#the billionaire brain wave accelerator

[the-manifestation-diary]

What Exactly Is The Billionaire Brain Wave? Know More About The Benefits Of The Billionaire brain Wave!

To Know More: https://thebillionairebrainwavess.com/ (Access the Official Website Here!)

The Billionaire Brain Wave stands out as a sought-after digital program designed to unlock the potential for wealth and success using the Hippocampus effect.

Billionaire Brain Wave is a manifestation program praised for its ability to turn dreams into tangible realities. This unique protocol features an audio track infused with specialized frequencies, strategically targeting optimal hippocampal activity and amplifying theta waves.

According to experts, these waves aid in attracting abundance into one’s life, a claim supported by numerous positive reviews. Stay tuned as we delve deeper into the intricacies of Billionaire Brain Wave in the subsequent sections.

The Billionaire Brain Wave program consists of a 7-minute routine that has received validation from four neuroscience laboratories. Through the utilization of theta brain waves, individuals purportedly have the ability to attract money and wealth from various sources.

Benefits of The Billionaire Brain Wave

The program enhances your ability to attract wealth: The key advantage of Billionaire Brain Wave lies in its capacity to enhance your manifestation skills and the law of attraction. This enhancement enables you to draw abundance and prosperity into your life, fostering financial success.

It unleashes your full potential and capabilities: The Billionaire Brain Wave has the capacity to unlock your maximum potential and capabilities. One primary factor that often restricts or limits your potential is the dominance of the beta brain wave. The program’s sound frequencies prevent the beta brain wave from remaining dormant, thereby assisting you in reaching your full potential.

The Billionaire Brain Wave digital program enhances your creativity: In addition to aiding in wealth attainment, the Billionaire Brain Wave system also enhances creativity. The theta brain wave has the potential to boost creativity and accelerate the learning process.

It helps in preventing age-related cognitive decline: Engaging with the Billionaire Brain Wave audiotrack can support brain function, potentially limiting age-related cognitive decline. The sound frequencies in the audio program may also enhance mental function.

Billionaire Brain Wave aids in maintaining motivation and vitality: By mitigating negative emotions and fostering a positive energy flow, Billionaire Brain Wave contributes to increased motivation and activity levels, eliminating feelings of lethargy.

Incorporating The Billionaire Brain Wave Program into your spiritual practices offers numerous advantages. You’ll develop a deeper connection to the divine, experience greater tranquility, and receive clearer guidance. Alongside holistic healing, your capacity to manifest your aspirations will enhance, strengthening your faith. Embracing this practice also fosters a heightened sense of gratitude.

#Thebillionairebrainwaveprogram #thebillionairesclub #thebillionairebrainwavereview #thebillionairebrainwaveproduct #billionairewave #billionairemindset

[the-manifest-world]

What Exactly Is The Billionaire Brain Wave? Know More About The Benefits Of The Billionaire brain Wave!

To Know More: https://thebillionairebrainwavess.com/ (Access the Official Website Here!)

The Billionaire Brain Wave stands out as a sought-after digital program designed to unlock the potential for wealth and success using the Hippocampus effect.

Billionaire Brain Wave is a manifestation program praised for its ability to turn dreams into tangible realities. This unique protocol features an audio track infused with specialized frequencies, strategically targeting optimal hippocampal activity and amplifying theta waves.

According to experts, these waves aid in attracting abundance into one’s life, a claim supported by numerous positive reviews. Stay tuned as we delve deeper into the intricacies of Billionaire Brain Wave in the subsequent sections.

The Billionaire Brain Wave program consists of a 7-minute routine that has received validation from four neuroscience laboratories. Through the utilization of theta brain waves, individuals purportedly have the ability to attract money and wealth from various sources.

Benefits of The Billionaire Brain Wave

The program enhances your ability to attract wealth: The key advantage of Billionaire Brain Wave lies in its capacity to enhance your manifestation skills and the law of attraction. This enhancement enables you to draw abundance and prosperity into your life, fostering financial success.

It unleashes your full potential and capabilities: The Billionaire Brain Wave has the capacity to unlock your maximum potential and capabilities. One primary factor that often restricts or limits your potential is the dominance of the beta brain wave. The program’s sound frequencies prevent the beta brain wave from remaining dormant, thereby assisting you in reaching your full potential.

The Billionaire Brain Wave digital program enhances your creativity: In addition to aiding in wealth attainment, the Billionaire Brain Wave system also enhances creativity. The theta brain wave has the potential to boost creativity and accelerate the learning process.

It helps in preventing age-related cognitive decline: Engaging with the Billionaire Brain Wave audiotrack can support brain function, potentially limiting age-related cognitive decline. The sound frequencies in the audio program may also enhance mental function.

Billionaire Brain Wave aids in maintaining motivation and vitality: By mitigating negative emotions and fostering a positive energy flow, Billionaire Brain Wave contributes to increased motivation and activity levels, eliminating feelings of lethargy.

Incorporating The Billionaire Brain Wave Program into your spiritual practices offers numerous advantages. You’ll develop a deeper connection to the divine, experience greater tranquility, and receive clearer guidance. Alongside holistic healing, your capacity to manifest your aspirations will enhance, strengthening your faith. Embracing this practice also fosters a heightened sense of gratitude.

#Thebillionairebrainwaveprogram #thebillionairesclub #thebillionairebrainwavereview #thebillionairebrainwaveproduct #billionairewave #billionairemindset

[product55]

Billionaire Brain Wave: Reprogramming My Mindset for Success

Billionaire Brain Wave: Reprogramming My Mindset for Success

I recently invested in the "Billionaire Brain Wave" VSL (Video Sales Letter) program, created by an anonymous 8-figure marketer. Skeptical at first, like many with downloadable courses, I was surprised by the depth of content and practical strategies offered. Here's why I believe Billionaire Brain Wave can be a game-changer for anyone looking to achieve financial abundance and personal fulfillment.

Learning from the Masters: Unveiling the Millionaire Mindset

The program delves into the psychology of success. By examining the habits and thought processes of billionaires, Billionaire Brain Wave sheds light on the "millionaire mindset." This wasn't just theoretical; the VSL provided actionable steps to cultivate the same unwavering belief system and growth-oriented approach that successful individuals possess.

From Inspiration to Action: A Roadmap to Wealth Creation

What truly impressed me was the program's focus on actionable strategies. Billionaire Brain Wave goes beyond simply motivating you to get rich. It equips you with a proven roadmap for building wealth. The 8-figure marketer behind the program shares their personal experiences and battle-tested techniques, making the content relatable and immediately applicable.

Building a Support System: The Power of Community

One aspect that surprised me positively was the emphasis on community. Billionaire Brain Wave offers access to a supportive online community of like-minded individuals. This network provides invaluable encouragement and fosters a sense of camaraderie on your journey to success. Sharing experiences and brainstorming ideas with others striving for similar goals proved to be a powerful motivator.

Beyond Financial Gain: Achieving Well-Rounded Success

The program acknowledges that true success extends beyond just accumulating wealth. Billionaire Brain Wave emphasizes the importance of personal fulfillment and achieving a healthy work-life balance. It offers strategies for managing time effectively and prioritizing well-being alongside financial goals.

A Rewarding Investment: A Stepping Stone to My Dreams

Overall, Billionaire Brain Wave has been a rewarding investment. The combination of insightful content, practical techniques, a supportive community, and a focus on holistic success has equipped me with the tools and mindset shift I needed. While I'm still on my journey, the program has undoubtedly accelerated my progress towards achieving my financial and personal goals. If you're serious about taking control of your future and building the life you deserve, I highly recommend Billionaire Brain Wave.

[healthcare75]

Elevate Your Mindset with Billionaire Brain Wave: Unleash Your Full Potential

Introduction:

In my quest for personal and professional growth, I stumbled upon Billionaire Brain Wave with eager anticipation. This groundbreaking product, created by an 8-figure marketer, promised to revolutionize the way I think and unlock my full potential. From the moment I began exploring its offerings, I knew I was embarking on a transformative journey towards success and abundance.

