#that one didn’t even try to maintain the illusion of accuracy???

[lacewise-psas]

Don’t base your politics on fictional books oh my god most writers will sacrifice the accuracy and potency of their message for the story arc (think: Zootopia) and entertainment value because if you don’t do that it’s actually a morality fable or allegory which Tumblr users famously don’t like (example: I don’t see people cite “It Can’t Happen Here” because, I’ve been told, it’s too exaggerated [turned out not to be])

If you are basing your understanding of politics on fiction your judgment is compromised like the books you cite

[shaolin-spin-doctor]

After that ficlet you reblogged, I need to see your take on how Kung Lao would react to his s/o and Kung Jin going to the Netherrealm to see him, and try to convince him to come back with them to Earthrealm.

When Kung Lao sees the distant figure of a young man with his S/O in tow, he's convinced it's just his corrupted mind playing tricks on him. The voices whispering perversities inside his head feel real enough already, after all, so the next step of his grueling descent into madness might as well be vivid hallucinations.

He begins to doubt this assumption when the figures come closer, though - the way his S/O walks, the shocking accuracy of their features, even their companion's oddly familiar mannerisms... they all seem too real to be a mere figment of his imagination, but he decides to remain skeptical for his own sake. The Netherrealm is a cruel place and he's lived there long enough to know that if something appears too good to be true, then it's most definitely a trap.

Lao's S/O spots him eventually and attempts to run in his direction despite their companion's protests. Acting on instinct, and still unsure about the whole situation, the revenant assumes a defensive stance and reaches for his razor-brimmed hat in anticipation. His beloved stops dead in their tracks, their expression shifting to one of immense hurt, but he remains steadfast despite his heart clenching at the sight. He can't take any chances.

The young man his partner is travelling with - a Shaolin, Kung Lao notices - takes this as a sign of hostility and prepares to defend his companion, hastily taking an arrow out of his quiver as he rushes to stand beside them. Something about the fierce determination in his tawny eyes and the little freckles peppered across his angular face jog Lao's memory and, as the realization sinks in, he stands back, incandescent eyes widening in recognition. It's Kung Jin, his little nephew, all grown up into a full fledged warrior.

The whole scene is just surreal. Kung Lao stares at Jin, then at his S/O, then back at Jin again, and both their names escape his lips as he struggles to process what's going on. No, they aren't illusions - they're real, and they're right there, and he can hear his S/O calling out to him, reassuring him they aren't looking for a fight, the sound of their voice erasing any doubts he might have left. He wants to run up to them - both of them - and embrace them, tell them how much he's missed them, how sorry he is, but he doesn't. He can't. Instead, he straightens back up as a sign of non-aggression and asks what they're doing in the middle of Netherrealm.

The gesture seems to ease his nephew, who straightens up as well. There's what appears to be a glimmer of hope in the look he gives Kung Lao.

Wasting no more time, his S/O explains what their purpose is - get him out of there. Lao's taken aback by this; the last thing he expected was for both his partner and his nephew to look for him, much less try to get him out of hell, especially given everything he'd done. He asks why - why put their faith in him, why risk their lives in the off chance he could be reasoned with somehow - and Jin interjects by reminding him he's Kung Lao. If anyone would be strong enough to fight against Netherrealm's corruption and return to the light, it's him, and they know it.

Lao grins smugly at his nephew's response, but is deeply moved on the inside. The two most important people in his life believe in him despite everything, and he's going to prove worthy of their trust, no matter what. Perhaps then he would be able to make up for a fraction of the pain and suffering he had put them through.

Fueled by this, he confesses he had actually been trying to escape by himself after Shinnok's defeat. He explains he and the other revenants had regained their free will after the Elder God became too weak to maintain Quan Chi's spell, and while the others had ultimately succumbed to the evil within them, he had managed to supress it enough to get away from them and attempt to go back to Earthrealm in hopes of finding a way to revert their curse.

Lao's S/O smiles fondly upon hearing his story, praising his strength and resolve, and tells him they're more than willing to aid him in his quest before trying to dive in for a hug. The revenant recoils at the sudden movement, grimacing, and his partner's face falls a little at his reaction. He tries to apologize, but his S/O raises a finger to silence him, and they try again, this time slowly extending their hand to place it on Lao's shoulder instead. Realizing he didn't flinch this time, his lover smiles once more and looks up at him. The warm sensation of his S/O's fingers on his skin, the tenderness in their eyes... even if the contact is small, Kung Lao can feel his partner's love perfectly.

After some more talking, the group finally sets off back to Earthrealm, Lao following close behind. He might not be in condition to show either his S/O or Jin his gratitude quite yet, still struggling to keep Netherrealm's influence out of his mind, but he'd make sure to show them just how thankful he truly was when they were back home - not Quan Chi's fortress, not Shinnok's temple, home.

[thanidiel]

The Self

CW: Extensive description of self-harm, confused identity, allusions to sexual violence, body horror, transformation

“For I must get back my soul from you; I am killing my flesh without it.” - Sylvia Plath

THIS IS YOU.

(The mirror; the facechanger; the memory.)

THIS IS YOU.

(The memory; the stage; the spotlight.)

THIS IS YOU.

(The spotlight; the interest; the swelling.)

THIS IS YOU.

(The swelling; the thrum; the bloodbeat.)

THIS IS YOU.

(The bloodbeat; the lean; the chord.)

THIS IS YOU.

(The chord; the pricks; the girl.) 

THIS IS YOU.

(The girl; the blood; the sex.) 

THIS IS YOU.

(THE SEX; THE MACABRE; THE OWNED.)

THIS IS YOU.

(THE OWNED; THE BROKEN; THE CENTERPIECE.)

THIS IS YOU.

(THE CENTERPIECE; THE CENTERPIECE; THE CENTERPIECE.)

THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU.THIS IS YOU. THIS IS YOU.THIS IS— THIS IS— THIS IS— THIS IS— THIS IS— 

THIS IS A MIRROR.

                                                  YOU ARE A MIRROR.

NOW YOU SEE HER;                                                NOW YOU SEE ANOTHER.

                              WHERE DID YOU GO?

                                                                 WHAT CAN YOU DO?

             HOW DO YOU BREAK THE MIRROR?

                                                                                         WHAT DID HE TELL YOU?

                   WHEN THE SELF IS NOT STRONG ENOUGH?

WHEN YOU ARE LOST?                        

                                          WHEN YOU ARE FAILING?

                                                                                WHEN YOU ARE A MIRROR?

            HOW LONG CAN YOU TUMBLE THROUGH THE           MEMORY                                                                                                         SHARKSMILE                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         STAGEBIND                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         BLOODSEX                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         WITCHSTRING                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         GIRLDRAIN                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         MIRROR                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         MIRROR                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         MEMORY                                                                                                         ME                                                                                                         MO                                                                                                         RY                                                                                                         M                                                                                                         I                                                                                                         R                                                                                                         R                                                                                                         O                                                                                                         R                                                                                                         .            "...you really do not want someone to punch you out of your glamour,                                                     that is for certain.” Fog.

The mirror is fogged.

And in that, there is respite. In that, you can breathe. You were breathing before but you’re breathing in a different way now; you breathe like air columns down proper and stretches through the root system of lungs. Instead of before. Instead of when it felt like wind shunted down in that narrow space between membranes of cavity and organ. In that, in breathing, you can imagine that the too-pale, too-tall, woman shape fuzzed into the glass does not correspond with the you.

Imagining isn’t fucking good enough, but it’s something.

It’s a pry, a wedge, a shoehorn. Who cares if the door breaks your foot as long as you’ve managed to stop it from closing? You need this. You needed this lifeline, this buoy. You needed to build: THIS IS NOT YOU. And here you are.

You aren’t this.

You aren’t this wretched memory, or any other wretched mirror.

You aren’t every sad fucking woman bleeding for another person.

If you bleed, you bleed for your fucking self.

You weren’t that girl.

You aren’t this girl.

THIS IS NOT YOU. 

This is something to shatter.

THIS IS NOT YOU.

This is something to peel away.

THIS IS NOT YOU.

This job is fucking done.

THIS IS NOT YOU.

"...you really do not want someone to punch you out of your glamour…”

Try me, motherfucker. 

He gave the hint in that even if he didn’t know it at all - pain.

And what is pain but a law determined false so long ago in the delirium of an endless dance? What is pain but a threshold, a gate, that you have swished in and out of so many times before? And what are these concepts but things to be transgressed?

A dirk; a flask of rejuvenating vitality— what else does one need?

The tip presses against ivory skin, situates in the snowfield of a hand too slender, too long, to be you.

For this is not you.

And perhaps you imagined it as much as you’ve imagined everything else: that something oh-so-subtly swirled in the aetherflow of this World to this, that you’ve hooked onto the hot quiver of a carcass responding to the necessity of its skinning. 

But it gives you some measure of relief.

And that blade incises; it parts. It has a surgical methodology to it much like anything you would do. Targeting the network within - between the splay of bones and sinews - synapse and agony. You can feel it, that accuracy. The tremble of white oblivion darting through a shaking hand up to the point of your elbow, crawling up to the shoulder to knock desperately once, twice, thrice, incessantly, in chilled thuds at the base of cranium - this warning that was never really a warning, but the turn of a screw. 

You look up to the amorphous haze of the mirror.

And this is not you.

So you maintain.

And the illusion swims, in a way that, like your understanding of pain, too, defies law and reason. Which, for a moment, takes you higher and back to a realm in which the ground was never solid, and the moon shone at all bells and seconds in your eyes. It swims and it melts like static levin on the tongue. 

But this is still not you.

So you maintain.

A slippery act - you contend with a basin coated with butter, and an impaled hand that quakes evermore in a demand to release that it didn’t really mean. That white wash pricks and shrieks its cold in that stretch between shoulder blades. It almost blows like weather’s sigh over the round curve of your ears from behind.

This is still not you.

So you maintain.

You see it, as things continue to melt and rearrange in a primordial, fluid, sort of manner that makes you think of gooey chrysalises cracked open in the midst of metamorphosis. As you shorten, and hue, and round, and become more yourself again. This transitional stage between Mai and Xiaohu in which it all blares in your mind again: a theatre of obsidian foxes that swarm like a parasitic nest, a pretty girl playing koto as she bleeds and entertains. A mirror/memory, in other words.

That is still not you.

So you maintain, with a jerk of the knife through what is lost to throes.

You maintain, and you maintain, and you maintain through it all as you feel the ghostly chill of pain’s endless rapping at your door across the bulb of your nose now, and feel the cramp of it outline the shape of your belly separate from hips and ribs.

You maintain as the magic fades, as every trace of Mai morphs and replaces with a much different form of beauty, a higher form of familiarity. When you can see the spill of ocean waves for hair in the opaque glass before you, the familiar slither of a red tattoo on your face. 

You maintain until you’re you again.

And this is you.

And this is you.

And this is you.

The dirk withdraws.

The potion knits away all traces but the phantom agony, what originally showed you how insignificant pain’s call truly was, and the blood staining the porcelain basin the metal clatters into. A simple task there, in the turn of the knob until cleansing water gushes out from the faucet and carries it all away.

A much smaller hand reaches up to finally dissuade the collection of humidity across the mirror, and observes the recognisable face that is only Xiaohu, and not her hauntings.

This is you.

This is her.

[sepublic]

Xian Characters, Features, and Landmarks (Pt. 2)

Karzahni- Karzahni is a delusional, questionably-sane despot in the Voymari District. A crimelord, he has –in addition to traditional thugs- amassed an army of orphans to do his bidding. He sends them out every day and night, scouring the streets of Voymari for small scrapes of riches and anything else of value that they report to him; Orphans who bring back better things get higher status, more food, comfortable rooms, and so forth.

           Of course, many other crimelords mock Karzahni for resorting to children, but nevertheless he is terrifying in his own right. Karzahni himself also has a penchant for ‘rebuilding’ people, taking them apart, modifying them, and grating mechanical limbs and masks and so forth. Many of his victims include people who have angered him, or just the general unfortunate homeless Xian; Regardless, Karzahni has modified many, turning them into horrific, shambling abominations with unusual proportions, too frail to be alive while also partially-mechanical.

           The sick tyrant enjoys this- He likes to build and craft, even if his materials are the bodies of people. Alas, he is somewhat frustrated by his inability to truly ‘fix’ someone, because to Karzahni he is doing a service, or at least trying to, by ‘repairing’ Xians he and others deem faulty. He tends to take his frustrations out not only on his twisted creations, but his own underlings and orphans as well. If in a particularly bad mood, he’ll tear apart a creation down to their most base parts, and/or feed them to his Manutri Penguins, which he has conditioned to be only carnivorous.

           The terror does not stop there, either- Karzahni possesses an uncanny ability to inflict powerful illusions on others, showing them ‘alternate timelines’, or so he claims, of things that could’ve happened to them; If something in their past, or another’s, turned out differently. Many times he has used this ability to torment and traumatize others, but Karzahni has also used this power to comfort himself with alternate timelines of victory, grandeur, and success of himself.

Because he dives so frequently into the subject of alternate timelines and what could have been, he is often dissatisfied and bitter over his lot- Not only that, but he occasionally has issues remembering what is or isn’t real, and will have to be reminded that what happened in one vision didn’t happen in real life. Sometimes he’ll randomly start talking to someone else that isn’t there, as if interacting with an alternate timeline; It is disconcerting to watch. Additionally, Karzahni uses his power to create simulations and predictions of events as he attempts to figure out the most optimal decision or strategy for himself. The exact accuracy of these predictions are questionable and seem to be somewhat rooted in the data he is aware of.

Karzahni wears unusual, green-and-violet armor. He has a mask that is a patchwork of various other elements, and he wields chains in combat that can lash around foes and rise to burning temperatures, searing through opponents. He has an unusual amount of strength and durability for Xian- Apparently, he has modified himself in the past as well. Even if one were to break through Karzahni’s powerful, demoralizing illusions, the tyrant himself is still a dangerous enemy to fight.

Whenua and Tehutti- These two roommates have a thankless, low-paying job as minimum-wage librarians and occasional tutors. Despite their poor wages and lack of appreciation for their work, these two have a vested passion for history and are eager to share their knowledge with others. With no prompting or personal gain beyond the satisfaction and triumph of it all, these two have pooled their lifetime’s earnings and savings towards expanding their simultaneous home/book store to include a ‘Xian Museum of History’, for any and all who are interested! No cost is required to enter and enjoy their exhibits, but unfortunately no one seems to be interested either…

Rorze- The warden of The Archives, Rorze is an Archives Vahki with the latest, most advanced AI programming in order to achieve maximum efficiency. Although all other Archives Vahki are specially designed to prevent any level of free will whatsoever, Rorze was ultimately granted the ability of sapient thought in order to enhance his leadership abilities and control over the Archives’ security. He constantly supervises every single step of each procedure, while inspecting all possible inches of his facility. Rorze has dedicated his entire existence to maintaining the Archives and protecting whatever is within- It was all he was made for, after all.

           Throughout the years, Rorze has subjected himself to new patches to ensure that his programming is completely immune to computer viruses, hacking, and other forms of tampering. After each update is installed, past memories and data are transferred to the new ‘brain’. Whether or not each version of Rorze is truly the same person is up for debate, but Rorze himself does not care. As far as he’s concerned, he has no allegiances or loyalty to anyone, and acts as a neutral party whose sole concern is preserving objects and even living creatures within the Archives. Because of his robotic, single-minded dedication towards his task, Rorze will do anything to accomplish his goals, so long as he is permitted; He is still technically beholden to The Powers That Be and those that he serves.

Idris- A grumpy, surly overseer, Idris was placed in charge of a field of Airweed and its workers after the past overseer and his hired guns mysteriously died, obviously killed by The Beast. Hired specifically for her apathy on the subject, Idris doesn’t particularly care that other workers are at risk of being devoured by The Beast each day they work; Xia’s harsh climate for workers has taught her to be similarly callous. Still, when three masked strangers appear, offering to help find and kill The Beast –and for free no less!- she can’t help but take the offer. Even if their help is on the condition that Idris herself attend the mission…

Fero- Amongst the Bone Hunter clans, one is led by the persistent, vindictive Fero. Fero is the leader of his clan for obvious reasons- He is a skilled, cold fighter who knows when to cut his losses, when to retreat, and when to strike suddenly from the cover of the sands, or the darkness of night. Like any successful Bone Hunter, Fero is a patient individual, and he has led countless raids on villages, caravans, and so forth. His clan has amassed a wide variety of goods and weaponry to sell, alongside prisoners to keep or sell off as slaves.

           Fero knows that he is human, just like anyone else, but he manages to get around this by being an incredibly stealthy and skilled hunter. He is an intelligent strategist, knowing exactly how to track footprints in the sand, find resources, or take advantage of the environment to swiftly ambush enemies. He has led various guerilla attacks on past opponents and emerged in victory in the process, and is experienced in the realm of survival in any circumstance. Fero himself wields a hand-held rail gun, and rides atop his personal Rock Steed Skirmix, with rider and steed having known each other their entire lives. Skirmix is fiercely loyal to Fero, and would die for him- And should he die, Skirmix intends to go down alongside him. Skirmix is intelligent and understands Fero’s harsh orders well.

Berix- Travelling across the arid sands of the Baran Desert are Water Merchants, who will sell precious stores of water or replenish them to thirsty travelers. Among them is Berix, a heavily-cloaked, hooded figure who keeps himself cool with mechanisms and air-conditioning units underneath his pack. Despite Berix’s rough, coarse demeanor and voice, he is still trustworthy; He is a man of his word and will not try to scam or take advantage of his customers.

Berix is also a scavenger and collector, and with his supply of water is able to make extended trips out into the desert, hoping to dig up neat artifacts to keep. One can barter for water by trading him a unique item of some sort. Berix owns quite the collection of knick-knacks, some gathered from corpses, or found in the sand, or sold to him; Others bought directly from the market. There is some suspicion towards him having killed or robbed for his collection, but he maintains that he is totally innocent.

Berix wields a sword for self-defense, one that has an edge etched with carvings in the shape of sharp waves. It is a keepsake from the past, one of the first things he found in the desert, and an item he treasures and cherishes. In addition, he also has a shield that doubles as a wide, double-edged sword.

Perditus- Perditus is a frequent champion of Zakaz’s brutal races, riding his own Thornatus V9 into victory. Amongst its modifications are an Exsidian front, an improved engine, a rail-gun, and a few Force Blasters. Outside of his races, Perditus will frequently ride across Zakaz’s deserts, and will offer rides; For a price, of course. The longer the trip, the higher the pay. For someone of his title, he is of course a skilled and quick-thinking driver, able to outmaneuver bandits and Bone Hunters on the fly.

           Perditus himself is a mysterious figure, often wearing a racing helmet that obscures his face. There is even a bit of a rumor going about that he is a serial killer, but nobody can know for sure. Outside of his Thornatus, Perditus keeps a rapier on himself for personal defense.

Sahmad- Riding across Zakaz atop his chariot, pulled by a Spikit steed is Sahmad; A ruthless, nihilistic bandit, smuggler, and poacher. Armed with a powerful whip, as well as a rail gun merged with a blade, Sahmad has made a living not only robbing helpless travelers, but also hunting and selling even endangered species- Attached to the back of his chariot is a wheeled cage that he keeps animals in. Poached animals are kept in line with brutal whip-cracks as Sahmad gathers them, before eventually selling them off. On the side, he helps carry cargo of questionable legality across the Baran Desert.

           Supposedly, Sahmad was once a member of the decimated Iron Tribe- Apparently, members of the Iron Tribe one day found themselves unable to dream when asleep. This predicament began to spread amongst others, with those afflicted soon going mad as they could not sleep; Rest had no effect on their addled minds, which became unable to recover and sort through the events of each day. Victims of the ‘Dreaming Plague’ eventually could not fall asleep, and died of exhaustion.

           Naturally, neighbors of the Iron Tribe reacted in fear, and worked to shun the group. It eventually got so bad that the Vahki, normally scarce in Zakaz, were called in to quarantine and contain the entire tribe. Sahmad escaped the quarantine, traumatized after seeing his loved ones die, and became an outcast- Others in Zakaz feared he had the Dreaming Plague and would spread it to them. As a result of his trauma, Sahmad has become an embittered, nihilistic individual who sometimes wonders if his cruel crimes are his attempts to lash out at the world that had forsaken him and his people so?

