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wylanvnneck · 4 years ago

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Rating: G for Giganotosaurus

Summary: Based on a TFOTA headcanon which I posted on Tumblr about Cardan and Jude visiting the Mortal world and Cardan getting introduced to pick-up lines. That he uses. Frequently. Which, of course completely irritates Jude.

Originally posted on AO3 | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Chapter 1

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Jude lets out a slight sigh of exhaustion as she fights to remain poised on her throne, the picture of elegance in front of her reveling subjects. She cannot show any signs of weakness. Her husband beside her steals a glance at her from over his wine glass, noting the weariness on her face that she is attempting to hide.

She can’t help but feel a little relieved when Cardan sets the glass of wine down as he stands and announces, “The Queen and I will be retiring for the day, but do carry on with the merry making.”

She takes a moment to drink in the sight of him imperiously addressing his subjects, the gold on his cheeks glistening under the bright lights. His black eyes shining, highlighted by the Kohl on his lids. The crown sitting regally atop his raven locks which fall over the pointy-tipped ears that mark his ancestry. He is beautiful, untouchable and yet, hers. She takes the arm that he extends as they gracefully exit the hall, headed towards their bed chambers.

“Tired, my mortal goddess?” he murmurs in her ear as they walk.

She is tempted to lie, so as to not appear fragile, but this was Cardan. The only person for whom she would remove her armour.

So she replies, “ A little, I admit,” looking up into his raven eyes that seem to hold a glint of concern.

He knew that the constant celebrations of the Fae took a toll on her, but she refused to shirk her duties as the Queen of Elfhame, attending every revel. The matter often caused fights between them but the make ups were always just as passionate as their yelling was.

“Your Majesties, please excuse me,” they are intercepted by Fand, Jude’s personal knight. “Your sister has sent you a letter, Your Highness.” She hands Jude a letter with her name scrawled on the envelope in Vivi’s sloppy cursive. For a moment she’d hoped it was from Taryn, her twin with whom she maintained a rather tenuous relationship. She was still glad to hear from Vivi who kept up a correspondence with her between the Mortal world and the Fae one, both of them exchanging letters, although oftentimes Jude’s many duties would intercede.

“Thank you Fand, you may go.” She thumbs the letter as Fand respectfully bows and retreats.

“I wonder what your sister has to say this time?” Cardan remarks as they enter their rooms, immediately starting to remove his extravagant attire and change into his equally extravagant silk night robe.

“No idea, I only hope it’s nothing to do with Madoc and Oriana.” Jude’s relationship with her father was a very, very fragile one. After all that had transpired between them, she hadn’t yet reached out to him, with only Vivi’s letters to provide her with any news of his doings in the Mortal Realm since she’d banished him. He’d said that he understood her actions, but understanding did not mean forgiving. Not that she needed forgiving. He was the one in the wrong. But he was also still the man who had raised her to be the warrior she was now.

As if sensing her thoughts, Cardan steps closer to where she is standing by the doorframe, gently nudging her with his now free tail as she rips open the envelope. He rests his head on her shoulder and joins her in her attempt to decipher Vivi’s handwriting.

“She’s inviting us to come and visit them in the mortal realm for a while, now that things are calmer.” It was indeed true that months had passed since Jude had slayed Cardan’s serpentine form, fulfilling the prophecy and the two had brought peace to Elfhame by ridding it of Madoc’s rebels.

“She says that a short break would be beneficial for the both of us and that Oak keeps asking to see me.” She smiles to herself as she thinks of her precocious younger brother.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Cardan says. “You deserve a break, Jude. More importantly, I do, for all the hard work I attend to,” he adds with an exaggerated yawn and a smug look.

She gives that last statement as much attention as it deserved, which is to say, she ignores it.

“But can we afford to take a break? What about the safety of our Kingdom?”

“I’m sure that the Court of Shadows and our bloodthirsty redcap general can handle the Kingdom in our absence and it would only be for a few days. Besides, I am curious to see more of where my wife spent her days during her...exile.” He falters slightly on that last word, shooting her a wary look. He knows that Jude did not at all appreciate his trickery that had led to those miserable days in exile. She has forgiven him, mostly, but there was no harm in keeping the High King on his toes.

She narrows her eyes at him and in response he presses a penitent kiss to her lips.

Before they can get too wrapped up in each other he pulls away, “So it’s settled? We shall spend a few days in the mortal realm with your sister?”

“I suppose so.” Now that Jude is resigned to the idea she feels a spark of excitement at visiting her family.

* * *

A few nights later the couple, accompanied by the Roach, make their way to the sea that separates them from the Mortal lands as the fog swirls around them, each carrying saddlebags. Cardan conjures two bony Ragwort ponies from a few stalks, silent and ready to carry them across the realms. They have donned mortal clothes, Jude in a sensible black pair of shorts and a dark top, under which she has concealed her various weapons and Cardan looking quite irregular in his tight-fitting denim jeans and loose white shirt that Jude had scrounged up for him. Despite her best efforts at pleading with him, she had not succeeded in having his gold cheeks and kohl removed, creating a very striking yet confusing image of the Fae in ill-fitting mortal clothes. He did, at least, promise to glamour the pointed tips of his ears once they’d crossed.

“Worry not, Your Highnesses, your Kingdom is in good hands,” the Roach bids them farewell.

“I do hope so,” Cardan replies, giving him a quick nod, mounting his steed after Jude and tangling his fingers in the horse's leafy mane as they take off into the night.

It’s nearing dawn once they’re outside Vivi and Heather’s apartment, the horses dissolving into stalks that blow away in the dark and quiet surroundings. Cardan takes in the sights around him and Jude remembers that he’d been here once before, coming to Vivi for help after Madoc had kidnapped Jude right from Cardan’s presence, thinking she was Taryn.

“It is strange. The last time I was here I was in such a hurry to find you that I didn’t really notice much of what was around me,” he says, his enhanced eyesight not at all hindered by the darkness.

“What do you think of the mortal world so far?” Jude asks, ringing the doorbell.

“Usually at this time we Fae would be feasting and dancing, but here it’s so still and silent. It seems that no one is awake.”

“Sometimes mortals actually do have night time revels,” she replies, thinking of the nightclubs that Vivi used to sneak off to back when they lived with Madoc. She’d sometimes waltz back into Jude’s room upon returning and describe her night to her half-impressed, half-disapproving sisters, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing. It felt like ages ago.

“Is that so? Perhaps while we are here we should attend one of these revels,” Cardan suggests, head tilting.

“Perhaps,” Jude replies distractedly as she wonders why it was taking so long for someone to answer the door. They had sent a quick note informing her sister of their impending visit so they should be expected.

Finally Vivi swings open the door, her petite body clothed in a baggy set of pajamas, “Jude, you’re here,” she opens the door wider, scanning her sister with her golden cat’s eyes.

“Hello Vivi,” Jude steps inside and gives her a quick hug with Cardan following in her wake, “Sister-in-law,” he teases.

“Pain-in-law,” Vivi responds, not missing a beat. Jude smiles to herself. It was good to see her sassy half-sister again.

Jude follows her sister to the kitchen counter as she fumbles around for some mugs to make coffee in. Cardan settles himself onto a high stool, intrigued by the coffee machine that Vivi was currently operating. The three of them linger in the kitchen for some time, drinking their beverages and exchanging stories, Jude relating stories of Elfhame and court happenings and Vivi catching them up on the recent happenings in the Mortal world and Oak’s schooling and Heather’s job. Jude is relieved to know that Madoc and Oriana hadn’t gotten into any trouble in the mortal world, at least not as yet, and that they were currently living somewhere quite far off, though they did frequently come and visit Oak. They wouldn’t be visiting while Jude was here, she was glad to hear. That confrontation would have to come at some point she supposed, but not just yet.

Finally, Vivi calls it a night, showing them to the room they were to occupy and leaving them to return to her sleeping girlfriend’s side.

Cardan takes in the messy bedroom, with a half-heartedly made up bed, obviously a last minute preparation for their arrival. “So, this is where you slept when you were here?” He lays on the bed and slowly stretches his legs out in a cat-like manner, watching Jude as she deposits their bags on the floor.

“Indeed. Not quite the level of luxury you’re used to, Your Highness,” she smirks, crawling onto the bed beside him. She pushes him aside to make space for herself.

“Nevertheless, there is something to be said about smaller beds,” he responds, putting his arm about her waist and pulling her close, freeing his tail from the jeans to wrap around her calf.

“Hmm…” she mumbles tiredly, resting her head on his chest, feeling her husband’s hands stroking her chestnut hair, lulling her to sleep.

Thank you to @cupcakesandkittens for encouraging me to post this fic on tumblr as well.💕

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Please let me know if you'd like me to tag you in further installations of this fic:))

#the folk of the air #tfota #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #fanfiction #fanfic #tfota fanfic #jurdan #crack #lemme know what you think #no flames please #dd writes #first multi-chap fanfic

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smokeybrand · 3 years ago

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The Cape and The Cowl

A friend of mine posted a meme questioning who would win a fight between Doctor Doom and Batman. My gut reaction is to say it’s real bad for Bruce but, as i thought about it more and more, i kind of feel like its not so cut-and-dry. There is a lot of nuance that needs to be considered between the two characters rather than just a “smash the action figured together” scenario. Of course, there is the surface stuff like how would they interact generally? What would the catalyst be in order to incite said conflict? Why would Doom even see Bruce as a threat? If you think about it objectively, an all things are even, to Vic, Batman is just a crazy person losing his are on crime in a raggedy ass city. Victor von Doom is a the reagent of an entire country with a GDP that rivals some superpowers in the MCU. Like, the USA has diplomatic relations with a blip in Eastern Europe, because Doom has the military power to wreck he US in open aggression. Latveria will lose in a prolonged conflict, that’s just a question of resources, but that little country would absolutely inflict upon the US in a slow bleed. Imagine the War on Terror but with competent leadership and actual, discipline, military strategy. Why the f*ck would Doom care what the f*ck is going on out in Jersey? More than that. the similarities between the two characters is staggering.