Cutting-Edge Brainwave Technology:

Billionaire Brain Wave employs cutting-edge brainwave technology to reprogram the subconscious mind for success. Through a series of audiovisual stimuli, this product stimulates specific brainwave frequencies associated with heightened focus, creativity, and productivity. By entraining the mind to operate at optimal levels, Billionaire Brain Wave facilitates the manifestation of desired outcomes and accelerates the path to success.

Harnessing the Power of Neuroplasticity:

At the heart of Billionaire Brain Wave lies the principle of neuroplasticity—the brain's remarkable ability to reorganize and adapt in response to new experiences. Through repeated exposure to empowering messages and positive affirmations, this product reshapes neural pathways, replacing limiting beliefs with empowering ones. As a result, users experience a profound shift in mindset, paving the way for greater confidence, resilience, and success.

Unlocking the Secrets of the Ultra-Wealthy:

What sets Billionaire Brain Wave apart is its unique insight into the mindset of the ultra-wealthy. Drawing upon the strategies and techniques employed by successful entrepreneurs and visionaries, this product provides invaluable guidance on wealth creation, abundance mindset, and financial freedom. By immersing oneself in the wisdom of billionaires, users gain access to a wealth of knowledge and inspiration that propels them towards their own financial goals.

Personalised Coaching and Support:

In addition to its audiovisual content, Billionaire Brain Wave offers personalized coaching and support to help users maximize their results. Through one-on-one sessions with experienced mentors and access to exclusive communities, users receive guidance, accountability, and encouragement every step of the way. This hands-on approach ensures that individuals have the support they need to overcome obstacles, stay motivated, and achieve their aspirations.

Empowering Mindset Shifts:

The true power of Billionaire Brain Wave lies in its ability to instigate profound mindset shifts that transcend limitations and unlock untapped potential. By rewiring the subconscious mind for success, this product empowers individuals to break free from self-imposed barriers and embrace a mindset of abundance, opportunity, and limitless possibility. As a result, users experience greater clarity, purpose, and fulfillment in all areas of life.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, Billionaire Brain Wave stands as a beacon of hope for those seeking to elevate their mindset and transform their lives. With its cutting-edge technology, expert insights, and personalized support, this product offers a comprehensive solution for unlocking one's full potential and achieving unprecedented success. If you're ready to break free from mediocrity and step into the realm of greatness, Billionaire Brain Wave is your ticket to a brighter future. Trust me, you won't regret it.

[byte-by-byte-go]

Billionaire Brain Wave - Unleashing the Power of the Mind

In a digital age where success often hinges on innovation and adaptability, the ability to harness the full potential of one's mind becomes paramount. Enter "Billionaire Brain Wave," the latest offering from a seasoned 8-figure marketer. Promising to unlock the secrets to achieving unparalleled success through the power of the mind, this brand new VSL (Video Sales Letter) has garnered significant attention within entrepreneurial circles. In this comprehensive review, we delve into its features, benefits, and effectiveness in transforming the way individuals approach success.

Key Benefits:

Unlock Your Full Potential: Tap into the limitless capabilities of your mind and unleash your true potential for success.

Achieve Peak Performance: Experience heightened levels of focus, productivity, and efficiency to propel you towards your goals.

Enhanced Decision Making: Sharpen your decision-making skills and gain clarity in even the most complex situations.

Master Mindset Mastery: Cultivate the mindset of a billionaire and adopt the habits and strategies of the ultra-successful.

Overcome Limiting Beliefs: Break free from self-imposed limitations and embrace a mindset of abundance and possibility.

Boost Confidence and Resilience: Develop unwavering confidence and resilience to navigate challenges and setbacks with ease.

Accelerate Wealth Creation: Implement proven strategies to accelerate your journey towards financial abundance and prosperity.

Transform Your Life: Experience profound personal and professional transformation as you align your thoughts and actions with success.

Features:

Expert Insights: Benefit from the wisdom and expertise of a seasoned 8-figure marketer who shares invaluable insights and strategies.

Engaging Content: Captivating visuals, compelling storytelling, and dynamic presentation make for an engaging and immersive viewing experience.

Actionable Techniques: Practical exercises and actionable techniques empower viewers to immediately apply concepts and see tangible results.

Comprehensive Framework: A comprehensive framework covers various aspects of mindset mastery, wealth creation, and personal development.

Accessible Anytime, Anywhere: Enjoy the convenience of accessing the VSL anytime, anywhere, allowing for flexibility in learning and implementation.

Community Support: Access to a community of like-minded individuals provides support, accountability, and encouragement on your journey to success.

Effectiveness:

The effectiveness of Billionaire Brain Wave lies in its ability to bridge the gap between mindset and action. By combining powerful insights with practical techniques, it equips individuals with the tools they need to transform their thoughts into tangible results. The VSL serves as a catalyst for personal and professional growth, guiding viewers towards a mindset of abundance, resilience, and success.

One of the standout features of Billionaire Brain Wave is its emphasis on actionable strategies. Rather than simply imparting theoretical knowledge, the VSL provides viewers with practical exercises and techniques that they can immediately implement in their daily lives. Whether it's cultivating a success-oriented mindset, optimizing productivity and focus, or accelerating wealth creation, each concept is accompanied by actionable steps that empower individuals to take control of their destiny.

Moreover, the comprehensive nature of Billionaire Brain Wave ensures that no aspect of success is overlooked. From mindset mastery to wealth creation strategies, the VSL covers a wide range of topics essential for achieving success in today's competitive landscape. Whether you're an aspiring entrepreneur, a seasoned business owner, or simply someone looking to unlock their full potential, Billionaire Brain Wave offers something of value for everyone.

The engaging and dynamic presentation of the content further enhances its effectiveness. Through captivating visuals, real-life examples, and compelling storytelling, the VSL keeps viewers engaged and motivated throughout their journey. This not only facilitates learning but also reinforces key concepts, making them more likely to be retained and applied in the real world.

In addition to the content itself, the support and community aspect of Billionaire Brain Wave cannot be overstated. Access to a community of like-minded individuals provides valuable support, accountability, and encouragement, further amplifying the impact of the VSL. Whether it's sharing successes, seeking advice, or overcoming challenges, the community serves as a valuable resource for individuals committed to achieving their goals.

[vampedemotions]

Billionaire Brain Wave Program

Watch Billionaire Brainwave Program

The Billionaire Brain Wave program is presented as a digital platform aimed at personal development and wealth manifestation through the manipulation of brain waves, particularly theta waves. The program involves listening to specific audio files designed to stimulate theta brain wave activity, which is associated with creativity, relaxation, and success. According to research, these sound waves, revered by various cultures and historical figures, can influence gene expression and brain function, potentially leading to increased abundance and prosperity.

The program is structured around a 7-minute audio track that users are encouraged to listen to daily. This track is said to enhance creativity, improve memory, accelerate goal achievement, and even alleviate physical issues like knee pain. The program's approach is grounded in the belief that activating the hippocampus through these theta-based sound frequencies can lead to significant life improvements, including wealth accumulation and enhanced cognitive abilities.

[the-manifestation-diary]

The Billionaire Brain Wave | The THETA WAVES | Benefits of The Billionaire Brain Wave

To Know More: https://thebillionairebrainwavess.com/

The Billionaire Brain Wave stands out as a sought-after digital program designed to unlock the potential for wealth and success using the Hippocampus effect.

The Power of Theta Waves — How Does The Billionaire Brain Wave Works?

The concept of the Billionaire Brain Wave may appear mysterious or intriguing at first glance. However, with advancements in neuroscience and our growing understanding of brain waves, we now have the knowledge to utilize the mind’s potential to manifest abundance and happiness in our lives.

Central to this concept is the profound impact of Theta brain wave frequency on cognitive abilities, serving as a crucial element in achieving our aspirations and goals.

To comprehend theta brain waves, it’s necessary to explore the electrical activity within the brain. Different mental states and activities are associated with specific frequency ranges for theta waves.