Telluris- A mad, brilliant inventor, Telluris was also another survivor of the Iron Tribe after the Dreaming Plague wiped it out; Although he and Sahmad didn’t really know each other back then, nor do they interact much in general. Still, a general kinship between the two is still there, as they both share the same trauma and have also been shunned by Xia for their association with the Dreaming Plague. Once, Telluris partnered up with Sahmad, believing that if they colored their armor a dark-blue, people wouldn’t recognize them…

           It didn’t work out, and his armor has remained a rusted-orange since. Yet despite his eccentricities, Telluris is nevertheless a brilliant engineer. On his own, he scavenged parts for and created the Skopio-XV1, a massive four-legged mech with treads built into its limbs. The Skopio has a ‘stinger tail’ equipped with powerful cannons and other weaponry, such as a targeting rail gun and Force Blasters. Telluris himself rides on the back of his Skopio, and has grafted mechanical bits into the back of his head that let himself plug cables leading into his Skopio, enabling a more accurate and precise control over it.

           Perhaps to get back at the world that hurt him –or just because- he rampages frequently around Zakaz, attacking villages, settlements, bandits; Anyone that comes across his path. His Skopio-XV1 is unmatched in firepower, and can even fold up to assume a faster vehicle mode as well. Telluris is paranoid, believing everyone has it out for him, and aims to take over all of Zakaz with his personal weapon. Thankfully, his own madness inhibits his effectiveness- If Telluris were fully sane, he likely would’ve taken over Zakaz by now. One has to wonder if he didn’t totally avoid the Dreaming Plague…

           Between the occasional rampage, Telluris will suddenly calm down and become peaceful in order to visit markets to buy parts and tools from. He has a hidden garage where he performs maintence on Skopio, which he seems to treat as a living creature and beloved pet of his, often talking to it. Damage against Skopio is a personal affront to Telluris, who believes that people are hurting his precious creature, and he will retaliate tenfold for such an action. Between his sudden mood swings and genuine brilliance, Telluris is a dangerous, volatile character that is hard to predict.

Tuma- Once a slave, this towering titan of a Xian has risen to fame and glory as an esteemed Glatorian. Operating in the Baran desert, Tuma is intimately aware of his place and status in society, and knows that the villages of Zakaz see gladiators like him as nothing more than a tool to use; And he is familiar with indignity and dehumanization of slavery as well. Initially a slave-fighter, Tuma earned his freedom after winning countless battles with his unusually potent strength and huge frame.

           Now an independent master of himself, Tuma has become dissatisfied with his lot in society, and still feels like a puppet. To remedy this, he has begun to make recent alliances, hoping to establish a ‘Glatorian Monopoly’ of sorts; Him and other like-minded Glatorian have begun to make deals with one another, purposely losing fights, or choosing jobs, according to the needs of one another. Members of this ‘ring’ of individuals will make alliances, giving out recommendations to one another, and helping to recruit new fighters and training them.

           With his lieutenants Stronius and Branar, Tuma hopes to control the gladiator system that many villages in the Baran desert rely on. Ideally, his network of gladiators will collaborate and coordinate with one another, scheming to lose or win matches with each other, reject offers and services unless at a proper price, strike for better conditions, etc. With Tuma at the top of this Glatorian Monopoly, Tuma hopes to rule the Baran desert by proxy of having control over its gladiator matches, which decide the majority of its political decisions and conflicts. With his wealth as a champion, Tuma has also set up betting offices, and employed his fellow Glatorian, whom he essentially commands, into collecting on debts, as well as accepting matches that he deems beneficial, and in general swaying the events of the arena as he pleases.

           A Glatorian strike and unionization is much-welcomed, and needed. Many gladiators have benefitted from what Tuma has brought about, and the concerns that some villages have on Tuma are not exactly out of the goodness of their hearts, or for the safety of society. Still, Tuma must not let the power and greed get to his head… It seems that gladiators who refuse to join his alliance tend to get bullied into submission, or find themselves out of a job as other members of the network will take job openings and positions from them. Tuma must beware becoming the tyrant that his masters were, and continue providing power to his fellow gladiators instead of oppressing them as well.

           Born with unusual genetics, Tuma towers over most and wears black-and-green armor while wielding a massive sword, shield, and additional blades on his back in combat. Even though he is older than most gladiators, he retains his peak strength, height, and stamina, and stories of this ‘titan’ have spread across Zakaz. Some have interest over the secrets of Tuma’s body…

As a result, groups in the past have attempted to kidnap Tuma for their own gains. Tuma has resisted such efforts naturally, and is used to Exo-Toa Baterra being sent in to spy on him and his actions. Tuma is not open about his Glatorian network, and the Baterra have been sent to keep an eye on him. Unsurprisingly, this kind of surveillance has made Tuma somewhat paranoid, but rightfully so, and he remains sharp-minded as ever to avoid any mistakes.

Metus- A silver-tongued businessman and merchant, Metus has since become a recruiter in the Baran desert. He works to spot out potential fighters and introduce them to the gladiator system, as well as recommend combatants amongst villages, settle disputes, and so forth. Metus has a good eye and nose for potential, able to scout out a potential Glatorian amongst a group, and grant them the funding, investment, and support they need to reach success.

           Metus himself was once a trader in the northern-kingdom of Iconox, only to lose everything within the crossfire of a war he wanted no part in. He does whatever it takes to survive, and will gladly sell out anyone else. He is untrustworthy, and while his recommendations are often good, he has also been caught giving villages poor fighters or else granting dishonest advice. On the side, he makes sure to place his bets well and carefully, and has amassed some wealth as a result.

Metus hopes to get in on Tuma’s planned network of Glatorian and gather a share of the riches, yet is also reporting intel and data to Baterra spies as well. Tuma doesn’t trust him of course, but Metus is insistent on getting a hand on the stocks and treasure; He aims to one day become rich enough to truly leave Zakaz behind, perhaps starting his own business in Stelt…

Surel- An aged veteran from the same conflict that robbed Metus of his livelihood, Surel was left wounded and dying on a blood-stained battlefield. But amidst the White Quartz Mountains, she found salvation in a pack of Iron Wolves that tended to her need, helping protect Surel and bringing her food as she recovered.

           Now, Surel is a leader of this Iron Wolf pack, and leads them on hunts in the White Quartz Mountains, off the fringes of the kingdom of Iconox. She is mostly crippled from age and old wounds, and walks with a limp and walking stick; But armed with a dagger, she can be lethally fast, taking down and gutting an enemy in seconds. She knows how to conserve and utilize her strength well, and with her pack of Iron Wolves by her side, Surel is a lethal opponent and not one to cross. She has no interest in Zakaz’s politics- She has long ago rejected the battlefield she almost died in, and now intends only to live a life of hunts alongside her trusted Iron Wolves.

The Sisters- A cult of powerful telepaths and mind-readers, this all-female (trans-inclusive!) coven of ‘witches’ lives in a desolate forest, somewhere along the borders of Zakaz. They worship a deity named Annona, and their exact intentions and plots are unknown. They prefer to live to themselves, occasionally venturing out in their forest for supplies, and have used their mental abilities in the past to place others beneath their thrall- Such unfortunate victims are not only robbed and used as proxies to gather more materials, but are occasionally even harvested for their body parts.

           The Sisters perform many unusual, arcane rituals. It is unknown to outsiders what they have planned, but evidently they seek to one day find Annona, whom they attribute the cause of their powers to. Attempts to infiltrate the group and learn their secrets have failed; They can sense intent and faultiness, and even Exo-Toa Baterra have been caught by them. Rumor has it that they can even perform magic, and the gladiator Tuma has an unknown connection to them that he’d rather not talk about. Things are apparently uncomfortable between him and The Sisters…

The Kraahl- In the darkness of night, people have spotted them- Darkened, cloaked figures who can be sighted briefly, only to suddenly blip out of existence as if they were never there to begin with. The Kraahl, as they are known, have been known to access areas under heavy fortification, somehow teleporting across massive distances with no one able to catch them. The Kraahl are cryptids in Zakaz, and known to occasionally appear to gather resources for themselves. Attempts to plant cameras and trackers on the things they steal have failed, with signals abruptly ending entirely once the Kraahl disappear. Where are these mysterious people going? Where do they come from? How do they have their power? Attempts to understand and decipher their strange, teleporting abilities have failed.

[aaluminiumas]

Sapphire

He had seen her at her worst.

In fact, Crocodile barely remembered the moment she started working for him: after years of affiliation and partnership balancing on the verge of a more intimate relationship, the memory practically erased the event that brought the woman to the threshold of his luxurious office packed with sumptuous bric-a-bracs she never considered useful. As a chain smoker, he had a guillotine cigar cutter incrusted with gems just as bright as those in his rings. Ivory statuettes and figurines stood upon multiple shelves showing off ancient books. A huge elephant leg-shaped urn in the corner of the office made him look like a huge fan of safari that worked as a perfect disguise to those who didn’t know the man at all. The best rugs covered the floor that slightly creaked at the steps and smelled wood. A bar across his desk contained the most expensive beverages: Crocodile himself preferred strong drinks but the guests he welcomed could relish the flavor of the eminent champagne, wine, liqueur, port, cognac, gin, whiskey and whatever else their heart desired.

Nico Robin was mentally put in the row of wines, undeniably red. Cunning and intoxicating, she provoked slow reaction: once yielded into her hands, the drinker would not be able to forego her influence. One couldn’t get enough of her until she used her outstanding skills and bring them into action. She always waited for the right moment, parsed the situation, made the decision and hit quickly – hit so hard into the head that left the man dumbfounded and thunderstruck. Crocodile was by no means a careless one, or so he thought; that’s why he believed that Nico Robin, no matter how skillful, gifted and extraordinary she was claimed to be, wielded no power to finagle the information she needed. She could not double cross him – definitely not.

“Nico Robin,” the man drawled, his pale fingers tapping at the rim of the whiskey tumbler. “What brings you here?”

Of course he had gleaned a few details about her: he was aware of the schemes she contrived and accomplished; he learnt everything about the organizations she breached in and disrupted from the inside. Using his position, he spent quite a while in the archives of the Marines to find out more facts about the girl who fled from ablaze Ohara two decades ago. She was no longer a child he saw on the wanted posters. There was no fear on the pale face; he spotted no consternation in the azure eyes of the weeping girl; he clearly saw a mature woman whose sangfroid could easily surpass his. Unlike many others before her, Nico Robin was not afraid of notorious Sir Crocodile.

“Work,” came a dry simple reply.

Crocodile’s golden eyes veered to look at the woman standing opposite him – the lack of intonation that would reveal her real intentions caused him to peruse her visage in attempt to pry into her mind.

Tall, slender, unbending, the female was intently staring at the man sitting in the armchair. Her black hair, two inches lower her ears, exposed the jawline and the fine neck with visible tendons. For a moment he thought that such a woman deserved a necklace with a sapphire to rest in the dimple between the collarbones.

“What do you expect from the job?” the man drawled idly, in a lackadaisical voice. For some vague reason, he felt ill at ease: quiet and motionless, distant and composed, Nico Robin intrigued him. This woman must’ve seen enough to learn the basics and burnish her deadly skills: although jockeying for her place in the sun, she wouldn’t resort to blatant flattery or beautiful lies.

“Precision and accuracy,” came the dry reply.

Precision and accuracy. Indeed. She didn’t want less from a man so notorious – and she didn’t even try to flatter him by ingratiating smiles and servile behavior which intrigued him even more. Crocodile realized that he finally found someone smart enough to rely upon while contriving schemes and cons, but on the other hand the man knew she saw though him predicting his ensuing actions and upcoming decisions.

Unsettling. Crocodile loathed being in the position of his own employee, scrutinized and examined by the superior.

…Miss All Sunday had been working for Sir Crocodile for years before the idea of building up an empire moulded and fortified in his mind. The whole notion seemed particularly tempting: a man with connections and acquaintances, Crocodile knew how to work out the kinks making the plan impeccable by perfecting the smallest details. He had already observed violations on the part of his fellow ‘colleagues’, especially Doflamingo. Even though he practically staged a coup, the leader of the Donquixote Family didn’t come under a tidal wave of criticism – the government connived at the odious crimes he committed. Would an organization disguised by a casino ever beat it? Hardly.

Crocodile learnt the details from the incumbent King of Dress Rosa himself – Nico Robin, highly intelligent, didn’t go into hiding and accompanied her boss to the private parties knowing how much that particular Donquixote nettled him. The sandman, suspicious, industrious and quiet until his plan accomplished and goals reached, detested Doflamingo’s braggadocio. With a glass of exquisite wine in hand, the new King of Dress Rosa boasted whenever he felt right – which meant constantly.

In fact, Doflamingo’s lengthy soliloquy Crocodile tended to disregard, pushed her to contribute to the empire prospect: unlike her boss, Robin imbibed his words like a sponge. The woman offered the level system and the nicknames – while it may seem odd to some, her boss found it ‘charming’. That’s what he said – probably stating it to be a hallmark of the organization from now on.

Mr. 0 he became.

Ms. All Sunday she was.

Ms. All Sunday was allowed to play by ear.

In all honesty, she held no illusions as to what he was going to do to her when she was no longer needed: Robin fully comprehended his intentions and ulterior motives. Even though she managed to become irreplaceable, she knew she had to run amok as soon as she got the chance. For now, the devoted subordinate chose to simply enjoy the wide range of entertainments the rigorous man had to offer – though she never relinquished the hold of her graceful hand on the business.

Unsettling. Sir Crocodile didn’t like that either.

In a way, she enthralled, entranced him – and the realization gnawed at the man especially when she sat up on the bed, adjusted her short dark hair and stood up to grab her clothes and leave. It wasn’t their first time together; neither of them even remembered what drew them so close that they were ready to push the boundaries and forget about subordination. After all, they both cherished their loneliness but got fed up with it – stressed, abandoned and injured, they found another benefit of working in tow to avoid the emotional toll.

“Where are you going? He asked in a low voice not even looking at the woman beside him but nonetheless smoking his cigar.

“To work, I gather,” she replied calmly and, stark naked, stood up to approach the curtains.

“Stay.”

It didn’t sound like an order at all – albeit said in the same commanding tone, it resembled a simple request. She did suspect a gambit in it, a ruse to pry into her thoughts, but something inside her bludgeoned her to obey.

They didn’t talk that morning. Sir Crocodile kept smoking his cigar, Robin lay next to him, swarthy and flexible, ready to retaliate in case of danger. Although she knew she was allowed to leave the chamber unharmed, she couldn’t impel herself to do it – and to lose the warmth she longed for too long.

It may have been forged. It may have been a trick to keep her near but it was still nice to maintain the illusion of being taken care of. Idle, neglectful, egoistic to a fault, Crocodile probably didn’t even think about that he – deliberately or not – supplied her with something she craved for.

“Why didn’t you go that day? I didn’t detain you.”

“You didn’t banish me either.”

He hummed and didn’t respond – no answer came to his mind, only a picture of the inflexible young woman with short dark hair. The more peculiar it was to watch her grow and develop – and finally come across her new wanted poster: the almond eyes narrowed, long strands slightly disheveled. She was still enthralling – and he might have welcomed her back if she asked nicely. Nico Robin – Ms. All Sunday – was extremely smart: her ideas always served the right purpose.

Crocodile glanced at one of the rings he was wearing. Sapphire. He gave the necklace to her. She put it on once or twice but he never knew whether it was an act of courtesy, genuine fear, sheer respect or mocking.

Maybe he should pay her a visit?..

[journal-of-an-outlaw]

Price to be Paid - Chapter 25

AO3 link here

You were absolutely frozen. 

Of course, of all the trolleys in Saint Denis and all the people to sit next to, you had chosen the spot next to Mary Linton. She looked perfectly pressed in a gown much more suited to her than the one you picked for yourself of a teal blue that made her eyes shine, and hair pinned with such accuracy you knew you could never replicate it. It burned your insides to see she was just as lovely as you had imagined even if you had secretly hoped she was ugly and cruel. 

Mary watched you with her hand out and you realized how utterly rude you had been. 

“YN! YN Moore, pleasure to meet you.” 

Part of you had expected her to recoil at your name, scream and start to cry at the strange coincidence you had sat next to her. But instead she smiled widely and let her hands settle politely in her lap as the trolley bounced along the street. 

So Arthur hadn’t mentioned you after all. 

“Do you come often into Saint Denis?” You asked hesitantly.

Mary shook her head, watching the buildings pass on by. “No, just came to chase down my father. It’s embarrassing, really, but I asked someone for their help and I feel like I’ve taken advantage of what we used to have.” 

She had the indecency to look beautiful as a blush worked its way up her cheeks. 

“I’m sure they were just trying to help, because of the circumstances.” 

You hoped the answer would change the subject as you were in no mood to discuss Arthur with a semi stranger. It felt wrong to know who she was and have her remain in the dark. The imbalance of it all made your stomach upset. 

“Well, I knew they would come, and that’s the problem.” She shook her head and looked away from you. “If you ask someone for a favor but you know they are honorbound to say yes, is it really a request or does it become a demand? I, it’s not easy to be a single woman, it’s powerless, and I needed someone with power. Most folks I associate with at home are, well, you know, shallow and wouldn't help someone out unless it benefited them in some way.”

Mary looked a bit desperate as she spoke as if she was looking for your approval. You weren’t in the mood to give it willingly but you would listen, and maybe begin to understand. 

“Depends on what you have with this person, I would guess.”

“I’m sorry,” she played with her skirt ruffles while she spoke. “I don’t mean to speak so openly, you’re kind to listen. This person and I used to be engaged. Part of me still wishes we could go back and change the past, ignore my father and just follow our hearts. But every time I play it out it never would have worked; I couldn’t live the way he did, my family would have disowned me, and I would have isolated myself from every possible avenue of a life resembling what I had always known. I was young and naive to think that things would just fall into place, but being around him makes me think maybe, just maybe, we could take on the world together. I know that isn’t the case, I don’t love him like I used to, but it’s the intoxication of being swept up in that fantasy.”

“I used to be engaged, when I was young as well. There’s something about a first love that never really leaves you, even when you know it isn’t right anymore It’s...hard to move on and accept that life turned out the way it did, but sometimes the best choices for us aren’t the easiest.”

Mary watched you with a focused look while you talked about Henry. It wasn’t the same situation, of course with Henry dying suddenly, but things were starting to make a little more sense as to why Arthur and Mary were drawn to one another. It wasn’t true love, or any kind of love at all but more the echos from when they were younger. They had a bond, and as much as you didn’t like it, it wasn’t something that would just go away and if you were to take Arthur into your life, you would have to accept it. 

“It looks like you made a good choice now! There’s a beautiful ring on your finger.” 

“Yes, and he is good and I love him.” You beamed down at your hand, knowing what you had to do. “Miss Linton I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you. I didn’t know you before except by name, and I truly am sorry for barging next to you on the trolley like this. I know you met up with Arthur Morgan earlier, and I have to tell you he’s the one I’m engaged too.”

The trolley bell made a loud clang as the two of you sat in silence. Mary looked out to the street of Saint Denis as you passed a park with families strolling by. You thought she wiped a tear from her eye but couldn’t tell as she refused to look back at you for a moment. 

“Miss Linton, I’m sorry to spring this on you -”

“No. Don’t be.” Mary finally faced you, a smile on her face. “I...you know I was talking about Arthur, then. I am sorry to have dragged you both into my affairs, I never meant to, I just didn’t have anywhere else to turn and in truth took advantage of what we used to have.”

“It’s actually alright, Miss Linton. You are not a bad person, just a person stuck in a bad situation. I started out today in a foul mood but after getting to know you I strangely feel better.” You laughed at the absurdity of what just came out of your mouth. Mary Linton had been a hateful, deceitful hag in your mind until you sat down on that trolley and you hadn’t realized just how happy you would have been to keep on living that lie. 

“If it makes you feel better, he really does love you.” 

You looked over at her surprised. That had never been a doubt in your mind but something in her tone made you think he had proved it to Mary somehow. 

“I, oh lord, forgive me, I asked him to run away with me just before I got on the trolley. I don’t know what came over me, I just blurted it out like an imbecile.” Mary was quiet and as you listened you felt your temper rising, but forced it down in an effort to maintain some decorum. “He of course said no, that that part of our lives was over and he had someone who loved him flaws and all, not despite of them. And that must you.” 

“He saved me, in more ways than one. And it’s not always easy. There’s a lot of outside factors but at the end of the day he’s a good man, just…”

“Like he’s wrestling with a giant,” she finishes your sentences softly. 

The trolley drove by a street corner where someone yelled about a cause they were supporting, asking those walking by to donate anything they could. The sun filtered through the trees and cast odd shaped shadows on the cobblestones that had been worn down by each passing thing whether it was a horse or a street car. What a strange city, you thought, so full of life and color and heartbreak. Things hadn’t turned out like you thought they would but from what you had learned, that was usually okay.