We all know the origin of Batman. We’ve seen that sh*t how many times now? It’s like getting a new Spider-Man joint and having to watch Uncle Ben die all over again. It’s trite at this point but so essential to the character, we need a refresher every time Bats shows up onscreen. That trauma informs everything he is, as it would if you watched your parents gunned down in cold blood as a child, and then laid with their still warm corpses for however long until the police came. What a lot of people don’t know is the origin of Doctor Doom. Being a villain, Doom rarely gets his motivations explored outside of some megalomaniac Dr. No type f*ckery. However, Victor von Doom is a person. He started out life as a happy kid and learned to be Doctor Doom, just like Bruce learned to be Batman. Doom is actually a refugee. True, Doom was born an aristocrat, but Latveria was overthrown when he was still young so he was never able to be raised in that level of opulence. His mom was also murdered before he was ten years old. Just like Bruce, Doom experienced a horrific truth that would color his world perspective for the rest of his life. Doom would eventually find his way to the US as he was brilliant. Like, unheard of intelligent and it would be his exposure to the US lifestyle, after years of conflict and struggle, which would make him realize how easy life could be if someone just did what was necessary. And then Reed happened.

Reed Richards was, is, a fulcrum in Vic’s life. They have a relationship similar to Batman an Superman but the opposite. Whereas Batman values Clark’s perspective because it helps him keep perspective, Vic finds Reed to be absurd. He sees Reed for who e is and doesn’t understand why no one else can. Reed Richards is a reckless, excitable, short-sighted, glory-hog. He is. If you read the character with any semblance of realism, you’d see that. Ho many times has Sue comments on how she and the rest of his family, take a backseat to science? How many times has Reed, himself, sacrificed a relationship or to, in service to the solution of an equation? Doom saw all of that in college. Reed represents the structural issues of the world and it frustrates Vic to no end. In some continuities, the genesis of Vic going full Doom rest on an accident Reed commits because of that shortsightedness. It goes a long way to checking Reeds ego and he does become a better person for it, but it was at the cost of scarring Vic for life, both physically and mentally. Yet another example of the system, ruining Doom’s life.

Bruce, after his trauma, has kept a strong support system. First and foremost, since day one, he had Alfred. Doom had no one. Bruce then built a family, adopting all of the children and surrounding himself with love. Doom’s one true love died and was dragged down to hell. We know this because he punches out Mephisto whenever he can. Also, his mom is down there, too. Bruce eventually met Diana and Kal, becoming fast friends and life long confidants. Outside of Catwoman, I think Diana makes for the perfect romantic partner of Bruce and that is shown in several continuities. Reed just reinforced Doom’s disgust with the machinations of the world, eventually further degrading Doom’s tenuous hold of his ability to trust in others, by psychically maiming him. The negative impact Reed had on Doom’s life is f*cking profound, man. I’m not saying Doom should have taken it as far as he did, but it’s hard to argue against trying to kill a dude who had ruined years of your work, destroyed you reputation, and physically maimed you forever. That doesn’t seem wholly outrageous to me. I think it’s called justifiable homicide? The only reason Doom stopped trying to murder Reed is because Valeria was born. Valeria became the first person Doom felt real affection for, since the death of his wife. I think Morgan le Fay could be another, but that might have just been a time-space booty call. Valeria Richards and her relationship with he Uncle Doom, is what gave Vic the strength to be better. Bruce had that love his entire life, even immediately after his darkest day. Doom went decades without it.

Up until Valeria was born, all Doom had was his time spent as a destitute street rat, struggling to survive, to inform him about life and the world at large. That brazen cruelty for sure emotionally crippled him in a lot of ways, I'm not even going to start to defend his arrogance or superiority complex, but trauma does that. That's why i think Bats would eventually come around. They've both seen the absolute worst of the world and, in a lot of ways, go about righting those wrongs in the same way. If you pay attention, and the writer is worth their salt, you'd see that Latveria is an autocratic socialist paradise. Latverians are among the most literate, healthy, and happy people in the 616. Jobs are plentiful and crime is almost non-existent. Mans even cured cancer, which he made available to the world, if those people choose to make the trip to Latveria for treatment. The world of 616, at large, likes to paint Vic as this evil despot but, if you interview a laymen of Latveria, they’ll sing his praises. Most people forget that, before Doom returned for his birthright, Latveria was a whole ass occupied state. Think the relationship between Israel and Palestine. Latveria was basically falling into doorknobs for Symkaria and pretending that they weren’t in an abusive relationship. Doom showed up and changed all that. It was a bloody f*cking conflict, for sure, and i am certain Vic committed war crimes, but the end result was a free Latveria with a strong international presence. Doom is a hero to those people but a villain to other nations because of how he rose to power and, more importantly, how independent he made hi country from the world system. Doom did what was necessary to free his people, a march too far for Bruce and that’s why Gotham is the way that it is.

People who don’t know the character like to paint Vic as ego-maniacal villain, and that was valid when comics were just "hero smash bad guy", but we've grown beyond that. Every pop culture interpretation of Doom, outside of the comics, has him as this stoic, arrogant, asshole, dictator bu that’s just not an accurate portrayal of how Doom is in a modern capacity. Vic is definitely an autocrat but he’s no dictator. He can be cruel at times to specific individuals but he is generally benevolent to his people. He doesn’t portray himself as a strongman but he does let it be known he’ll nuke anyone or anything if it means furthering his overall goals which, currently, is the safety and security of Latveria. His country isn’t a police state and his people are free to do as they please but their is a line, just like everywhere else in the world. Doom just has a shorter one and enforces that with extreme prejudice. I’m not going to sit here and say everything is great in Latveria, it’s definitely not, but it ain’t so hot in 616 America either. How many Civil Wars have they had? What about that whole tidbit with Hydra Cap? There is nuance and gray nowadays, areas that both Bats and Doom comfortably call home. Batman is, objectively, not a pure hero. He is, at best, a chivalric anti-hero and similarly, Doom is more of an anti-villain than the mustache twirling, boogeyman, mastermind pop media portrays him to be. Batman and Doom are basically the same person, with the same motivations, only Doom is willing to go much, much, further than Bruce; A difference in method you an attribute to their respective upbringings.

If Doom had the same support system as Bruce, he’d create miracles. We’ve seen glimpses of that throughout the years. Dooms last run culminated with him essentially obliterating an entire universe where he had the support necessary to build a proper utopia. Our Doom couldn’t fathom the choices made by this variant Doom because of how broken he is. If Bruce was alone in his formative years like Victor, he’d commit atrocities. We’ve seen glimpses of that over they years, too. There are various narratives that explore just such a tragic turn of events, explored in the Death Metal series of books. Dawnbreaker immediately comes to mind. Bruce and victor are the same side of the same coins. It's literally a crap shoot as to which side of the alignment chart either leans. And as if to inform my point further, we just recently had Joker War. That book went a long way to exposing the absolute necessity of raw force, in order to properly “save”Gotham. Joker was able to completely dismantle that entire city by attacking the machinery put in lace to make it run. He effectively proved that The Batman was part of the problem and would never be the solution because Bruce doesn’t go far enough. He puts out fires but never address the sparks which start those blazes. He doesn’t go far enough. He never will. His code won’t allow him to. But Doom can. Doom did. Honestly, if you really want to keep it real, what is Bruce's endgame? What does a healthy Gotham City look like? It looks a lot like f*cking Latveria.

So to answer this question outright, i don’t think they even fight. The way this hypothetical was set up had three rounds: the first being a standard donnybrook, the second being prep time, and the last being god mode. To be perfectly honest with you, it wouldn't make it past the first round. If i had to say, with pedestrian or normie level understanding of he characters, Doom sweeps all categories. For Round one, Doom’s armor trumps all of Batman’s gadgets. For Round Two, Doom has more resources at his fingertips for prep. For Round The God Emperor Doom exists. He created several realities and killed a few Beyonders. Batman sat in a chair which gave him access to all the wisdom in the multiverse, and realized there were three Jokers. Doom all the way. My informed opinion as someone who adores both these character more than most would have me think there wouldn’t even be a conflict to begin with. I think they’d investigate the inciting catalyst, meet in person with intent to attack if necessary, size each other up until one of them made the proposal to just talk, they'd converse, and the fight would end with both of them walking away from each other with begrudging respect. Doom would admire Bruce's will and Bruce would understand the necessity of Doom's position in the world because, if you can make it make sense, Bruce will usually agree. Batman, for all of his shortcomings, is not naive to the world. He’s seen the same darkness as Doom. Doom, for all of his pompous arrogance, understands the struggle to maintain faith in those around you, even if that noble aspiration is misplaced. Bruce is one bad day away from Doom and Doom is a decades worth of days from being Bruce. They mirror each other and i think they’d see that, taking each other as cautionary tales before becoming collaborators. I don’t see them ever really becoming friends but i don't think they’d ever be true enemies.

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theshopkeepofremnant · 4 years ago

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For JanuRWBY day 19, I present (sort of) a missing scene. I wrote this a while ago; it’s my take/expansion on what Yang went through after the Fall of Beacon. I would say enjoy, but it’s admittedly kind of heavy...