Theta waves, ranging between 4 and 8 hertz, dominate during periods of deep relaxation, meditation, and sleep. It’s during these phases that our brain unleashes its creativity, bringing to life dreams that were once only imaginable.

These theta brain waves act as a gateway to our subconscious mind, where deep-seated beliefs, emotions, and patterns, whether inhibiting or propelling, reside.

By bypassing the critical judgments of the conscious mind and accessing subconscious plans directly, the chances of success and happiness are heightened.

The effectiveness of the Billionaire Brain Wave program lies in its meticulously crafted sound frequencies, which induce a theta brainwave state in listeners.

The frequencies are precisely adjusted to focus on the hippocampus, a crucial brain area responsible for learning, memory retention, and spatial navigation.

By stimulating this region with the Billionaire Brain Wave, it triggers brain rewiring, fostering an environment conducive to success and accumulating wealth.

Within the theta brainwave state, intuition, creativity, and problem-solving skills flourish. This state can unlock opportunities aligned with our goals, and regular exposure to the Billionaire Brain Wave program speeds up goal achievement while enhancing financial prosperity.

Based on brainwave synchronization principles, the Billionaire Brain Wave program utilizes external stimuli like sound or light pulses to synchronize electrical brain activity.

By leveraging theta brain waves, the Billionaire Brain Wave program aims to create a path towards success, prosperity, and fulfillment.

Benefits of The Billionaire Brain Wave

The program enhances your ability to attract wealth: The key advantage of Billionaire Brain Wave lies in its capacity to enhance your manifestation skills and the law of attraction. This enhancement enables you to draw abundance and prosperity into your life, fostering financial success.

It unleashes your full potential and capabilities: The Billionaire Brain Wave has the capacity to unlock your maximum potential and capabilities. One primary factor that often restricts or limits your potential is the dominance of the beta brain wave. The program’s sound frequencies prevent the beta brain wave from remaining dormant, thereby assisting you in reaching your full potential.

The Billionaire Brain Wave digital program enhances your creativity: In addition to aiding in wealth attainment, the Billionaire Brain Wave system also enhances creativity. The theta brain wave has the potential to boost creativity and accelerate the learning process.

It helps in preventing age-related cognitive decline: Engaging with the Billionaire Brain Wave audiotrack can support brain function, potentially limiting age-related cognitive decline. The sound frequencies in the audio program may also enhance mental function.

Billionaire Brain Wave aids in maintaining motivation and vitality: By mitigating negative emotions and fostering a positive energy flow, Billionaire Brain Wave contributes to increased motivation and activity levels, eliminating feelings of lethargy.

Incorporating The Billionaire Brain Wave Program into your spiritual practices offers numerous advantages. You’ll develop a deeper connection to the divine, experience greater tranquility, and receive clearer guidance. Alongside holistic healing, your capacity to manifest your aspirations will enhance, strengthening your faith. Embracing this practice also fosters a heightened sense of gratitude.

#Thebillionairebrainwaveprogram #thebillionairesclub #thebillionairebrainwavereview #thebillionairebrainwaveproduct #billionairewave #billionairemindset

[the-manifest-world]

The Billionaire Brain Wave | The THETA WAVES | Benefits of The Billionaire Brain Wave

To Know More: https://thebillionairebrainwavess.com/

The Billionaire Brain Wave stands out as a sought-after digital program designed to unlock the potential for wealth and success using the Hippocampus effect.

The Power of Theta Waves — How Does The Billionaire Brain Wave Works?

The concept of the Billionaire Brain Wave may appear mysterious or intriguing at first glance. However, with advancements in neuroscience and our growing understanding of brain waves, we now have the knowledge to utilize the mind’s potential to manifest abundance and happiness in our lives.

Central to this concept is the profound impact of Theta brain wave frequency on cognitive abilities, serving as a crucial element in achieving our aspirations and goals.

To comprehend theta brain waves, it’s necessary to explore the electrical activity within the brain. Different mental states and activities are associated with specific frequency ranges for theta waves.

Theta waves, ranging between 4 and 8 hertz, dominate during periods of deep relaxation, meditation, and sleep. It’s during these phases that our brain unleashes its creativity, bringing to life dreams that were once only imaginable.

These theta brain waves act as a gateway to our subconscious mind, where deep-seated beliefs, emotions, and patterns, whether inhibiting or propelling, reside.

By bypassing the critical judgments of the conscious mind and accessing subconscious plans directly, the chances of success and happiness are heightened.

The effectiveness of the Billionaire Brain Wave program lies in its meticulously crafted sound frequencies, which induce a theta brainwave state in listeners.

The frequencies are precisely adjusted to focus on the hippocampus, a crucial brain area responsible for learning, memory retention, and spatial navigation.

By stimulating this region with the Billionaire Brain Wave, it triggers brain rewiring, fostering an environment conducive to success and accumulating wealth.

Within the theta brainwave state, intuition, creativity, and problem-solving skills flourish. This state can unlock opportunities aligned with our goals, and regular exposure to the Billionaire Brain Wave program speeds up goal achievement while enhancing financial prosperity.

Based on brainwave synchronization principles, the Billionaire Brain Wave program utilizes external stimuli like sound or light pulses to synchronize electrical brain activity.

By leveraging theta brain waves, the Billionaire Brain Wave program aims to create a path towards success, prosperity, and fulfillment.

Benefits of The Billionaire Brain Wave

The program enhances your ability to attract wealth: The key advantage of Billionaire Brain Wave lies in its capacity to enhance your manifestation skills and the law of attraction. This enhancement enables you to draw abundance and prosperity into your life, fostering financial success.

It unleashes your full potential and capabilities: The Billionaire Brain Wave has the capacity to unlock your maximum potential and capabilities. One primary factor that often restricts or limits your potential is the dominance of the beta brain wave. The program’s sound frequencies prevent the beta brain wave from remaining dormant, thereby assisting you in reaching your full potential.

The Billionaire Brain Wave digital program enhances your creativity: In addition to aiding in wealth attainment, the Billionaire Brain Wave system also enhances creativity. The theta brain wave has the potential to boost creativity and accelerate the learning process.

It helps in preventing age-related cognitive decline: Engaging with the Billionaire Brain Wave audiotrack can support brain function, potentially limiting age-related cognitive decline. The sound frequencies in the audio program may also enhance mental function.

Billionaire Brain Wave aids in maintaining motivation and vitality: By mitigating negative emotions and fostering a positive energy flow, Billionaire Brain Wave contributes to increased motivation and activity levels, eliminating feelings of lethargy.

Incorporating The Billionaire Brain Wave Program into your spiritual practices offers numerous advantages. You’ll develop a deeper connection to the divine, experience greater tranquility, and receive clearer guidance. Alongside holistic healing, your capacity to manifest your aspirations will enhance, strengthening your faith. Embracing this practice also fosters a heightened sense of gratitude.

#Thebillionairebrainwaveprogram #thebillionairesclub #thebillionairebrainwavereview #thebillionairebrainwaveproduct #billionairewave #billionairemindset

[pandoraimperatrix]

DickKory please

Aaaahhhh I don’t know which one though... Peony... Camellia... Chrysanthemum... Daisy... Violet....

Uuuuummmmm i kinda want some smut so maybe Peony.

Anon, you asked for a smut Peony and you shall have it!

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

“I know I should care about the reason why you’re naked in my bed, but I will just enjoy it for a moment.”

He sighed, his shoulder blades rippling as his torso expanded, and Kory saw his smile rising from the exposed half of his face, although his eyes remained closed.

“Our bed” he breathed, Kory walked further into the room, sitting on the bed, her hand touching the small of his back, sliding upwards, accenting the stark contrast of her smooth dark skin against his dotted by the San Francisco’s sun as she caressed him languidly. “Too tired for clothes…,” he added after a while.

She let out a weak chuckle and leaned over to kiss his shoulder, marvelling over the visible goosebumps that her delicate move provoked on him.