“I think we’re more alike than we could ever guess, Miss Linton. Which probably says more about Arthur than it does the two of us.” Mary gave a startled laugh, hiding behind one hand as the trolley slowed to a halt. The conductor announced this was the end of the line and that after five minutes it would head the other way. Mary stood and asked how to get to the train station as you filtered out with the crowd. 

Charles wasn’t at the stop so you waited for Mary to exit and join you on the sidewalk. She smiled and quickly fixed a strand of hair that had loosened from her bun, enjoying the feeling of the afternoon sun. With no escort she seemed nervous, so you offered to walk her over to the train station. 

“I will tell you, if you had told me that all of this would happen today I wouldn't have believed you in a million years!” She seemed giddy walking down the street. 

“Miss Linton…”

“Mary, please.” 

“Mary,” you tried again with a smile. “I still feel awful, like I deceived you somehow. Please know that was never my intention.”

Just as she opened her mouth to respond someone called out your name, a low, gravely voice you instantly recognized. There was a small crowd behind you but Arthur and Charles sat high on their horses, a strange look on both of their faces. Arthur climbed down and threw the reins to Charles before approaching with hesitation. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake Arthur it’s alright, I won’t bite.” Mary said flatly. You were sure he was panicking inside at seeing the two of you together. 

“YN, I didn’t know you were in the city.” 

“Charles didn’t mention it?” Arthur shook his head. “That’s alright. I came after you, but we ran into someone and I then found Miss Li-, Mary on the trolley. We actually had a lovely conversation and were walking to the train station to see her off.” 

Arthur stood frozen, like if he moved the illusion would break. It was funny, really, but you didn’t laugh as you let him process whatever was racing through his mind. You were sure seeing his old and current betrothed together was a strange and terrible sight. 

“Arthur, should we…?” You motioned to the station and he snapped back from his momentary lapse. He cleared his throat and walked up next to the two of you, unsure of whether to offer his arm or walk in silence. 

The rest of the walk only took a few minutes and it passed by in comfortable conversation between Mary and yourself. She told you about her home and her brother who she was quite proud of, and how he was looking into going for schooling after something Arthur had convinced him of. Your fiance snorted, causing both you and Mary to give him a dirty look, and he mumbled something about how it would be good for Jaime to get out in the world and be stable. 

A strange pang shocked your heart at their casual intimacy and chatter about Mary’s brother. It was something you didn’t share with Arthur as any questions about your family had been deflected and you hoped he wouldn't bring it up. You realized now that was foolish, and one day he simply wouldn't take a distraction as an answer. The unfortunate bond to your parents would need to be brought to light soon as your father kept reminding you by popping up at every turn. 

The train whistled loudly, steam pouring onto the station platform and signalling it was ready to leave. Mary thanked you both and stepped up to the car, but paused halfway up and turned back. 

She took your hands in her and gave a soft squeeze. “I genuinely wish the both of you every happiness in the world. I, it’s nice to know Arthur has someone like you looking out for him.” 

“Mary, if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to write. It’s not easy to get by on your own, you do have support if you need it.” Arthur smiled and tipped his hat as the train let out another blast. Mary waved and stood frozen safely on the stop step as the train pulled out from the station. 

You and Arthur watched as the train faded into nothing more than a blip on the horizon. 

“That was...how did you even…”

Arthur stuttered at your side trying to comprehend what happened. You smiled up at him. 

“I came after you to apologize. I was wrong Arthur, very wrong, and never should have tried to stop you from helping Mary. Charles came with me into the city and we tried to find you, but he spotted some Pinkertons and we had to escape. He took the horses and I jumped on the trolley next to a very surprised Mary Linton. We actually got along very well, she told me about how you helped her and it just solidified my thought that you are one of the best men I’ve ever met.” 

Arthur blushed at your words and looked around. Spotting no one, he swept you up into a brief hug, resting his head in the crook of your neck and squeezing. 

“Truth be told I only did it because I thought it’s what you would have done. Helping people out...that’s your thing. Being kind, y’know.” 

You laughed and linked your arm through Arthur’s. All feuds forgotten, you strolled back through the city to find Charles. He told you about chasing Mary’s father all over Saint Denis; the meeting at the stables, chasing down the loan shark, and after all that Mary’s father still escaped their grasps. You laughed and gasped dramatically as Arthur retold everything, feeling like he wanted you in on the secret of him and Mary’s relationship, whatever it may be. It was a good feeling, being accepted and wanted. After he finished you told him about Brother Dorkins and how Charles saved two poor souls who were being held captive. 

“Oh, I met him. The Brother, he was with Charles I guess after you got on the trolley. Walked them back to their church and made sure they weren’t followed.”

So Charles had diverted Arthur from running into your father. What a nightmare that would have been, but the thought of Agent Milton moving about somewhere in the same city brought your fears back and you suddenly wanted to be out of Saint Denis more than anything. Your eyes scanned everyone who passed by for the possibility of him running into you and what that would mean. You hadn’t spoken about your parents in nearly a year and the topic still made your stomach turn. 

What would Arthur think when he found out?

Charles whistled from across the street. You and Arthur crossed to meet him and leave as soon as possible. Arthur asked if everything was alright as you took off through the streets, trying to put as much distance between you and Agent Milton as possible. Your only response was a smile as words were not able to form for you at the moment. 

“You’re back! And just in time, too. We need to prepare for a ball, Cinderella.” 

Dutch greeted the three of you at camp with the strange sentence and you cast a confused look at Arthur. Hadn’t you just been to a dance in Rhodes?

Arthur grunted. “Dutch, you know I hate dressing up…”

Dutch laughed and approached the two of you. Swinging his arm around Arthur’s shoulder to steer him over towards Hosea you heard him say, “Just think of it as a practice for your wedding. Now, what we have here is a change to get on the good side of Angelo Bronte at a party the Mayor is throwing.”

You chuckled watching Arthur’s panicked face throw you a glance for help but you just waved him off and started brushing Eclipse. Her hair was dirty from the smog of Saint Denis and she made appreciative sounds as it slowly became clearer and clearer. Kieran hadn’t brushed her in the past few days so she was overdue. The other horses nearby looked dirty too, like Kieran hadn’t been keeping up with his duties. 

The next week moved at the same pace set by the heat lingering around Shady Belle; heavy and unrelenting in its molasses slow pace. You helped cut more vegetables, wash more clothes, and sort more herbs than you cared to remember and more than once you and Karen snapped at each other purely for something to do. She may not always get along with you, but as someone who worked hard for the gang she respected you and you felt the same towards her. 

Days started to feel repetitive. While it was wonderful to have a routine and sleep under a roof, not everyone agreed that you deserved it after such a short time with the group. Micah certainly made it known that he should be in your and Arthur’s room, not you, but someone usually told him to quiet down if he got too rowdy. 

One day, Dutch’s plan finally came into fruition. 

“Gentleman! Tonight is the night we set off, hair brushed and oiled, shoes shined, and dressed to the nines so we can charm the pants of this god forsaken shit hole called Saint Denis.” He waited while people laughed at his show, then continued on. “Hosea, myself, Bill, and…” his eyes crossed the gang. “Mary Beth will be off to the mayor's house.” 

It was not lost on you how quickly Dutch’s eyes flitted past you. 

Mary Beth balked. “Me? You need some pick pocketing done?” 

“No, nothing like that. We just need a woman who can move about precisely in high society is all.” 

A disgusted noise came from Molly as she threw a rag down and stalked back into the house. Dutch just huffed and turned back to the younger woman. 

But Mary Beth was still confused. “I ain’t like the others, you could take YN or Abigail and dress them up. Why me?”

Micah annoyingly stepped forward to answer. At his first step Mary Beth crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “Because, Miss Gaskil, you’re beautiful, and young, and good enough to distract people into thinking they have a false sense of security when in reality we’re robbing them blind.”

“But I thought you said -”

“Enough.” Dutch had his spotlight stolen and was incredibly frustrated by how the events had gone. It was his story to tell why was no one listening?

“Mary Beth. We ain’t robbing. It’s just a dinner party and we figured a pretty young girl like you should experience the finer things in life. YN went to that ball back in Rhodes and Abigail we thought wouldn’t want to leave young Jack so soon. Plus, with John not there, things could get out of hand.” 

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up to the top of his hairline. Clearly this was something he hadn’t discussed with Dutch and you know they all watched poor Abigail flail about feeling stuck in her position. 

The look on Dutch’s face said the decision was final. You were strangely okay with this as you had no desire to dress up and preen about the high society of the men who kidnapped Abigail’s son. But Arthur clearly wasn’t. 

“Dutch, if I’m going so is YN. That’s final.” 

Dutch sighed, looking exhausted. “My boy, if that happens then I’ll have to -”

“It’s happening. We can find a second carriage.”

“Fine.” You watched the scene, frozen. Not wanting to push any boundaries you opened your mouth to speak but Dutch silenced you with a look and you waited for him to continue. “We are guests of Angelo Bronte and will clean up before heading out. That means you all bathe, yes, even you Bil, and for god’s sake wear a suit. We will meet after supper and head in together, as Arthur so eloquently said, in two wagons.”

A flush worked its way up your chest and face. “I don’t want to make trouble, Dutch.”

“What’s done is done. We will all head in and be on our best behaviour and make this worth our while! Be ready by seven.”

Arthur balked at the older man and joined you near Pearson’s wagon. “Never seen him like that. Wonder why he put up a fight about bringing you along.”

“Well, he was right. Mary Beth is beautiful and charming and...younger.” You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly self conscious. Arthur laughed softly at your expression, which earned him a dark glare. 

“You ain’t old, darlin’, you’re younger than me and even so there’s nothing wrong with it. Dutch has been strange lately, that performance included.” He looped your arm through his and walked over to the house. “Let’s go into town, take the day to get ready for that party tonight, hmm?” 

You nodded and allowed him to drag you away. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Molly dart out of sight as you as Arthur approached and a pang of guilt hit your chest. 

As soon as your bag was packed for the day you closed the door to your room and promised Arthur you would be down shortly. Something was drawing you over to the small sitting room next to Dutch and Molly’s room. It was a quiet afternoon and the sun filtered in through the wooden blinds casting beams of light to dance around the room. 

“Hosea?” The older man grunted as he looked up. “I think Molly should go tonight instead of Mary Beth. I know she’s not...I think it would clear the air, make things a bit better between her and Dutch, which in turn means better for us. You know she would charm the pants right off of those society men and get a chance to flex her uses.” 

Hosea blinked in response. He seemed to ponder your words for a moment, scratching his chin while his eyebrows pulled together. From somewhere downstairs Arthur called for you, so you told Hosea to consider your idea and waved goodbye. 

The ride into town was uneventful. Your mind was racing with thoughts of a real bath and nice clothes to be focused on the dusty road below you. Arthur was talking to you about something, but suddenly the thought of being in town reminded you that just a week ago your father had been there and almost caught you. If there was a chance he would find you or Arthur, things would turn bad very quickly. 

"...and Hosea told me once about mixing flowers and herbs together to make poultices, like for medical purposes, and how Bessy taught him."

You took the pause in his speech as a chance to reply noncommittally with a nod. 

Arthur saw right through that. 

"He also said that if you bathe in the waters of Saint Denis that your skin would turn as green as grass." 

You looked around the bridge entrance with a sharp eye. "Uh huh, wow, he's so smart." 

"And eating yellow daisies under a full moon will let you turn into one of them, but for a day." 

"Hmm, wait what did you say?" You turned to find Arthur stifling a laugh by looking away from you but it wasn't working. 

"Something on your mind you want to talk about, sweetheart?" His voice was low as he asked. 

“I’m just,” you sighed dramatically, “worried is all. Did Charles tell you about the Pinkertons we saw?” 

Arthur nodded. “Met that Brother Dorkins character, too. Not sure what to make of him. Seems nice enough, genuine, but all those religious types do, right? That’s how they get you.” 

You laughed and chastised Arthur for mocking the man and in turn he told you he was only joking. Brother Dorkins was a good man; he put helping others above all else in his life and truly committed to the selfless way that he had been taught. You felt good about how you and Charles had helped him the other day and were glad Arthur had been able to spend time talking to him. 

Once the horses were tied up out front you headed into the tailor shop together. Arthur was quickly ushered over to the men's side and you followed a young woman to look at dresses. 

It was all breathtaking. The glamor of what life could be like stared you down in the reflection wearing a low cut deep red dress. It whispered about high heeled boots and soft, elegant gloves that would accompany you on a night out to see a show. It sighed in your ears to the sound of string lacing up your back and the tug of the corset that restricted your movement. The sweet symphony swelled with the swish of the dressing room curtains and you took center stage, ready to present the illusion to Arthur. 

He spit out the sip of water he had just accepted from the shopkeeper. 

Quickly the man jumped into action to clean up the spill and you simply arched an eyebrow. The woman next to you knew she had done good work from the reaction and you smiled at her like you shared a secret. The burgundy material clung to your chest and hips, billowing out behind you like a cloud. It was large and overdone, but even you could see through the poshness of it and admire the way you looked like a dream. No one could stand in your way with this dress, not even Arthur and his dapper looking tuxedo. In which he looked stunning as well. 

“See something you like, Mr. Morgan?” You rested a hand on your hip as you sauntered over, enjoying the way his eyes ran up and down you languidly. 

He ran a hand over his eyes to hide the obscenities that flew from his mouth. “Only you could make that dress look like that, I’m not so sure I want to buy it for you.”

“Why not!” You pouted, sticking your lip out. 

You could see him restrain himself as he took your hand gently and turned you around. He pretended to fix something on the back of your dress and suddenly you were very aware that both of the workers were watching you. 

“If anyone so much as thinks about you looking like that I’d put a bullet between his eyes before you could stop me.”

After you both changed back to your street clothes and paid, you decided to walk to the hotel to bathe as it wasn’t as far as you had thought. Arthur let you hold onto his arm and point out things you liked along the way, like the small birds singing in the air and the way the horses hooves echoed streets away from the trolley car. It was vibrant and new and you loved it, oblivious to the way Arthur never took his eyes off of you. 

The clerk at the hotel was bored and barely paid any attention to the two of you as you paid for baths. At the last second Arthur purchased a room for the night for you two to stay in after the dinner, and you almost missed the wicked glint in his eye. 

You moaned louder than you should have as you sank down into the beautifully hot water. Any aches you had before were gone in that weightless space and you watched the dirt from days and days simply scrub away. You had been trying to clean yourself every few days at least but living in the swamps made it difficult. Between the bugs and the sweat and the need to bring someone with you in case an alligator had its eyes on you, the actual bathing amount was questionable. Laying in the bubbly bliss was pure heaven. 

A soft knock at the door was followed by a voice asking if you wanted extra assistance but you declined. The bar of soap was easy enough to manage and you plunged your head below the water to begin attacking your hair. 

You eventually left the small paradise you had found and dried off, impressed with the result of one simple bath. It was something you would need to indulge in more regularly. 

Arthur beamed at you as you entered the small room and motioned to the bed where he had laid out your dress. It was approaching time to leave for the mayor’s and you had too many buttons and laces to be able to dress yourself. Arthur kissed your neck as he helped you dress and looked at you again like a wolf stalking its prey. It made your stomach flip and flutter as you thought about what the night held in store. 

Dutch greeted the two of you with a harumph as you entered the carriage outside. He chomped down on one end of a cigar and looked sour until Arthur found a glass of champagne. Dutch was dressed to the nines in a beautiful black suit and matching top hat. Someone, you guessed Hosea, had stuck a white flower into his lapel and he leaned back in his element. It didn’t take long for Dutch and Arthur to be howling with laughter at thoughts of the old days and how ridiculous it was to be headed to a mayor’s ball, of all things. You sat squished across from Bill who avoided your gaze and opted to stare out the window, throwing back the glass of champagne Dutch handed him instead of savoring it like you were. 

You asked Dutch if he wanted you to lift anything as there was likely to be good value in such a high society. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no! No pickpocketing. We are here to make some real contacts. We have to find what we can at this party where the guest of honor is the worst crook in town!” It wasn’t long until he and Arthur and Bill were howling with laughter at this again and you watched on amusedly. 

The men cheersed their drinks just as the carriage arrived outside of the manor gates and came to a slow stop. Someone opened the door and you exited first, excited to be around new people. Arthur held his arm for you to walk you down inside but stopped in his tracks and stared as another carriage pulled up behind yours. 

“My god, she actually came…” you whispered. 

For as wonderful as you looked in the dress from the tailor, you had nothing on Molly O’Shea. She stepped forth a queen in a stunning green jeweled dress dotted with accents of gold and black and red and perfectly matching jewelry. Her hair and makeup were flawless as well and made you wish you had brought at least a lipstick with you. 

Her Irish accent was silky and slow as she took in her companions. “Evening, fellas. And Miss Moore, that’s a stunning dress you have there.” 

You held Arthur’s arm, frozen as well, and watched as she and Dutch took their place in front of you. Hosea walked next, a smirk and a wink thrown your way as if to say he had finally come around and listened to your suggestion. 

Bill huffed. “Well. This night just got a whole lot more interesting.”

The walkway was lined with white canvas tents stretched high above you and twinkling lights across the lawn. The house was a stunning two story building with Roman columns and a balcony that seemed to stretch around the entirety of the second floor. It was beautiful and matched the bold taste of those in the higher class of Saint Denis. 

“Luca here will take you to Mr. Bronte.” A man at the front door accepted Dutch’s paper invitation and invited the crowd in, eyeing the number of people that entered in a way that let you know you were pushing the limits. 

Luca was a smaller man, an inch or two below even you. He walked with a strut that made up for it as he guided the group into the foyay and spoke about the extensive history the house held as a jewel and a staple of Saint Denis. He lost you somewhere after you passed the chandelier, the sparkling beauty nearly stopping you in your tracks. Luca led you past the double staircase and multiple servants. 

‘Hosea, Bill, YN, you three join the party. Signore Bronte does not want a crowd I am sure. We will meet you down here shortly and meet you out back after we pay our respects.” Molly clung to Dutch’s arm a little tighter, learning she was of importance to meet the guest of honor. Arthur simply rolled his eyes at you and you smiled back, not bothered by the slight.

Bill whistled as you stepped back out into the night air. “This sure is a pretty place. Like the...lights and such.” 

Hosea told him to go find drinks while the two of you stood at the top of the stone staircase, a good spot for observing the party. 

“Hosea, I’m flattered to even be here. I know Dutch seemed against it at first. He’s bee strange lately, have you noticed?” 

The older man paused before thinking, mulling over the words running through his mind. “You look lovely tonight YN. Sure picked a dress that could bring a man to his knees.”

“It’s not too much?” You fretted. 

“Not at all, my dear. And as far as Dutch goes, I’ve noticed something is off as well. Let’s keep that to ourselves however, not everyone would agree with our observations. Might think we were going against him.” Bill held out two drinks for you and headed back into the crowd to play the part of upper society. You clinked your glass gently against Hosea’s and enjoyed the taste of whatever it was you had sipped. 

The garden below you was wide stretching, with trees and fountains and gazebos dotted around the grounds in an elegant arrangement. The same stringed lights from the front of the house were draped all around the backyard as well giving the evening a mood lighting of excitement and dreaminess. 

You still couldn't believe it was all real. A few short months ago you were being held hostage by a savage man, and now you stood at the height of society, drinking and enjoying the view you had from the top. 

It wasn’t long before Dutch, Arthur, and Molly joined you on the balcony. Dutch and Molly looked quite pleased with themselves, talking about how enchanted Bronte was with Molly and her beauty. Arthur seemed hesitant and motioned for you to come stand by him as soon as Dutch was done retelling the riveting tale of working with the man of the hour. 

“I think we should get outta here. These people, they ain’t like us. They’re liars, and awful tricksters who do terrible things for a laugh.” Arthur shook his head, pointing out some people in the crowd who Bronte had mocked. 

 “Native Americans? What do they need from the mayor?” You mused out loud. 

“Alright, go ingratiate ourselves. And remember,” Dutch gave you a pointed look, “steal nothing. Unless it's information. Find the mayor and stay outta trouble.” 

Arthur gave your arm a tug and together you headed into the crowd. You knew finding the mayor was the target, but to be honest you were mostly interested in meeting the Native Americans who were somewhere out in the gardens. 

