibers, it might get for much longer to dry. It is best to understand first if it'll get The task accomplished effectively in your ground. It really is very important you find out what is causing moist in your house and choose the right precautions. It is feasible to wash practically almost everything in your house using a steam cleaner.

Some great benefits of Does Steam Cleansing Kill Mildew

Steam cleaners are a fairly new residence appliance right here in The usa of america. You will discover Similarly some steam cleaners which has a cleaning Alternative compartment. Steam cleaning is protected and if utilized correctly will never destruction home furniture. If you've now attempted steam cleansing, hire an authority to carry out dry ice blasting or An additional, distinctive therapy. Most generally, steam cleansing would be the use of Tremendous-heated h2o vapor to wash and sanitize. Even in the occasion you have utilized chemical cleaners ahead of, whenever is a good time to vary that, and an excellent steam cleaner can definitely support get rid of the chemical residue still left from prior cleanings. Steam cleaners can get there in a very collection of sizes and styles, but you'll find essentially three styles which might be most Repeated now. After some time, most steam cleaners will need to get descaled due to the fact minerals located in water can develop inside the boiler devices. Constructed with just the most beneficial materials, most top quality steam cleaners are intended to previous for many years.

[blueeyed-blight]

[Headcanons]

Ongoing, will be updated now and then, but for now here’s a few starting points about Jasper.

Under the surface Jasper is fairly warm guy, a bit playful at times with his dark humor and eager to win people over. But at the same time he feels he has to be careful for their sake, because he will always be dangerous on some level. And it is difficult for him in the area of social interaction because he has always felt distant from that aspect of life. His humor does tend to fall flat with some people though, it’s a bit macabre at times without meaning to be. He tries though, he wants to trust people, he’s just bad at it. 

Something Jasper desperately misses is family, belonging, the love he felt in his early life from his mother and sister. His mother tried to urge him to be a good person and even now he hopes he can live up to that. But the idea of a real family again is one he aches for, even as he knows it likely will never happen. Maybe the closest he will ever come are friends, but even that feels like a beautiful possibility to reach for.

To the degree of the macabre; he does find fascination in decay and beauty in it after living so long with it at his fingertips. Most anywhere he has stayed for any amount of time has ended up filled with gathered trinkets that most would find strange; bones and dead flowers, old photos and oddities. But he sees beauty in the unconventional, truthfully he sees beauty in a great deal of life, and even the ending of it; it just tends to be more the living it than he finds difficult. .

Jasper has come to embrace a great deal of his on supposed darkness since his childhood and the separation from his family. He does believe that from decay springs new life and better things. He doesn’t view his powers as only something ugly and vile and it pains him that so many people cast a dark eye on him for it because of the unsavory aspects to decay.He’s somewhat at peace with it, and hopeful that in some way who he wants to be outweighs what everyone expects him to become. But the shadow of his father still weighs on him, knowing how real the possibility is that there’s more than enough of the man in him to turn his thoughts dark. 

There are vices in Jasper’s life; he indulges alcohol at times and medication to ward off some of the ache in his joints. He enjoys gambling, a fact that makes him uneasy given his father’s past with it, and sometimes he just wants so badly to shut the world out that he shuts downs and seeks solitude more than other people. When his anxiety gets too high he doesn’t trust his power, so anything to keep himself in balance he chases, sometimes with terrible results. 

[Family]

Jasper has no idea if his father is still alive or not, being that the man disappeared years ago, and he does not care to know. After a lifetime of abuse at his hands he feels nothing but fear still for the man, any sympathy he might have had for him has dissolved with all the scars he sees in the mirror and the ones he feels under the surface of his skin.

Jasper has a collection of scars from his childhood, both mental and physical. Along with several that have mostly faded he carries one across his left palm from the first time his powers manifested and his father’s dog bit him when he tried to save it. That same arm and hand also has some nerve damage from a badly treated broken arm so his grip is somewhat weaker in it. He’s suffered a chipped jaw, broken knuckles, fractures in his ankle and wrist, and some trauma damage to his right kidney.

Due to the event with the dog Jasper isn’t generally comfortable around canines, especially the large ones, and tries to avoid them. So far as pets go he far prefers smaller ones, and has always had a fondness for spiders. He also tends to like scavengers like crows and vultures, but he’s never really tried to take care of a pet. Growing up it was out of the question and he’s never really attempted to bond with animals since his experience with them has mostly been the dogs that used to terrify him.

[Magic]

Jasper commands power over decay, and it’s a well-developed skill. In spite of his family’s negative views of it he had put time and effort into understanding his magic and how to use it, and how to restrain it. He still has lapses, but he’s well past the clumsy teenage years when power often first sparks. Those lapses send him into fits of refusing to be in contact with people until he feels stable again though so it’s an ongoing battle for him.

Jasper’s power works on organic matter like natural decay; he can make plant and animal matter rot and break down. The same applies to inorganic matter, but it’s much harder for him to apply his power to that. He can, in theory, break down stone and metals into rust given enough time, make glass grow brittle and shatter, but it’s very taxing on him to do that compared to urging natural decay in organic tissues.

Reversing decay is possible for him, but it does take a great deal of energy and only works on simple organic material or inorganic. He could coax a burned tree back to growing or pull splintered glass back together, but his power does not work in this way on living creatures because they are too complex. He might be able to in the future but as of yet he has no ability to heal wounds, undo damage to bodies, or reverse the sort of decay that comes with living creatures aging.

Jasper has to be in contact with the subject of his direction in order to use his magic on it; to reduce a person to a dried husk he would have to be able to maintain contact with them for the amount of time the rapid change would take, to destroy an object his hands would have to be on it until the decay is finished. Any break in contact will not reverse the effects but it does halt the progress of it.