Dick fixed his position slightly after that, opening one already darkened eye to her who smiled innocently, fanning her long eyelashes at him as if she had no intention at all as her caress changed direction and was now reaching the end of the curve of his back.

“Only for clothes?” she asked, her hand finally cupping one of his cheeks and giving it a nice squeeze.

He lowered his head again, now using his arms to hide his face.

“Why, Miss Kory Anders?” and now his voice was free from all the sleepiness. “Do you have anything interesting in mind?”

She bit the lobe of his ear, and smiled when he wasn’t able to conceal a low moan.

“What if I do?”

Dick moved at once, making Kory squeal at the sudden change. His strong arms let go of the pillow and went to her waist, hoisting her body over his as he turned around, lying on his back.

“Hello,” she said smiling down at him, her hands now on his shoulders, legs around his hips, her thumbs rubbing his skin.

“Hi,” he answered, also smiling, and hands leaving her waist to undo the knot of her dressing gown.

Kory rose one of her hands to his face, cupping his jaw, her eyes warm with affection.

“Are you sure if you want this? I was just teasing, if you are too tired we can just sleep.”

His hands stopped, her dressing gown now parted to reveal her body, also bare and still a little moist from the shower. Dick gave her a lopsided smile and took one of the spring of her curls, stretching it to kiss her hair.

“No…” he said, and when she frowned in confusion, he rose up from the bed, supporting her weight with his arms when his hips rolled to allow their new position. “I want you.”

She leaned into him for a slow, sensual kiss, her body arching against his, seeking more skin against skin contact, her fingers slid from his neck, threading trough his hair, massaging his scalp. Dick parted the kiss to look up at her, he always resented when people would regard him as a lucky person. As if being adopted by a billionaire was some golden Band-Aid stamped over the silly boo-boo of losing both of his parents in just one awful night. But when he looked at Kory, and was reminded of the chain of causalities that brought her to his life, the absurdity of the miracle that made her love him… What could it be other than luck?   

“Always nice to hear,” she breathed, her voice a whisper when he started kissing down her throat, her eyes shutting and her fingers closing tighter around his hair as his lips made a path of fire, crossing her collarbones and reaching her sternum.

Dick lost his concentration for a moment when she started moving her hips and he bit the top of her breast.

“Sorry,” he said alarmed and kissed the distressed skin to sooth it.

“Do it again,” she said.

“What?” He swallowed, confused, but there was no doubt in Kory’s eyes.

“I liked it,” she said simply, and pushed a piece of dark hair from his eyes.

“Really?” his eyebrows rose.

“Since I told you about of my past you have been so…” she sighed, choosing her words, “careful.”

“Oh…” the corners of his mouth lowered, “I didn’t mean-”

“And I appreciate it” she interrupted him, noticing that his face was flushed and he was turning softer underneath her thighs. Dick Grayson, her emotionally stunted Dick Grayson, she loved him, so much, but goodness he could be touchy. “I do,” she reassured him. “But… I haven’t changed… Neither what I like…” She punctuated that last argument by taking his hand and rising it to her bitten breast, and pressing. “You can’t hurt me like that, Dick Grayson,” she noticed her point coming across that thick brain of his when his eyebrows lowered and she kissed him, biting and pulling his lower lip in the end. “And I know you wouldn’t, even if you could. So… I know you like it a little bit rougher too. No need to hold back.”

 He didn’t need to hear twice.

Before Kory could get her bearings, he had lifted her from his lap and slammed her on the bed, standing on his knees over her body with hungry eyes and a promising smile. She let out a nervous laugh, feeling an exciting kaleidoscope of butterflies fill her belly waiting for his next move. But instead of kissing her, or caressing her in some way, Dick grabbed one side of her hips and turned her, so she would be with her back to him. Every time he manhandled her like that, as if she weighted nothing for him, she felt a new wave of heat radiate from her core. Then, he peeled her dressing gown over her body, and Kory shivered. Anticipation was killing her when she felt him pulling her hips up, until she was in her knees too.

“Grayson what ah-!” her question was swallowed by an exclamation of pleasure when his tongue invaded her vulva making shut her eyes strongly, stars sparkling in the darkness. He pumped a few times before slowing down, making his tongue flat so he could lick around her opening too. And then, he started lapping, flicking her clit with the point of his talented tongue, once, twice, and another time, finding a rhythm.

Kory grabbed the sheets where her lover had been lying just minutes ago, letting out a loud moan as he kept his onslaught, using his firm hands to expose her to his kisses and keep her in place when her knees started to give. He pulled away with a sound of suction, but before Kory found enough coherence to complain, he inserted a finger inside.

“X-x-x’Hal!” she screamed.

“My name, Kory,” he demanded.

She chuckled and turned her face around, trying to look at him.

“You have to ah… deserve it.”

“Oh yeah?” he inserted another finger and bended over to suck her clit at the same time as he fucked her with his hand. He kept a consistent rhythm and in no time she was trashing under him. Dick smiled when he noticed that she had tried to say his name, but when the climax hit her, all she managed were a few nonsense that barely counted as words.

Even so, it wouldn’t do it, not for him, so, before Kory was fully back from her high, Dick pulled her back in position, rubbed his hard member on her soaking, still pulsating pussy and entered her with a grunt. He didn’t wait before start giving all he had, but Kory, ever his perfect partner, wouldn’t let him do all the work himself. She pushed her upper body up, and reached behind for him inviting for a kiss that couldn’t last on her lips a lot, to allow their frenetic rhythm, and turned into a wet path through her neck, shoulders and back. Kory turned one arm behind, placing it like a handler for him to get better leverage, which Dick accepted while his other hand went to her clit rubbing it the way he knew she liked until Kory was screaming again.

When she was finished, he pulled out, she fell on the bed, spent, one hand pumping himself, Dick, used the other to roll Kory’s body so she’d be facing him.

“So noisy,” he said positioning his hips between her thighs. “I’m glad for the acoustic proofing,” and he bended over to kiss her belly, “but I haven’t heard my name yet.”

Kory smirked.

“Better luck next time.”

Dick rose his eyebrows to that, and rested his free hand on the bed beside Kory’s head, bringing their faces close.

“You are lucky one, aren’t you? Getting yourself someone who make you come over” he kissed her throat “and over” he kissed her jaw “again.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “But fine, third time is the charm.” And he entered her again. Kory’s legs hugged his hips, pulling him closer until there was no space between them.

“On second thought,” she said cheekily, “I think you are already full of yourself and I shouldn’t enable it.”

Dick snorted.

“I’m the one full of myself? Really?” He made his point by accelerating his thrusts.

Kory laughed and the contractions of her already impossibly tight muscles were too much for him.

Terror mixed with the pleasure of release spread through his face and her laughing fit worsened, milking him who afterwards fell beside her pouting.

“I’m so sorry,” she said kissing his shoulder, amusement still thick in her voice.

“You are so not.”

“I am!”

He turned his face away from her childishly.

“I don’t believe in you.”

Kory giggled and threw a leg over his and sucked his earlobe.

“Ohh, poor baby, but I am sorry, or don’t you think I didn’t want a third one?”

He looked at her through the corner of his eyes.

“You are a greedy one, Princess Koriand’r.”

“Why can I say? I’m used to premium Dick service.”

He tried to press his lips together to hold his pout, but when an alien princess fell from the sky and stole his heart to her was given the power of stealing his laughter too.

[need-a-fugue]

Color of Blood

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Sam Wilson x Reader

Pairings: none (Bucky x Reader if you squint)

Summary: A mission gone wrong has Sam about to lose his damn mind.

Author’s note: For the Flex Your Muscles Writing Challenge from @captain-rogers-beard​ for 6/22. Flash fiction prompt – The color of her blood was the least of my worries.

Warnings: Well… blood, obviously. Otherwise, just some language.