I’m not dead. Part of Yang knew this was an odd assertion to need to make regularly, yet it was one she found that came to her mind unbidden most days. It wasn’t something she used to do before. Before everything had changed such a thought would have made her laugh at its melodrama, would leave her shaking her head and wondering where such nonsense had come from. But that was before her world came crashing down. Yang rarely laughed now, and certainly not at that thought. Where once the spark of her life was undeniable, a thing of such heat and intensity that people often commented that the room felt a few degrees warmer when she entered, now she struggled to find evidence that her body had ever held such a spark at all. In that absence, a reminder was needed to ensure that Yang kept going through the motions of life. In part this was for her dad; he would see her moving around and putting on the facade of a living person so he would feel reassured that she was healing. This was pure farce, but the part of Yang still capable of caring didn't want to cause him any more harm than necessary. Beyond that was habit; years of tending to the endless needs of a mortal body had carved grooves into Yang’s mind deep enough that even her current malaise couldn’t erase. In death, Yang would be free of the Sisyphean task of bodily maintenance, but for better or worse she was stuck with it for now. Thus the reminder. Not exactly a mantra, certainly not a defiant declaration, simply a statement of truth. At first, she had felt like she was answering a question, a plea, but that puzzle belonged to memories too delicate to explore, so it was quickly dropped. Regardless, the statement had taken on a meaning of its own through repetition. Some days she tried to use it as motivation to pick up the shattered pieces of her life and body, to attempt to put them back together into some semblance of a living person, to move on. Those were the good days. Most days, like today, it was merely a fact, empty of joy or sorrow. Today was not a day where she made her declaration aloud. Today it was merely the whisper of a thought. Intentionally formed but lacking the momentum to make it to her lips as she let out a long exhalation. She noticed herself doing that a lot. It wasn’t a sigh. There was nothing wistful in it, no emotional release. It was just a realization that she was holding her breath. Waiting. Not ready for the next to come and signal that the world was still spinning and nothing she did could stop it. She let go of that train of thought. Today was a normal day, normal by her new standards anyhow, and she didn’t want to ruin that. While days like today weren’t worth celebrating they were important not to waste. For there were days when she worried about herself. Days when she felt bitterness and inertia build inside her and in an attempt to fight it off she would take a breath and say it: “I’m not dead.” And all she heard was disappointment. No. Today was not one of those days. She’d had so many of those right when she got to Patch and so many more right after Ruby had left. But Ruby was long gone, and Yang...well Yang was still here. Best not to dwell on the dangers real and imagined Ruby may be facing while Yang struggled to simply exist. There was nothing she could do about them anyway, not anymore. She had always done her best to protect Ruby, to protect her team. Look how that had turned out. No, no dwelling. Not today. Too easy for a day like today to head in the wrong direction. Too easy for memories to drag her down like anchors to the depths of her mind. A place once filled with light and easily navigated, perhaps with a shadow or two on the fringes but nothing fearsome or dangerous, it was now a place she hardly recognized. It stretched infinitely in every direction, an ocean with a capricious sky and no sign of safe haven on any horizon. Even in times of stillness, there was a constant tension, an anticipation of the gentle breeze growing to become a gale as the gray clouds quickly swirled to black and for the momentary respite to be lost in the crash of thunder and waves. Yet the ever-changing surface was not the worst of it. The true danger lay below those swirling waters as barely seen shadows; leviathans prowling the deep, waiting for her to descend to their realm, knowing that she would find her way there eventually. If not during her waking hours then inevitably during her fitful sleep. Their siren song was at once terrifying and terribly seductive, and Yang did her best to ignore the promise of pain so intense it could bring oblivion. No. Consciously unclenching her hand, realizing that the life raft it sought was not in her bed, Yang forced herself to get up and get dressed. Yang had always enjoyed mornings, before. The air felt fresh and the light seemed purer, there was so much potential. Nightfall was all about endings, conclusions, but mornings were about beginnings. Or at least, they used to be. Now there was just nothing, day bleeding into tortuous night fading back into another identically empty day. All of her beginnings apparently behind her. Yang let out yet another held breath, tied back her hair, and padded out of her room. As she passed Ruby’s door she couldn’t help but feel an ember of shame smoldering in her chest. She still didn’t know if she had done the right thing. She had known Ruby was going, she even took it upon herself to hide it from Tai while Ruby was very unsubtly planning it. At first, she didn’t know quite why she was helping. She certainly didn’t think it was a good idea, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to let it fall apart. Eventually, she realized it was guilt. Not guilt over not going with her. As far as Yang could see those days were over. No, it was guilt at her own seething anger. Deep down, in that place that she didn’t want to recognize as her own, was pure, raw fury at those around her who could just keep living as though nothing had happened. How dare Ruby and the others go off on this quest, full of hope and light, like the world wouldn’t do everything it could to smother that... But Yang couldn’t let herself act on that dark emotion. She couldn’t be spiteful, even then. So maybe she overcompensated. Maybe the right thing to do would have been to let Ruby’s machinations fail, let Tai find out and put a stop to it before it got out of hand, got her hurt. But she couldn’t give into that petty part of her that wanted Ruby to fail, so she hid the coming and going of letters, concealed the very obvious supplies Ruby was collecting, and quietly made sure her little sister would keep that innocent hope for a little longer. Yang may not have felt that hope herself, but she would be damned if she let that darkness inside snuff it out in Ruby. Unfortunately, keeping the monsters at bay had used up so much of her meager store of energy, once so vast she could hardly contain it, that Yang failed in the most basic ways. She was distant, cold, hardly acknowledging either Ruby or Tai during that time. Part of her knew that, but she thought that her efforts should speak for themselves. That she was up and moving at all seemed such a miracle to her that it never occurred to her that those around her would be hurt by her seeming indifference. Yang still regretted that time. Still regretted not telling Ruby that she still loved her, still cared. But she had been so tired at the time, so weighed down by all that had happened, all that now would never happen, that she just couldn’t muster the will to say the words. She hoped her deeds, meager as they were, would speak for themselves. Empathy is so hard when one’s heart is consumed by pain, and Yang had been blinded by pain in all of its forms to the point where she didn’t know how to navigate even this relationship, the most stable she had known in her entire life. So instead of satisfaction that she helped her sister toward her goals, she was left with this shame. Shame at letting her go alone, shame at wanting her to succeed. Shame at wanting her to fail, to come back, defeated. To keep her company in her misery. Yang shook her head, trying to pull herself to the present, tenuous as her grasp on it was. Ruby was gone now, no amount of shame would change that, and it certainly wouldn’t bring her back. That left Tai. Yang felt a fresh wave of guilt every time she thought of her father, once among her closes confidants he now seemed utterly lost faced with the walls Yang had erected around herself. He had never had to deal with defenses before and found himself without any tools to overcome them now. Yang had always intentionally promoted a “what you see is what you get” narrative with most people; obviously there was more below the surface but she found others were more comfortable around her if they thought she was simple, one dimensional and symmetrical. Her dad actually saw her, the real her, so with him, it was the truth that she was what he saw, and Yang always appreciated how easy it was to be herself around him. Ever since she was a teenager and she and Tai had grown close enough that she never bothered with walls or masks, she just told him what was going on inside. Part of her felt bad when she saw his look of pained confusion now when she shut him out; he wanted so badly to help fix his broken daughter, but couldn’t even get close enough to try. The connection that he was so used to simply wasn’t there, and there was about as much hope of fixing that as the CCT network. Part of Yang wanted to console him, to apologize for putting him through this torture rather than letting him patch up her wounds like he would a skinned knee when she was a kid. But another part, that dark pit of rage and hurt, was all too happy to cause misery. She tried to crush those emotions deep within her; tried to compensate as she had with Ruby, but it wasn’t enough. Tai didn’t want anything from her, nothing concrete. He just wanted to help her, but she couldn’t bring down the walls, so he was stuck at arm’s reach. So close but so impossibly far away, and Yang was alone. Alone with her grief, with her darkness, but most of all, alone with her pain. —— Pain. That was the first thing she was aware of when she regained consciousness that night. Pain so extreme she couldn’t locate its source. All-consuming, nerve-rending pain. It was only when she tried to curl up in a ball and felt a weird sense of asymmetry did she look down and to her right. What she saw wouldn’t register as real for several days and at the time she had larger concerns. She looked around frantically and saw chaos. People ran in all directions, loading survivors onto airships that were being brought in from all directions. She looked for her team, her teachers, anyone who could tell her what had happened; if everyone had made it. She didn’t understand how she had come to be here alone, and through the fog of pain could swear that her left hand felt warm, that the air around moved as though filling a void that was occupied but moments ago, echoes of tearful apologies ringing in her ear, of a single pleading command issued from a delicate mouth beneath golden eyes: “You...you can’t die. You can’t.” But those impressions were dim, and the fierce pain from her arm wouldn’t allow her to escape the immediacy of the moment, try as she might. So instead she searched the chaos around her for a lifeline, anything familiar. It wasn’t long before she saw a shock of blonde hair and realized Sun was striding past where she lay in a makeshift cot, looking about frantically. She reached out with her left, and now only, arm and grabbed his hand, apparently more forcefully than she intended as it nearly took him off his feet. “Where’s Blake?” Yang said through gritted teeth, every motion a fresh agony. Time slowed as Yang watched emotions flash across Sun’s face: surprise, grief, fear, and resignation. Had she known what was coming next she would have savored this moment, pain and all. For though every movement was excruciating, though she had lost so much, hope still burned bright in her chest. “How are you even conscious Yang? You should rest, they’re going to get you on a ship and take you home to...” “WHERE. IS. BLAKE?!” The last was said through gritted teeth as Yang pulled Sun down until his face was inches from her own. She knew that Sun could answer the question, that he was trying to dodge. While part of her was terrified of the answer that guttering spark of hope flickered on. The last thing she had seen before passing out was red. The red flames dancing through the building where she had heard Blake cry out, the red hair of that demon from Blake’s past, his red blade extending from Blake’s torso. She had never felt a rage like that, and through that crimson haze barely even saw him move, didn’t register the severing of her own limb or spilling of her own blood. All she knew was that she was failing, falling. As her whole world came crashing down she found herself in a pool of blood, both hers and Blake’s, with the terrible knowledge that they were going to die and it was her fault. But she was here, alive, so there was more to the story. As she stared at Sun she was certain that Blake’s death would elicit a different response. He would have just told her, right? He’d be heartbroken, a mess, barely able to hold it together. Sun’s feelings for Blake were no secret and he had never concealed a thought in his entire life, so why this hesitation? “She left.” Sun looked stricken, and not solely on his own behalf, Yang could almost see herself reflected back in Sun’s face, could feel her light going out. “...What?” “Once she saw that you were ok, she got patched up and then took off before I could stop her. I don’t know where yet, I’m sorry.” Yang tried to press him further but the blood loss was finally catching up with her. She tried to formulate a thought, anything, but it was all so much, too much. As she lost her grip on consciousness she felt her soul shatter, making a mockery of her body’s condition; her last little spark of hope remaining flickered and went dark along with everything else. ——