Amusingly most anywhere he does stay long begins to pick up subtle decay from his presence. Most of his apartments have shown the signs of cracks in the plaster and weathering in the wood by the time he has left, and places he spends a fair amount of time in show a bit more of it. He tends to like the lived-in feeling of places like that though and has come to find them comforting in an odd way.

There are side-effects to Jasper’s magic. When he uses them the tips of his fingers turn dark and dusty, like they’re marred with ash and can turn entirely black with enough power spent. It’s harmless, but a bit unnerving to see. In extreme cases the whites of his eyes splatter with broken vessels and fill with blood; again it’s something shocking to see but harmless to him. After his power is spent the blackness on his fingertips will wipe away but it usually takes his eyes several days to heal since the reaction is basically a strain-induced hyphema.

Another side effect to his magic, and an ongoing one, is the effect it has on his body. Jasper’s skin holds a degree of cool sensation to it, his body temperature is slightly lower than a normal person, his pulse and heartbeat a few degrees slower than they should be. Internally his muscles and joints suffer from a small amount of deterioration from the nature of his powers and often a low-throbbing pain and stiffness that can grow worse if he’s inactive or too demanding of his powers. His blood also has a slightly thicker quality to it, darker in color than normal. He shows signs of what medically doctors would suggest as being the first stages of rigor-mortis in spite of being very much alive.

[General]

He takes a lot of pleasure in photography, very often carries a camera around with him and prefers old snapshots and photos to new methods like cell phone pictures and filters. He is very good at it, has an eye for it and a degree of talent; but most of his subject matter is off-putting to others since he enjoys taking pictures of broken buildings and abandoned places. He also uses his camera to study people through snapshots of seemingly normal life, enjoying trying to guess at their lives through his lens.

While he has had a few jobs here and there as a photographer in the freelance area most of his bank account has come from family money. He still has a small fortune of his own from what his father gave him when he left that went unspent and left to gain interest. Unfortunately just as much of it has come from an inherited vice; Jasper likes to gamble and he’s good at it. He doesn’t  have the magic for luck influence that his father did but he was raised in a world of knowing the tricks to winning and the odds.

He’s by no means a millionaire, but given his modest manner of dressing and his affection for old objects rather than new most people would never guess that his net worth rests well in the hundreds of thousands. He doesn’t bother with excess, only strives to be comfortable.

Unfortunately having to start over now means he still has his means but he has no use for them since he’ll be confined back to whatever living situation his new Sponsor decides for him. 

[alexsmitposts]