Word count: 1,800

Sam cringes the moment he hears the car pull up. Not good, he thinks on repeat, those two little words beating against his skull as he scurries from the porch. Frantic accelerating, precarious shifting, skidding dramatically to a screeching halt in the long and dark front drive – fuuuuck that was gonna wreak havoc on the brakes – and the look of frazzled fury on Bucky’s face when he throws open the driver’s side door, almost tripping over his own two feet as he dashes to the other side of the vehicle. All of it is so… not good.

Just as Sam pulls up behind him, Bucky tugs open the passenger’s side door, nearly jerking it off its hinges… and doing so without any warning. You slip to the side, no longer anchored by the soothing press of the cool glass window on your forehead, and you drop heavily into his waiting hands with a surprised yelp and a disgruntled, pain-filled grunt.

“What the hell happened?!” Sam barks out as he takes in your slumped posture, tight grimace, and barely fluttering eyes. He reaches for your arm, helping Bucky to settle you on unsteady feet. That’s when his eyes blow wide, gaze shooting just past you, over your shoulder, and into the interior of the previously pristine Ferrari. “What?!” he screams, jumping back and slamming the heels of his hands to his head in wild vexation.

Bucky lets out a low growl as he grabs you around the waist and hikes you up back up, your legs having buckled the moment Sam let go. “I told her not to do anything stupid,” he mutters, his voice a mere whisper compared to the agitated ramblings of the irate man to his left. “She didn’t listen.”

Sam paces in a wide, arcing line, backtracks into swift, spinning circles as though his feet are incapable of coordinating with one another while he’s in such a frenzied state. His eyes ping wildly over the otherwise empty grounds of the safe house. Miles from the city, miles from anything, he knows that the chances of anyone being close enough to see this – to hear this – are practically nil. But still, he can’t help but chide himself for shouting. Captain America losing his cool on just his second mission in command.

He pulls in a deep, steeling breath – lets it out in what almost sounds like fitful wheeze – and leans forward again, peering into the car. It’s worse than he thought at first glance, and he can’t quite contain the small whimper that leaks from his lips. “Man,” he whines, dragging the word out endlessly as he pulls back and takes two large steps away, distancing himself from the car. “What did you do?”

You try to straighten yourself in Bucky’s grasp so you can – professionally, respectfully – issue out a preliminary mission report for your commander. Never mind the fact that your legs don’t seem to work right now and your shaky hands can do little more than desperately cling to Bucky’s perfectly fitted suit jacket as he struggles to hold you upright. Never mind that when you look over at Sam, you see… several Sams, all foggy and wispy and overlapping each other, oddly blurring in with the dark tree line behind.

You open your mouth to speak, a bit of blood dribbling out over your bottom lip, trailing down your chin as the thick taste of copper only now registers in your mind. A swift left hook to the jaw… oh yeah, you remember now. Yeah… that sucked.

You twist and spit a giant glob into the grass, a nearly indiscernible, crackling sound pulling from somewhere in your chest before you clear your throat and mumble, voice thick and raw, “Got the files.”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffs, pinning you to his chest with his right hand as he tugs down the back of the seat to reach behind, gathering his rifle with his left. “And then you got stabbed. Great work.” There are blood stains littering the back too, you can see them plain as day with the dome light clicked on, even through your hazy state, and you find yourself cocking your head curiously, wondering just how exactly that could’ve happened.

“Why?” Sam bemoans, hands scrubbing a frustrated path down his face. “How?” he laments, shifting around and hesitantly peeking again into the car. “Its… that’s…” His hands suddenly flail wildly in front of him. “This is a damn rental!”

Bucky loops his rifle over his shoulder and shrugs, once again wrapping both arms around your body, a welcome thing as you continue to idly slide down towards the ground into a heap of bones and broken flesh. “You get the insurance?”

“Insurance?! Man…” He pinches his lips tightly together, hands clamping around his hips as he paces in another quick circle before coming to a halt directly in front of you. “This is a Ferrari,” he enunciates, a little too patronizingly. You roll your eyes… or at least, you think you do… your body doesn’t quite seem to be reacting like normal right now. “That’s an Italian leather interior,” he goes on, voice low and shaky, almost teetering on the edge of hysteria. “White Italian leather.”

Bucky’s brows furrow. “Thought it was tan. Looks more tan to me.”

You cock your head and narrow your eyes, lurch to the side to get a better look – much to the annoyance of the hulking man trying to keep you upright. More thick red spittle dribbles down your chin as you declare simply, “Off-white.”

Even in the pitch dark night, no more than the porchlight ahead and the dome light from the car illuminating his face – even in your steadily deteriorating state, with the world around you fading and flickering at the edges – you’re pretty sure you can see that vein near Sam’s temple pulsate. He’s about to stroke out, you think vaguely, wondering if you might be just about ready to do the same.

“I don’t care what damn shade it is,” he spits out deliberately. “Bright red blood is gonna be pretty damn obvious when I take it back in!”

Bucky’s arms tighten around your middle, giving a firm jerk upwards as you continue to slip. “It’ll dry more brown than red,” he says plainly. You choke on a laugh, fingers pinching and gripping maniacally at his shoulder as he offers another blithe shrug. You don’t see the look that Sam gives him, but you’re certain it’s a glare of pure daggers, one of his rare – though ultimately effective – do not fuck with me stares. “I’m sorry,” Bucky barks out impatiently. “Next time I’ll put down a towel.”

“Bright red blood…” he breathes out distractedly. “All over a perfect off-white interior…” as though the whole thing is just too much to fathom.

Bucky tugs you closer, vibranium hand sweeping under your ass and gripping your left hip in an attempt to better hold you in place. “The color of her blood was the least of my worries. Shit, Sam,” he grunts out, rifle slipping from his shoulder as your legs finally give and all of your weight falls into him. “You wanna keep staring at the damn car, or you wanna help me plug up her holes?”

“Gross,” you mumble into him, clinging to his jacket with everything you’ve got.

Sam raises a brow and shakes his head, continues to stare at the Ferrari. “We do not have the funds to cover this.”

“Sam,” he growls out, low and warning.

“Even with the seed money from the Stark estate… I mean, this safe house alone was…”

“Sam…”

He spins to face the both of you, deep brown eyes narrowing almost suspiciously at Bucky. “You gotta know what gets blood stains outta leather. Of everybody… you gotta know.”

You huff out a breath, choking a bit as you do so, head lulling to the side. “I think I’m dying,” sputters coolly from your lips amid more red-tinged saliva.

“You’re not dying,” Bucky gripes, an impatient note to his voice. He seems to give up on holding you upright – not like your legs are doing anything to help him out – and he opts instead for easily tossing you over his shoulder, the fingers of his right hand looping through your tac belt to secure you to him.

“Really,” Sam concurs, craning his head around Bucky’s thick frame to look at you with a raised brow. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Bucky stiffens beneath you. “You’re calling her dramatic? You’re losing your shit over a few stains in a car.”

“A few stains?!” he exclaims. And even you gotta agree… it looks like an utter horror show in there. “She’s gonna be fine,” he states with a scoff, stepping around to Bucky’s front and out of your line of sight. “I’m gonna be out at least a hundred thousand dollars. Do I look like I can afford a hundred grand? Do I look like some kind of genius billionaire inventor or… or… some kind of first-rate drug kingpin with bricks of cash stashed away in a boat somewhere?”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”

You tap listlessly at Bucky’s back as you dangle over his shoulder, let your hand fall to knock your knuckles into the swell of his ass when he offers no response. “Dying…” you remind him weakly, what’s left of your blood rushing to your head. “Help?”

You can almost hear him roll his eyes as he tells you again, “You’re not dying.” He looks back at Sam and sighs. “It’s like she’s never been stabbed before.”

“Just…” he says finally, waving an absent hand through the air. “Just go take care of her. I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do.” He shrugs defeatedly, runs his fingers gingerly over the roof of the car. “Might have to torch her.”

“Peroxide,” Bucky says with another impatient sigh. “Get in there now before it all dries and it’ll be easier. Cold water only, little bit of soap. But go light, too much moisture’ll ruin the leather.”