The time following was all fractured images and too-loud noises. People coming and going seemingly at random. What seemed like moments after Sun had left but could have easily been years Qrow found Yang, and gently laid a frail girl in a red hood on the cot next to hers. It took Yang a moment to recognize her own sister. It had been so long since she had thought of her like this; for the past few years Yang had seen her grow into an impressive warrior, and seeing her laying so still and quiet reminded Yang that she was still a child, that they all were. Or had been, at least. Yang looked imploringly at Qrow. “Is she...?” She left the question hanging in the air, unable to finish it. Qrow reached out and rested his hand on Yang’s left shoulder, trying not to let her see him inspecting her right side. “She’s ok, you know how tough she is. How are you holding up, firecracker?” The look in his eyes was too much for Yang, she couldn’t answer truthfully and couldn’t bring herself to lie. The pity she saw there ate at her, and she looked away. “What’s going to happen?” was all she could manage. Qrow sighed, saddened but also slightly relieved to not talk about the goliath in the room. “I’m taking you and Ruby home to recover, there should be an airship available to take us out soon.” “What about Weiss?” Yang asked, noting the odd look in Qrow’s eye. “Her father’s airship is on approach, he’s taking her back to Atlas while things get sorted out in Vale. On our way over here I could have sworn I saw your other teammate in the crowd...” “I only asked about Weiss” Yang cut in. Somehow, despite the copious blood loss her temper still managed to flair enough for her eyes to flash briefly red. “Ok kiddo. I’m going to step out for a bit to check on some things, I’ll be back when it’s time to get you two on board” Some time later Weiss came in and roused Yang. She kept looking over her shoulder as though she wasn’t supposed to be there and despite her best efforts couldn’t stop a renegade tear from sneaking past her guarded eyes. Not much of substance was said, but even on a good day it was tricky to get past her icy defenses, and today was not a good day for either of them. Weiss kept glancing quickly at the tiny, inert form of her partner, concern escaping despite her attempts to remain composed. It was clear to both of them that they were talking to the wrong person, but neither could reach the one they sought. In the end that knowledge bridged the gap between them more than anything they could have said, and Yang actually took some small measure of comfort when Weiss uncharacteristically, almost tenderly, laid her hand on her forehead and looked her straight in the eyes as she promised that they would all be together again. For a moment Yang almost believed her, and then she, too, was gone. Leaving Yang alone with her grief; alone with her pain. —— Yang’s memories faded out suddenly and she found herself in front of her bathroom sink, the water running for some unknown period while she drifted, her teeth long since brushed. Grimacing at herself in the mirror Yang turned off the tap, replaced her thoroughly rinsed toothbrush, and headed downstairs. Tai was no doubt out and about, running errands or gardening, being painfully normal. Most days Yang didn’t mind the quiet. It gave her space to move around in her solitude, to try to find peace in it if not joy. On days like this she focused on her chores, trying not let her mind wander (with mixed success) so as to avoid brooding. This focus brought about an emptiness of self that Yang savored. She wasn’t Yang Xiao Long, monster hunter defeated at Beacon. She was Yang, the girl figuring out how to use a blasted broom with one hand and doing a wonderful job, thank you very much. If she focused enough she was less even than that, she was an anonymous hand pulling up weeds, or cleaning dishes. Until she wasn’t. Until something interrupted her focus and brought it all back. It could be anything, the flashing red wing of a bird flying by the window, a dark cloud obscuring the sun, or a dropped glass. Whatever the cause, she would suddenly snap back to that night when everything changed. When first her body, and then her spirit were shattered. Scattered. Scarred. Those memories always left her with the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears, the same blood that not so long ago was pooling beneath her, mixing with that of another. And that was when the real pain came. This was the part she couldn’t explain properly to anyone, not really. Her bodily pain had largely passed, doctors and pain killers had seen to that, and even the fear brought on by her new sense of vulnerability was nothing next to reliving that soul crushing truth over and over: Blake was gone. Yang would have gladly given both arms, both legs, her life, anything to keep Blake safe and by her side. According to Sun she was indeed safe, but she was gone, and that fact ate at Yang in a way she couldn’t verbalize. She knew she should have been able to, it was yet another vacancy in her life left by a loved one, but this felt different. Maybe it was because she had honestly thought Blake was different, or maybe it was because she hadn’t realized the depth of her own feelings until that night. The crush had started innocently enough, just a gentle flutter in Yang’s chest as she dragged her sister over to make friends with the quiet girl sitting alone in the corner. No love at first sight, no sign from the gods, just a feeling like a warm breeze on a cold night as a pair of dazzling golden eyes looked up from a book. Then seeing those same eyes hovering above a smirk in the forest, so clearly directed at Yang, choosing. Again that faint heat, like the sun poking out from behind a cloud, just for a moment. It was nice, but it wasn’t something Yang was going to lose her head over. They were partners, that was what mattered, and soon that bond became such an integral part of Yang’s life that she didn’t even notice it most of the time. They could read each other’s bodies in and out of battle so well that they could predict an attack or need for an assist as well as a changing mood or thought. It never occurred to Yang to put a label on it because it didn’t need one. What they had was so natural, so real, even if it was unspoken. Then came that night. Suddenly in a flash all of the words she hadn’t sought came rushing to her mind. Words like forever, like promise, like need and want and cherish. Words like love. And in the moment she saw all that could be and all that could be lost and she acted without hesitation. Better to die trying to defend such things than live without them. But here she was, living without them despite her efforts and well aware that her assessment had been correct. Better to have died. But she hadn’t even managed that, had she? Slamming her fist on the counter Yang brought herself back from memories still fresh, still razor sharp on the edges, still tinted red by blood. Looking down she saw the shattered glass that had triggered this flashback and scowled, more at herself than at it, and went to get the broom. —— Dinner with Tai was quiet, as usual. He did his best to make little jokes and get Yang to banter like they used to. She appreciated that he tried, and told him so, but it rarely yielded any levity. After mostly pushing her food around the plate for a half hour Yang excused herself and went to watch TV. Much of her downtime was spent watching television, especially in the evenings. Not that she really cared what was on, but she could only do so many chores and when she wasn’t moving or doing something it helped if there was some background light and noise to distract her from thinking. Thinking for too long rarely did her any favors. Her nightly ritual was to stay up watching until her dad mentioned once or twice somewhat pointedly that it was late and he was headed to bed. Eventually Yang would go to her own room to appease him but with no intention of sleeping. This was another of those things she couldn’t fully explain to anyone: her hatred of sleep. Even if she had wanted to she could hardly fall asleep before one or two in the morning now, her mind simply too full of unsettling images to allow for rest. And beyond those thoughts lay the dreams. Every night she relived the attack in one form another. Relived her fear, her pain, her helplessness. And at the end of every dream the same thing, a pair of golden eyes, cold where they once were warm, turning from her and disappearing. The dreams were nothing compared to what came next. What Yang dreaded more than almost anything was waking. Every morning, without fail, she would open her eyes to the golden light streaming through her window. She would blink, and yawn, whatever dream had startled her awake fading in the morning light. And then, after two or three heartbeats of life being completely normal, she would remember. Her sleep addled mind would clear and all of weight of the past several months would crash down on her. She would look down at her arm, remember her injury, her defeat. Her loss. Blake. Every day she fought the tears. Some days she actually won. This was the thing no one mentioned to her when they tried to talk about her loss, maybe they didn’t even know. Why couldn’t her traitorous mind just wake her with the knowledge intact? Why that moment of peace, of normalcy, just to have the wounds ripped asunder again and again. Even on her good days these first moments of the day were always the worst. These were the moments that inspired her darkest thoughts. Though she knew she would never do herself any harm, these moments made her wish she could go to sleep and never wake. The words came unbidden, almost mocking, straight to Yang’s lips and out into the air above her head. “I’m not dead” She listened as they quietly echoed through her empty room, felt them resonate harshly in her ears. This was not going to be a good day. —— Most of her days were a blur, with little to differentiate one from another. Yang found that she didn’t necessarily mind feeling disconnected from time, but she noticed that it made her interactions with people somewhat awkward, as if they no longer inhabited the same world, and perhaps they didn’t. Yang found herself referring to the “other day” and talking about something that happened months or years ago, while dredging up memories from minutes or hours ago left her head spinning from the enormity of time in that span. Had she lost her arm mere moments ago, or was she always just a lost, broken, scared girl wandering aimlessly around her childhood home? Was she a ghost, a wraith long dead, going through the motions of a human life and not accepting her own non existence? This was a common musing for Yang, but one particular instance was thrown into sharp relief when it was interrupted by one of the few harsh points of clarity in a time otherwise bereft of temporal landmarks. The first was Ruby leaving, an event that signaled a definite turning point for Yang, a final separation from her old life. The second was this: a package brought to her by a beaming Tai. The arm. Maybe it was his excitement at something that was so emotionally loaded for Yang, or maybe it was just a bad day, but the arm was the last thing she wanted to see. It was a mimicry of what she now lacked, a symbol of all she had lost, and did not have the intended effect. She did her best not to show her anguish, knowing that her father truly meant well and thought this would be exactly the thing she needed to get her back to normal. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that normal was so far outside of her current reality that she couldn’t even conceive of it. Besides, the only way even try to get to normal was back through those dreaded memories, and those were already being forced on her every morning and every night. Why spend any more time with them than absolutely necessary? Even if the arm was perfect, better than the original, did that undo the damage that had been done? She was broken, her body was a puzzle that would always be missing a few crucial pieces. This arm wouldn’t bring her back to a time when she was invincible, when she gladly took damage not only to fuel her semblance, but to prevent those she loved from needing to take it in her place. Now she knew all too well how breakable she was. Worse, she knew how inadequate she was. She had given her body and soul and been found wanting. Now she was alone. Alone, and broken. She looked up at her father’s expectant face. So many emotions warring within her that it was all she could do leave the room without running, fleeing as much from memories of the past as this thing that was supposed to be her future. At the last minute she remembered her father was still standing there and made the appropriate noises of thanks before retreating to her room. Yang could feel a storm blowing in, and as tears formed in response to the thunderheads in her heart she buried her face in her pillow, surrendering herself to the tsunami of emotion that was washing over her. Several hours later exhaustion granted her a temporary respite, but it wouldn’t last. The arm waited patiently for her in its box, unmoved by her reaction. It was a beautiful device made with the utmost attention and care to its form and function, yet somehow not a single thought had been given to what it would represent to the girl who actually had to wear it. —— Eventually, to appease Tai, Yang forced herself to retrieve the arm from the living room. She didn’t know how long that horrid reminder of her failure sat on her bedside table, staring at her, taunting her. Maybe it was a day, maybe it was a month, maybe a lifetime or more. She only knew that abhorrent mockery of everything she lost was dragging her from her self imposed purgatory down to hotter depths. Right as she was reaching a breaking point, ready to stamp a return address on the box the abomination had come in with a note scrawled in her still unsteady left handed writing telling General Ironwood where to shove this miraculous piece of technology, another arrival changed her plans. Changed everything, in fact. Ever since that package had shown up sleep had been nearly impossible. It was as if the arm sucked up all the air in the room, leaving Yang to suffocate as she tossed and turned, measuring her time spent asleep in minutes rather than hours. One day her exhaustion was too much to stand. Without a word of explanation to Tai she got up from the dinner table and staggered up to her room where she dropped into a deep, if not dreamless, sleep. Some hours later she woke in a cold sweat not to the bright light of morning and chirping birds, as she was accustomed, but to the softer glow of the moon accompanied by uproarious laughter from downstairs. Knowing that sleep wasn’t going to find its way back to her any time soon she decided to head down and seek comfort in the sound of other’s voices. Hoping they would be loud enough to drive out the sound of her memories, that the gravity of their beings would cancel out the pull of that cursed device she pointedly ignored on her way out of her room. Unfortunately for her the sources of that laughter had other plans. She was surprised to find her father in the kitchen with Professors Port and Oobleck, both of them occupying roles in a life she only half remembered these days. They welcomed her warmly, however, and it was nice to see familiar faces that didn’t seem burdened by her condition. Unfortunately, her comfort was to be short lived. It didn’t feel like they had coordinated it, but the discussion became very pointed very quickly, and Yang could tell they weren’t going to let her be. Talk of normalcy, of fear, it was all well and good, and sharing a genuine laugh did lighten her heart somewhat, but none of it penetrated those walls; so sturdy in their first construction and seemingly getting stronger every day. It wasn’t until the men were leaving that everything came crashing down. Ruby. Words said directly to her hadn’t really landed, but the name of her wayward sister spoken when they thought her out of earshot found its way through her defenses, losing no momentum as it struck the very center of her being. She had let her sister run off to Mistral on her own, believing her own fight to be done. At the time it seemed that there was nothing to do. Ruby was their leader, a capable warrior, she was going on a mission and Yang couldn’t stop her. So she let her go, helped her even. At the time it had seemed a noble act but now she saw how wrong she was. Worse, she had hamstrung her father’s ability to help Ruby. Tai couldn’t go off and protect her stuck as he was babysitting his other, broken daughter. She rolled all of her excuses around in her mind, tasted the lies for what they were: Fear. She had been afraid, so she let her sister run off without her. She had been abandoned by Blake so she abandoned her duty to watch Ruby’s back. Her dad had been right about one thing this evening: she was Yang Xiao Long. Two arms, one arm, no arms, it didn’t matter. Her whole life she had been good at two things: taking care of her sister and kicking ass. Ok fine, it mattered a little. Having two arms was probably preferable. She looked at the arm, reflecting the light of a shattered moon into the eyes of a shattered girl from its perfect surface. It was so smooth, unbroken. Unnatural. Horrible. Wonderful. She put it on. The sensation of the connection driving home was uncomfortable, to say the least. She had been warned it would be, and that while she would have sensation in it she shouldn’t expect it to feel like the original. In that moment she didn’t care. This arm wasn’t a replacement, she didn’t need it for anything delicate, tender. It was a weapon. An extension of herself like her gauntlets were, but a weapon nonetheless. And though she was so far from ready, part of her reveled in it. Her weight instinctively shifted back to center as she realized she’d been crooked all these months compensating for her imbalance. Her knees bent slightly, and she could feel a touch of that fire, the