US Propaganda Blitz Ahead of Idlib’s Liberation A concerted effort is being made to once again flood Western headlines with now familiar and long-since discredited war propaganda as Syrian forces and their Russian and Iranian allies move in on Idlib in northern Syria to liberate it from US-backed terrorists. A recent New York Times article titled, “Inside Syria’s Secret Torture Prisons: How Bashar al-Assad Crushed Dissent,” dusts off, combines, and repackages now nearly 8 years of Western war propaganda aimed at demonizing the Syrian government and paving way for regime change. While the article claims it now has “memos sent to Syria’s head of military intelligence” to back up previous claims, it admits “some information was blacked out to protect the integrity of evidence for possible prosecutions.” Yet in order to accuse a government publicly of maintaining “secret torture prisons,” evidence must be provided. Instead, the NYT presented recycled accounts from “activists” and opposition figures as well as Western-funded fronts including the “Syrian Network for Human Rights” and the “Commission for International Justice and Accountability” (CIJA). The CIJA in particular is claimed by NYT to have collected the alleged memos. Nothing about the CIJA’s background is provided by the NYT, nor can any website with background information be found. However, the US government’s Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) interviewed CIJA director of investigations and operations, Chris Engels in 2018. In the interview, CIJA’s funding was discussed: [CSCE:] Who funds CIJA? [Chris Engels:] We have had a number of donors over the years. Our current donors include the United Kingdom, Canada, the European Union, Germany, Demark, the Netherlands, and Norway. Engels also openly admits that the CIJA works directly with the US government. In the interview he admits: By design, CIJA has a strong relationship with U.S. law enforcement. When asked if members of the US Congress have supported the work of CIJA, Engels would enthusiastically confirm so – citing proposed laws pertaining specifically to Syria. In other words – nations committed to the overthrow of the Syrian government fund and support the CIJA’s work in Syria – casting doubt on both their integrity and their motivations. Just as the NYT would be remiss to write an entire article based on claims made by the Syrian government itself – it is remiss in uncritically reporting the claims made by its opponents. The fact that the CIJA’s “evidence” is so heavily redacted that the NYT merely mentions it before building the rest of its article around older hearsay-accounts from its regular circle of “activists” and opposition figures, including the now notoriously discredited informant – “Caesar” – casts even further doubt. The NYT appears to instead be contributing merely to the latest chapter of US-driven war propaganda aimed at undermining the Syrian government, protracting the Syrian conflict, and further dividing and destroying the nation. Idlib is Al Qaeda Central A renewed barrage of war propaganda has been launched by the West in tandem with Syrian government efforts to move in on Idlib – the last bastion of Al Qaeda and affiliated terrorist organizations west of the Euphrates River. But it was the Western media – not the Syrian government or its Russian and Iranian allies – who have definitively exposed the overwhelming presence of terrorists in Idlib. In 2015, it was the Wall Street Journal that reported in its article, “Assad Loses Final Idlib Stronghold to Al Qaeda-led Insurgents,” that: After a two-year siege, al Qaeda’s affiliate in Syria and other insurgents on Wednesday captured the one remaining Syrian army air base in Idlib, a development that activists said effectively expelled the last of President Bashar al-Assad’s military from the northwestern province. Since 2015, Al Qaeda and its various affiliates have expanded and consolidated their control in the region. A more recent article published earlier this year by the BBC titled, “Syria war: Jihadist takeover in rebel-held Idlib sparks alarm,” would explain (emphasis added): The Islamic State group may have lost all its territory in Syria but a rival jihadist group has been making gains in the last remaining opposition stronghold in the north of the country – and it has got residents nervous. In a dramatic takeover last month, Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) swept through towns and villages in Idlib province, as well as adjoining parts of Aleppo and Hama. The group – which was known as al-Nusra Front before it broke off formal ties with al-Qaeda three years ago – expelled some rebel factions and forced others to surrender and recognise a “civil administration” it backs. In reality – US State Department-designated foreign terrorist organizations like al-Nusra – have dominated fighting against the Syrian government since the conflict began in 2011 with the notion of “moderate rebels” a propaganda ploy to obfuscate the true nature of US-backed militants. And while the BBC attempts to disassociate al-Nusra from Al Qaeda in its article by claiming it “broke off formal ties” three years ago – the US State Department itself in a 2018 amendment to its terrorist designation of al-Nusra would explicitly state (emphasis added): In January 2017, al-Nusrah Front launched the creation of HTS as a vehicle to advance its position in the Syrian uprising and to further its own goals as an al-Qa’ida affiliate. Since January 2017, the group has continued to operate through HTS in pursuit of these objectives. The Coordinator for Counterterrorism, Ambassador Nathan A. Sales, noted that “today’s designation serves notice that the United States is not fooled by this al-Qa’ida affiliate’s attempt to rebrand itself. Whatever name Nusrah chooses, we will continue to deny it the resources it seeks to further its violent cause.” The candor of the US State Department’s amendment – however – is demonstratively contradicted by current, ongoing US support for the terrorists themselves as well as the current Western propaganda campaign aimed at protecting Al Qaeda under its various aliases from efforts by the Syrian government to remove them from Idlib and restore order there. Idlib Propaganda Blitz: Barrel Bombs, Secret Torture Prisons, and Chemical Weapons If Idlib is admittedly overrun by terrorists – according to the West itself – then Syrian government efforts to remove them is justified. Yet familiar themes from similar efforts aimed at preventing Syrian forces from liberating other cities and regions from terrorists are being dusted off and reused. This includes the rehabilitation of the so-called “White Helmets,” a war propaganda troupe working side-by-side Al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations – often aiding and abetting war crimes including summary executions. The “White Helmets” are also key in promoting claims of “chemical weapon attacks.” The “White Helmets” played a key role in staging the chemical weapons attack on Douma, Syria in 2018 which served as a pretext to a US-led military strike on Syrian forces. There is also the constant din of Western propagandists citing “barrel bombs,” a term invented to describe unguided munitions – unguided munitions being neither against international conventions nor considered controversial by any standing military force, East or West – now or at any other time in the history of warfare. They are simply ordinary bombs given an ominous title in the service of otherwise dishonest Western-driven war propaganda. The NYT’s recent article recycling stories of “secret torture prisons” seeks to lump itself in with this propaganda blitz and more should be expected to follow. Among the propaganda there is nothing new – no new information, no new accusations, no new or inventive ways to repackage or resell it. Redacted pages of what is supposed to be “evidence” of the Syrian government’s crimes looks instead like the NYT and its Western-government funded source – the CIJA – have something to hide – not something to expose. However – war propaganda alone cannot win a war. It can only enhance the strengths of a government or coalition who must already possess the means of winning any given war. The United States and its collaborators in its proxy war on Syria have already long-since lost. Ongoing propaganda campaigns only further undermine Washington’s credibility and the credibility of media organizations serving its agenda. The NYT posting pictures of illegible, nearly fully redacted pages and claiming it is “evidence” comes across as self-inflicted satire. US government and corporate foundation-funded fronts like “Human Rights Watch” repeating these dubious accusations and outright lies also indefinitely cripple their own credibility. However dubious – ongoing propaganda still seeks to at the very least hamper and slow down Syrian security operations. The retaking of Idlib and the destruction of Al Qaeda’s last significant base of operations in the country is key to stabilizing the region. As the US continues positioning itself for war with nearby Iran – a festering terrorist foothold like Idlib would serve as a serious liability for Iranian efforts to defend itself at home while dealing with a serious, sudden offensive launched out of Idlib against its Syrian allies. Thus it is key to expose and confront Western war propaganda at every juncture – no matter how ineffective it appears – to minimize its impact in this war – and every other Western war of aggression to come.

[scifigeneration]

Hackers seek ransoms from Baltimore and communities across the US

by Richard Forno

Many of Baltimore’s city services are crippled by a cyberattack. The Conversation from City of Baltimore and Love Silhouette/Shutterstock.com, CC BY-SA

The people of Baltimore are beginning their fifth week under an electronic siege that has prevented residents from obtaining building permits and business licenses – and even buying or selling homes. A year after hackers disrupted the city’s emergency services dispatch system, city workers throughout the city are unable to, among other things, use their government email accounts or conduct routine city business.

In this attack, a type of malicious software called ransomware has encrypted key files, rendering them unusable until the city pays the unknown attackers 13 bitcoin, or about US$76,280. But even if the city were to pay up, there is no guarantee that its files would all be recovered; many ransomware attacks end with the data lost, whether the ransom is paid or not.

Similar attacks in recent years have crippled the United Kingdom’s National Health Service, shipping giant Maersk and local, county and state governments across the U.S. and Canada.

These types of attacks are becoming more frequent and gaining more media attention. Speaking as a career cybersecurity professional, the technical aspects of incidents like this are but one part of a much bigger picture. Every user of technology must consider not only threats and vulnerabilities, but also operational processes, potential points of failure and how they use technology on a daily basis. Thinking ahead, and taking protective steps, can help reduce the effects of cybersecurity incidents on both individuals and organizations.

Understanding cyberattack tools

Software designed to attack other computers is nothing new. Nations, private companies, individual researchers and criminals continue developing these types of programs, for a wide range of purposes, including digital warfare and intelligence gathering, as well as extortion by ransomware.