“Cows hate rain,” you mumble with an airy laugh, your nearly unconscious brain delighting in the quip.

Bucky shifts and positions you higher on his shoulder, the movement eliciting a pained whimper as what you now recall is a stab wound stretches further open beneath your tac suit. “If any stains are still there in the morning,” he tells Sam, ignoring your discomfort completely, “run out and get some saddle soap.”

You swing your hands listlessly, open palms repeatedly smacking at the tops of his legs, his cheeks. Only a hint of pain remains now, a delightful – oddly, not at all frightening – lightheaded giddiness washing over you. “Plug me up, Sarge!” you slur as you blink thickly and wait to slip into oblivion.

“Saddle soap?” Sam asks, a sincere interest perking his tone.

“Saddle soap,” Bucky confirms, reaching up with his vibranium hand and giving you a sharp slap on your own ass before turning to leave, carrying you – finally – towards the house.

[what-if-i-imagine]

Another request from my love @a-single-drop-of-ink​ for the quote “I was dying to hear someone say that I didn’t need to try so hard to be perfect, that I was enough and it was okay“ with Damian, Jason and Talia in the League of Assassins.

Damian grunted as he hit the ground again. Just as all the other times he had been knocked down, he sprung right back up without hesitation and faced his teacher again.

The young assassin eyes him carefully with a raised eyebrow. He seemed no more impressed by Damian’s stubborn refusal to stay down than he had any of the other times. And just as all the other times, the assassin finished his always silent assessment of Damian’s physical state and turned to Talia.

Damian rushed forward while the teen’s face was turned away, but both his bokken and fist were easily caught and held still without him so much as glancing back.

“If he wishes to continue then let him,” Talia assured the silent teacher. “He must learn somehow when it is time to give up.”

His teacher gave a small nod and turned back to Damian, roughly pushing him back to put a yard of distance between them.

There were many things that frustrated the young al Ghul about his teacher. The teacher had been around since the day he was born, and had been one of the first to ever hold him, but he had never spoken a word. As the years went on, his mother explained that the boy was completely catatonic when she found him, and had remained that way for a very long time.

His mother never told him what jolted the boy out of his catatonic state, or why even after seven years he still sometimes slipped back under and when lucid remained silent. He thought he might have heard his voice once, speaking in a hushed tone to his mother, but he wasn’t sure anymore.

Another thing he found extremely frustrating was the way his teacher carried himself. It was filled with so much sorrow, wonder and indifference. He had only seen a few expressions on his face that were not microscopic. Damian was always unsure if it was due to his mother’s training, or some other thing from the boy’s past that his amnesiatic brain would possibly never remember.

Then there was the thing that frustrated Damian above all else. It made his blood boil and he gnashed his teeth and rushed forward again, raising his bokken to strike.

His teacher treated him like a kid.

Ever since his birth when the boy was nine, he had treated Damian as if he were delicate, fragile. As if he weren't the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul, the grandson of Ra al Ghul. He found it more than frustrating, it was infuriating.

Damian had aged through his infant and toddler years at an accelerated speed due to the nature of his birth but had quickly slowed to the normal age progression, leaving him now physically ten when he was technically only seven. Physically speaking, the boy his mother called his teacher was only six years older than him at the most. He had no powers, unless you counted the multiple times he had to be thrown into the Lazarus Pit after some of his missions resulting in a quicker healing process as a power, which Damian did not. He was small for his age even with the growth Lazarus had tried to force him into, his muscle was lean and though Damian knew how damaging one of his punches could be first hand after watching it shatter a man’s skull, he was nowhere near intimidating.

And yet this boy, this fool his mother called her greatest warrior, had the audacity to treat him, grandson of the Demon's Head, as a child.

He went easy on him in training unless his mother prompted him not to. He fought with only his hands while forcing Damian to use a bokken. He jumped into every fight Damian picked with the other assassins and teachers, putting it to a swift end in whatever way he could then personally tended to Damian’s wounds as if he couldn’t do it himself.

Damian tried to channel his anger and frustrations the way his mother had taught him into every strike of his bokken. His teacher effortlessly dodged every attack.

When he saw a split second entry, his teacher snapped forward, using one hand to meet Damian’s bokken with an open palmed uppercut as the other hand’s heel struck Damian's chest. All air was pushed from his lungs in a painful surge, and for a second he was almost sure the boy had pushed his soul entirely from his body.

Damian's back collided with the ground, his neck giving a snap when his head bounced from the force. His bokken had left his hand before his descent,and he now found himself staring up at blank, almost unseeing eyes, with the business end of his bokken pressed right below his throat.

Damian was about to reach up and push the wooden sword away so he could stand again when his mother’s voice stopped him.

“Damian, that’s enough,” she snapped.

“But mother-” he tried to protest but she cut him off.

“You have lost fifteen matches in ten minutes. It is fair to say that will be enough for today.”

“I can keep going-”

“Did I not just say enough?”

Damian gulped down any words that tried to escape him after that, glaring with a vengeance at the teacher who still stood over him.

“Alwarda,” his mother said, causing the boy to turn his gaze back to her. “Your assistance is not needed for the remainder of tonight. You are dismissed.”

The boy nodded and stepped away from Damian. He offered both the mother and son a small bow of respect before disappearing inside with the bokken still in hand.

Damian had bathed and tended to his wounds alone, brooding in his defeat. His mother often told him the way he brooded reminded her of his father, who happened to be an american billionaire completely unaware of his existence. He would never say it to her face, but he always thought during these moments that she was wrong. He brooded like her as well.

After he was dressed comfortably for the uneventful evening ahead, one of the servants came to his door to inform him his mother was waiting for him.

It did not take long to find her. He knew when it came to their private dinners, they rarely ever ate in the actual dining room, or with his grandfather and other members of their family. This night in particular he found her in her meditation room with her favorite incense burning and her eyes closed. A pot of oxblood soup sat between her and another mat with two empty bowls and spoons beside it.

In moments like these, he would enjoy just staring at his mother in the awe and respect she deserved. She was more deadly than anyone he had ever known in his short life time, but it was sometimes hard to forget when she was sitting there, looking so beautiful and at ease.

Damian always wondered if he would inherit any of that beauty. Sometimes prayed that he would, though he would never tell anyone that.

“If you keep standing there, the soup will get cold,” his mother informed him without opening her eyes or moving a muscle.

He obeyed the silent order, making his way over to the mat to sit in a cross legged mirror of her position. He served up both bowls, presenting his mother’s to her with a bow of his head. She took it with a small chuckle.

"You fought hard today, I figured you deserved your favorite,” she said as he tried to control himself while taking down spoonful after spoonful of soup.

“But I lost,” he said, almost baffled. The loss after loss would have been considered intolerable by his grandfather. Unacceptable. Not the makings of a true al Ghul heir.

“Loss is inevitable,” his mother said easily. “Without it, there is no way you would learn.”

Damian tried to let her words sink in, tried to learn the lesson she was trying to teach, but it wouldn’t stick. He had lost fifteen times to a foul blooded boy right in front of her. How could she act as if his failure meant nothing?

He filed the question away for another day and accepted the moment for what it was. He ate three bowls of the soup before deciding he was satisfied, and went into meditation, allowing the scents of the incense, soup and his mother to overcome his senses. He let all his thoughts go by as if he were watching waves on a beach from afar, letting them go to be dealt with in a different time.

As much as they had helped to ease him in the moment, the soup and meditation’s effects did not last long.

The next morning he had woken up and spent sunrise until noon doing non stop training. He avoided his mother the best he could, sure that the shame must have sunk in by now, even opting to eat his lunch with the other assassins.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what it had felt like each time he hit the ground. The distasteful sound of his body colliding with the dirt. The way his teacher would stare down at him with the unreadable expression and expertly masked emotion. The way his mother had snapped when he found for a sixteenth round.

He was tired, and his body ached with sore muscles that didn’t want to work no matter how late in the day it had gotten as he kept up his training as intense as ever. His mind blurred the hours into minutes and the minutes into seconds, his attention laser focused on getting better.