You and Arthur waltzed around to see what you could find, but most of the people were simple folk looking for idle conversation. It took an hour to make your way around in a lap and at the end you felt none the wiser. Sure, the caricature of Saint Denis was more vibrant and colorful after speaking to more of its residents but you knew that would be enough information to sustain Dutch. 

A conversation behind you grabbed your attention and you turned so Arthur could face them men and join in. 

“It ain’t complex, Lemieux. And only an idiot like you would try to make it so.” 

The small group of men stood near the fountain seeming to poke fun at the Frenchman. “I will not deny idiocy, sir, but perhaps now is not the time. You are drunk, Ferdinand.”

“I’m not drunk, you fool!” The loud man laughed and rocked backwards, grabbing the man next to him in order to remain standing. “But this man! This man loves darkies.”

You blanched at the slur and Arthur took this queue to grab the man’s shoulders, turning him away from the group. It didn’t take him long to lead him away before anyone could get too upset. You pretended to fan your face with your hand and draw the attention of the men back to you instead of watching the scene behind them. 

“Your husband, madam?” 

You blushed. “Betrothed. A good man, Arthur. My name is YN.”

Arthur rejoined the group and shook hands with the other men. “Thank you, sir. Henri Lemieux, I hope you are enjoying my party. Do you know Evelyn Miller?”

The name sounded familiar as Arthur’s face lit up. “My lord. The writer?” 

“Well,” the man chuckled good heartedly. “We seem to have another deranged drunkard in our midsts.” 

Behind Mr. Miller a loud boom echoed through the streets of the city. You winced and looked away from the bright lights exploding in the sky, unsure of what to think. Arthur placed his hand on your back and whispered that they were fireworks and you watched in awe. Flashes of light were met with oohs and ahhs from the crowd so you figured you must be safe, even if the air reeked of gunpowder.

A man in a white servants uniform pushed through the group towards the mayor, pulling him to the side once he had his attention. A sharp whisper brought the words ‘Cornwall’, ‘fool for trusting him’, and ‘sign it’ carried across the air and you locked eyes with Arthur. This was a lead, something he should look into. 

Dutch seemed to appear out of thin air. “He say something about Cornwall? Find out what.” 

Arthur placed a chaste kiss to your cheek and slunk off into the crowd and off into the dark. You stood alone until Molly joined your side. 

“Miss O’Shea, that gown is...breathtaking.” Molly smiled, a rare motion for her. 

“I’m glad tonight worked out. Hosea told me it was your idea to bring me along instead of Miss Gaskill, and I wanted you to know I’m grateful. Dutch and I...we used to be so close but I’m hoping he sees my worth after tonight. This dress was supposed to be for another type of party with me and Dutch, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

You smiled sadly at her, unsure of what to say. 

“Do you ever miss Ireland?” 

“Constantly,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s a beautiful country, and Dublin is a gem that these cities don’t hold a candle too. I hope you visit one day, see the green for yourself.”

“I’d like that.” Arthur returned to your side with a sly grin thrown at Dutch and a pat of his coat pocket. Dutch tipped his hat and watched the rest of the fireworks show with a wide grin. 

Hosea and Bill find their way over and express their disinterest at staying any longer. On the walk out Hosea whispered to Dutch about a plan he had devised to rob the city bank, something someone at the party had brought to his attention. Dutch countered with a plan to rob the trolley station that Bronte had mentioned to him and Arthur. The gang seemed to just need one big score before they could be free, whatever Dutch meant by that. 

Lenny drove up with the first carriage and you saw his eyes nearly fall out of his head at the sight of you. One look at Arthur snapped his neck forwards without daring another glance, but you laughed at the exchange and felt good about how the night had gone. Dutch, Bill, Molly, and Hosea climbed inside as you and Arthur remained on the sidewalk. He clapped the side of the wagon without a word and Lenny took off, a curt nod cast somewhere in your general direction. 

“Well, Mr. Morgan, what should we do now?”

Arthur met your gaze with a low growl and a hungry look on his face. “Girl, you better run back to that hotel room because I know exactly what we are doing tonight.”

You squealed with delight and took off, hiking your skirt up around your knees to let you run. Arthur barked a laugh and chased after you, showing the upper society of Saint Denis that it couldn't tame you no matter how hard it tried.

[preppymayhem]

1 + 66 + 74 (any ship/series you want)

Historical AU + It’s Not You, It’s My Enemies + Huddling for Warmth

Gundam Wing, 1xR (Vaguely set in 16th century reminiscent Europe, but honestly the historical accuracy is that of CW’s Reign so that’s that on that)

I dont know how much I captured the second two tropes but I think I got the spirit. This will never be a fully realized fic so I went overboard because  this is all that I can manage

Relena bent over the desk and quickly scribbled hurried words across the page, only fainting hearing the howls of the blizzard outside.. This was not official correspondence, it wasn’t even personal correspondence. No, she was writing a letter that no one would ever read. Once it was complete she would cast it into the fire burning brightly in her rooms as she had done so many times before.

She’d written hundreds and hundreds of letters over the course of the last five years and she had burned every single one of them in a futile effort to exorcise feelings that she by virtue of her position and her birth could not afford to feel. But unlike the fires and piles of ash, she was finding her emotions and longings were not so easily put out.

Relena thought of the preceding months and her conversation with Quatre earlier. He had the audacity to question her motives.

“I can understand,” Quatre said, “Your position.”

“Hardly,” she replied, “I am a woman and a Queen. You are merely the only of son of a highly successful merchant. We are quite different.”

She doesn’t think she hurt him by that remark, surely he must understand what was at stake for everyone.

“Is that why you have not yet made a match?” he asked.

She stared out at the setting sun over the hills, if this was Sanq, she would watch the sun disappear over the ocean. Relena wished she was there now.

“I have not made a match because as a woman and a queen my only power and indeed my only leverage is my ability to refuse,” she said, “I cannot act rashly and just marry for the sake of producing an heir. I must be sure that my marriage will secure the sovereignty of my nation and….”

She sucked in a breath.

“And to insure that I will still have the control I seek, because regardless of who I marry, I am still the sovereign Queen of Sanq.”

“Is that the only reason?” Quatre asked, “because I am not sure that is quite right.”

She turned to him and almost put a hand to her cheek as if he had slapped her.

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her gravely.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said, “because I too am not free to act on my desires. To…choose the person I would give my heart too…”

Relena was pulled from her thoughts when the papers on the desk began to shuffle. She scrambled to catch them before they scatted and only managed to knock the inkwell over the unfinished letter in front of her. Oh well, spilt ink was probably just as effective as the fire for obliterating unwanted feelings.

She turned to see where the gusts were coming from when the fire in the hearth flittered for a moment. There was an open window at the corner of the bedchamber. She lept from her seat and rushed over and shut the window, and tightened the bolt. She inspected the latch because she could have sworn that Hilde had secured the room before retiring for the night. Nothing was amiss, maybe Hilde had not tightened the bold enough thought that seemed very unlike her handmaiden.

She went back to her desk and surveyed the mess of ink and paper and sighed. She began gathering the papers in order toss the whole lot  in the fire when she heard a grunt come from behind her.

“Are you really going to discard all that?”

Relena didn’t turn at the voice as she didn’t need to. She should’ve known, she’d been waiting all night for him to give her some sign he was coming.

“Is that you Heero?” she asked, still not turning around while making sure that everything was in order, though she stopped when something occurred to her. She turned instinctively.

“Did you come through my window? You scaled the walls during that blizzard outside?”

Heero had come into the light from the dark corner by the heavy wooden wardrobe  towards the front of the room.  He looked cold as he only wore what seemed to be a light coat over his shirt sleeves. She quickly guided him to a seat by the fire.

“You better have some vitally important information for me, otherwise I will be most displeased,” she said, “that climb in this weather would have killed most any other man.”

“I am sorry for your displeasure than,” his voice is so soft and slightly chattering, “but there is nothing I can disclose at the moment for fear of compromising you.”

She wants to chide him for his discretion, but she knew it was necessary. As the Queen of Sanq it was of the utmost importance of that she be seen as above reproach and free of any sinister entanglements. Still, he shouldn’t have risked it, he was too important. She told him that in no uncertain terms.

He shivered, and she grabbed the loose blanket hanging on the footboard and wrapped it around him, trying to not linger too much. They were alone, no fear of being discovered, but still it was best to maintain the appropriate boundaries.

Those boundaries hadn’t always been in place. There had been a time when it had been as if they were almost equals. But that was an illusion, there were few people who were equal or even her superior. She could still see him kneeling at her feet, swearing his fealty. He was her right hand, her sword, her shield and her tool.

And she had accepted it because the alternative was that she would have had to let him go entirely. It was shameful.  She pushed those thoughts aside, he’d chosen his course freely it had not been her doing. 

“Well you will spend the night, I can’t let you out in that blizzard.”

“I can’t—“

She held a hand up to quiet his protest.

“We blocked off the passage due to the assassination attempt,” she said quieting what he had been about to say, “Noin insisted on it. And there are plenty of hiding places if we are to be disturbed but I’ll dare say the storm should let up before there is any worry of that.”

He nodded.

“I’d call for a hot bath but I am afraid I already bathed today and I insisted that Hilde retire. I’ve really asked too much of her.”

“You’re fond of her,” his voice is still hoarse but some of the color was returning to his skin so she felt better that he hadn’t suffered any lasting effects from the exposure. She both did and didn’t want to look at his hands though.

“I guess I am,” she said, “she is one of the few people here who I can trust. Not completely of course but…Have you discovered anything more? About the murder of Lord Septum, I mean.”

“Not really,” Heero said, “the rumors among the staff and the lower rungs is that it was either myself—“

“Was it you?” she didn’t really think it was, but she had been meaning to ask. She had not forbidden him from taking any action that might be in her or her country’s favor and that could possibly include murder, “and if it was, I would think you would hide your tracks better than that.”

“They don’t know it’s me exactly,” he said, “I am the shadow here, but no, I didn’t murder the man as godawful as he was. I wanted to after—“

She stopped him again, this time she shuddered. That was a memory she did not want to forget.

“They also think it’s Treize’s dog,” he said, Heero never used titles in private company save for hers, another signal of the divide that laid between them.

“His dog?”

“Lady Une,” Heero said, “there are too many enemies here.”

“It couldn’t possibly be His Excellency,” she said, “this castle is housing some of the most powerful people in the realm. The death of any one of them would launch a global conflict.

Relena nodded.

“How about you?” he asked, “are your plans going smoothly.”

She turned to the fire and tried not recall the botched letter she had been writing prior to his arrival.

“There are prospects,” she said.

“I like Quatre,” he said.

“Sir Winner?” she asked and she instinctively recalled their earlier conversation, “I like him too, but I think I can do better.”

Heero appraised her for a moment.

“A wealthy son of a merchant? He’s rich, you’d retain power, and the Winner mines are vital for a countries security,” he said, listing the benefits of the match.

“Yes, but he doesn’t have men nor land, and I don’t marriage in order to secure a treaty with Winner,” she said, “It would not be completely disadvantageous but I shouldn’t settle yet.”

He doesn’t speak so she goes on.

“I don’t trust Barton’s son, though I know their armies are great.”

“Dekim Barton is merciless, How is his son?”

“Aloof,” Relena said, “but I don’t see the resemblance, but there is the connection with the Chang Clan. That would be a vital trading partner.”

“I thought the representatives were married?” Heero asked.

“They are, his wife, Meiran is serving as one of my ladies in waiting,” she said and shrugged sheepishly, “I am afraid my Court isn’t deeply stocked. She is more supportive than Dorothy however.”

Heero said, nothing, they didn’t speak of the fact that it was likely that one of the member’s of Relena’s court was most likely a spy for the enemy. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, “I don’t believe that either Meiran or Dorothy are against me. They may not be loyal, but they are not traitors.”

“I think it would be Leila,” he said, “she is connected to the Bartons.”

“She’s so meek though,” Relena said, “I think she would break.”

He’s too cold to argue.

“I still think you should consider Quatre,” he said, “I think he could make you happy.”

Relena debated whether she should disabuse him of that notion. Quatre had all but admitted that he had a lover, which peeved Relena because of course a man was forgiven any dalliance while she had to struggle to maintain her propriety. She doubted he could make her happy because she knew she could not make him happy. His words spoke to an affair that wasn’t just or even primarily physical. But it was still a matter of fact that Quatre could conceivably marry and maintain the affair.

The resentment burns. She was not expecting faithfulness in marriage, that was a vain hope for a woman marrying for political advantage, but still the idea that her husband could maintain a love on the side while she could not was a hard pill to swallow.

“It’s not about my happiness,” she said, “it’s about what is best for my country. I will do what is needed. That is all.”

She couldn’t look at him when she said that, she couldn’t betray the pain that she knew must be written on her face.

She schooled herself back to a calm cool demeanor.

“Regardless, you will be with me?” The question is meek, but she stuck with it. She could bear the course of her life if he was her ally. Her friend.

He slid off his chair and leaned his forehead to her knee, it was not a bow nor a show of subjugation, but a promise.

“To the end my queen,” he said, “my life is yours.”

She stroked a hand through the mess of tangles on his hair before lifting him up so she could slide down to be on his level. She only leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. Chaste. Pure. And full of all the wishes and hopes that she had had to foresake when the crown had been placed on her head.

She pulled his head down to lean against her chest and wrapped her arms around him, trying to will the heat of her body to his.

And for a moment they both forgot the constraints that laid outside that room. He was hers, and even though it could never be realized in the light of day. She was always and forever his.

[neocab]

Translating the Cyberpunk Future

I'm a video game translator, and I love my job. It's odd work, sometimes stressful, sometimes bewildering, but it always provides interesting and inspiring challenges. Every project brings new words, slang, and cultural trends to discover, but translating also forces me to reflect on language itself. Each job also comes with its own unique set of problems to solve. Some have an exact solution that can be found in grammar or dictionaries, but others require a more... creative approach.

Sometimes, the language we’re translating from uses forms and expressions that simply have no equivalent in the language we’re translating to. To bridge such gaps, a translator must sometimes invent (or circumvent), but most importantly they must understand. Language is ever in flux. It’s an eternal cultural battleground that evolves with the lightning speed of society itself. A single word can hurt a minority, give shape to a new concept, or even win an election. It is humanity’s most powerful weapon, especially in the Internet Age, and I always feel the full weight of responsibility to use it in an informed manner.

One of my go-to ways for explaining the deep complexity of translation is the relationship between gender (masculine and feminine) and grammar. For example, in English this is a simple sentence:

"You are fantastic!"

Pretty basic, right? Easy to translate, no? NOT AT ALL!

Once you render it into a gendered language like Italian, all its facets, its potential meanings, break down like shards.

Sei fantastico! (Singular and masculine)

Sei fantastica! (Singular and feminine)

Siete fantastici! (Plural and masculine)

Siete fantastiche! (Plural and feminine)

If we were translating a movie, selecting the correct translation wouldn't be a big deal. Just like in real life, one look at the speakers would clear out the ambiguity in the English text. Video game translation, however, is a different beast where visual cues or even context is a luxury, especially if a game is still in development. Not only that, but the very nature of many games makes it simply impossible to define clearly who is being addressed in a specific line, even when development has ended. Take an open world title, for example, where characters have whole sets of lines that may be addressed indifferently to single males or females or groups (mixed or not) within a context we don't know and can't control.

In the course of my career as a translator, time and time again this has led into one of the most heated linguistic debates of the past few years: the usage of the they/them pronoun. When I was in grade school, I was taught that they/them acted as the third person plural pronoun, the equivalent of the Italian pronoun "essi." Recently, though, it has established itself as the third person singular neutral, both in written and spoken English. Basically, when we don't know whether we're talking about a he/him or a she/her, we use they/them. In this way, despite the criticism of purists, the English language has brilliantly solved all cases of uncertainty and ambiguity. For instance:

“Somebody forgot their backpack at the party.”

Thanks to the use of the pronoun "their," this sentence does not attribute a specific gender to the person who has forgotten the backpack at the party. It covers all the bases. Smooth, right? Within the LGBT circles, those who don’t recognize themselves in gender binarism have also adopted the use of they/them. Practically speaking, the neutral they/them pronoun is a powerful tool, serving both linguistic accuracy and language inclusiveness. There's just one minor issue: We have no "neutral pronouns" in Italian.

It's quite the opposite, if anything! In our language, gender informs practically everything, from adjectives to verbs. On top of that, masculine is the default gender in case of ambiguity or uncertainty. For instance:

Two male kids > Due bambini

Two female kids > Due bambine

One male kid and one female kid > Due bambini

In the field of translation, this is a major problem that often requires us to find elaborate turns of phrase or different word choices to avoid gender connotations when English maintains ambiguity. As a professional, it’s not only a matter of accuracy but also an aesthetic issue. In a video game, when a character refers to someone using the wrong gender connotation, the illusion of realism is broken. My colleagues and I have been navigating these pitfalls for years as best we can. Have you ever wondered why one of the most common Italian insults in video games is "pezzo di merda"? That's right. "Stronzo" and "bastardo" give a gender connotation, while "pezzo di merda" does not.

A few months ago, together with the Gloc team, I had the pleasure of working on the translation of Neo Cab, a video game set in a not too distant future with a cyberpunk and dystopian backdrop (and, sadly, a very plausible one). The main character is Lina, a cabbie of the "gig economy," who drives for a hypothetical future Uber in a big city during a time of deep social unrest. The story is told mainly through her conversation with the many clients she picks up in her taxi. When the game’s developers gave us the reference materials for our localization, they specified that one of the client characters was "non-binary" and that Lina respectfully uses the neutral "they/them" pronoun when she converses with them.

"Use neutral pronouns or whatever their equivalent is in your language," we were told.

I remember my Skype chat with the rest of the team. What a naive request on the client's part! Neutral pronouns? It would be lovely, but we don't have those in Italian! So what do we do now? The go-to solution in these cases is to use masculine pronouns, but such a workaround would sacrifice part of Lina’s character and the nuance of one of the interactions the game relies on to tell the story. Sad, no? It was the only reasonable choice grammatically-speaking, but also a lazy and ill-inspired one. So what were we to do? Perhaps there was another option...

Faced with losing such an important aspect of Lina’s personality, we decided to forge ahead with a new approach. We had the opportunity to do something different, and we felt like we had to do the character justice. In a game that's completely based on dialogue, such details are crucial. What's more, the game's cyberpunk setting gave us the perfect excuse to experiment and innovate. Language evolves, so why not try to imagine a future where Italian has expanded to include a neutral pronoun in everyday conversations? It might sound a bit weird, sure, but cyberpunk literature has always employed such gimmicks. And rather than take away from a character, we could actually enrich the narrative universe with an act of "world building" instead.

After contacting the developers, who enthusiastically approved of our proposal, we started working on creating a neutral pronoun for our language. But how to go about that was a question in itself. We began by studying essays on the subject, like Alma Sabatini's Raccomandazioni per un uso non sessista della lingua italiana (Recommendations for a non-sexist usage of the Italian language). We also analyzed the solutions currently adopted by some activists, like the use of asterisks, "x," and "u."

Siamo tutt* bellissim*.

Siamo tuttx bellissimx.

Siamo tuttu bellissimu.

I’d seen examples of this on signs before, but it had always seemed to me that asterisks and such were not meant to be a solution, but rather a way to highlight the issue and start a discourse on something that's deeply ingrained in our language. For our cyberpunk future, we wanted a solution that was more readable and pronounceable, so we thought we might use schwa (ə), the mid central vowel sound. What does it sound like? Quite familiar to an English speaker, it's the most common vowel sound. Standard Italian doesn’t have it, but having been separated into smaller countries for most of its history, Italy has an extraordinary variety of regional languages (“dialetti”) and many of them use this sound. We find it in the final "a" of "mammeta" in Neapolitan, for instance (and also in the dialects of Piedmont and Ciociaria, and in several other Romance languages). To pronounce it, with an approximation often seen in other romance languages, an Italian only needs to pretend not to pronounce a word's last vowel.

Schwa was also a perfect choice as a signifier in every possible way. Its central location in phonetics makes it as neutral as possible, and the rolled-over "e" sign "ə" is reminiscent of both a lowercase "a" (the most common feminine ending vowel in Italian) and of an unfinished "o" (the masculine equivalent). The result is:

Siamo tuttə bellissimə.

Not a perfect solution, perhaps, but eminently plausible in a futuristic cyberpunk setting. The player/reader need only look at the context and interactions to figure it out. The fact that we have no "ə" on our keyboards is easily solved with a smartphone system upgrade, and though the pronunciation may be difficult, gender-neutrals wouldn't come up often in spoken language. Indeed, neutral alternatives are most needed in writing, especially in public communication, announcements, and statements. To be extra sure our idea worked as intended and didn't overlook any critical issues, we submitted it to a few LGBT friends, and with their blessing, then sent our translation to the developers.