Many malware efforts begin as a normal and crucial function of cybersecurity: identifying software and hardware vulnerabilities that could be exploited by an attacker. Security researchers then work to close that vulnerability. By contrast, malware developers, criminal or otherwise, will figure out how to get through that opening undetected, to explore and potentially wreak havoc in a target’s systems.

Sometimes a single weakness is enough to give an intruder the access they want. But other times attackers will use multiple vulnerabilities in combination to infiltrate a system, take control, steal data and modify or delete information – while trying to hide any evidence of their activity from security programs and personnel. The challenge is so great that artificial intelligence and machine learning systems are now also being incorporated to help with cybersecurity activities.

There’s some question about the role the federal government may have played in this situation, because one of the hacking tools the attackers reportedly used in Baltimore was developed by the U.S. National Security Agency, which the NSA has denied. However, hacking tools stolen from the NSA in 2017 by the hacker group Shadow Brokers were used to launch similar attacks within months of those tools being posted on the internet. Certainly, those tools should never have been stolen from the NSA – and should have been better protected.

But my views are more complicated than that: As a citizen, I recognize the NSA’s mandate to research and develop advanced tools to protect the country and fulfill its national security mission. However, like many cybersecurity professionals, I remain conflicted: When the government discovers a new technology vulnerability but doesn’t tell the maker of the affected hardware or software until after it’s used to cause havoc or disclosed by a leak, everyone is at risk.

Baltimore’s situation

The estimated $18 million cost of recovery in Baltimore is money the city likely doesn’t have readily available. Recent research by some of my colleagues at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, shows that many state and local governments remain woefully underprepared and underfunded to adequately, let alone proactively, deal with cybersecurity’s many challenges.

It is concerning that the ransomware attack in Baltimore exploited a vulnerability that has been publicly known about – with an available fix – for over two years. NSA had developed an exploit (code-named EternalBlue) for this discovered security weakness but didn’t alert Microsoft about this critical security vulnerability until early 2017 – and only after the Shadow Brokers had stolen the NSA’s tool to attack it. Soon after, Microsoft issued a software security update to fix this key flaw in its Windows operating system.

Admittedly, it can be very complex to manage software updates for a large organization. But given the media coverage at the time about the unauthorized disclosure of many NSA hacking tools and the vulnerabilities they targeted, it’s unclear why Baltimore’s information technology staff didn’t ensure the city’s computers received that particular security update immediately. And while it’s not necessarily fair to blame the NSA for the Baltimore incident, it is entirely fair to say that the knowledge and techniques behind the tools of digital warfare are out in the world; we must learn to live with them and adapt accordingly.

Compounding problems

In a global society where people, companies and governments are increasingly dependent on computers, digital weaknesses have the power to seriously disrupt or destroy everyday actions and functions.

Even trying to develop workarounds when a crisis hits can be challenging. Baltimore city employees who were blocked from using the city’s email system tried to set up free Gmail accounts to at least get some work done. But they were initially blocked by Google’s automated security systems, which identified them as potentially fraudulent.

Making matters worse, when Baltimore’s online services went down, parts of the city’s municipal phone system couldn’t handle the resulting increase in calls attempting to compensate. This underscores the need to not only focus on technology products themselves but also the policies, procedures and capabilities needed to ensure individuals and/or organizations can remain at least minimally functional when under duress, whether by cyberattack, technology failures or acts of nature.

Protecting yourself, and your livelihood

The first step to fighting a ransomware attack is to regularly back up your data – which also provides protection against hardware failures, theft and other problems. To deal with ransomware, though, it’s particularly important to keep a few versions of your backups over time – don’t just rewrite the same files on a backup drive over and over.

That’s because when you get hit, you’ll want to determine when you were infected and restore files from a backup made before that time. Otherwise, you’ll just be recovering infected data, and not actually fixing your problem. Yes, you might lose some data, but not everything – and presumably only your most recent work, which you’ll probably remember and recreate easily enough.

And of course, following some of cybersecurity’s best practices – even just the basics – can help prevent, or at least minimize, the possibility of ransomware crippling you or your organization. Doing things like running current antivirus software, keeping all software updated, using strong passwords and multifactor authentication, and not blindly trusting random devices or email attachments you encounter are just some of the steps everyone should take to be a good digital citizen.

It’s also worth making plans to work around potential failures that might befall your email provider, internet service provider and power company, not to mention the software we rely on. Whether they’re attacked or simply fail, their absence can disrupt your life.

In this way, ransomware incidents serve as an important reminder that cybersecurity is not just limited to protecting digital bits and bytes in cyberspace. Rather, it should force everyone to think broadly and holistically about their relationship with technology and the processes that govern its role and use in our lives. And, it should make people consider how they might function without parts of it at both work and home, because it’s a matter of when, not if, problems will occur.

About The Author:

Richard Forno is a Senior Lecturer of Cybersecurity & Internet Researcher at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license.

[ara-la]

The Five Faces of Fascism (2005)

        The Five Faces of Fascism

by Michael Novick, Anti-Racist Action-LA/People Against Racist Terror (ARA-LA/PART)

From Turning The Tide, Volume 18, Number 5, November-December 2005

    Like the weather, everybody talks about fascism, but nobody does anything about it. Just like the barrage of deadly hurricanes that continue in record numbers this season are being fed by global warming of ocean waters, the growth of fascism is being fed by a key underlying reality. The Empire is coming face to face with its own limits and with the catastrophic consequences of its own self-destructive contradictions.

    The economic “race to the bottom” of corporate globalization has de-industrialized the U.S. Simultaneously it’s created a massive over-capacity of production using labor priced below the cost of human reproduction in China, south Asia, and elsewhere.

    There’s a concurrent race towards disaster between Peak Oil and Global Warming. On track one, we have the runaway train of economic and social devastation because of the soaring demand for a shrinking supply of petroleum and natural gas. On track two is the runaway destruction of the climate and the seas, through pollution by the gaseous wastes of petroleum. The only question seems to be how rapidly the tracks intersect and how total the smash-up will be.