He reminded himself over and over like a mantra that he would never be good enough the way he was. That a true al Ghul, a true heir to the Demon’s Head, is so much better than this. He trained until it became hard to breath, then said air was for the weak and kept going.

As the sun started to set, he took a brisk shower and toweled off, dressing in his copy of the outfit he had seen the assassins of the League wear to dinner. It was more casual and comfortable than their usual uniforms, but still displayed their place in the League based on color and material. Damian’s was made from the finest silks just as all his other clothing and was green to remind everyone of his biological superiority to them.

With his katana resting on his hip, and his green hood pulled up, he melted into the crowd of tired assassins as they filed into the dinning hall.

He took his serving off food, as always pleased with how well his grandfather fed his warriors and took a seat at a fairly crowded table. The moment he was seated, everyone cleared away from the table besides one assassin, even as his little friends tried to pull him away.

“I’m not moving just because some demon brat decided this was his table,” the assassin said.

“Just move,” one of his friends said. “You don’t want to provoke him.”

“And why not? Didn’t you hear how badly he got his ass kicked yesterday during his training. From what I heard, he came out of the training center looking like absolute shit,” the assassin laughed. “I bet any idiot with two thumbs could beat him.”

“Then do it.”

All the assassins in the room slowly turned to look towards Damian, who had finished almost all of his food already while the assassin was talking.

“What?” the assassin snapped. “What did you say to me?”

“I said do it,” Damian glared at him. “You think you can beat me? Then do it.”

“Let it go,” one of his friends tried, but he brushed her off.

The man stood and marched over, his tomahawk already in his hand. When he brought it down, Damian was able to dodge it, taking advantage of the time it would take to pull it out of the wood as he hopped up onto the table and drew his katana.

The tomahawk came flying at him and he dodged it again while moving forward in one fluid motion to sink his katana into the man’s shoulder. As any good member of the League, he didn’t even flinch from the piercing cut of the blade and got to work on trying to cut Damian down.

The battle was not long by any means, but it had its fair share of blood. The man was surely going to bleed to death if he took any more trauma from Damian’s blade, and Damian himself was littered now with gashes. The next blow was sure to be the end to either of them.

Damian had never needed the Lazarus Pit yet, but by the looks of it, he might. Then again, if he won he wouldn’t, but they would be down one assassin.

He didn’t have time to fully process his katana being roughly forced from his hand, and he wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew, the chain of an all too familiar kusarigama style fixed knife was wrapped around his wrist, slamming him down into the table with a harsh force no one else would dare to use on him even during a fight.

Damian managed to push himself up enough to take in the rest of the scene that ended his fight. He belatedly realized that the chain was not the only part of the weapon fixed on him, as he came face to face with the two blades of the weapon perfectly angled by the chains to stab into his arms at any moment.

The assassin he had been fighting was no better off, a sword trained on his neck just far enough to not cut but just close enough that any breath could cause it to. Everyone around them were covering their mouths, paralyzed by one of the few things they feared, or were scrambling to get their food and run back to their rooms.

“Red,” the assassin sputtered, staring up at the red hooded boy. “It’s not what it looks like. I wasn’t going to kill the kid!”

The red clad assassin seemed to consider the man for a moment before the tension left his body and he resheathed his sword. He waved the man away, and the man took the order to leave as a gift.

Damian prepared for the disappointed, or unimpressed, or patronizing look Red was sure to give him. He geared up to shoot a few insults at the boy and push his luck until Red snapped- which he never did, yet another insufferable aspect of his teacher.

When Red did turn to him, Damian stopped dead in his tracks. Red wasn’t looking at him in any of the ways he had expected. He didn't even look at him with pity. Instead, it was an unsheltered, raw kind of worry, fear and something else Damian didn’t recognize written plane as day in every line of his body. His eyes were a deep blue with only a hint of green around the edges, and they were fully in focus in a way Damian was so unused to.

Damian felt every ounce of anger drain from his body, quickly being replaced with a gut turning guilt he had never felt before. Because no one had ever looked at him like that before. Without a hint of disappointment or berating.

He ended up having to avert his gaze to the floor to stop himself from throwing up.

Feather gentle hands unwound the chains and coiled the weapon back up to be clipped to his belt on the other side of his hip from his katana. Without warning, the same hands lifted Damian as if he weighed nothing and carried him away from the dinning hall and to his bed room.

“Are you going to tell my mother?” Damian asked in an almost whisper, risking a glance back up at the teen. His lips had set into a hard line, the same way they did every time Damian though he might want to say something. He started to mentally panic before the assassin gave a small shake of his head.

They reached the room quickly, and Damian expected to be let down to attend to his wounds on his own. Though the red assassin his mother so deeply trusted had taken care of him after fights many times before, it had never been in the secluded comfort of his room. Always in the infirmary, training room or his mother’s office as she scolded him.

He didn’t expect it when the boy opened his bedroom door and carried Damian in. He only let him down when they reached the bathroom, where a hot bath had been pre prepared.

Damian wondered if Red had prepared it, or one of the servants at Red’s order.

“I already took a bath today,” Damian said, regaining some of his mentality.

Red gave him a hard look and nodded to the bath.

“No,” Damian said stubbornly. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was fighting it. Maybe it was the idea of being babied by a sixteen year old mute, or maybe it was because he wanted to see how far Red really could be pushed before he lost his always controlled temper.

Red nodded to the bath again with never ending patience.

Damian crossed his arms, wincing as it pulled at one of the smaller gashes, “Are you deaf and mute? I said no. I don’t need a bath.”

“Get in the bath Damian.”

It was Red’s lips that moved, but for some reason, the barrier between Damian’s eyes, ears, and brain tried to remain strong. He had never, not once, been spoken to by Red.The mixture of Red’s odd bought of full presentness and his first words to him that he could remember were enough to shock Damian into doing as he was told.

Red disappeared from the room for a moment, long enough for Damian to undress and climb into the bath. He had no qualms with his modesty around Red, no matter how old he had gotten. Red had been the one to bathe him, dress him and change him for the first few years of his life after all.

It was a few minutes before Red returned with Damian’s favorite pair of pajamas, a first aid kit, and a few wash cloths.

“Wash off the dried blood, but don’t scrub hard enough to reopen closed wounds,” Red instructed, his voice having a stuttering effect on Damian’s brain that only got worse with every word.

When he snapped out of it, Damian was quick to act, taking the washcloth and lathering it with soap so he could wash himself properly. When a bucket of water was dumped over his head, he flinched away, looking up at Red as if he had burned him.

Red only put up his hands as a show of peace and waited for Damian to calm down and move back into place where he could reach him.

With shampoo covering his hands, Red scrubbed away at Damian’s scalp, his fingers catching, massaging and scratching in the perfect way that eased Damian’s nerves. Another bucket was dumped over his head with fresh water untouched by the now grimy and bloodied bathwater, and this time Damian didn’t flinch away. He did, however, wonder how many buckets of water Red had filled for the bath ahead of time.

With the shampooing process over, Red moved on to working conditioner into Damian’s hair in the same way he had the shampoo. When he seemed satisfied, he pulled back to let it sit for a few minutes and grabbed a fresh washcloth instead to clean the deepest wound Damian had acquired in the battle.

It honestly looked worse than it was, and was the only one that would need stitches as it spanned from the center of his shoulder to his peck.

Red washed it as gently as he had done everything else with Damian that evening and applied pressure enough while cleaning to stop the bleeding. With an alcohol wipe and cleaned it even more, not letting up even when Damian flinched. Without warning, a needle and sterile thread started to run through his skin with expert ease and Damian gripped tightly to Red’s arms to not scream.

The stitches were done in a record time, and Red carefully guided him to lean his head back to rest against the rim of the tub. His head was met by a bucket of freezing water, and he tried to jump forward, but Red’s firm hand kept him in place. When he was adjusted enough to the water, Red massaged his scalp and hair until all the conditioner was out.