Fast forward to now, and the game is out. It has some schwas in it, and nobody complained about our proposal for a more inclusive future language. It took us a week to go through half a day's worth of work, but we're happy with the result. Localization is not just translation, it's a creative endeavour, and sometimes it can afford to be somewhat subversive. To sum up the whole affair, I'll let the words of Alma Sabatini wrap things up:

"Language does not simply reflect the society that speaks it, it conditions and limits its thoughts, its imagination, and its social and cultural advancement." — Alma Sabatini

Amen.

[iwritefanficsometimes]

For WinterIron: When Tony finds Out Bucky can cook he is surprised. He get's James to cook from him (not that this is difficult since Bucky wants Tony to eat more anyway) and is fascinated. Like Bucky likes to watch Tony in the workshop sometimes, when the mechanic is in his element, Tony develops a habit of watching Bucky in the kitchen. 🙈🙊

AO3 Link - For formatting reason I highly recommend reading on AO3

(Soooo,,, I’m a sucker for dual personality Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier and I can’t personally imagine Bucky not being personally involved in tech and wanting to get hands on with everything, but I can definitely imagine Soldier paying a lot of attention to Tony. And then this happened. I hope you still like it! PS. I am a vegan and I wrote some of this stuff while gagging, so… that’s it, I just wanted to share that. PPS. I copy pasted this from a Google Doc so I had to add back in some formatting things. Let me know if there are still issues)

Bucky didn’t tell people that Winter was still there. He was cold, calculating, violent, in ways that would have made the Avengers, and the public, wary. It was a decision they made together, like they make most major decisions since Bucky started coming back to himself when they were sent after Steve. It was a hard won truce between the two of them, but fighting amongst themselves left them vulnerable, and neither of them wanted that. They couldn’t afford to be vulnerable. They were stronger working together to keep their independence than they were working against each other for control. So they came to this tentative compromise

They told Bucky’s therapist, now their therapist, Dr. Koning. She was a nice woman and she burned all her session notes right in front of Bucky once the session was done, so he trusted her. Winter was wary, after the incident with the not-therapist pulling him to the surface and taking control of him again, but with time he became used to the idea of spending time with this woman to help them heal. She was a good mediator.

“Have you ever considered finding your own interests, Winter?”

The question caught both Bucky and Winter off guard. Bucky because they’d just been talking about his interests, and Winter because he hadn’t been paying attention, since they’d been talking about Bucky.

“What?” Bucky asked, mimicking Winter’s confusion.

“I asked if Winter had ever considered finding his own interests, separate from yours.”

“We have the same interests,” Bucky told her, and Winter had to agree. Sure, there were some things Bucky did that Winter found boring, like spending time with Steve, but the things that Winter enjoyed Bucky also enjoyed, and got to do vicariously through him when he wasn’t “fronting,” one of their new words, himself to do them.

“Well, that may be the case now, but you’ve said that you do things that Winter doesn’t have any interest in, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky nods, and Winter starts to tune out again, because they’re talking about Bucky.

“And that means that he’s capable of liking things outside of what you like. Since you have your interests in technology and science fiction-”

Bucky snorts, but it’s not Bucky, it’s Winter. Dr. Koning smiles and greets him, “Hello, Winter. Did you have anything to say?”

“I didn’t choose to front.” He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring Bucky’s internal order to “be nice.”

“Well, the question still stands. I know that you don’t front often for your safety, which I understand, but when you do front, have you considered looking for things outside of what you both do together to occupy your time?” Her face is carefully neutral, but Winter can how much she needs him to agree to this experiment. Bucky tries to correct him, that it’s not an experiment, but that is certainly what it sounds like. Attempt to find a new interest to establish personality outside of shared interests.

“She just wants you to be happy. I can hear how lonely you get rattling around back there, and you don’t like any of my friends.”

“Your friends are idiots, but they’d know immediately if I were to try and spend time with them instead of you.” He tells Bucky out loud.

Dr. Koning chimes in. “That’s why I think it would be good for you to go outside of your shared interests, that way you’re meeting new people and you don’t have to pretend to be Bucky Barnes, you can just be yourself.”

“Myself murders people.”

“Winter,” Dr. Koning sighs, “Do you want to go over this again?”

“No, you’re not gonna fix me in one session. I’ll do your experiment. I’ll find a hobby.” He says the last word like it’s a slight and Barnes is inside his head giggling. Idiot.

“I’m glad to hear it. When we meet again we can discuss how it’s going.”

Winter gets up and leaves without saying goodbye.

—–

“Um, what are you doing?”

Winter isn’t startled by the question, because he heard bare feet padding on the floor long before Tony Stark deigned to speak.

“Cooking.” Winter tells his gruffly, as he continues to stir the risotto.

“Oh, well, it smells good. Must mean you’re doing a good job.” Tony is tense, not quite comfortable around Bucky yet. Winter lets him maintain the illusion that it’s Bucky he’s talking to.

“If you stop talking you can have some.” The recipe Winter found was for four people, and Winter could have eaten it all, but he didn’t really want to.

“It’s 3am.” Tony countered and Winter looked over his shoulder at him.

“So?”

Tony took a seat at the island and didn’t say another word.

Winter could feel Tony’s eyes on him, but even a genius probably wouldn’t be able to figure them out from just one meeting. Bucky stirs from where he’s been dormant and is caught off guard by Tony’s presence.

“You don’t think he’ll notice? I’m down in the lab a lot.”

“We’ll tell him you sleep walk. Now be quiet, you’re distracting me.”

“You need to add more stock.”

“I know!”

“Everything okay over there?” Tony asked from the island, and Winter tensed and then forced himself to untense, muscle by muscle.

“It’s all fine.” He says, trying for Bucky’s accent and failing miserably.

Tony stays quiet again, and Winter stirs, adding stock to the risotto before he burns it. Barnes is laughing at him. Winter resolves to distract him the next time they’re sparring with Captain America.

When the risotto is finally done he spoons some onto two plates, giving himself a normal sized helping and resolving to go back for more one Tony was taken care of. “Here.” He says and sets the plate down in front of Tony.

Tony takes it and fishes a fork out from a nearby drawer, handing the other to Winter, before digging in himself.

Winter eats, analyzing the dish to see what he could have done better. The rice is not as well cooked as he would have liked, and the mushrooms are too thick for his taste. He resolves to try a different stock and thinner mushrooms next time when he realizes Bucky is trying to get his attention.

“Tony’s thanking you.”

Winter looks up at Tony and sure enough, he’s looking at Winter like he’s waiting for some kind of response. When one doesn’t seem forthcoming he either repeats himself or continues. “This is really good.”

“It could be better.”

“You’re supposed to say thank you.”

“But thank you.” He wishes that he could kick Barnes.

“Hey, everyone’s their own worst critic. I didn’t even know you cooked.” Tony is very obviously trying to be comfortable. Exposure therapy, like they did with Winter and Steve.

“It’s new.” Winter tells him. Just then, thankfully, the oven goes off, and the baked chicken is finished. Winter gets up and grabs potholders from beside the stove, Tony watches him the whole time until a tray of breaded and perfectly baked chicken is sitting on a wooden cutting board on the counter resting.

When Winter goes back to his food Tony is staring at him. “You made risotto.”

“Yes.”

“And you breaded and baked chicken.”

“Yes.”

“At 3am.”

“Yes.”

Tony blinks, “You are full of surprises, Barnes.”

Winter says, “Don’t call me that,” instinctively, but realizes his mistake as soon as he’s said it.

“What else would I call you?” Tony asks, probably thinking this is going to be one of those cheesy invitations to call Bucky by his first name. It’s not. He’s not Bucky. But as per their agreement, he’s not allowed to tell him that.

“James.”

Bucky groans inside their head, because he hates that, name, but Winter isn’t left with many other options.

“I thought you hated that name.”

“It’s my chef name. Deal with it.”

Tony looks at him, then looks at the risotto and the chicken. “You know what, I can live with that. Happy to make your acquaintance chef James.”

Bucky is irritated. Winter is pleased that he got around their rules and now has two people who won’t call him Bucky.

——

Three nights later Tony Stark find himself in the communal kitchen with “Chef James,” and there’s gotta be a story there Tony’s missing, but the food is too good to ask too many questions, and he tries to make a little bit more conversation. Talking to regular not-cooking Bucky is difficult and some days even impossible for reasons Tony can’t explain, but cooking Bucky, “Chef James” is less intimidating. Sure, Tony has seen him wield a knife with such deadly accuracy that he should be scared of the man chopping vegetables in front of him, but he’s not. He doesn’t remind Tony anything of the man he fought in Siberia or the man who killed his parents. He’s a completely separate entity from either of them, and he’s easier to be around, because he doesn’t talk much. It’s a great start, in Tony’s opinion.

“You just gonna sit there?” James asks when Tony has been nursing the same cooling cup of coffee for twenty minutes.

“I was planning on it. I learned from experience not to step into a kitchen I wasn’t asked in. I burn water.”

“That’s impossible.” James looks over his shoulder at Tony, skeptical, and maybe the teeniest bit amused, but that might be Tony’s imagination.

“Not for me.” Tony gives him his brightest smile and Bucky turns back to the grilled cheese he’s making. It’s less complicated than the risotto, and faster. Winter is actually hungry, and wanted to make himself something rather than warming up one of the many cartons of left overs in their fridge. He will try and make his own stir fry soon, now that he’s mastered pastas, but he didn’t have the time to figure that out right now. He was hungry.

“So, is this a nightly ritual, James in the kitchen at midnight?”

“No.”

The short answer doesn’t deter Tony in the slightest.

“Okay, so how long have you been cooking for yourself?”

“A month.”

“Cool, cool. Nothing fancy this time around. After your last meal I almost expect you to be making tomato soup from scratch.”

“I don’t like tomato soup.”

“Have you ever had it from scratch?”

“No.” Winter has had canned tomato soup, however, while on liquid nutrition, and it wasn’t pleasant. It was not an experience he or Bucky was eager to repeat.

“Well, to each his own. Why don’t you want to be called Bucky while you’re cooking.”

He nearly says why. He nearly says it. But he bites his tongue and flips the sandwich he’s making, because if he lets Barnes front and deal with this then he’s failed and he won’t get to have his grilled cheese.

“I don’t feel like Bucky when I cook.” Not a lie, but not the secret he’s been forbidden to tell. Barnes isn’t happy, but he doesn’t make any move to try and take control.

“Oh.” Tony says, with a sincere sort of understanding that makes Winter uneasy. Because Tony does understand, on some level. Maybe he never took a stage name, or whatever Barnes is doing, but he definitely remembers not wanting to be himself, and using building, and at a darker point in his life, drinking, to accomplish that. “That makes sense.”

Winter doesn’t say anything to that, just sets down a grilled cheese in front of Tony before continuing to make his own.

“Oh my god.” Tony says around food and Bucky turns to check on him. “This is amazing, what did you put in this?”

“Three cheeses, black pepper, paprika,” Winter lists off, annoyed at having thought something was wrong. “It’s just a grilled cheese.”

“No, it’s amazing. You need to shut up.” Tony took another bite and then another.

“You eat like you’re starving,” Winter tells him, and it’s supposed to be an insult. Tony nods and swallows.

“It’s only been like,” he checks his watch, “36 hours. Friday would force me to eat way before I starved. Wow, this is amazing.”

Winter blinks, then glares at Tony.

“Unacceptable.”

Tony stops mid chew and asks, “What?”

“Unacceptable,” He repeats and sets down the sandwich he’d been saving for himself in front of Tony as well. “Eat.”

“Um, whoa, I can feed myself.”

“Apparently not. Eat.”

Tony knows better than to question someone with Russian Murder Eyes, so he pulls the sandwich onto his plate and then goes back to eating his own. Winter nods and Bucky rolls the idea around in the back of his head.

“You’re concerned for him.”

“Someone has to be. Friday isn’t physical. She can’t force him to eat.”

“Great observation, buddy, just remember that we’re trying to maintain a secret here.”

“Yes.”

Winter finishes the grilled cheese that he’s making and then he goes to his Pinterest board for high-calorie, high-protein meals.

“Um, what are you doing there, chef James?”

Winter looks up and glares at Tony again. Tony raises his hands in mock surrender and continues eating. “Forget I asked.”

Winter did.

—–

The next afternoon there was a fresh baked lasagna sitting on the counter in Tony’s workshop, cooling, with a plate and a set of utensils sitting docile beside it. Bucky had been the one to bring it up, but the notes was signed “James.” All it said was, “Eat.”

Tony did, then asked Friday to discreetly invite their resident former assassin to join him. Friday asked which one and Tony sighed at her.

“The one who made me this frankly delicious lasagna. Feels weird to be eating without him.”

“James is not currently in residence. Would you like me to contact Bucky to ask when he may be available?”

“Hey, look, Fri, I know he’s doing the whole, ‘I’m not Bucky when I cook’ thing, but I don’t think it’s literal.”

“Handwriting analysis as well as behavioral pattern analysis says otherwise, boss.”

“What do you mean handwriting analysis?” Tony asks, turning to one of the many screens he was using for stats that now had a side by side picture of James and Bucky’s handwriting. James’ was a messy scrawl where Bucky’s was all neat loops of early thirties cursive. Okay…

“Okay. Yeah, let’s just… “ Tony sighed, looking at the lasagna on his plate and then at the handwriting. “Just ask if James wants to come and eat with me, and pretend we didn’t just figure out… whatever this is.”

“Of course, boss.”

——

“No,” Winter said firmly when Bucky relayed the message to him.

“Oh come on, you took the time to make it, we should at least get a taste.”

“It is for Tony. He doesn’t eat.”

“Yes he does, you see him walking around with those protein shakes. When he said he hadn’t eaten he just meant solid food. He’s not in danger of collapsing. Come on, this is your chance to make some friends.”

“I killed his parents.”

“If he’s willing to try and look past that you should too.”

Winter does not reply, and instead allows himself to front and go and see Tony. He feels distinctly uncomfortable with the gesture, but Tony was kind to them when he didn’t have to be, was under no obligation to, and after Winter got over his distrust of such kindness it had become… welcoming. He had only wanted to give Tony something in return.

“You called.” Winter’s face is as blank as it can possibly be, and Tony smiles when he sees him.

“Chef James,” he says, using James without prompting, which Winter is glad for, “I saw that you left me this, and I just wanted to make sure you got some too. I had Dummy get an extra plate, here.” He served a second helping for Winter and set it on the counter beside where Tony was sitting. “It’s amazing.” He says it like Winter didn’t make it himself. Of course it was good. Maybe it could be better with certain alterations, but for now it was good.

“Yes.” Winter began to eat, taking in all the components as one and then picking a part his next bite into individual components to taste them.

“You are a man of very few words, James.” It sounds like an observation made aloud for Tony’s benefit, rather than the beginning of some kind of discussion, so Winter says nothing.

They eat mostly in silence, with Tony making comments occasionally that are all along the lines of compliments. James thinks the meat sauce has too much meat in it and the cheese is a little heavier than he would have liked. Next time he’ll-

“So, you just started cooking a month ago? Really?”

“Yes.” Winter is a little bit irritated at having been interrupted, but he is learning to deal with irritation by not lashing out. Dr. Koning would be proud.

“What made you decide to choose cooking?”

“Nourishment is important. Learning to make it was an acceptable pastime.”

Tony nods, “Okay… right. Do you bring lasagnas to all your friends then?”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Steve would probably beg to differ.”

“Steve doesn’t know that I cook.”

“Oh, I see, this is more chef James distinctions. Gotcha. So, do you bring lasagnas to all of the people in the compound?”

Bucky is smirking inside their head. “It’s a fair question.”

“No.” Winter replies to both Bucky and Tony.

“Just me then.” Tony fidgets in his seat and continues eating. “Is there anything else I should now about chef James and how he’s different from Bucky.”

“I don’t fight.” He says, and Bucky is starting to sound too intrigued in their head.

“Maybe this will be good for you.”

“Really? Well okay then. I won’t ask you to fight. Anything else?”

“I don’t like those stupid sci-fi books.”

“Hey!”

“Interesting. Do you want some cookbooks?”

“The internet provides me with all the information I need.”

“Right, so you’ve come into the age of modern technology. Cool. Well then…” He rolls his chair back to where he keeps spare tablets, because he breaks them a lot down here. “Why don’t you take one of these. Friday can get you any book you want, and you can read to your heart’s content, or throw it in a box and forget about it like Bucky did to the last one. Whatever works.”

“If you already gave me one, then why are you giving me another?” Winter asks and Tony just holds his gaze.

“Because you’re not Bucky when you’re cooking.”

Winter and Bucky both know in that instant that Tony has figured it out, but he’s not saying anything. Winter nods and takes the tablet from him before getting up to leave. “Finish that,” he points to Tony’s plate, “And eat at least one more.”

“Yes sir.” He mock salutes and Winter leaves the room.

“Shit.” Bucky says feeling enough panic that it starts to sink into Winter.

“Yes.” He replies, but he doesn’t really feel it. Aside from Dr. Koning, Tony is the first person to acknowledge Winter’s presence, even if he is calling him by the ridiculous name, “James.” And he’s the first person to ever give him something that was just for him.

“Oh, no.”

“What?” Winter asks angrily as he calls the elevator.

“You’ve got it bad, man.”

“No.” Winter was fine. He didn’t have anything.

——TBC—–

(I needed to get something out today, but I’ll continue tomorrow. AO3 Link Above)

[cjoatprehn]

Baxtale: Chapter 1-Part 2 (2nd Half)

Bax ran through the storm, speeding through the town of Snowdin, covering monsters alike in waves of snow as she passes. She’s frantic and in a hurry to leave before more disruption occurs. She noticed monsters all around the town she observed, either recovering from what they witnessed, unconscious, or something of both. This was her fault, allowing her guard to fall right in front of a portal, knowing the dangers of doing so.

“I have t get back to the void. I caused enough disruption.” Bax panted as she ran, stripping herself free of her clothes, that she didn’t remember being on her body in the first place. She knows Stretch, the Papyrus in this world, more than likely put it on her. Knowing her, she had come right after the 6th human was killed. Or maybe that was the illusion of the true reset?

Once she escaped outside of Snowdin, she stopped to catch her breath. Despite the speed she runs, for her size, it was difficult to maintain. She thought her many different battles and experiences would have prepared her for this kind of physical activity. Who was she fooling but herself? She looked up, sweat beading on her forehead and freezing due to the cold air, her eyes scanning wildly for the portal she came through.

It was no longer there. “Just my luck.” She said as she watched a faint rift in the trees disappear. The winter wind gusted trough the forest, passing her, causing her to shiver violently. “Crap!” She hid in the trees until the panic in town and within her had ceased. Bax clutched her stomach, trying to huddle closer to the tree trunk to keep warm from the strong blizzard winds. It must be that time of year, she guessed under her breath. She looked up into the higher shelter of branches and started to climb the trees. Luckily she picked up that skill in the world of Horrortale. Running for your life in a world filled with hunger for humans, literally, climbing can have its usefulness. At least no one had been able to touch her, so they won’t remember her later, she hoped.

Once she had climbed into a nest of branches, she nestled herself in the warmth of the branches, trying to keep warm from the storm. Despite it’s appearance, the branches were not enough to keep the winds at bay, and occasionally, a branch or two would blow away. She shivered violently, it wasn’t any use. The longer she stayed there, the colder she got. ‘It was warmer in the void!” She though with exasperation.

She couldn’t escape. She couldn’t stay either. Butt she was trapped. She didn’t have a choice. She HAD to find a way to escape the world. While she figured out a way to do this, she processed what had just occurred. As she had tried to escape, Stretch, seemed to try to stop her from leaving back into the blizzard. But as soon as he grabbed her—once the realization hit her, her stomach plummetted. She had to keep from gagging from nervousness. All the tings she witnessed, experienced, knows...the other worlds, AUs, the void, everything; This entire world got a “copy and paste” of her mind. Everyone just literally got a knowledge boost from Stretch merely touching her for as long as he did.

She started to hyperventilate, she spat onto the snow, trying to get rid of the sour taste in her mouth. She covered her mouth. Her place, her entire existence here has been compromised. {Everyone knows she exists and has been observing them. All of them. There isn’t a secret that she can keep here. That meant she couldn’t stay here for very long for fear of being hunted down.