    Meanwhile, the endless war that hid beneath the surface of the “Pax Americana” has come out into the open. Domestically we see the Empire trying to contain social upheaval by militarizing the schools, the border, the police, and disaster relief. We also see the ineffectiveness of that military approach. Internationally, the US war machine is bogged down and bloodied in two land wars in Asia, Iraq and Afghanistan, trying to figure out how to deal with its problems by expanding them regionally.

    In the face of these growing and intersecting crises in the political, economic and environmental spheres, fascism is once again rearing its ugly head. But like the crisis, fascism presents itself in a multi-faceted way. There are five main forces competing, contending and colluding in building a fascist response and “solution” to the problems of the Empire. Anti-fascist forces committed to human liberation and planetary survival must simultaneously challenge the Empire itself, develop solutions for the problems fueling the fascist response, and disrupt the fascist forces.

    To do so, we need to get a clearer picture of the fascist elements and the contradictions among them.

    Self-proclaimed Nazis, though not the largest or most serious threat, are a place to start. This is the element with the most naked racist approach, based on open white supremacy. They incorporate traditional nazi/fascist symbolism, and classic scapegoating of Jews. Particular groups within this tendency suffer setbacks, and ego drives rivalries between various “leaders.” But this faction has an opportunist tactical flexibility. It benefits from effective use of the media to magnify its forces and appeal. Nazis seize on every sign of racial friction. It appeals to younger whites with a sense of grievance about lost entitlements. They often present themselves as anti-establishment or even anti-capitalist, yet usually seek protection by the cops. They use methods of physical intimidation, as bullies do. But like all bullies, they are highly susceptible to organized physical resistance.

    Clerical fascism is a second major component, also connected to an element of traditional fascism. It is based in religious fundamentalism, and often incorporates well-established and well-funded religious organizations, whether churches or lay fraternal groups. They base their appeal on a sense of moral decay under the Empire, but they are otherwise more than happy to operate within the mainstream and existing political institutions. In the U.S., we are speaking mostly about Christian fascist groups, which focus on anti-woman and anti-gay organizing, opposing abortion and other reproductive rights, gay marriage and similar issues. But in a global context, Jewish fundamentalism linked to a more secular, but still religiously-justified, Zionism is an important element of this tendency, and in the U.S., Christian and Jewish Zionists make common cause. In the colonized and semi-colonized Muslim world, Muslim fascist fundamentalism plays a role more similar to that of western Nazism, presenting itself as the voice of grievance, with an anti-establishment, “anti-imperialist” politics.

     Anti-immigrant border vigilantes have resurrected the worst components of the old militia movement. They’re most interested not in replacing but in supplementing the power of the state. Although some elements engage in anti-corporate or anti-politician rhetoric, this faction, like the Christian fascists, are generally content to seek entry into, and work with, mainstream political power. Thus the Minutemen and such vigilante projects work with the Border Patrol, or run for elective office. They sponsor propositions targeting immigrants, particularly Mexicans, and work closely with Republican and some Democratic office-holders. While professing not to be racist, they also provide a convenient conduit and nesting place for nazi and white supremacist forces. For example demonstrators at anti-immigrant protests in Orange County, CA, showed up waving swastika and Confederate flags.

    This is a growth area for a mass base for fascist solutions. The state legitimizes the use of extra-governmental armed force in direct anti-immigrant action. Anti-immigrant and anti-Mexican hysteria, an outlet for white grievance, has enabled these groups to spread, along with Mexican and Central American migrants, into the southeast, northeast, mid-west and northwest, from the US “southwest,” occupied northern Mexico.

    An element within uniformed and clandestine military, law enforcement, and state security forces, operating independently of the official chain of command, is a fourth component of a fascist movement. This aspect has been somewhat dormant in recent years, at least in the U.S. But the increasing use of mercenaries by the Empire, as well as concerns within the ranks and the brass about the inadequacy of current domestic and international counter-insurgency efforts, is resurrecting it.

     Continuing setbacks in Iraq and Afghanistan could increase this component dramatically, with a possible appeal among demobilized and disoriented veterans unable to find a productive niche in civilian life.

    Fascist elements within the state, the governing party and the ruling economic and political elite are the fifth element, since fascism is built from above as well as below. The Bush forces have been willing to cement one-party rule through electoral fraud and coercion. They provide red meat and marching orders to the clerical and vigilante fascists, and reward or protect fascist elements within the military and law enforcement. 

                Rupert Murdoch and Roger Ailes of FOX News

This will grow as the disastrous consequences of Empire, and the inability of the rulers to “deliver the goods” to anybody but an increasingly narrow stratum of the wealthy, erode popular support. The Democrats offer at best token alternatives to, if not outright reinforcement of, these approaches. This shows the systemic nature of the crisis, and the limited options available to the rulers as the crises deepen.

Samuel Bush, WWI war profiteer, Prescott Bush, Hitler’s banker, 41 & 43

    The strength of fascism in the U.S. in particular can only be understood when we recognize that the US political and economic system has always contained key elements of what later came to be called fascism. White supremacy, genocide, slave labor, and independent armed action outside the “authorized” use of force by the state, have always been key aspects of the US system.

    The interpenetration of corporations and the state, and the incorporation of a mass base into repressive state organs, have always been found in the US because it is a settler colonial society. Colonized people have always existed domestically within the expanding borders of the U.S. Therefore such colonial methods of rule have always been present within the U.S.

    Moreover, fascists understand, as the “left” in the U.S. mostly doesn’t, that the Empire has always been a cross-class project. The system allows for independent armed action by other classes and class fractions that support the imperial project, rather than a monopoly on armed action by the state or bourgeoisie.