power she had thought forever lost. She threw an experimental jab with the arm, noting similarities and differences to how it used to feel. Without thinking she reached back to brush a stray hair behind her ear and felt the cool metal run across her temple in place of warm skin. It was too much, too soon. She felt something within her crack. The next thing she knew she was on the floor, sobbing and wrenching the arm off. It took her a few tries to figure out how the stupid release worked, but once she did she threw it as far across the room as she could given how hard she was shaking. The tears streaming down her face burned trails of fury down her cheeks, her ribs heaving so hard she worried she would throw up. When she stilled herself enough to think at all images started flooding her head. Blood, fire, blades and terrified eyes. With a colossal effort she pushed those aside for the one that mattered: Ruby. Ruby, on her way to Mistral and gods knew what danger with the remnants of team JNPR. Yang wasn’t ready. She wasn’t, but she had wasted so much time already, too much. She knew this was like any other injury, aggravating it before it was healed might mean it wouldn’t heal right, or wouldn’t heal it all. But that didn’t matter, she didn’t matter. Finding Ruby, protecting her, that was what mattered. For Ruby, she would pick herself up, right now, and do what needed to be done. Golden eyes burned in her mind, welcoming, afraid, then cold, then gone. Yang shook her head. Not for her, never for her. Not again. For Ruby. She walked across the room and picked up the arm. Releasing the breath she was holding, the breath it felt like she had been holding for months, she spoke with as much determination as she could manage with her still shaking diaphragm, staring herself down in her mirror. “I’m. Not. Dead.” Suddenly that statement carried with it something she had set aside shortly after returning to Patch: obligation. She could put down her burden when she no longer drew breath, but that day wasn’t today. She braced herself to try again, knowing she was in for a long night. —— When she walked outside the next morning she had half a mind to depart immediately, but her father was right, she needed to train. Without time to adjust to the arm and regain her fighting stamina she’d be less than useless to Ruby and the others, she’d be a liability. So train they did. The first thing she noticed was how stiff she was. Her joints creaked like they had rusted over sometime last century and were being forced to move despite being quite happy in their immobile state. The second was how much more like herself she felt in combat. The flow was even better than her focused chores. When she was in the middle of it she had no fear because she had no memories, no self. She was the fight and nothing else, until her father landed a solid blow or something distracted her, then she found herself shaking, fighting back tears. In those instances Tai would quickly stop the fight so Yang didn’t hurt herself and could simply collapse until her traitorous mind and limbs could be trusted again. Eventually she learned to mostly control those episodes, to let herself use the rush of combat to tamp down her more extreme emotions. If she was lacking her former joy in battle, she more than compensated with focus. Finally, she noticed the arm. In some ways she grudgingly had to admit it was an improvement. It’s strength and durability were undoubtedly better than flesh and blood, and she learned to make use of those. She did find that she had to adjust to its movements, which weren’t quite as fluid as her natural arm. Over the weeks she was proud to discover that this, too was becoming a strength. What little unnecessary flourish she had ever had in her fighting style was gone, her movements had become precise without becoming predictable, and it was showing. Add to that guidance from her father, welcome or not, and it was all coming together to make her even more formidable than she had been back at Beacon. Tai may have lost a step (or three, or four) when he lost Summer, but he was still one of the best hand to hand combat specialists Yang had ever met, and she was winning. At first she suspected he was going easy on her, but she started to see him push himself harder and harder and still she won more and more frequently. Never with ease, mind you, but she was undoubtedly getting stronger. One of the things Yang was most grateful for during her training was the sheer physical exhaustion of it. Sleep was coming easily by pure biological necessity, and she could hardly process dreams in the depths of her slumber. Mornings still held their terrible moment of peace, but she found that having something to do helped her power through her daily remembrance. She even found herself joking more than mechanically over meals and during breaks with Tai. In some ways the temporary nature of this time was a blessing. There was a goal, something to strive for, and that gave her a clarity and focus she hadn’t felt in months. Knowing it would soon be over also made that time feel somehow lighter, as though weightier matters were being saved for another day. There were no decisions to make, just training. But the temporary nature of this phase meant that all too soon it came to an end. After beating him three times soundly in a single session she knew it was time. Any longer and she would be stalling, buying herself time for a someday that would never come. She knew she was still broken, that doing what she was about to do would guarantee her mental scars would be with her forever, but this wasn’t about healing, it wasn’t about Yang at all. Ruby needed her, nothing else mattered. Well, almost nothing. In a moment of self indulgence that Yang didn’t even know she had left in her she decided that the Atlesian scientists, while gifted at mechanical engineering, didn’t know anything about color schemes. At this point Yang had already taken apart the arm and inspected it , learning it like she would any weapon. She had even modified it to match her remaining gauntlet with a cleverly hidden muzzle and dust rounds, but all of these things were practical. She was pleased with herself as a bit of the old Yang peaked through and she found herself stripping the arm down once more, this time to give it a paint job that would leave a bit more of an impression. After all, she thought, I’m not dead. For the first time this brought a smile to her face. A half smile, a crooked smile. Maybe more of a grimace. But still, it was a start. She shook the spray paint can and got to work. —— Decision made, the time to leave came with startling speed. Before she knew it Yang was hugging her father goodbye. They had talked about it at length, and despite his reservations Tai was allowing her to make this trip alone. He grudgingly accepted that Yang needed to strike out on her own or risk hiding behind him, negating all the time she had spent training to regain her confidence. Yang also suspected he wasn’t too keen to take part in her plan. She was going to Raven. After years of searching she was finally seeking out her mother when she finally couldn’t care less about finding her. According to Qrow Raven’s camp was dug in and large enough to be readily found. Easier than a handful of kids in an entire continent anyway. From there it would be a quick hop to Qrow via Raven’s semblance, and hopefully he would be with Ruby. Easy. Ok, not easy, really hard actually, but simple. That’s what Yang needed, straightforward and efficient. The look on Tai’s face when she told him her plan made it clear that had she not argued so vehemently for her need to go alone already he would have started looking for excuses. After months of feeling that he couldn’t possibly understand her pain Yang saw it’s twin in his face and felt like a fool. Of course he would understand, if anyone could it would be the man who was abandoned by one love and lost another shortly after. But it was too late now for more than an unspoken moment of understanding to pass between them. Maybe someday Yang would find a way to open up to him and give him space to open up in return. But the days from that realization to her departure passed in a blur with no time for a heart to heart, and then it was time to go. Air travel was still in shambles, even after all those months, so the only real option Yang had was to go by sea. Fortunately the trip from Patch to Anima wasn’t far, but she was going to have make good time across the continent, it was a long way to Raven’s camp. She had plenty of time to plan though, the voyage was quiet and people seemed willing to keep their distance. At first Yang didn’t notice, but eventually she saw a few people, usually men, approach her only for their opening line to die on their lips. She wondered at this until she caught a look at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t how she was dressed (though she had intentionally gone for a less flirty and far more practical look in her new threads) it was in her eyes, the set of her jaw. It was in every line of body. Before, Yang had been incredibly approachable, when she wasn’t angry of course, and she liked to be that way. Inside and out she was all gentle lines and inviting curves. Attractive to some but more importantly to those who knew her best she was soft and safe, like a warm blanket you wrap around yourself to keep out the chill as well as the monsters under your bed. Physically she hadn’t changed. Well, most of her hadn’t. The arm was new, but that wasn’t the real difference. Not the one that mattered. One look at Yang revealed little that could be described as soft. The process of reforging her broken self far too quickly had left her jagged and raw, all sharp edges and hard points. She may still be useful at keeping the monsters at bay, but get too close and you would find her to be anything but soft. Yang saw that and part of her, a distant memory of girl she once was, wept. But she was the past, and the present Yang saw those hard lines and was proud. They were a sign that while she wasn’t invincible she was resilient. She could be broken and put herself back together because she had to. The world could do its worst, she wasn’t worried. She nodded her head appreciatively, if somewhat grimly, pleased with what she saw when she looked in the mirror. This was not the face she had grown accustomed to seeing, the broken girl who needed to convince herself she wasn’t dead. She was no ghost, she was a phoenix rising from her own ashes. The resurrection was far from perfect, she was jagged and crooked where once she had been smooth and symmetrical, but those details paled in the face of the power bursting forth like flames from every pore. So what if anyone standing too close got burned? That wasn’t her problem. Needless to say, she had plenty of privacy for the remainder of the trip. The only company she couldn’t escape were her dreams. On the ship there limited opportunities for Yang to exhaust herself. There was a meager gym below deck but she had to be careful not to destroy the ancient heavy bag that swung with the motion of the waves, and there was little else of interest. Yang never could stand exercise bikes or treadmills. She wasn’t a hamster, and even those poor creatures deserved more interesting forms of exercise than they got. So her dreams came back, but in a different form. The waves had an oddly soothing effect on the contents of the dreams. At first Yang was grateful to not have to relive her dismemberment every night, but she quickly began to fear her new batch of dreams nearly as much. Every night was Blake. Mostly memories, strikingly detailed for things Yang had tried to bury. The way she would quirk an eyebrow when Yang had made a especially atrocious pun or inappropriate joke, pretending not to laugh but so obviously wanting to. The subtle motion of her mouth nearly reading aloud when she was particularly absorbed in a book. If Yang watched carefully enough she could almost follow the story in the movements of her lips. The play of muscle in her lithe figure as they fought side by side. Yang becoming intoxicated with the sight of her to the point of giddiness. Seeing a matching smile on Blake’s face, wondering if she felt the same elation. Wanting so badly to pause the fight so she could lay her head on that lovely chest, listen for the heartbeat that she knew would be in perfect time with her own. Those eyes. Too often the dream turned to darkness. Blake would be wrapped in shadows until all that was visible were her burning eyes. Turning from beacons of a home that Yang didn’t even know she was seeking to stony indifference, and then turning away to vanish forevermore. Yang wished these dreams would leave her in the morning, wake to find herself muddled and oblivious like she used to, even if that meant wading through the crash of emotion that followed. But these dreams were too gentle, lasted too long, faded too slowly. She inevitably woke to see those eyes turn away, leaving an aching hole in her very core that she was beginning to accept was simply part of who she was now. Eventually that emptiness was just another reminder that she wasn’t the girl she used to be. Sure, her step no longer bounced with underlying optimism, but she also wasn’t that fragile shadow rattling around her father’s home. So when her dreams were particularly haunting she would take a breath to steady herself, and go searching for that girl with a look that could cut, who stood strong on her own, was built to protect others and needed nothing in return. She tried to pretend she didn’t see the rest, the parts of her still broken, still crying out to the void for the one who shattered her to return. No, that was the past. Despite her constant protests to the contrary, that girl was dead. Her world had ended and she with it, so every morning Yang would stare in the mirror until she couldn’t see her shadow anymore, and if she found herself wiping away tears she didn’t think anything of it. They didn’t belong to the person she had become. —— It was a relief when she finally got off the boat. No more moving at a pace set by others; it was time for her stand on her own two feet. Tearing off from the port on Bumblebee Yang felt free in a way she hadn’t in months. She had the wind in her hair, a full tank of dust, and miles to go before she reached her goal, but she was finally doing something that mattered. The right thing. It felt good. Pulling out onto the main road she was reminded of team RWBY’s first real mission, out to Mountain Glenn. Professor Oobleck had slyly asked all of them but Ruby pointed questions, digging into what drove them. At the time she had found it annoying, invasive, and unfair when she found out Ruby hadn’t been grilled, but now she saw the genius of it. He had seen right through Yang, through all of them, and what he saw was a group of girls who thought they knew what they wanted and had no idea. Yang hadn’t been lying when she replied, she had sought adventure, novelty. But why become a huntress instead of literally anything else? When she searched her mind for the answer now she found only one that felt honest: she was good at it. It was a simple, boring, blunt answer, but it was true, and she saw that now more than ever. She wasn’t surprised that Ruby had found another mission so soon. Ruby wanted to be a huntress, that was her driving passion, just as it always had been. Yang had always envied her that. They had spent their lives being told to follow their dreams, discover their purpose in life, and Yang never could find that thing. Sure, she felt strongly about a lot of stuff, but there was never any one thing that was obviously her calling. So she went with the flow; she was good at fighting, it was in her blood, and it was a respectable career that let her help other people. Plus, it was fun, what’s not to love? Of course, that was before. How nice would it be to be sure? To know that all she wanted to be was a huntress, to never question it? Yang assumed it must be comforting for Ruby, to know without a doubt that she was doing the right thing with her life. Still, Yang realized as she was riding down the beginning of a long and lonely road, maybe her way was what was keeping her going now. She was broken, and honestly unsure if she would ever feel desire or passion for anything as she had before. But she didn’t need passion to direct her path, she chose for herself. And right now she chose to get up every day, no matter how much the simple act of rising out of bed hurt, and put one foot in front of the other. She would find Ruby, she would undo her mistake of all those months ago and say words that should never be left unsaid. Most importantly, she would protect her. If she got wrapped up in some grand mission as a result, so be it, but that wasn’t what mattered. Yang was not seeking the heroes path, she didn’t want fame or fortune or even adventure anymore. She sought only to protect those she loved. That thought, so simple and pure, brought a smile to her face. Not a grimace, not a sneer, a smile, small and true. Maybe she had more edges than she used to, maybe she wasn’t soft or innocent or whole. Maybe the shadowy corners of her mind were haunted by golden eyes, but maybe that was ok. Yang inhaled the country air as she leaned through a series of turns and shouted into the wind: “I’m not...” But her breath caught, the feeling was suddenly different, the words all wrong. At first she was worried that the tears in her eyes were a new form of sorrow, for in the strange sweetness she felt a trap. But sorrow was not the feeling she was struck with, it was more like the pain of taking your first breath after nearly drowning. Looking around, Yang saw a world full of color and life unlike the one she had inhabited for so many months. Danger still lurked just out of sight both within and without, but life went on and that realization was almost painful in the startling clarity it brought. Yang found her voice again and and with a smile on her lips she whispered, somewhat in awe of the truth of it: “I’m alive.��

#janurwby #rwby #fanfiction #yang xiao long

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its-a-branwen-thing · 5 years ago

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More Than a Difference of Opinion: On Ironwood, Oz, and Qrow

Also why can’t I do read more on mobile I’m sorry everyone.

I want to talk about Oz, Qrow, and Ironwood for a second. Because something about the last few episodes and some subtle hints this season, along with conversations in V3, have lead me to believe that it isn’t going to be RWBY or new!JNPR or the Penny who ultimately stop Ironwood. It’s going to be Oz and it might also be Qrow.

And I mean Oz. Not necessarily Oscar (but him too!) because he’s still in there I...I think? Like a dormant Alexa? Anyway, when we first see Ironwood and Oz interact in V2 it’s fraught with...disagreement. Ozpin isn’t pleased with the display of force and neither is Glynda, although her and Ironwood seem to have a bit of a friendly history, and it showed us right out of the gate that Ironwood is a military commander. A soldier through and through. He brings big guns as a show of protection. But Oz interprets it as a show of force. People will wonder what they need protecting from.

When we’re introduced to Qrow in V3 his first confrontation is with Winter. That’s how he’s introduced. A fight with one of Ironwood’s subordinates because he disagrees with James’s way of doing things. And when Ozpin interjects it’s with resigned displeasure. Of course Qrow is here to cause a fight. He’s Ozpin’s agent, not Ironwood’s, and he does things his own way. When they meet in the office their relationship at first seems tenuous at best.

“If I were one your men I’d shoot myself” is still hands down THE BEST IN THIS ESSAY I WILL—

But Ironwood also states he thought Qrow was compromised, and so he didn’t initiate contact. A strategy less about friendship and more about the mission. I can see why these two butt heads.

When Ironwoods forces are hacked (another potential beat of “oh, maybe an army of steel isn’t the best option so here’s my very real human V7 team plus one robot and...oh, the robots the only one with real autonomy? It’s fine, it’s fine”) we see him go through shit. And this is a man we like. He can’t gain control of his army, his ships are crashing to the ground, Grimm are attacking the city, it’s all gone to hell. And he still fights.

So we see Ironwood knocking his own army around, his half metal body showing through ripped clothing. This guy is powerful. And when he comes across Qrow and Glynda this is how Qrow reacts to seeing him

Gets me every time

And Ironwood tells him it isn’t his fault and looks ready to smack down should Qrow attack him. But Qrow’s defending him from a Grimm, not attacking, and he basically turns around once he’s done like “no duh, Jimmy, I’m not that drunk yet” After this, they don’t really see each other again that I can recall. Beacon’s fall happens. Ironwood goes back to Atlas. Qrow joins the kids. Oz finds himself in the body of a farm boi.

And even in season 4, we see Ironwood a few times. I cheered him on at the party when he said Weiss was the only one making sense there. And then 5 and 6 he’s largely absent in all but name. And we know he’s isolated himself and Atlas. Now 7 he’s obviously center stage. And with Oz gone, no one will be able to talk sense into him as Watts fears they will.

Season 7 feels heavier than the other seasons. Maybe it’s the setting, maybe it’s just a tonal shift, but Atlas and Mantle are beautiful and I hope we don’t leave them soon. And Ironwood, a man we trusted even though he was a little flawed, falls right into Salem’s plan. He’d never betray our protagonists the way Lionheart did, but he’d sacrifice anything if it meant even temporarily stopping Salem. Even them. Even his own people. Even himself. (“I would DIEEEEEE”). But the thing is, I totally get where Ironwood is coming from. I also completely get where RWBYs coming from.

I want to talk about four scenes in particular here: Oscar and Ironwood at the Vault, Ironwood and Qrow’s hug, Oscar revealing the truth to Ironwood, and Qrow’s promise to Clover.

The Oscar and Ironwood scene is one of the best this season. It communicates what it needs to very well and beautifully. Oscars warning to Ironwood seems to directly contradict Oz’s V6 reveal. Oscars trust him. But he trusts other people too. He warns him not to neglect listening to his humanity. And Ironwood does just that (I know there’s a loooot of grey area but abandoning Mantle is why Salem wins). It all seemed cool before episode 11, but it sure went to shit then. This conversation will happen again. It has to. Because Oz has always been warning Ironwood that guardians are needed more than weapons of war. And we’ve also seen Ironwood justify retreat to the students. He’s a solider. This is war. Retreat is a tactic of war. It’s a valid one too.

The next scene is short but I had to include it because they included it. Ironwood stops Qrow and tells him it’s good to see him. They hug. It’s fine. Qrow rolls his eyes and pats his back. We see them as allies now, Ironwood having only himself to fall back on to enact Oz’s will, and now one of the old gang is here. But Qrow rather endearingly rolls his eyes twice this episode at Ironwood. The animosity between them is almost gone. Throughout this season he constantly questions James, but never confronts him as angrily as before. It’s like the fight has gone out of Qrow and he lets the others (I’d say kids but they’re like...not anymore?) lead instead. Even when Ironwood calls for their arrests, Qrow still wants to talk to him instead of escalating. He still trusts Ironwood. And he seems to until they very end.