“Kid! Kid, Where are you?!” a familiar voice called. It was Stretch. He was looking for her, the first of many. She had to move fast. SHe got to her feet and as soon as he looked away, Bax dashed out of the branches and jumped branch after branch.

“I’m not dying today. NOT YET.” SHe thought as she dashed away, just as Stretch managed to notice her.

...

Stretch was shaking the unconscious skeleton in his arms, hoping and praying his HP hasn’t hit zero. He cannot lose Blueberry, not again. Not like this. Tears started to fall down his face. “Sans...please wake up!” Stretch begged his brother, he checked Blueberry’s vitals, he sighed with relief once to had stopped draining. Eventually, Stretch felt his brother stiffen and stir, his eyelights appearing in his eyesockets again.

“Papy...?” Blueberry said hoarsely, causing him to be tightly hugged by Stretch with a choked sob. “Thank God...I thought you were gone for sure...!” Stretch sobbed shakily. “Papyrus...” Blueberry felt his brother’s tears on his shoulder. Blueberry softly smiled as his own eyesockets filled with tears. He was scared too. He hugged back tightly. He knew and remembered everything. He finally knows what his brother has been keeping from him for years. Not only does he know, he can finally figure out how to help him. Blueberry smiled softly and rubbed Stretch’s back as Stretch continued to cry in his arms.

They stayed like that for awhile. Until they finally separated and helped each other up, Stretch healing Blueberry, and helping him to clean up the mess in the kitchen. Stretch opened his mouth to say something but Blueberry interrupted him, a little ticked, saying, “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT THIS? YOU WERE GOING THROUGH SO MUCH AND YOU CARRIED IT ON YOUR OWN. EVEN WHEN I TOLD YOU, YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO! I WAS HERE THE ENTIRE TIME, WORRYING ABOUT YOU TRYING TO GET YOU TO TALK ABOUT IT!” Blueberry continued to chastise his older brother, “NEVER KEEP THIS FROM ME AGAIN!”

Stretch blinked a few times and smiled a little in understanding. “I won’t, brother.”

“YOU CAN MAKE IT UP TO ME BY QUITTING THAT HABIT.”

“Heh...okay brother. I will.” Stretch grinned before then realizing, “Oh crap, I lost the kid.” Simultaneously, they both realized the front door has been open for ages. They both heard the cries and shouts.

“I’ll be back, better catch the kid before your boss catches them.” Stretch had o find the kid and fast. before another monster...anymonster got to them, first Particularly Captain Alphys, who was a human-killing fanatic.

Stretch ran out of the house, closing the door behind him. He saw the damage outside. He noticed everyone covered in snow, unconscious, or crying. A harsh blizzard wind blew against his hoodie. “Whoa....kid.” He saw footprints leading outside of town. Stretch decided to take his chances and follow them. Hoping to find the kid alive and not dead.

Stretch ended up where they first found the girl. He saw the clothes that they had dressed the girl in strewn all over the snow. Once the footprints stopped, he called out, “Kid! Kid, where are you?”

...

A few seconds later, Bax and Stretch were in a chase, not too far behind or ahead of the other. Bax was in the trees, branches rustling and cracking under her weight. Stretch chased after her, snow crunching under his boots.

“Got to keep running until the rift opens again! I can’t be caught!” Bax continued running.

“Stop! Kid! It’s not a good idea to run across the branches!” Stretch called. He was getting tired, running is not his sport. This big girl, made running seem easy for someone her size, and he was scrawny was bones! “Where is this Gil going?” He looked past her and noticed they were coming up to the ruins. A dead end for her and an opportunity for him.

He grinned and aimed a Gaster Blaster at the branches in her path to the higher walls of the ruins. Bax managed to look behind her and her eyes widened. “Aw poop!” The Gaster Blaster fired and she barely was able to slow down and stop before she ran into the blast. She tried to keep herself steady on the rocking branches.

Once the smoke had cleared, the branches that lead to the rift were completely gone, her mouth went agape. “Such accuracy...” She thought in her mind. She looked down and saw Stretch with a cheeky grin. For some reason, a slight annoyance entered her expression. “Flipping...”

“You can’t just leave without giving us answers, kid. nice attempt at escaping though. I’d I’ve you an 8 out of 10 due to you not making it before I vaporized the path in front of you,” He said chuckling a bit. Ba continued to stand on her end of the branches, looking back and forth between Stretch and the other side of the gap. A rift was starting to form on the other side. Her hopes at escaping just beyond reach...

“You know, you can relax. I’m not going to hurt you. Just...come down and we can talk. Just a nice long detailed chat,” Another wind blew through the trees, the branch she’s on, cracking audibly, “That branch won’t hold your weight forever since I blasted the front of it. Might want to move before it falls and you get hurt.”

Bax bared her tusks at him, hating the fact that he was absolutely right. But she refused to bow to his will. SHe was stubborn and she wasn’t coming down until she knew Stretch could be trusted. Nonetheless, the branch was starting to break beneath her feet. If only he’d just let her go, she won’t be a bother...But of course he did something that she knew he was capable of doing but thought he was tooo lazy to do so.

“Okay...either you’re really dumb or partially smart. You seem to be looking for something. A way out maybe? Sorry to disappoint you but the ruins are a dead end.” Stretch sighed as he continued to watch the blushing girl from below. Stretch hoped insulting her intelligence literally would get her to try to get down from there. It was pretty high up from where she was.

Bax refused to give in, though she felt like she should be offended by Stretch’s judgement of her intelligence. Well she knew him too well from observing him, hat he usually didn’t mean that, so of course she stayed where she was. Continuing to watch the rift grow bigger. “Come on, a few more seconds.” Bax egged on the rift with every fiber of her being.

The skeleton soon asked, starting to get impatient, “Well since you’re not comin down, can I at least have your name?”

She chuckled in her mind, giving out her name to anyone in any of the worlds was more than likely a arctic to get her name written in the world’s history so she would have to stay...er at least visit once in awhile. Advancing this monsters abilities each time she visited. She moved back absentmindedly just as the branch she was standing on fell, crashing into the snow below. Stretch flinched a bit before regaining his cool.

This was crucial. She could disrupt the timeline more, or she could leave without saying a word. She never had been caught before, the damage was done, and she knew it. Not only that, the choice Bax makes now could change things in the universe. No one in this world was supposed to have noticed, let alone seen anything outside of their own world. Tears fell down, Bax’s face as she whimpered indecisively, not knowing what she should do under so little time.

A few teardrops fell down of of her face on onto Stretch’s face. He felt her emotions momentarily. He sighs and says, “hey. Don’t you know how to greet a new pal?” Bax looked down at him before looking at the now open portal. Knowing her choice could change everything in the multiverse and his world as he knows it.

“Come down and shake my hand.” He offered his hand up, just as the branch cracked, too weak to no longer keep Bax up there. ax realized that she so badly wants to belong somewhere. She would love it here. It’s nice...quiet...with occasional excitement. She gave one last look at the portal, before looking down just as the branch broke, causing her stomach to plummet and her to fall. She felt fearful, she closed her eyes and...everything went black.

Spoiler Art:

https://bax-the-hooman.tumblr.com/post/186659204705/a-little-look-into-the-third-part-of-chapter-2

https://bax-the-hooman.tumblr.com/post/186641507185/baxtale-chapter-2part-1

[corruptedspacecore]

Why do I hate astrology?

Because I may have been born on July 13th, but the only thing that tells you is that I was born on July 13th.

Astrology is a precursor to astronomy, from a time before humans began to do modern science and apply skeptical thought to such beliefs. But astrology is not science, nor is it scientific, nor has it been scientifically demonstrated. It’s not a reliable way of making predictions, either. If you were a Capricorn but told me you were a Cancer, that would still tell me as much about you as the former would.

How would it even work? There’s no way Mars or Mercury could affect events in our lives. Our lives are made up of so many intertwining strands that it’s just absurd. Gravity certainly couldn’t be a part of it. Every object with mass has a gravitational pull, so how close Mars is at the time of your birth doesn’t matter, since the doctors holding you have more gravitational influence than Mars does. But even if there was some unseen or unknown force by which astrology could work, or if astrology is just using positions of cosmic bodies to predict things, which is generally what it’s presented as, there would still be ways to test it.

Once scientists started to test astrology, it wasn’t found to be a valid tool for figuring things about. Its predictions are no better than guessing or random chance. You can switch the signs for a horoscope, use any number of different horoscopes, and people will still think it applies to them. This experiment has been done countless times with the same results: The sign or horoscope mean and predict nothing. Yes, astrologers will throw around any number of studies that claim to support astrology, but even then, they’re either terribly done, or their results still leave much to be desired and prove nothing. It’s statistical noise.

Yeah, you’ll find plenty of people who say their horoscopes were accurate, but the plural of anecdote isn’t data. And while there may be some areas in which astrology would appear to be more correct, like relationships going bad while Mercury is in retrograde, correlation does not equal causation. Well, perhaps not so much causation in this case, but an incredibly unreliable attempt to predict things. So what if your horoscope predicted you;d find love or money today, then you got a date and found $20 on the ground? What about all those who didn’t find love or money? Astrology’s apparent success is nothing more than anecdotal confirmation bias and statistical gibberish.

Life on earth generally works in patterns. We do the same crap in July that we did the last one, the same crap in December that we did the last one. Some times of the year are better for relationships than others. More people probably get together around February, more people might break up around November or so. The planets and constellations also go about regular movements. If you say “hey Mercury’s in retrograde, and every time it is, relationships go bad,” that might seem like a workable idea. However, does that, therefore, mean it has anything to do with Mercury? More importantly, does it offer any sort of reliable predictable power?

The simple fact is, no, it doesn’t. No test has found it to. Even if it was found in some study or another that as much as 65% of “professional astrologers” were mostly correct in some predictions, that’s still a pitiful number. It doesn’t matter if the chance of that 65% was 1 in 10,000. It’s statistical noise, playing with numbers. Not to mention what other issues such studies may have. Never mind the fact that twins are often known to have very different lives.

Astrology is very Earth-focused, too. The constellations we project on the sky use stars strewn across space in 3 dimensions. If we went to another star, we’d see very different constellations. Considering that, if the positions of stars and planets relative to Earth predicts things, then what about how the stars look from other star systems, and the positions of their planets? Do the positions of the planets in the Trappist system predict our lives? What if we moved to that system? Would new star signs be needed? What if we went to a planet with 50 moons and 3 suns?

The mere idea that we can predict things via the positions of cosmic bodies is ridiculous, anyway. The sky isn’t permanent. The planets weren’t always there and won’t always be there. The moon’s moving away from the earth and used to be much closer. Earth’s rotation is slowing over time. Orbits can be destabilized. If a rogue planet at least as massive as Jupiter, or an object of near-stellar mass came barreling through, which could happen, it would throw a lot of things off.

The stars are moving, too. On timescales of millions of years, the constellations we know now will no longer exist. Some stars will blow up and no longer exist, some new ones will be formed. Moons may be obliterated in massive impacts. In 4-5 billion years, our sun will expand and engulf the Earth and inner planets, and seriously screw up the rest of the solar system. Does astrology predict that? Science does because it doesn’t just work on correlations.

For example, meteorology isn’t perfect, because the weather is chaotic, there are so many variables at play, but it works well enough for our needs. In fact, it works far better than astrology. We don’t say “a storm will happen this time because one happened last year when the sun and moon were in so and so position.” We use radar maps, reams of weather data, temperature, pressure, and humidity readings, and a slew of other tools and pieces of data to construct a picture of the current weather and run simulations to predict what might happen using decades of ever-improving science.

Some sciences are more precise. We’ve been able to use evolutionary theory to predict how micro-organisms will evolve. We use the theory of gravity to predict where the planets will be, where we need to point a spaceship to get it to a planet at a certain time, or what would happen if a black hole blasted through our neighborhood. Mathematics is the best field of science when it comes to predictability and the only one with absolute certainty. 2+2 always equals 4. But as far as astrology goes, its success rate is pitiful and on a level that makes it utterly useless. Nor is it needed.

If relationships tend to go bad in November, just say November’s ab ad time for relationships. Maybe even try to figure out why that is. There’s no need to mention Mercury being in retrograde. If people born during a certain month do go a certain way in a statistically significant number, try to find out why that actually is. Don’t just rely on the sun, moon, planets, or stars. And if you want to quantify your personality, consider a detailed about me page.

The world, the universe, is an immensely complicated and ever-changing place. The reasons that things happen, and the patterns in which they happen, are reliant on many factors that, if we could know all the numbers and paths, perhaps we could predict with a high degree of accuracy. But we don’t, and astrology sure as hell isn’t a good way to do it. It’s a tool, all right. A tool for people to make money, a gimmick in newspapers and magazines, an overly-simplified and often inaccurate means to quantify a personality.

When it comes to daily horoscopes, they’re just as inaccurate, and perhaps even a dangerous way to predict the events of a day. Did the horoscopes of the people in the upper floors of the World Trade Center on September 11th, 2001 predict that they’d be ground to nothing as the towers collapsed around them? Did the people at the Route 91 Harvest Festival get any hint from their October 1st, 2017 horoscope that a madman would rain bullets onto them from 32 floors up? If a horoscope doesn’t say something bad will happen, should we be complacent? If it says something romantic will happen, and something romantic does happen, does that mean the astrologer who wrote the horoscope was a genius?

So why do I hate astrology so much? I hate astrology because it’s such a terrible way to figure out the world. I hate it because it’s used as a way to determine who people should and should be with. I hate it because it’s relied on so heavily by so many to quantify their personality and predict their life when there’s no damn good reason for such a belief to be maintained. I hate it because it’s pseudoscience, new-age woo. I hate it because it obscures reality, because it oversimplifies things, because it covers up the true nature of the universe and how things work. I hate it because it’s so terribly limited. I hate it because it has the illusion of wonder, but lacks the substance of reality.

The fact is, astrology is ultimately a sham. It’s a holdover from the darker days of humanity when we didn’t understand all that much. And it’s potentially dangerous, as it suggests a sort of fatalism that could be deadly. In millennia past, astrology was used to control and bring down empires. People now use their horoscopes as a fun way to give them hope that they might finally get laid today, or not get hit by a bus. In either case, it’s useless. Live your life day by day. Figure out what will happen by actually looking at the world around you and what events may affect things. Look both ways, keep your guard up, always be ready for the good or bad in life. Don’t just look at the signs listed in someone’s about me, talk to them. Get to know people. Get to know yourself. Take the world for what it is, and don’t assume it, you, or your life can be predicted by a bank of text in a magazine written by a “professional astrologer.” Don’t let your life be guided by a set of traffic signals in the sky, because those signals aren’t very well-defined, they’re always changing, they weren’t always there, they won’t always be there, and assholes are constantly running the red lights.

[ourescapades]

The new reality or fiction: Contemporary photography

Created by: 

Angel Kyna Canazares 

Kevin Dela Cruz 

Jayhan Klassen 

Jaryelle Pilar 

Alterations are not allowed in press photography, but they are one of the tools used in contemporary art photography? Why?

According to the guidelines of ethics of photojournalism, editing pictures of any kind is not advised for journalistic purposes. ‘Accuracy is the moral imperative of journalists and news organizations, and should not be compromised, even by pressing deadlines of the 24-hour news cycle’ (Ethics Guidelines). For example, staging, re-enacting, or manipulating events, adding or removing content during photocapture or post-production would change the perception of events, thus influencing the intended audience one way or another. Keeping photographs' original form and state is an ethical responsibility for photojournalists to maintain their neutral position of truth and avoid manipulating the exact message that is shown in reliable news channels such as newspapers, television and serious social media platforms. However, in contemporary art photography, neither a photographer’s message nor the process has to follow the ethical guidelines that photojournalists have to adhere to. Because the purpose of photography in an artistic context, is to convey the vision of the artist. The message is open to interpretation and the audience is encouraged to develop various perceptions of it’s meaning, whether it is hidden or obvious. This artistic process of photographic artworks allows the photographer to have freedom in both the image capture and the post-production processes. This is encouraged and expected of the photographic artworks, as simple documentation of reality is deemed not sufficient enough any longer to give a photograph an artistic merit.

 What happened to the photography? Is this its future? By Cruz

When we compare the photos taken from Adams, Sommer, and Klett and Parke to Harrison, Muniz and Crewdson’s work they all have very different photographic styles. They have different preferences of how they like to take pictures for example. When you look at Adams, Sommer, and Klett’s photos, they portray realistic images by using the elements around them such as nature, landscape and the people in the image. Their photos have been barely touched up by any editing software or by altering it in the darkroom. This gives us the raw and realistic emotions when we see their images. When we look at these images through the lens of NPPA ethics they would pass as press photos due to the minimal use of either digital software or altering of the image in the dark room. 

On the other hand, Muniz, ParkeHarrison, and Crewdson all have a different approach when it comes to getting their audience’s attention. When they take photos of others they use properly placed objects or people, colour and lighting to turn their imaginations into reality. Looking at the images for the first time, we saw a different kind of creativity in the photos, compared to Sommer, Adams, Klett’s realistic photos. Muniz, ParkeHarrison, and Crewdson were more art photographers rather than press photographers due to the creative process that they follow as well as the alterations made in the photos. In our opinion, these future photographers want to be more creative and have more freedom when it comes to representation of their artistic vision. Art is all about expressing a vision and/or feeling whether it's utopic or real. The process or the medium of photography is altered to serve this vision and this appears to be the future. 

  Compare photographers of Sommer, Adams and Klett versus Parkeharrison, Muniz and Crewdson.

Mark Klett VS Shana & Robert Parkeharrison by Pilar

Mark Klett

Mark Klett is a famous American photographer. Through Klett’s photography, his form of style is linking cultures, landscapes and time. Some of his famous works are from the Grand Canyon where he and his former student Wolfe were able to recognize the accurate locations portrayed in Klett's geographic points from his original overview. His versions of the historic views are being inserted within the modern photographs that are built in a panorama. The reason behind this style or rather this creative idea of Klett is to highlight possible or multiple interpretations of a single scenery or rather the landscape. Most of his works are a mashup of different photographs inserted to an old picture that was taken years ago and new pictures that he took are being attached at the same place. “So much of what we know, and what we think we know, about the land has first passed through someone’s lens. The interesting thing is to make use of this history, not merely to be absorbed into it. For me, landscape photographs begin as the artifacts of personal moments. They get interesting when they become cultural commentary.” - Mark Klett “I am not much interested in discovering new territories to photographs. Instead, what I wish my pictures could do is lessen the distance one often feels when looking at landscape photographs… The longer I work, the more important it is to me to make photographs that tell my story as a participant, and not just an observer of the land.” - Mark Klett

North Rim by Mark Klett

Shana and Robert Parkeharrison

Shana and Robert Parkeharrison are a husband and wife team who have been taking photographs together for almost 20 years. Their style in photography focuses more on the relationship between humans, nature/environment and technology. In their photographs, they include a touch of painting techniques, for example, using a collage technique creates a cinematic story of the environment. Their creativity in their works is very unique due to the way they interpret and figure out how an audience would communicate with the image being shown. Moreover, they utilize multiple styles as some of their works have an effect of being very dramatic with dreamy qualities by the use of photogravures.

Nature Morte, 2015 by Shana and Robert Parkeharrison

Fredrick Sommer VS Vik Muniz by Canazares

Fredrick Sommer

Fredrick Sommer Adam was born in Angri, Italy but he was raised in Brazil. At first, he studied and focused more on landscape architecture. He was then introduced to using watercolours and that involves pen and ink where eventually led him to have his first exhibition of watercolours. His creativity then evolved where he experimented with photos using double exposure. His photographs are aesthetically pleasing landscapes that range from disorienting with macabre aspects of the natural world to surreal arrangements of found objects and pure abstractions.

Medallion, 1948 by Fredrick Sommer  

Vik Muniz

Vik Muniz is born in Sau Paulo Brazil. He was born and diagnosed with Dyslexia. Through his form of style in art photography, his creativity is very distinctive. Through his art he was able to recreate iconic, historical artworks from found materials like trash; a form of layered appropriation. Through all his works, Muniz’s art makes us question through illusion and perception. Muniz has said that he does not believe in originals, but rather believes in individuality. Indeed, in his photo manipulation and methodology, he truly creates signature works that repurpose and showcase themes in different lights for his viewers. He sees photography as having "freed painting from its responsibility to depict the world as fact." (Ollman, 2020).

“Things look like things, they are embedded in the transience of each other’s meaning; a thing looks like a thing, which looks like another thing, or another. This eternal ricocheting of meaning throughout the elemental proves representation to be natural and nature to be representational.”