    The only effective resistance to fascism must be a thorough economic, political and social transformation. We can’t appeal to some democratic principle or institution to forestall fascism. Passing a law, winning an election, or even impeaching or removing a president won’t do it. This is a fight to the finish for human and planetary survival.

    Let’s get organized, and build the solidarity and connectivity among people to withstand a fascist onslaught and also the underlying economic system and way of life that are causing the very dislocations the fascists claim to have a solution for. Individually and collectively, we must not merely abandon but actively overthrow an Empire that is destroying the planet. We need to develop a political jiu jitsu, use the force of opponents’ offensives against them.

    We must take advantage of the elite’s growing inability to govern or rule in the old ways to begin to govern ourselves in self-determined ways, through solidarity, mutual aid and direct action.

    In each sphere of fascist activity, we need to build alliances among the potential victims as well as counter-organize among potential supporters.

    This is not about an electoral coalition based on a lowest common denominator effort to muster more votes and ‘throw the rascals out’ in favor of a new group of  rascals. It’s about uniting all the exploited, disenfranchised, and oppressed people to build a new way of life.

    The calamitous nature of the state response to Katrina on the Gulf Coast has been reinforced by their activities in the wake of Hurricane Wilma’s devastation in Florida. Extreme weather will only become more severe. Yet the ‘best’ we can expect from the state is military and police action to protect corporate property and enforce pre-existing privileges.

    So we need on-going, pro-active efforts to build new forms of community, solidarity and environmental responsibility. We must create alliances among Mexican, Haitian, Asian and Muslim immigrants who are being targeted by the state and vigilantes; the women, lesbians, gay, bi, and transgendered people targeted by the Christian right; the Black/New Afrikan, Chicano/Mexicano, and Native people targeted by the cops, courts and prisons; and working people generally. Only decolonization and self-determination provide a basis for this.

    We must create a culture of resistance uniting militant young people with older generations in alliances capable of learning from past errors in order to prevent their repetition. This will allow us to confront and topple the state and fascists.

    With Christian and other clerical fascism, we must identify the fault lines within the base of the fascists, as well as connecting with believers who share the religious faith but not the fascist vision of the right.

    Regarding open nazis, vigorous, overt opposition as well as covert intelligence gathering and network disruption must be combined with a pro-active organizing strategy for reaching disaffected young white people. In this regard, work against not only military recruitment but also the militarist and propagandistic nature of education is important. So is a defense of young people’s health, cultural expression, and rights, especially including those of young women.

    Immigrants’ rights organizing must proceed on the basis of a vigorous anti-corporate strategy for labor, and include solidarity with workers world wide and across borders.

    Our opposition to the Empire’s military aggression must reach women and men recruited as cannon fodder, because the struggle for a better world will require that they turn the guns around.

    If we don’t act to topple the Empire here at its seat, the rest of the world’s people will pay a terrible price to do it for us.

[smallwomanlongstory]

Children of Addicts

Federal executive actions under the Trump administration saturated immigrant communities across the United States with fear. The administration established a doctrine that destroyed families and drove chaos. Americans responded loudly with compassion for the newcomers while admonishing the policies. Videos and images of migrant children being torn from their parents seemed to inspire the greatest number of calls for justice. Rightly so. They are heart-wrenching.

At each loud outpouring of sympathy and support, though, I found myself wondering: What about the millions of U.S. children who have an incarcerated parent? What about the hundreds of thousands who are placed in foster care because their mother or father is addicted?

The United States government, for decades, has been removing kids from their mothers and fathers every single day. Low-income parents are criminalized for offenses (leaving a curling iron out on a countertop, taking a bath while wearing ear buds) just as faultless as crossing a border. The traumatic effect of family separation is the same. Like the harrowing journeys made by our Central American neighbors fleeing violence, poverty, and deprivation, many of the crimes that land people in prison could be obviated with improvements to systems and environments.

Why are most people in prison? Drugs. The fact is indisputable. A chart maintained by The Federal Bureau of Prisons shows that the most popular category of offense among our prison population, by far, is drugs. The number of people in that category doubles that of the second place contender. Research shows that most prisoners have an addiction. Studies also show that most prisoners committed their crime under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

We know that prisons are not rehabilitative. They place addicts at greater risk for relapse and recidivism. Yet, we continue to lock-up, rather than treat, scores of addicts.

Why is the number of foster care placements rising? Again, drugs. The opioid epidemic has been found to directly correlate with an increase in the number of abused and neglected children removed from their homes.

What does family separation, drug-related or otherwise, do to children? Loss of a parent or parents, even short-term, causes trauma, leads to school drop-out, teen pregnancy, gang-involvement and generational cycles of involvement with courts and the criminal justice system.

Children deserve better. They deserve changes that will address the substance abuse struggles their parents face. Criminal justice procedures that are fair. Phillip Gaines’ mom’s boyfriend was involved in a small drug ring.   Phillip Gaines’ mom answered two phone calls from her boyfriend. For answering the phone, she was charged with conspiracy to distribute cocaine and sentenced to twenty years in prison. At sentencing, Phillip jumped into the Judge’s lap, cried and pleaded. He later wrote a letter to the Judge asking for his mother not to be charged. The letter reads:

“Dear Judge, I need my mom. Would you help my mom? I have no dad and my grandmom have cancer I don’t have innyone to take care of me and my sisters and my niece and nehew and my birthday’s coming up in October the 25 and I need my mom to be here on the 25 and for the rest of my life. I will cut your grass and wash your care everyday just please don’t send my mom off. Please Please Please don’t!!!”

There was little the judge could do, though he did bring the matter to President Clinton’s attention. Phillip Gaines’ mom, six-years into her term, was granted clemency. Before prison she was a hard-working nurse technician. She ran a community garden in her housing project and was active in the PTA at her son’s school. After, she was homeless and jobless, without prospects. She was defeated by the restrictions that keep ex-offenders out of the work-force and off the public assistance that they need to get back on their feet. Making them more vulnerable to re-entry. Making their children more vulnerable to failure.