Next is Oscar revealing the final truth to James. He does this behind closed doors after Jacques’s presumed detaining. He tells him how Salem can’t be beaten. And Ironwood takes it hard but he thanks Oscar for telling him and when Oscar says the city in the sky is held to a higher standard, Ironwood has a moment of confusion. I can almost hear him thinking “...Oz?” as his scroll goes off. Oscar seems wiser this season. I don’t think they’re necessarily melding, I just think Oz’s dormancy is not so...dormant anymore. I think Oz is seeing all of this. And I think him being below when Ironwood makes the decision to sacrifice Mantle is deliberate. I think this scene plays out like his other one. (Also “I don’t think I can take anoymore surprises” sure is poignant now). These characters need to have a reckoning. Especially considering Ironwood is technically Oz’s subordinate just as Qrow was. Is? If Oz asks him to stop, will he? Is he too far gone in his decision? And, if Oz has learned anything about trust this season, it’s that he needs to place trust in others. And he’s going to place his trust in Ironwood to make the right choice. And I’m not sure what our Tin Man will do.

The final scene is the final scene of episode 12. It’s a doozy. But it doesn’t sound like a throwaway line. Qrow specifically says “Ironwood (James?) will take the fall” meaning he likely blames Ironwood for Clover’s death and the circumstances that lead to it. He knows Ironwood is abandoning Mantle now. And he could have run after and blamed Tyrian but he doesn’t (more on that story at 11). He calls for Ironwood’s fall. And all this time we’ve seen them as two members of a team thrown together to save the world, with the man who joined them under the cause suddenly gone. And besides all that, Qrow’s trust in Oz is still shattered. It shows when he tells Ruby after they get their licenses that she’s better than Oz because she trusts others. Remember that Qrow’s issue with Oz is an issue of loyalty, and Clover’s death is because of that loyalty to Ironwood (among a myriad of other factors). If Oz can’t talk sense into Ironwood, I can see him fighting Qrow. They haven’t been set up as nemesis, exactly, but they are opposing forces. And we’ve been setting up that confrontation for a few volumes now.

I don’t really have an estimation of how this will pan out, but I think it’s important to consider Ironwood and Qrow are two cogs in the world-saving machine on two very different sides now. And Oz is the lynchpin to it all. He has to come back. He has to reconcile these decisions. We have to see if he’s changed or what he’s thinking. I personally think Oz will fail, Qrow will confront James, and there will be some heavy hitting words and a big ol fight that Oz will have to stop.

Oz is a great character. I understand his choices. And I think those ideas play nicely with this season’s theme. I’m pumped to see how this season plays out because it feels like we’re cornered on all sides. And that’s, I think, fantastic.

#rwby #long #ironwood #qrow #ozpin #oscar #rwby spoilers #finale soon bby!!!

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tinywishing-well · 6 years ago

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Consumer Culture and the Technological Imperative: The Artist in Dataspace

Simon Penny

First presented at On the Air symposium Transit/ORF, Innsbruck, Austria 1993 First published in Critical Issues in Electronic Media Edited by Simon Penny, SUNY Press, 1995

In many discussions of computer arts, the conversation has focused upon a dialectic between the sciences and the arts, a recapitulation of C. P. Snow's somewhat dated dualism.[1] I want to insert a third term, without which such a discussion can have only limited relevance to contemporary culture: consumer commodity economics.

Unless artists are in direct contact with research labs, their access to `science' is via commodities, and their product, as a product of those tools, can also be regarded as falling within that system. Science, moreover, has achieved its authority in our culture by virtue of the fact that it is the ideology which allowed industrial mass production to occur. Technologies have been brought to market amid complex rhetorics which subscribe to scientific/technical virtues such as speed, precision and the `saving' of labor, and at the same time, call upon humanistic utopian notions such as democracy and leisure. Artists, as members of consumer culture, are immersed and subject to these systems of persuasion as are other members of society. An artist cannot engage technology without engaging consumer commodity economics. I intend here to explore, in various ways, the position of the artist who uses technological tools, with respect to the larger formations of technologically mediated culture. [2]

Disappearing esthetics

In 1990, Canadian artist Nancy Paterson completed a piece called `Bicycle TV' in which an interactive laserdisc was interfaced via a bicycle ridden by the user. The disc displayed video sequences of travel on country roads. Three years later, exercise cycles are available with simulated travel on graphic displays. The release of a consumer commodity conceptually identical to Paterson's artwork places the esthetic worth of the piece in jeopardy. Alternatively: the consumer items are all artworks, or: the piece, though it made claim to exist in the realm of `art' in fact did not. These three, equally unpalatable alternatives, throw into high relief the crisis of meaning for electronic media artwork.

In this liminal territory, `art practice' and technological invention overlap. What is conceived as an art project can become a product to be marketed, a potential money-spinner. I attach no value to this slippage between one role and another, it simply indicates the soft edges of art discourse in this territory.

What if Delacroix's `Raft of the Medusa' had become esthetically redundant due to the proliferation of mass produced vinyl shower curtains, only a few years after its completion ? A conventional response might be to ascribe value to the `originality' of Delacroix's work, of which the curtains were only `copies'. But in the late twentieth century, both theoretically and technically, that notion of intellectual property residing permanently in the `original' is tenuous. Not only is the notion of originality so closely linked to the notion of `inspiration' that it completely denies that artists work in a cultural and historical context where they, at best, `re-process' ideas. But if the work consists of a manufactured bicycle and a laserdisc, these are both already multiples and any traces of the precious `hand of the artist' are scarce.

Unrequited Consumption

Electronic technologies are consumer commodities. Technological `progress', the relentless arrival of new models and updates, is fueled not necessarily by a cultural or societal need, but by corporate need for profit. Markets are constructed in order to sell the new model.

Artists who engage these technologies also simultaneously engage consumer commodity economics. They are induced to upgrade continually. This creates a financial load and a pressure to continually retrain, to learn the newest version of the software. The need to upgrade is not necessarily a product of the artists' esthetic development. Thus they are caught in a cycle of unrequited technological consumption. Artists cannot learn the new technology before it is replaced with another. If art practice requires a wholistic consideration of the cultural context of the subject matter, then the pace of technological change prevents this.

There are numerous cases over the last 25 years of artists who feel compelled to develop a technology to realize their ideas, because they feel their esthetic ideas are intimately linked to the technology of realization. There is a history of artists' fascination with technology, from the Cybernetic Serendipity and Experiments in Art and Technology to Survival Research Laboratories and the Banff Center (Canada) Virtual Reality initiative. One pitfall of this fascination is due to the inherent complexity of electronic technology: artists (generally without all the required technical skills) get bogged down in technical problems and the less tangible esthetic and cultural aspects of the work get lost.

Given the slippery slide of technological change, what is it that artists want with this stuff? There is undeniably a geekiness, a boys-with-toys mentality, a fascination with mechanism. But as members of consumer culture, artists are also not necessarily immune to the sucessive waves of liberatory and democratizing utopian rhetoric, ideas such as : video puts TV in the hands of people, or VR is the best yet manifestation of the space of dreams, or "reach out and touch someone"

As in the case of Nancy Paterson described above, if the artist is lucky, s/he might get the project finished before the corporate R+D labs release a consumer version. But at most s/he'll have a year or two in the sun before there's a Nintendo or Panasonic version. At that point the esthetic value of that labor evaporates.

Is this what art will be in the technological times: way-out-there (unpaid) R+D for the military infotainment complex? (And would we prefer it if we were paid?). There is a history in the US of research labs (Atari in the 80's, Xerox PARC in the 90's) offering artist-in-residencies. There's good evidence that artists' use of emerging technologies is very useful (and cheap) beta- testing for manufacturers. In thewse ways artists sometimes inadvertently support the creation of new markets for technological commodities.

The pace of technological change can also render whole classes of work obsolete, a perfect example being artwork on half-inch video, a history which has effectively disappeared due to the disappearence of playback equipment and breakdown of tape. So here is a dual problematic, both aspects related to the rapid change in technological commodites, one pertaining to art and industrial production, and the other to art and the dynamics of consumer culture:

the pressure to retrain. (elaborated below: technofatigue)

esthetic obsolescence forced by the irrelevant criterion of advancing technical standards, or arrival of consumer commodities of similar form.

Contrary to the beliefs of the Art+Technology movement of the 70's, I am arguing that in important ways, this technological system may prohibit art practice, or at least any sort of art practice that takes a critical position. If rapidly increasing standards make the computer artist feel forced to continually upgrade and retrain then little time is left to do the work of artmaking: the creative analysis and questioning of the relationship between these technologies and culture. If art takes for its subject the changing shape and codes of culture, and if technologies remain (culturally) meaningless until they become enmeshed in and play a meaningful part in culture, and if culture evolves over time, then if the artist is forced to forego each technology for the next wave, there is no time to observe and consider such change, and hence, no art.

Beneath this lies a dreadfully vicious possibility, that although the tools change, the underlying value systems do not. We are confronted with a paradoxical condition in which we are challenged to keep up with a changing technology whose philosophical agenda is stagnant or retrogressive. A technology moreover, which has the insidious ability to reify its value system (see Value System of Engineering,below). This value system may preclude art practice.

Technofatigue

I recall a Gary Larsen cartoon in which a cretinous-looking student stands up in class and says to the teacher "may I be excused, my brain is full". I feel like that a lot lately. My brain is full of function keys for dozens of obsolete software packages. The prospect of learning a new software application, or even an update, fills me with dread. My professional situation exposes me to more of this than most people, as I'm expected to be able to teach a range of these things, but I would like to look at the question of changing technologies and time management from this perspective.

As a teacher of computer art , I am forced to put in long hours learning new peripherals and their software. I just took a new job. I have to learn the resident software packages, the peculiarities of the lab and campus network, etc. This load translates into hours of rote learning. Imagine if every two years the tools of a painter went out of date and every painter had to re-train: if drawing paper suddenly became multi-dimensional, paintbrushes were motorized, and color-mixing was achieved by numerical operation!

In the context of this changing landscape, my pedagogical strategy has been to emphasize conceptual skills that the student may `port' from one package or plaform to another, rather than to encourage fetishization of a particular product which will likely be obsolete before they graduate. But it becomes clear that what I had considered to be general conceptual notions almost universal to computer art are also subject to obsolescence. As machines become more powerful and more procedures become transparent, conceptual lessons such as the idea of conversion from Binary to Hexadecimal become irrelevant.