- Vik Muniz

“Creation is something that represents a graspable portion of what we can observe but cannot understand. Creativity is how we cope with creation; it’s how we invent languages, motifs, and patterns to actually help us navigate in an otherwise really complex structure of events and situations. All we do is try to cope, ultimately. Creating opened ended structures, and ways in which you can approach or think about reality is the ultimate role of the artist. You have to be very dedicated to the concept of Realism.”

-        Vik Muniz

Sanora, 2014 by VIk Muniz

Gregory Crewdson VS Robert Adams by Klassen

Mobile Homes, Jefferson County, Colorado by Robert Adams

Production still (Clover Street  #2), 2005 by Gregory Crewdson Robert Adams

Robert Adams (1937) got into photography in his mid-twenties, primarily focusing on the changing architecture and landscape of the American West in the early 60s. This quote summarizes his observations of human altered landscapes and desire to photograph the rapidly changing architectural suburbs. Photography allowed him to engage in his love of outdoors while providing him a vehicle to contribute to society.  

‘I came back to Colorado to discover that it had become like California. . .. The places where I had worked, hunted, climbed, and run rivers were all being destroyed, and for me the desperate question was, how do I survive this? Edward Hopper’s paintings had already given me a clue, though I didn’t fully understand it.’ (Yale University Art Gallery) 

His work was informed by photographers like Lewis Hine, Edward Weston, Dorothea Lange, and Ansel Adams who merged their social concerns with their artistic vision in landscape photography.  As we can see in his pictures entitled Mobile Homes or Summer Nights Walking, he was interested in capturing the banal and the mundane in this new altered landscape without photographic alterations. This is also clear in his quote stating that ‘[w]hatever power there is in the urban pictures is bound to the closeness with which they skirt banality. For a shot to be good—suggestive of more than just what it is—it has to come perilously near being bad, just a view of stuff.’ (Yale University Art Gallery)

 From Summer Nights Walking, 1976-1982 by Robert Adams

Twilight (Beer Dream)  (1998) by Gregory Crewdson

Photo: courtesy Photology Gregory Crewdson

Gregory Crewdson (1962), much like Adams, is also interested in man-made or the natural American landscapes, although for a couple of decades after Adams in time period. However, unlike Adams, Crewdson is well known for staging elaborate and eerie shots of suburban people and homes just like in a movie scene. He was influenced by film makers such as Steven Spielberg, Diane Arbus, and Edward Hopper. He uses a crew just like in movie sets and works with a director of photography. He uses various stage lighting sources and strobes. Therefore, his photography looks more staged and makes people wonder whether they are looking at a photograph or a disturbing crime scene or a surreal image from a movie! He has an elaborate post production process to achieve these sensations in a viewer. 

‘It begins with him looking through contact sheets alongside a retoucher. Often his images are pieced together from multiple exposures. Even the retoucher remarks that it’s rare that he chooses the final image from one single exposure, it’s often more composites of multiple photographs all with unique elements that capture what he’s looking for’. (Wilson, J)

If we examine Adams’ Summer Night Walking, one can imagine him setting up his tripod and waiting to capture the suburban home under the perfect moonlight. The image is black and white and no editing is done. Crewdson in his Twilight (Beer Dream) shoots a similar suburban scene, however, we can tell from the lighting and the atmospheric effects that this is staged like a movie scene and there is nothing real about it. Also, the people he places in his photography implies that there is a narrative story to his photographs beyond what is visible on the still image just like in a movie script. Because of the photograph’s surreal quality, we know that this photograph is edited many times and has an extensive post-production process with colour/atmosphere alterations to achieve the drama in Crewdson’s artistic vision.

Will photography capture the reality or it will be only fictional?          

To determine whether a photograph will capture reality or will it be fictional depends on the context. For example, if an artist is using photography and inserting images or objects into another picture from his imagination just like in a painting, that would be fictional. They may partially capture reality but we, as the viewer, do not know that until we read more about the photograph in question. 

When capturing reality, we think the image has to be accurate and genuine.  The main purpose of taking a realistic picture of an object or people is to achieve art and the true representation of the content. Photographers such as Sommer, Adams, and Klett, their artistic style of photography emerges from the presentation of a real situation, site, building or landscape. Their photographs are viewed as very realistic and raw because of the lack of alterations after and showing the stark reality of the context. Sommer, Adams and Klett’s style in photography evolved from capturing what was out there; natural and man-made, something we see with our naked eye. Therefore, we think this photographic style and creativity are much more appealing than fictional photography because we can see the originality which then leads us to believe in what we see in the image. 

On the other hand, photographers such as ParkeHarrison, Muniz, and Crewdson took pictures that turned their imagination into reality, the medium giving them the freedom to turn whatever they imagined into a photograph. This is considered in our opinion fictional photography. For example, Crewdson’s fictional style expressed in photographs can be used for a movie ad, a book cover or to attract viewers in galleries who wonder what the photographer had in mind just like in a painting. 

Any photo could be real or fictional. However, in the strange times that we live in where we are bombarded by fake images and news every moment, the realistic photographic style stands out as a genuine art form that we can relate to without being deceived. 

 Bibliography

ArtNet Worldwide. (2020) Vik Muniz. Vik Muniz Biography – Vik Muniz on Artnet, Retrieved from www.artnet.com/artists/vik-muniz/biography.

Carovalbuena, |. (2015, March 31). The new reality or fiction: Contemporary Photography. Retrieved from https://carovalbuena.wordpress.com/2015/03/31/the-new-reality-or-fiction-contemporary-photography/

Ethics Guidelines (n.d.). Retrieved from https://caj.ca/ethics-guidelines

Foodlovecobyduane. (2018, November 28). The new reality or fiction: Contemporary photography. Retrieved from https://foodlovecobyduane.wordpress.com/2018/11/28/the-new-reality-or-fiction-contemporary-photography/

Frederick, and Frances Sommer. (2020) Frederick Sommer: Center for Creative Photography. Frederick Sommer | Center for Creative Photography. Retrieved from ccp.arizona.edu/artists/frederick-sommer.

Klett & Wolfe. (2020). Charting Canyon. Retrieved from https://www.klettandwolfe.com/images/ChartingCanyon%20brochure%20PAM.pdf

Knight, Chris. (2013). Amazing Surreal Work from Robert & Shana ParkeHarrison. Fstoppers. Retrieved from fstoppers.com/portraits/amazing-surreal-work-robert-shana-parkeharrison-4009.

Muniz, Vik. (2020). Vic Muniz. VikMuniz. Retrieved from vikmuniz.net/.

Musee. (2012, 13 June). Meet the Photographer: Vik Muniz. Musée Magazine, Musée Magazine, museemagazine.com/culture/art-2/features/meet-the-photographer-vik-muniz.

Parkeharrison, Robert & Shana. Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison. Artspace. Retrieved from www.artspace.com/artist/robert_and_shana_parkeharrison.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison. (2020) Artspace. Retrieved from www.artspace.com/artist/robert_and_shana_parkeharrison.

Sommer, Frederick. (2017). Frederick & Frances Sommer Foundation. Retrieved from www.fredericksommer.org/.

Wilson, J. (2016, December 15). An In-Depth Look at The Work of Photographer Gregory Crewdson. Retrieved from https://www.thephoblographer.com/2016/12/15/reserve-channel-takes-depth-look-work-gregory-crewdson/

Yale University Art Gallery. (1980). Robert Adams: The Place We Live: Yale University Art Gallery - Chronology (1962). Retrieved from http://media.artgallery.yale.edu/adams/chronology.php?y=1962

[sassysweetstories]

Look At Me

Request: “Can you write an imagine where reader is in love with Stiles but she doesn't know how to confess to him, and one day Stiles and her are attacked and hurt and she ends up bitten? But she doesn't become a werewolf, but a Kanima and she knows what it means and she's afraid of herself, she doesn't want to hurt anyone especially Stiles so she hides her condition to him and later they are attacked again and she transforms to protect them and Stiles sees her ??? Plzzzz 💕” 

Ship: Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader 

Warnings: fluff, angst, swearing, blood, lying, yelling, etc. 

Notes: Gifs are not mine. Credit to owners. 

Your P.O.V

God, damn it, (Y/n). You had one job in life. And you still managed to fuck it up. What do you mean? You may ask. Well, I’ll tell ya. My dumb-ass decided to go and fall in love the, Stiles Stilinski. Of all the people in the world, I had to go and fall for my best friend. And not only that, the one guy who will never look at anyone other than Lydia Fucking Martin. That girl, not being me. I wanted to tell him the truth, more than anything in the world. But how? How could I confess my undenying love to my best friend?? Number one: it was crazy. Number two: he didn’t even like me back. I could go on and on. But why waste my time though? 

I turn to see Stiles follow Lydia like a lost puppy. Man, she’s got him whipped. It makes me want to barf. I roll my eyes, scoffing before I head to class. The moment I sit down, Stiles sits next to me, smiling. No matter how hard I tired, I couldn’t be mad at him for long. Frusterated, always, but not mad. Not really. I return with a small smile. A smirk, actually. He shimmy’s his shoulders, laughing. We were brilliantly terrible when we were together. We were like the Fred and George of Beacon Hills, trust me. We were tricksters, tyrants. 

“What did you do this time?” Stiles ask, excitedly. I merely smirk. It was my turn to fofill a great prank. I leaned back, whispering into his ear. “Just sit back. Watch and learn what the queen can do.” I swear I saw him shiver. He leans back, eyeing the room with anticipation. Mr. Harrison, a teacher we both despise, walks in a few minutes later, eyeing us with suspicion. They stagger slightly on Stiles and I before moving past us as he made his way to his chair. Stiles leans forward for a closer look. His eyes go wide when he sees a whoopy cushion and the school microphone by it. 

On. The second. Mr. Harrison sits down, the fart sound irrupts throughout the halls and classroom. In no time, everyone is practically on the floor laughing their asses off. Especially Stiles. He had to cover his mouth to hold his snicker. Stiles hid his face in the crook of my neck, giggling. “You are brilliant.” His hot breath on my neck, sending shivers down my spine. When he pulls away, my breath hitches at the closeness of our faces. His muscly arm wrapped around the back of my seat. Both our smiles fade. In that moment, everything was still, calm. 

I was lost in his hazel brown eyes. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his dimples, his tousled brown hair and his dorky grin. However, Mr. Harrison’s voice tore me away from our moment. “I WILL FIND OUT WHO DID THIS AND THEY WILL BE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE!!” He rips apart the whoopy cushion like a drama queen before starting class. Though, even after the incident, I can feel Stiles’ gaze linger on me. Why? I lean forward, taking notes as my mind begun to wander with hope. Maybe he did like me? Or maybe, there was no point in hoping because his head was too far up his ass to see anyone else other than Lydia Martin. Later that night, I put my weapons in the back of Stiles’ jeep, sitting down next to him. He gripped the wheel tighter, rubbing his thumb against it in frustration. 

Stiles looks like he wants to say something but wasn’t sure how to word it. Finally, he talks lowly. “I wish you didn’t do this-” He continues. “Get involved, I mean.” I scoff, leaning back. “Why not?” He bites his lip, unsure of what to say. After a few minutes though, he spoke softly. Almost inaudible. “I don’t want you involved because I don’t want you to get hurt.. If I lost you- I’ll-” He pauses, but doesn’t continue, leaving me to fill the silence. But I don’t until we come to a stop. “You won’t lose me. C’mon, we’ve got work to do.” I say, reassuringly. 

We hop out of the car, Stiles more reluctant than I am. I cock my gun, sliding it into place as we walked through the school. All of a sudden, a loud roar came from down the hall. Scott. He’s hurt. I pull out my gun and bolt forward, not exactly in the right mindset. Stiles runs after me, calling my name. “(Y/N)! WAIT!” I don’t listen to him. As I turn the corner, I come face to face with the beast trying to choke Scott. I shoot on sight, with complete accuracy. Stiles wraps Scott’s arm around him, slipping him away form the commotion. I shoot the beast again, yelling at it, tauntingly. 

“C’MON!!” He brushes his feet against the cold tiles like a bull before barreling towards me. I run the opposite direction. I swear I could hear Stiles’ voice call out for me from behind. I ignore it, running as fast as humanly possible. My heart in my throat. I could feel my lungs burning up, screaming for some sort of release. Even though I was in unbelievable pain, I kept going. I continued to hear a small voice call out my name. Stiles’. My feet falter slightly, and before I know it, I’m thrown across the cafeteria. I hit the table with a loud thud, groaning in pain. And then I feel even more emulating at my side. 

I shoot the bastard in the head, clutching my wound as it fell to the ground, now lifeless. Glancing down at the blood, I can’t help but gasp. A bite mark. Shit. I peel myself off the floor, covering it up as best I could. After making my way out of the cafeteria, I see Scott and Stiles running towards me. Stiles wraps his massive hands around my face, full of concern as his eyes jump from different parts of my body. His voice was broken, scared. “(Y/n), are you hurt?! Don’t do that to me ever again! I thought I lost you!” He pulled me in close, hugging me before he pecked my head over and over again. My heart fluttered at his concern for me. But deep down, I couldn’t help but think, how was I going to tell him about my bite mark?

It took a lot of convincing, but I got Stiles to go home. The next day, I awoke feeling...different. The bite mark was gone, as if it had never happened. Though, it did. I got bit. And soon, I would change. Soon I’d have to tell the pack. That morning, I head to school, as usual. Stiles, not once, left my side. It was nice to have him worry about me. And, for once, his eyes weren’t on Lydia. They were on me. Though that was a selfish thought, I’m being honest. It was the best feeling in the world. But no matter how happy I was, the truth was inevitable. We sat down to have lunch. Stiles, for once today, was nowhere to be found. I started to get worried and then, seconds later, he shuffled in. 

I couldn’t help but sigh in relief. However, he did not look happy. In fact, he looked worried, terrified even. He sits down next to me, wrapping his hand around my waist to pull me closer to him, keeping his hand planted firmly on my hip. I blushed a little at the contact. However, the moment left almost immediately. “There was another killing last night.” The pack’s eyes widened in shock as he continued. “And no, the beast we killed last night is definitely dead. It’s something else-” My brows furrowed, deep in thought. If I was bitten, wouldn’t it take a few days until I shifted or felt anything truly different? I didn’t feel much different, just healed. 

Stiles continued, his grip tight on me, as if could slip through his fingers at any moment. “The guy was poisoned and then ripped apart. He was a murderer, good riddens, I guess.” Scott leaned forward, asking. “Do you know what did it?” Stiles pulled me closer to him, if that were possible, biting his lips. “It looked like a Kanima killing.” A Kanima? Like Jackson. I pondered to myself. I’m a werewolf, not a Kanima? I gulped, swallowing sharply as I glanced at my hands. The hands of a murderer. I killed someone.. But who was controlling me? A Kanima needs a master, right? How was I driven? I thought about it for hours. 

I didn’t have a connection with anyone. I was a loose canon, driven by my own blood-thirsty intentions. I took two showers, as if that helped wash away my sin. Though, deep down, I knew it was further rooted. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t wash it away. And then I thought of my friends, my family and... Stiles. The love of my life. How would he react if he saw me this way? My mind went into a spiral of dark thoughts. I looked at myself in the mirror, shaking. This can’t be happening. I try to maintain my breathing, scared. I was scared, petrified of myself. I was a monster. Oh my god. How was I going to tell the pack? How was I going to tell Stiles?! Fear washed through me like a tsunami. 

A few days had pasted since I found out about my...condition, three more deaths occurred. Two of which were not my doing. The third killing was me. Waking up covered in someone else’s blood is quite a sight to see at six in the morning. But the point being, there was another monster out there. After discussing about it, thoroughly, we decided to meet up at an abandoned building tonight. Later that night, I packed my bag, glancing down at my hands. Automatically, I jumped backwards, shocked to find them covered in blood. Though, mentally, I knew it was a facade, an illusion. But it felt so incredibly real. Hurriedly, I emptied the whole bottle of soap into my hands, scrubbing aggressively. 

Ever since I found out, I bought more perfume to mask my scent, washed my hands more, as if that helped.. I drove to the abandoned lot, heart practically in my throat. Stiles arrived a few minutes prior to me, staying close to my side. Scott went over the plan once more before breaking into our groups. Subconsciously, I watch over Stiles. But it seemed as though he was doing the same to me. Every few seconds, his gaze would wander over at me, sometimes lingering longer than it should. It made my heart ache. I needed to tell him the truth. However, the second I open my mouth, the beast we were hunting came tumbling through the door, knocking Scott and Isaac to the side. 

They hit the marble wall with a loud thud, groaning and cursing in pain. I flinch and wince at the sound, pulling Stiles behind me. We force each other back, wanting to protect one another. Derek and some of the others were eventually thrown to the side, as well. Weakly, they try to pry and peel themselves off of the ground. I push Stiles behind me, shooting it. I try to push the beast as far away from him as possible. However, the second I thought Scott put him down, I was proven wrong and thrown across the room. Stiles screamed louder than ever. “(Y/N)!!!! LEAVE HER ALONE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!!” I peer up with blurry eyes to see Stiles cornered by the beast. “GUYS?! SOMEONE?!! HELP?!” 

The love of my life was being cornered by a monster. I saw the fear in his eyes. The eyes I fell in love with. And in that moment, something in me changed. I didn’t have control over myself. And right now, that was a good thing. I began to change, shift into the creature I had become. Growling lowly as I scratched the cement for relief. Scott eyed me with suspicion. “(Y/n)?” My strength grew twice than before. I stood up, growling loudly. I sounded like a T-Rex, the beast turns its attention towards me because it was that pronounced. He growled back as I hissed on all fours. I couldn’t help but notice the look of betrayal on Stiles’ face. It broke my heart. But there was no time for that. Not now, anyway. 

I brought out my claws, hissing before I leaped forward to attack. Every time it tried to attack Stiles, I forced it back, clawing at the beast. We went back and forth, both landing solid hits on one another before I finally cornered it and attacked with the intention of killing. Using my numbing power, I hit him with it and watch him crumble. The beast groaned in pain. I stood over it, hissing before I lashed at him. He laid there in front of me, motionless. I shook my head, feeling rather lightheaded, all of a sudden. Kneeling, I wrap my hands around my head, crying out in pain. Shifting back was not a walk in the park. I grip the cement wall for support, perspiring profusely. 

And when things couldn’t get any worse, a small voice spoke up, directed at me. “(Y/n)?” It was Stiles’ voice, a broken and cracked one at that. Though he calls for me, I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see his judgment filled expression. But I turn my head, anyways. Regret following almost immediately after. I was quite use to Stiles’ facial expressions. But this- this was a new one. There was a mix of anger and sadness, a tint of disgust. I couldn’t hold his gaze. For it was too hard to hold. “Look at me.” He barked. I do, tears rolling down my face. Stiles eyes were dark, something I wasn’t accustomed to. His voice was low, intimidating. “When did this happen?” I hesitate, the packs gaze on me as I stood up. 

“A few days ago, when the beast a-attacked me. It bit me-” At the mention of the attack, Stiles winced. “I thought I was going to turn into a werewolf. And then you mentioned the Kanima killing...So, I did what Jackson did, retracing my steps as he did only to find out that-” I croak. “that I’m the monster you’re trying to hunt down. I-’I’m-” I can’t look at Stiles anymore. I don’t have the strength to. “I’m so sorry...” I manage to say coherently before falling to my knees. But before I hit the ground though, a large set of hands wrap around my waist, pulling me in close. I knew those hands. They were Stiles’. He ran his thumb up and down my the back of my neck, whispering words of comfort. “It’s okay. I promise. It’ll be alright. We will get through this. I’m not leaving you alone.” He kisses my head before muttering. “I love you, (Y/n) (Y/L/N). I will always love and take care of you.” I nuzzle myself deeper into him, crying openly. “I love you too, Stiles.” 

(I hope you liked it!!)