Before his mother’s imprisonment, Phillip was a sweet nine-year-old Boy Scout. At the time of her release, he had attempted suicide three times, dropped out of ninth grade, and had a juvenile rap sheet. At the time Phillip wrote his letter, about one million children had a parent in prison. That number has grown to 2.7 Million. The mass incarceration of addicts represents a scary notion: that the disease somehow warrants punishment. Furthermore, that the long-term or permanent separation of child and parent, if the parent is addicted, is acceptable.

A photo of a little Honduran girl crying as agents frisked her mother was mistakenly framed as an image of a border separated child. The photo inspired $18 Million in donations. Images, videos and stories that were similar in their poignancy but substantiated in their relationship to the separations, led to action from legal groups, religious organizations, the United Nations, medical, scientific and academic communities, journalists and writers, actors, comedians, musicians, politicians, and even members of Trump’s own administration. He stopped the policy. Efforts to reunite the children commenced.

Where was the moment of attention, outrage, and reparation, I wonder, for Phillip and his letter?  Personally, the letter shatters my heart just as completely as the tears of border separated children.

Maybe my heart breaks because Phillips’ naïve hopelessness reminds me of my own. As S struggled with addiction, I wondered who would help us. No one seemed to have an answer. Countless professionals failed to produce a lasting remedy.

After S left cocaine out in our living room and hurt me in a rage, he landed in an emergency room. The hospital determined that he was having drug-induced hallucinations, and was a threat to himself and others. They placed him on a brief psychiatric hold. Children’s Services was alerted to the drug use, his psychosis, and the domestic violence.

The agency moved rapidly. By court order, they forced S out of our home when he chose community-based treatment over the residential program that was recommended. Only a few days out of a drug binge, he was in no place to be thinking straight about the consequences of his decision.

Freshly released from a psychiatric hospital,  S appeared in court where he heard a judge tell him life as he knew it was over. No access to his home. None to me. Restricted visits with his child. S did a lot of terrible things because of his addiction. He is not blameless. He needed to be excluded from our home. He did not belong living with my daughter and I. Yet, there should have been a softer touch, some sort of support plan, employed. 

When we left court, I saw S. standing alone outside. He looked nothing like the bright, handsome, confident man I had married. That man was replaced by someone smoking a cigarette and swiping tears from his face. He looked scared, small, child-like, sick. Bags still ringed his eyes and he was pale.  He shook. I couldn’t approach him to comfort him, hug him. I could not because I didn’t have enough time for perspective. Fear and anger trumped compassion. I was livid with his decision and the way he’d placed our family in danger. I also could not go near him because the court had just put in place, along with the exclusion, a no-contact restraining order. He wasn’t allowed within a certain number of feet from me, couldn’t even send me an e-mail.

The court had asked if I would agree to comply with the orders and help enforce them. If I did not, our daughter could be removed from me. I was backed into a precarious and painful position.

The life-saving dilemma that most people only ever ponder – your spouse and your child are both drowning- you can only save one- became real. When I saw my husband alone, I needed to turn my back. Approaching him may have soothed his hurt, but his upset would be replaced by my daughter’s.

I pictured her taken from me, the only care-giver she’d known. She was shy. In a group home or foster setting she’d be scared, terrified really. She’d be too young to understand why I wasn’t there with her. Seeking comfort in an unfamiliar place, she’d ask for me. She would call out to me in the night and cry harder, wondering why I was not responding. Over my husband, I needed to choose my daughter, but I wish someone else had been there to hold his hand.

What happened to my husband in regard to the exclusion was necessary; it kept my daughter and I safe. The thoughtlessness of the authorities and professionals involved though, was not right. His illness needed to be weighed. Maybe he could have been given the opportunity to stay longer in the hospital so the haze in his mind could clear and he could make a better choice. Maybe he could have been commanded to board a bus destined for some program. Instead, from court, he went straight to a bottle. Relapse was inevitable. Immediate.

The efficacy of treatments, the understanding of the disease, the policies surrounding “choice” when it comes to seeking treatment – these all failed us. The social worker ultimately disappointed us as well. She referred S to a clinic with a potentially three-month long wait-list. Following a drug induced psychotic break and short hospital stay, it was arranged for him to be without professional treatment for months.

I wonder if things would be different if I showed the world films of my daughter in tears as we left our visit at the facility where her father stayed after an even worse relapse just a few months later. Told them how she played over and over a video he’d made for her. How she talked back as his pre-recorded voice told her he loves her.  Sat on his piano bench and implored me, a person without a musical bone in her body, to play like Daddy. If I told them how that made my heart ache with sadness at all the Dad shaped holes I’ll never be able to fill.

S is a complicated person with a complicated disease. To my daughter, he is perfect. He is her father. She is young, innocent, and she loves him unconditionally. I wish I could do something to preserve that image indefinitely. I can’t. She will likely one day be disappointed.

S still actively uses. He doesn’t participate in treatment. We live apart. Our divorce is final. He and I will never be together again. When we were together, my sincerest wish was for him to enter permanent recovery. The wish remains. Within my control, I do what I can. I love myself, I love my daughter, I love him. I try to show that love in action, through positive words, attendance of twelve-step meetings, and the encouragement of a safe relationship between daughter and father. How I wish I had the power, though, to change the unchangeable. To remove a disease. To stop suffering. To keep all children where they belong, in loving homes with well parents.

Addiction killed any trust, health, or viability in my marriage. Hope was the last thing to die as I fought to save our relationship and keep our little family intact. That hope is gone and buried. Another kind of hope, though, survives. I hope that humanity wakes the hell up to the way we are failing our children by neglecting to properly treat or support our addicts and their families. 

[glitterypeanutmugnickel]

New GOP 'Big Lie' plot is in the works: 'It must stop. Now.'