This is a load that the pace of technological change and the `irrelevant criterion' of technological up-to-dateness forces upon us. One is bound to ask: will this ever slow down? My current guess is that a consumer resistance will force a change in the cavalier way that new packages are introduced to the market. To some extent that is beginning to happen.

Ossification of Interfaces

I learnt to drive a car 20 years ago, and I can still jump into any car and drive it away. The automobile user-interface has reached a level of maturity where it has ceased to change, a level that software has not yet approached. If so, what constitutes this moment of maturity? The conventional answer would be that the technology reached a maturity, at which time it was fully adopted by the market, the user base. But perhaps this `maturity' was forced by cultural inertia: when 50% of the population learnt to drive in their late teens, the interface stopped changing. That doesn't mean it had become perfect at that moment but that it had become integrated into the cultural fabric. Around that time any number of songs about cars appeared in popular music. I recently heard a blues song which went:

I'm going to Dallas to get my carburetor cleaned, `cause those west Texas women use dirty gasoline.

When MTV has songs about File Transfer Protocols and hard disc optimization we'll know we've reached a threshold. Recently I heard the radio personality Garrison Keillor relate a story about a vacation. The list of things to do before locking up the house included putting out the cat, turning off the oven and backing up the hard drive. It's happening, computer culture is ossifying. Nerd culture leads the way, but it is decidedly a subculture. A few weeks ago a friend remarked that someone "went nonlinear" (they became unpredictable, emotionally unstable.) I'll know that computer culture is here when my mother offers me a `core dump' on some issue.

Does this mean that computing, particularly domestic computing, will stop developing at that point? Yes and no: the interface will set, but changes will occur behind the scenes, where they ought to occur. It makes no difference to the user interface if I am driving a car which runs on gasoline from a carburetor or diesel, fuel injected.

It becomes clear that a technology-in-development passes through certain stages. At the risk of employing a trite and senile analogy, one might couch this in anthropomorphic terms. We might say that any new technology goes through an infancy, an adolescence and an adulthood. Infancy is marked by high expense, low general applicability, development within closed institutions (research labs, universities). Adolescence marks the moment when the technology is generally available, yet open to substantial change. Adulthood is marked by conventionalization, resistance to change and full residence and integration in the community. These stages parallel the software terminology of alpha, beta and full commercial release. In my lifetime I have watched the adolescence of video, CB radio, domestic computing, desktop interactivty and, most recently, VR come and go. Broadcast multi-media has its adolescence now.

It must be emphasised that this `adolescence' is a critical moment for anyone interested in the form a technology will take in culture. It is the moment when the technology acquires its meaning and use as part of culture. Once it is institutionalized it will acquire a conservatism and will resist change. Institutions resist change, as anyone who has been involved in alternative television projects knows too well.

Continued

#simonpenny #art #artandtech #consumerism #capitalism #computers #internet

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afurst · 7 years ago

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Can We Prove Buddhism is Right? – Dialectic Two Step

Comment:

Did you hear about the studies that show <insert your favorite religious practice> can actually improve <insert something related to human well being>?

Response:

I’m always cautious when it comes to citing scientific studies to support a Buddhist world view or to practice. There are a few reasons:

I have an ongoing non-scientific study that shows that many studies attempting to prove religious practices work are followed on by even more studies debunking those claims.*

Religious practices are practices of the mind and their effects are on the mind. Because of this there is a tenuous link to objective truth.

Designing a study that could prove a religious practice is effective sounds impossible to me. In my opinion metaphysics is outside the bounds of the scientific method. I’ve said this many times – it’s not the right tool for the job. In general we can’t “prove” anything about religious belief, including Buddhist religious beliefs.

Not All Studies Are Equal?

One of the regulars at the meditation group I lead is a physicist and he often asks about what science has to say about Buddhism. We’ve talked about studies that show prayer helps healing, how chanting can make you healthier, and so on. I encourage people to follow the data when it comes to meditation and the Buddhist world view.

But when I talk about data in the context of meditation, it is always subjective. Here’s an example of what I mean. When a newcomer arrives for a meditation sitting, I always encourage them to do three things:

Notice how you feel before the practice

Notice how you feel during the practice

Notice how you feel after the practice

After the sitting, most people report a bumpy but consistent trend in a positive direction. They usually leave feeling better than the came. But this is a not a well designed study, and the results cannot be generalized to prove that Buddhism is good for everyone or that it is the “correct” religion.

Is It All In My Head?

Religions are belief systems or world views, so they live squarely in the arena of the mind. One important question we have to answer if we want to prove that a religion or a religious practice is “right” is this: Is the human mind capable of determining objective truth?

I’m going to approach that question by way of examining the functions and disposition of the mind. I’ll look at whether that disposition is compatible with the quest for truth with a capital T.

The “Me” Machine

What is the purpose of mind? I think that a good place to start is Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Our minds are focused on the “me” or the “I”. We are the beneficiaries of all of its deliberations, intentions, and impulses. I’ve spelled out the needs hierarchy below with an analysis of how the mind is involved in meeting those needs. As we move up the hierarchy, you’ll note that the mind has more influence.

1. Biological and Physiological needs – Here the brain does the lion share of the work. It unconsciously coordinates billions of life sustaining functions. Breathing, heart beat, immune response, maintaining body temperature and acidity, and so on are all handled silently by the body. At a more advanced level, it coordinates hardwired behavior like shivering, hunger pangs, sex drive, etc. Of course the mind does play a role in these functions. For instance, we can strategize and make decisions on how to get warm or what to eat in response to what’s available and where we are. But at this level, the brain is in the driver seat.

2. Safety needs – Again the brain is in charge here. It controls most bodily functions that support our survival. Take the fight and flight instinct. It is produced by the release of hormones without any deliberation or intention. The body manages the complex muscle movements needed to run or fight. A mother’s instinct to protect a child is also hormonal. The mind supplements this hard wiring vis a vis allowing us to invent clever and flexible ways of meeting these needs. Consider informal and formal social contracts like friendships, marriage, and systems of government. We begin to see the mind playing a gradually more important role.

3. Love and Belongingness needs – The brain still plays a significant function here. Our biological need for connection is hardwired into the human condition out of the evolutionary necessity to reproduce. But a lot of this happens in our heads. We spend a lot of time and energy navigating our complex relationships.

4. Esteem needs – At this level, the brain still plays a role, but the mind is fundamental. Self-esteem is likely associated with sexual selection. But within that context, it remains highly conceptual and subjective. How we achieve it is dependent on how we and those we relate to define it. Esteem is achieved in a complex matrix of personal goals, relationships, and cultural norms.

5. Self-Actualization needs – The pinnacle of the hierarchy seems to be wholly in the mind. How this is related to survival and propagation of genes is an interesting question. Few if any other species on earth appear to be consciously engaged in self-actualization if only because it would require language to articulate the need and its fulfillment.

Is That All Mind Is?

So, mind is clearly about the individual. In this context it’s disposition is purely subjective. But the question I’m asking is about objective truth? Can the mind be effective in finding big T truth?

I think that the mind is capable of supporting the search for truth, but there are caveats and boundaries. We would expect the body and mind to be objectively accurate in determining threats and find resources. It does this very well, but there are two sides to that coin.

Our mind-body views the world in terms of threats and resources. A tiger is a threat and an apple is a resource. We know this as a fact, without much in the way of caveats or ambiguities. Generally the mind-body does a fantastic job of keeping us alive and safe. It does so through an accurate determination of threats and resources.

Our mind-body views the world in terms of threats and resources. Our body and minds operate through a strong filter of self-preservation. For instance, if there is a bug crawling on us, we instinctively swipe it off. But not all bugs warrant this response. A black ant is generally harmless. A deer tick could be a much bigger deal. A lot of our hard wired responses are “better safe than sorry” interpretations of the environment. Evolution can sometimes favor a cautious view of the world.

So there is usually a bias where the mind is concerned. I would add, that the more we rely on the mind, the bigger the bias.

Here is one way to look at it. If we plot Maslow’s needs on the spectra of mind-body and objective-subjective, the more the mind is involved, the more subjective, or biased, the outcome will be. For example, it is objectively true that a tiger is a threat. The fear that we feel when we meet a tiger in the jungle is objectively valuable. But if we adopt a world view of “it is what it is”, this self-actualization strategy may help us cope with things we can’t change, but it doesn’t mean that we can’t change anything.

What Can We Say About The Mind and Religious Practice?

So now I want to make some statements about the mind that I believe are non-controversial.

The unconscious functions of the body are often overlapped and complimented by the mind

The functions of the mind provide novel supports for our biological, physiological, and safety needs. To put this more succinctly – the mind increases the odds of survival.

The functions of the mind have the most impact at the higher levels of Maslow’s hierarchy.

The higher levels of Maslow’s hierarchy are almost entirely subjective.

If you’re on board with these statements. I’m going to use them as premises for the following three conclusions:

The mind produces survival behavior, including the ability to function and compete in a complex society.

The mind is a survival adaptation – it’s primary function is to increase the likelihood that our genes are propagated

Because survival behavior is primarily self interested, the mind will have a bias towards self-preservation and self-esteem and away from objectivity.

Now, I want to make a few brief observations about meditation and religious practices in general.

Religious views and practices like meditation, act in the arena of the mind.

These practices enhance human experience at the higher levels of Maslow’s hierarchy

They are primarily relevant to the individual doing the practice. This makes generalization of the results difficult and tenuous at best.

Can Studies Prove Buddhism Right?

So, let’s reflect on the question that I posed in the title. Can science prove that Buddhism, or any other religion, is right? I’d have to say no. Because religions operate on belief. Belief is firmly in the realm of the mind and at the higher levels of Maslow’s hierarchy. Therefore it is subject to bias.

This doesn’t invalidate the needs or the practices. If you accept Maslow’s proposition, these needs are valid. If your needs are met with the practice, it is effective – for you. It just means they aren’t “right” for everyone. Knowing this can free you from a great deal of unnecessary suffering.

Religious truth claims are usually not warranted and can create problems. Truth is not necessarily applicable or necessary for a religious belief to fulfill a need. Asserting a religious practice or belief is objectively true is risky. If your self-esteem is heavily tied up in the truth of your religion, it’s going to get a little bruised.

* Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction is one notable exception.

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Dialectic Two-Step is an ongoing series of my thoughts on questions that come my way.

Wisdom lies neither in fixity nor in change, but in the dialectic between the two. - Octavio

Dialectic Two Step, Modern Koans, Verse Us, Say What?, and Minute Meditations all copyright Andrew Furst

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