[liberallifeblog]

Your First Colonoscopy! What to Expect

Whee! Time for a Tube Up Your Tuchus!

image: wikimedia commons

By Crabby McSlacker So, some perspective here: for people with serious illnesses who've been through hardcore, painful, debilitating, invasive medical procedures? A colonoscopy is probably child's play. (Although let's be clear, that's just an expression. If your child actually plays this way? We need to talk). But for most people, there's at least a little trepidation. And for many, if statistics are to be believed, that fear is significant enough to skip the procedure entirely! Well sure, it could save your life and all, but really? Do you have to? There are actually some alternative colon cancer screening methods. But since I didn't get to use one of them myself, discussion of these will be brief, and possibly a little bitter. I've had a couple of  colonoscopies now. (And an additional bowel prep due to my hysterectomy.) My second colonoscopy was just a few days ago and the memories are still fresh. So I'm thinking it's time to share some info and observations and tips?  This is after all, a health blog, although with recent posts on tattoos and winter travel, it's easy to miss that part. Here's the thing: for some people the whole colonoscopy thing is a breeze. For a very few unlucky folks: it's horrible. For most people I know, myself included: the procedure and the prep are somewhere in the middle. Decidedly unpleasant but not intolerable. But being a whiner myself, I get tired of all those public-spirited accounts of the colonoscopy process that make it sound entirely innocuous in order to get you to go ahead and get yours. I'm not going to lie to you just to make sure you go do it. You need to and you will be really glad you did it! But it's not exactly fun. Here's at least one chronic complainer's take on what's involved. And for those of you who have already joined this exclusive club? I'll be curious if your experience was similar or if there are all kinds of different colonoscopy experiences. Warning: due to mature and disgusting subject matter, reader discretion is advised.

Why You Should Suck it Up and Get a Colonoscopy (or Other Screening Test)

According to the NIH, colon cancer is the second leading cause of cancer deaths in the United States. This blows me away, considering how slow-growing and preventable colon cancer generally is.  And while overall rates are going down because of better screening, rates in people under 50 are going up. Environmental toxins? Diet? Bad karma? Who knows, but it means that screening, and even early screening, are more important than ever.

What Are Some Alternatives to Colonoscopy to Screen for Colon Cancer?

Home Stool-Testing Options: These include FIT (fecal immunochemical test) and Colorguard. There are pretty obvious upsides to not having to prep your bowels, get doped up with sedatives, and have a stranger ram a scope up your butt to see what lurks inside. But the downsides include less accuracy, and a need for more frequent testing. Do you want to send in a smear of your poop to a lab every year? (Or, in the case of the pricier ColorGuard test, every three years?) On the other hand, if you are at low risk and would otherwise skip screening entirely, these are definitely worth looking into. Sigmoidoscopy: These are in many ways similar to a colonoscopy. You still have to do bowel prep, and there's a scope involved, but the doctors' don't look at nearly as much once they're up in there. This may mean less sedation is needed, but you have to wonder: what's the point of going through all that if they're only going to look at the left half of your colon? Virtual Colonoscopy: This alternative does not generally require sedation; an x-ray technician obtains images of your colon from outside your body, not from inside. Sounds great, right? But virtual colonoscopies still involve bowel prep, plus you have to swallow a contrast agent. You will still have a tube inserted where the sun don't shine, but not nearly as far up. It's there to inflate your bowels so they can get a better look. Fun times, right? There are others possibilities in the works too, stay tuned! Like camera pills and, even more exciting, blood tests for cancer that detect cancers in early stages anywhere in your body.

When it's Time for Your Colonoscopy

1. Carefully Pick Your Provider or Facility This may not be an option depending on your insurance or geography, but if it is... there does seem to be a difference in various facilities in terms both of expertise and patient-coddling. Some clinics are brusque and factory-like, others are extremely solicitous and try to make the experience as tolerable as possible. Ask friends who've been through it, talk to doctors, read reviews if you can find any. If you are high-maintenance like Crabby is, you will appreciate having expert doctors and kind nurses and assistants to hold your hand, listen to your concerns (however misguided or hysterical), and get reassurance that you that will indeed survive relatively unscathed. 2. Don't Blow Off  the Instructions, Read 'Em When You Get  'Em If you are freaked out about the whole thing, you may attempt to pretend it isn't happening. Totally understandable! Yet if in order to maintain this illusion you  avoid the literature you've been given? You will run into trouble. Sorry, you can't wait til the last minute to deal with the details, or you'll have to reschedule and probably pay a hefty cancellation fee. Some of the prep starts a week in advance, with certain foods (mainly nuts and seeds), medications, and supplements you need to avoid. Then a few days out there are even more prohibitions. There is also a prescription you'll have to fill, and lead-time can be essential on this one. My first bowel prep they RAN OUT of the Rx I wanted and I had to drink twice as much of an old-school kind because that was all they had. Also, while there are "generic" prep instructions like I'm giving here, each practitioner has their own take on it, so read what THEY send, don't rely on The Google. So steel yourself, make yourself read the damn thing when they send it, then mark your calendar or send yourself a reminder or whatever on the first date when you're supposed to start doing things differently.

Colonoscopy Prep

Part 1: The Part Where You Starve Yourself OK, technically you won't be starving. The "clear liquid" diet you have to be on the day before you go in will actually let you drink and eat a days worth of calories in the form of Seven Up and chicken broth and jello. (But not red or purple jello). A clear liquid diet is no fun. You can have coffee or tea (yay!) but can't put any milk in it. You will feel cranky and deprived no matter how much of that stuff you have. But here is an important tip: Get a few calories, even if they're stupid, pointless, ridiculous calories. If you are trying to lose weight or are otherwise mindful of calories or carbs, this may seem like an excellent opportunity to bank a lot of missed meals. You can't eat normal food anyway. And really, is Seven-Up any more satisfying than club soda or iced tea or a diet drink? Why not just have a no-sugar beverage instead? Nothing you're going to have under the "clear liquids" category, whether caloric or not, resembles actual food. So why not just hydrate and skip the sugar? Well, a little of this caloric deprivation is fine, especially if you are used to fasting. You will probably have a pretty low-cal day just because of the "no fun" aspect. But I discovered something interesting: Even though I occasionally do some intermittent fasting , and I'm totally used to functioning normally without calories for a day? Total fasting can be a really bad idea before a colonoscopy because you need a reasonably strong stomach for disgusting nature of the upcoming bowel prep. The combo of the laxative regimen below, combined with low blood sugar from fasting was, for me, pretty much a disaster, even though I was very conscientious about hydrating. So my advice: get at least half a days calories in you, even if they're of necessity mostly sugar. Part 2: Choke Down the Most Disgusting Fluid You Will Ever Consume in Your Life

Photo: Missy Meyer

There seem to be many variations in formulas. I've tried three: the first was the hilariously named GoLytely. Yep, I think that's pronounced "Go Lightly." Could anything be further from the truth? Don't kid yourself: you will not be "going lightly." I've also had "HalfLytely," which is a version of GoLytely that requires a smaller volume of fluid and, as I recall, some pills. Neither of these taste totally horrible, not that they're pleasant. But the texture is icky and the grossness factor builds exponentially as you force yourself to drink more and more of the liquid.  Of the two I'd go with the Half version. My third, and least favorite, was SuPrep. It required the least amount of dilution and the overall volume was the smallest. But the taste was horrific. The grapey faux-fruit overlay did not conceal the essential bitter, metallic and salty grossness it. It was a two step process, and for reasons I will bore you with below I would never, ever, ever, ever do that again. Part 3: Station Yourself Near the Toilet and Pray for Mercy (Sensitive readers: you may want to skip these next paragraphs). Again, the first two times were not so bad with the GoLytely variants. More fluid was involved in the ingestion process, so the clean-out was not painful, just extremely thorough. Sort of amazing and amusing really. But it was all over the day before the procedure, and I slept just fine the night before. This time, the SuPrep was a nightmare.  I took the first dose, as instructed, at 5 p.m. the night before my procedure, but it only worked little by little. By bedtime I was exhausted but I was terrified to sleep because it was still wreaking havoc on my innards, and I was petrified I'd soil the bed. (I managed not to, thank god). But I had to get up repeatedly during the night, and as of 5 a.m. the next morning, I was still running to the john from the first dose. And I still had one more dose to come. I briefly considered doing a swan dive out the third floor window instead, but then the whole torture of the first half of the prep would have been wasted and I don't know if 3 floors would even be fatal. The second dose made me feel so nauseated that I threw it all up an hour later, and I feared that my whole procedure would be cancelled because I still wasn't entirely, um, "cleansed." I was still using the restroom minutes before the procedure.

What Happens During Your Colonoscopy?

Sedation: You change into a hospital gown (I was allowed to keep my socks and bra on) and they stick you with an IV in your arm or on the back of your hand. Or in my case, they stick you and stick you and stick you and stick you. My veins are shy that way, initially defeating even the most veteran of nurses, but eventually they always manage to get in. At this point, patient accounts vary. Most people get conscious sedation, which is supposed to relax you, ease discomfort, and induce amnesia.  A few people are so resistant to the drugs they remember the whole thing, and some of these people report more than mild discomfort.  Yet I've read that most people don't experience much distress at all. But see the catch here? Personal accounts of an entirely painless procedure are inherently unreliable. Most patients have no clue because they don't remember!  And I suspect there's something of a health industry conspiracy to maintain the illusion that because you don't remember pain, there wasn't any. My first colonoscopy I definitely felt a sharp poke at the first bend and yelped. No memories after that. The second time? The last thing I remember was the request to roll over on my side. So I don't remember them snaking a tube up my colon but I'm confident they did. In fact, procedures were undertaken each time involving hot snares. I can't imagine I enjoyed these, but I was pretty doped up, so it's possible I didn't feel 'em much.  No way to know, right? Which creeps me out more than a little. Another tip:  tell the staff before they sedate you if you've had bad experiences in the past with nausea and vomiting following anesthesia. I have, so they added anti-nausea medication to the IV, and hallelujah, it worked! Not barfy at all afterwards.

After Your Colonoscopy

You have to have someone there to take you home, and don't make any big plans afterwards. My first time we'd scheduled dinner with friends and I was practically face down in my plate of tacos and we had to leave early to get me back to bed. Many people feel only a little groggy and are fairly functional afterwards. I am so NOT one of those people. I become a zombified lump of useless humanity with limited ability to speak or move, though my wife claims I am quite adorable in this state. All I can do is sleep. Possibly this is because the staff know a high-maintenance whiner when they see one coming and they dope me up accordingly. This time I was even more out of it than before, and it became quickly apparent when I tried to leave that I needed a wheelchair to get to the car. Once home, my patient wife got me to bed and I went straight to sleep in my clothes and slept all afternoon. I woke up for a couple hours, ate, and went back to bed and slept like a dead person through the whole night. But the next morning... It was over and I felt great. I was Queen of the World! This is a cool thing about a colonoscopy.  You survive it, and it's like a rite of passage. Even more than that stupid AARP card you get in the mail, your post-colonoscopy status qualifies for full membership in the Sensible and Responsible Middle-Aged Person Club. And let's stop apologizing for that, ok? We Responsible Middle-Aged People rock and we are setting ourselves up to be healthy, vital, and Bad-Ass Old People. We should all have wild tribal post-colonoscopy ceremonies or something a few days after the procedure. What do you say, maybe we do some jello tequila shooters and play our old Rolling Stone albums at full volume and sing and dance and howl at the moon? Well, as long as moonrise is early enough than we can be in bed by nine p.m.

What If They Find Something?

This will be the subject for a future post, since I'm one of those people who Has Things to Find. I'm still awaiting pathology results, but I can say this much: Don't panic! It's the people who have these things and don't know about them who are in trouble, not you. I'm thinking maybe I'll follow up later with a post about polyps, diverticulosis and hemorrhoids since I am lucky enough to host these. I'm sure all you readers can't wait to read about these and all the other fascinating aspects of colon health that we could discuss! Or, um, maybe not. Do you dread your first colonoscopy or have you already survived it? Any other medical procedures or tests that strike fear in your heart? Your First Colonoscopy! What to Expect posted first on http://ift.tt/2kDxLY4

[sasukeuchiha-eternalmangekyou]

Sureen limited herself to letting him talk - sensing that this wasn't something Sasuke had ever really put into words before. Her eyes remained trained to the ground, focusing the iridescent dewdrops which were adorning the blades of grass like pearls.

And while Sasuke was slowly cleaving a way through the muddled, convoluted memories and emotions connected with his brother, Sureen didn't dare interrupt him, afraid it would make him lose his thread. "I'm sorry I made you go back there," she eventually stepped in. "I-I know it… it hurts, to put it nicely. Reliving the same situation over and over, I mean. But then again… I think there's no way to deal with it that would NOT hurt. But - huh?! Oh… oops~"

Sureen suddenly paused, feeling something move right next to her. Her eyes widened in shock as she noticed that she must have placed her hand on Sasuke's arm at some point. She could only guess how long she'd been like that when the other deliberately pulled back from her touch. So she hurried to pull her hand back as well, bashfully looking the other way and crossing both arms in front of her chest. As the moment of shock slowly subsided, Sureen continued, albeit with a low voice, little more than a whisper. "B-but you know… it needs to hurt. It's allowed to hurt. It's a thing that needs time and space… and a way to get out of your system, 'cause otherwise it's nothing but an endless, self-destructive circle. But once you find methods to interrupt the circle for a bit… sooner or later it becomes less unbearable and less… less hopeless. Like its impact begins to shrink, like… like there's land in sight. Well, or maybe that's just me, maybe it wouldn't work like that for anyone else.

"Either way, it really takes a LOT of time and space though. And simultaneously, it takes you to the very edge of your resilience and even beyond. I'm not sure if anyone could actually just hang in there and wait it out until it begins to get bearable. But I know it's definitely not something anyone could do alone. And I know that it's… very obvious and very human… to try and find different, more familiar ways to stop the pain. Like trying to kill yourself or kill everyone responsible, you know." A brief sarcastic chuckle escaped her, and she couldn't help but cast the ninja a telling glance.   "I guess it's boiling down to who we really are, indeed. But after all, my plan to stop the pain like that didn't work… so I ended up with the 'wait it out' version. Involuntarily. Nevertheless I managed to hang in there long enough to get over the worst bit. But that was because… at that point I wasn't alone anymore, I guess." As Sasuke took another break after telling her that his life had taught him happiness was simply out of reach for him, yet he couldn't stop wondering whether his chosen route was worth giving up everything else, Sureen took her chance to reply once more. "Yeah… happiness is a rather fragile, unpredictable thing. But at least those moments when you question everything… as painful as they may be… but at least they prove that you're not just darkness and hatred and revenge. Your real self is way more than that. You know that, right?" Again, she turned towards him and placed her hand on his arm - the former with more assertiveness, the latter on purpose now. This time it was Sasuke who looked the other way. "Well… at least I know. And the good thing is - trust me, your real self is pretty indestructible." With every word, her voice gained enthusiasm. Her hands started gesturing, and her eyes began to shine as she sensed the opportunity to finally let him know what she'd felt ever since their first encounter.

"Which means this is not a one-way-ticket! You can commit yourself to your chosen path all you want, with all your determination, with everything you've got, but your real self still won't vanish. It will hide in the farthest corner so you can't see it anymore, but in fact, it's - ugh. Yeah. Whatever. You don't want to hear a single word I'm saying, right," she suddenly cut herself off and dropped her hands as the waves of Sasuke's disagreement hit her.

"Sorry. I… I wasn't trying to talk you out of it or anything," she explained sheepishly, realizing she'd stepped on dangerous ground. If he wouldn't tolerate one thing it was people trying to convince him how "misguided" he was. "It's just… it's what I see whenever I look at you. That there's more to you," she added, her voice once again reduced to a whisper. He didn't reply. Instead, he started talking about Sureen, about her secret ability that wasn't so secret anymore by now. "Sometimes I think the only burden about it is that it's never mutual. That I'm the only one. I'm wondering if the world would actually be a better place… if everyone had that ability. Or, like, perhaps not a better place, but definitely a more honest one. With less lies, less misunderstandings. Deeper connections. More insight. Well… anyway. Not like we'll ever find out, huh…" she mused, shrugging her shoulders. "Um... but regarding my decision to either stay or leave. I thought about it a lot while I was on my way here, considering all the rumors I'd heard about you." With a sigh, Sureen brought herself back to the here and now, reluctant to disclose the truth.

"I… I can't stay. The obvious explanation would be - I'm not a ninja, I don't have any skills that would be useful for your mission, that could contribute to its implementation. But, in fact, I can't because… as much as your plans serve to save your sanity, Sasuke… they'd sure as hell make me lose mine. "Although it's almost 10 years by now - that they died, I mean - the last thing I could ever do in my life is... t-to help somebody destroy a village. N-no way. Just… no."

The torrent of wind twisted its invisible sway into the miles of forest beyond the coast, winding a misguided lurch of energy into the foliage before dying down. The sea breeze was less forgiving, hauling the spray of salt into the air. Waves silently crashed onto the sand, an almost motionless action as it disappeared into an engulfing abyss, only to be thrown forward once more.

“Space is what I initially needed, but all it made me realize was the cycle of repeat my left was circling me with back when I was in Konoha. Every day felt inclined to bring more sadness into my already unbearable anger I felt towards Itachi. But all those emotions existed due to a lie, the depths of an unfathomable reality I almost wish wasn’t real. He purposely gave me an outlet when I really only needed…” He paused, feeling his grief become heavier, aggressively pushing down on his chest with an intolerable amount of pain. “I needed him. Not this. I never asked for revenge. It’s what I decided to survive. Otherwise I would’ve given up a long time ago. Falling into sorrow is easier than holding onto a piece of choice. It took more out of me than most cared to realize.”

Sasuke nodded when reaching her glance, her eyes forever searching, always siphoning against any will of her own. He knew only what Sureen expressed in word pertaining to her past and it wasn’t too dissimilar to his own. But even a fragment of change can cause an avalanche of lost comprehension. No amount of strained voices could convince him understanding was a two way street. It lacked substance and accuracy when on the outside.

“Familiarity is a form of defense I’ll gladly take to my grave. Waiting for pain to subside or diminish may work for some, even be the only possibility, and in a way it’s a method of surrender when you can’t take anymore. At the same time, it’s not a weakness if it helps. In your case, it seemingly did. It must have taken a resilient amount of strength, but you’re standing outside the shadow of your past. I can clearly see that. Even if it manages to haunt you, it doesn’t define you. Unfortunately, I haven’t reached such an inward conclusion when weighing my vengeance. The complication leads to more contradiction if I cross my goals with my brother’s objective in all this. But I’m not like him. Our worlds were entirely different, unalike in many unforeseen ways.”

He allowed her arm to remain the second time, since she seemed to be finding her voice rather than stumbling through words of indecision to ease him. Her whispered tone, one carefully placed in order to create an unhostile conversation was an effective one. It maintained a calm most refused to use when pounding their ideology into his refutes.

“Happiness can be an illusion set in the mold of any structured lie. As I’ve said, I used to believe in it. My real self might reach beyond the border of darkness, but my mind isn’t as easily swayed as my heart,” he continued when she finished. “Regardless of all those memories or what I was told to be reality, it’s still there, dodging the light. My demons aren’t fully known to lack cruel reminders.”

It might be broken or flawed but his moral compass never held much virtue. When he was a child, striving in the simplicity of a happy life with family, he never anticipated the question of morality. He was too young to think outside the realm of discovery, of proving himself, and even of what the future could hold. But those confines soon shattered, revealing a cold mirror of reflective despair.

Sasuke exhaled, eyes being drawn back. “I know you weren’t trying to talk me out of anything. Trust me, I’ve listened to my fair share from people who try and continue to do so. But unlike you, they don’t comprehend the distance factor when it comes to aiming to locate a sense of clarity, whether I find a negative or positive one. All they want is to return me to a place where I no longer belong.”

It was hard to believe there was anything more to a shallow, soulless being such as himself. The darkness took its fair share of humanity from him. He willingly held tightly onto his reasons, but nothing beyond them. Sasuke’s love and devotion towards Itachi was buried under what he believed to be true. As it was gradually brought back to the surface, it stung.

“If everyone had your ability I think it’d be rather chaotic,” he added with a shrug. “If you consider the scope of your abilities, connections and insight are sure to be given, but in return no one would feel free to their secrets or able to maintain a stable way of growth, fight their inner struggles. Not everyone needs a guiding hand or someone else to pull them through self-discovery. But I can understand. You’re different and that makes it lonely.”

Starved of affection and closeness, what most define as care, it’s the price of being unique. It’s not asked for and doesn’t equate to the trail of living, but it’s there all the same. Being an Uchiha, he’s known the aspect of being overlooked as well as having all eyes preying on his movements.

Sasuke exhaled, the need of distraction tugging at the seams of his mind. It unraveled with precision, ribbons of agony scattered and discarded from the prior night of discussion. In the wake of a new dawn, the particulars could be looked at more clearly, with less aggravation swimming through his veins. He was set. Nothing could alter his decision.

“I expected your answer. I wouldn’t want to drag anyone down with me that wasn’t willing. I still have Taka on my side and they agreed to help me regardless of my shifting objective. I wouldn’t want you to lose your sanity over something so trivial as my own.”