Thom Hartmann, Independent Media InstituteApril 22, 2021

Donald Trump speaking with the media at a hangar at Mesa Gateway Airport in Mesa, Arizona (Gage Skidmore/Flickr)

The 21st-century version of the Confederacy is fixing to repeat the Big Lie strategy of its 19th century forebearers. And this one goes beyond the Big Lie that Donald Trump won the 2020 election. Now they're trying to sanitize treason as well.

George Orwell famously pointed out that, "Those who control the past control the future," and the GOP is furiously trying to rewrite the history of January 6th to hide their participation in a heinous crime and promote their authoritarian agenda for the future.

Big lies, when heavily and institutionally promoted over generations, have incredible persistence.

Back in the early 1980s, Louise and I moved with our three kids down to Georgia to start a business in suburban Atlanta. The place was growing like a weed and opportunity abounded; we got our little start-up company on the front page of The Wall Street Journal within the second year.

But what I remember most vividly about those years is the answer I got one night at dinner when I asked our kids what they learned in school that day.

"We learned about the War of Northern Aggression," one said, explaining that the New York bankers were trying to rob people in the South and so the South had to fight back.

This is what happens when history is allowed to be re-written for over a century. And it's happening again, today.

As Mike DeBonis and Jeremy Barr, et al, document at The Washington Post:

"Instead of an attempt to overturn the election by radicalized Donald Trump supporters, it was a choreographed attack staged by antifa provocateurs. Rather than an armed insurrection, it was a good-natured protest spoiled by a few troublemakers.

And instead of a deadly event that put the lives of hundreds of lawmakers, police officers and others at risk, the riot was no big deal at all.

A legion of conservative activists, media personalities and elected officials are seeking to rewrite the story of what happened at the Capitol on Jan. 6, hoping to undermine the clear picture of the attack that has emerged...

Six weeks after the attack, some are taking advantage of fading memories and unanswered questions to portray the riot in a different, more benign light...."

Democrats are trying to put together a commission to study what happened, and Republicans are fighting every effort.

When congressional committees controlled by Democrats try to look into the events of January 6, their Republican colleagues tie the proceedings up in bureaucratic knots.

Very little, right now, is getting done, while documents and other evidence are being destroyed, "lost" or "forgotten." There's even some doubt about whether all the pre-January 6th security video from the Capitol that may have shown legislators giving recon tours to insurgents still exists.

The new story, as told by Tucker Carlson, Ron Johnson and others is that it wasn't all that big a deal when the Capitol was stormed, and it certainly wasn't treason. Donald Trump even went so far as to say that his followers were "hugging and kissing" the Capitol Police officers.

A few hundred foot-soldiers have been arrested and are being prosecuted, but nobody has heard a peep about the meeting in Trump's DC hotel the night of January 5 or any other meetings or actions that may imply organization and leadership.

Acting Secretary of Defense, Trump loyalist Christopher Miller, was installed right after Trump lost the election as part of a rapid general purge of senior leadership at the Pentagon.

Anticipating the January 6th attack to end American democracy, Miller issued a memo (reprinted below) on January 4 specifically forbidding the District of Columbia National Guard from:

being "issued weapons, ammunition, bayonets, batons, or ballistic protection equipment such as helmets and body armor."

"to employ any riot control agents"

"To share equipment with law-enforcement agencies"

"To use Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance assets or to conduct ISR or Incident, Awareness, and Assessment activities."

"To employ helicopters or any other air assets."

"To conduct searches and seizures, arrests, or other similar direct law-enforcement activity."

"To seek support from any non-DC National Guard units."

Miller's memo specified that the DC National Guard would be essentially neutered unless he gave the order, and he and other Trump loyalists weren't answering the phone for hours during the attack.

But where's the investigation? Where are the hearings? Who's asking Miller who ordered him to do this and why he went along with it? What was the end game? Who else was involved?

It sure looks like we experienced an attempted coup d'état that only failed because of the integrity of a few Republican officials and Secretaries of State. It was a widespread and concerted effort to end the American Experiment.

Donald Trump and a group of his followers, it appears, tried to overthrow the legitimate government of the United States and install himself as a strongman dictator, ending the world's oldest democracy.

But any time questions are asked about these details, about who participated at the higher levels, about what members of Congress might've been involved, the conversation gets changed. The discussion is shifted to Antifa, Maxine Waters or something altogether unrelated.

Trump's Big Lie that he won the 2020 election was terrible in and of itself. Like Hitler's "Stabbed in the Back" Big Lie that Germany was on the verge of winning World War I until the Jews and socialists sold them out, Trump's Lie formed the basis for the attack on the Capitol and multiple ongoing attacks on our democracy.

But a second Big Lie that is emerging now, that the attack of January 6th was either not an "actual" or "serious" attack, or that, if it was, it was done by Antifa and Black Lives Matter members, is just as destructive. Perhaps more so, because it discourages further investigation.

These two Big Lies have already spread widely across social media and the Internet. Multimillionaire commentators on Fox News are doing their best to establish these lies as part of the documentary record, as are other rightwing media outlets.

America mustn't let them get away with it.

We need to know the truth, including uncomfortable truths that may involve collusion and participation by elected officials and government employees, should that be proven to be the case.

America allowed the Big Lie of the "Lost Cause" and "the War of Northern Aggression" to survive and fester for over a century and the result is that Americans are still dying — daily — because of the color of their skin.

That elected Republicans are blocking efforts to find the truth about this January 6, 2021 act of treason, while actively using Trump's original November 2020 Big Lie to cut back voting rights nationwide, is both despicable and dangerous.

It must stop. Now.

The perpetrators and collaborators — including those who are and/or work for elected officials — must be publicly held to account.

If Republicans continue blocking serious investigations and these crimes are successfullly whitewashed, the next authoritarian attempt to destroy our republic may well succeed.