“Stand up,” Red instructed with a small nudge. With Damian standing, Red dumped a few more buckets of water over his body to completely watch him off, then wrapped him in a towel and lifted him out of the tub.

Damian was horrified when he found himself curing up in Red’s arms into his chest and realized that he was enjoying the nurturing attention of the red assassin.

“You could have gotten badly hurt you know,” Red said, setting Damian down on his bed to dry him off and dress him in his pajamas. He wasn’t scolding, just pointing the facts out.

“I had it under control,” Damian huffed.

“No, you didn’t,” Red said.

Damian looked down, once again finding himself feeling too guilty to meet his teacher’s eyes.

“Why did you get into that fight?” Red asked in a whisper. “Why do you get into any of them? You have nothing to prove to the League.”

“It’s not about the League,” Damian snapped before quickly coming back down. “They say I’m weak. They mock me.”

“Why does it matter what they think?”

“It doesn’t,” Damian balled his fists. “But if they all think I’m weak, what if they tell my grandfather? I know I’m not the perfect child for him. If I fight them, prove I’m stronger than them all,then maybe I can become perfect.”

“You don’t need to be perfect Damian,” Red said.

Damian scoffed, “Easy for you to say.”

“It’s not,” Red shook his head and lifted Damian’s chin with a finger so that he met his eyes. “I may not remember most of my life, but I can remember feelings. I remember how inferior I felt compared to a superior in my past. Someone who’s role I was supposed to fill. I remember how angry and small it made me feel. But above everything else, I was sad.”

“How did you stop feeling like that?” Damian whispered in wonder.

Red smiled, and Damian’s heart stopped. He had never, never, seen Red smile. His mother had claimed Red smiled when he was born, but he had never seen it himself. Despite that, the smile had the same familiar, easing effect that seeing his mother meditate did.

“I realized that the perfect person does not exist, so I should stop wasting my time on trying to be one and just be the best that I could be. I didn’t become better than him, or my adoptive dad, or anyone else around me. I became better than myself,” Red explained. “I’m still becoming better than myself every single day because I have Ms. al Ghul and you. And all you need is us. Not the League and your grandfather.”

“What if I can’t become better than myself?”

“You can. You are. Just by listening to your mother and I, you are becoming better than yourself. But Damian, I need you to hear me when I say, you need to stop trying to be perfect, because the way you are now is more than enough for us. We love every part of you as you are, without you being able to beat assassins twice your size in mortal combat.”

So that’s what I saw in his eyes earlier, Damian thought in awe. Love.

It was all it took for Damian to burst into tears and hug close into the teen’s chest. Red wrapped his arms safely around him and lifted him into his lap.

“What’s wrong Habibi?” Red whispered fearfully. The small pet name his mother called him caused Damian to cry even harder, latching on tightly to the assassin.

“I was dying to hear someone say that I didn’t need to try so hard to be perfect, that I was enough and it was okay,” Damian said, shaking his head.

“It is okay,” Red promised. “Damian, you are great. You are going to do great things. Your mother and I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Damian said, relaxing from his crying fit as quickly as it had come on. “I love you Alwarda.”

“My name is Jason,” Red whispered.

“I love you Jason.”

“I love you too Dami. Let’s get you to bed.”

[newstfionline]

Saturday, July 10, 2021

Billionaire Blastoff (AP) Two billionaires are putting everything on the line this month to ride their own rockets into space. Virgin Galactic’s Richard Branson is due to take off Sunday from New Mexico, launching with two pilots and three other employees aboard a rocket plane carried aloft by a double-fuselage aircraft. Blue Origin’s Jeff Bezos departs nine days later from West Texas, blasting off in a fully automated capsule with three guests: his brother, an 82-year-old female aviation pioneer who’s waited six decades for a shot at space and the winner of a $28 million charity auction. They will go 55 miles to 66 miles (88 kilometers to 106 kilometers) up.

Severe heat wave builds across Western U.S. after nation’s hottest June on record (Washington Post) Last week, a “thousand-year” heat wave baked the Pacific Northwest and adjacent British Columbia with widespread highs topping 100 degrees, resulting in a death toll in the hundreds. Lytton, Canada, climbed to 121 degrees and established new national records three days in a row before the town burned in heat-intensified wildfires. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration announced Friday that the heat wave helped the United States clinch its hottest June on record. Eight states had their hottest Junes, including Arizona, California, Nevada and Utah. These four states are at the heart of yet another heat wave developing in the West that could challenge records and bring dangerously hot temperatures. It will mark the third punishing heat wave in the West this summer, including last week’s in the Pacific Northwest and a record-breaking event in mid-June. This heat wave will not likely be as extreme as the event in the Pacific Northwest, but temperatures could challenge all-time highs around Las Vegas, Redding, Calif., and Sacramento and a few other places between California’s Central Valley and southern Nevada.

Political Crisis in Haiti Deepens Over Rival Claims to Power (NYT) The political storm in Haiti intensified on Thursday as two competing prime ministers claimed the right to run the country, setting up an extraordinary power struggle over who had the legal authority to govern after the brazen assassination of President Jovenel Moïse in his home the day before. Haiti’s interim prime minister, Claude Joseph, says he has taken command of the police and the army, declaring a “state of siege” that essentially put the country under martial law. But constitutional experts questioned his right to impose it, and his claim to power was quickly challenged by a rival. Two days before his death, Mr. Moïse had appointed a new prime minister, Ariel Henry, a neurosurgeon who was supposed to take up the role this week and told a local newspaper that he was the rightful prime minister instead. The dueling claims created a volatile political crisis that left constitutional experts confused and diplomats worried about a broad societal collapse that could ignite violence or prompt Haitians to flee the country en masse, as they have after natural disasters, coups or other periods of deep instability.

Brexit bill (Reuters) Brexit’s unfortunate fallout continues. The European Union has said that the United Kingdom is liable to pay 47.5 billion euros ($56.2 billion) to the E.U. as part of its post-Brexit financial settlement. The E.U.’s consolidated budget report for 2020 said the money is owed under a series of articles which both sides agreed to as part of the Brexit withdrawal agreement. The amount is significantly higher than the U.K. expected. Its Office for Budget Responsibility predicted in its March 2018 economic and fiscal outlook report that the bill would amount to 41.4 billion euros ($49 billion). Britain and the E.U. were in a 47-year relationship, and the divorce has been dicey. It took more than four years of acrimonious negotiations and lingering mistrust before the two finally struck a trade and cooperation agreement at the end of December.

Thailand to impose tighter restrictions to slow virus spread (Reuters) Thailand will announce new travel restrictions, mall closures and curbs on gatherings in the capital Bangkok and surrounding provinces starting next week, in an effort to slow the spread of the coronavirus, two government sources told Reuters. The government will issue a stay-home order from 9 p.m. to 4 a.m. for 14 days and bar gatherings of more than five people in the capital and high-risk areas, the sources said.

China’s gaming curfew (Foreign Policy) Chinese gaming giant Tencent will begin using facial recognition technology to prevent minors playing mobile video games past a nationwide gaming curfew. China established the 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. curfew in 2019 to combat gaming addiction—deemed a mental health disorder in 2018 by the World Health Organization. Chinese children and teenagers had been circumventing the nighttime ban by using adult’s credentials to log in to the gaming service, prompting the technological intervention.

Biden Accelerates Withdrawal Timetable (Foreign Policy) U.S. President Joe Biden on Thursday defended his decision to withdraw U.S. troops from Afghanistan, despite the Taliban’s rapid territorial gains in recent weeks. In a White House address, Biden said that all combat troops would leave Afghanistan by August 31, even earlier than a Sept. 11 deadline he set back in April. Heading off criticism from some conservatives, who have called for a small combat troop presence to remain in the country, Biden—a long-time skeptic of prolonged U.S. involvement in Afghanistan—questioned the cost of such a move. “Let me ask those who want us to stay: How many more—how many thousands more Americans, daughters and sons—are you willing to risk?” Biden said. “I will not send another generation of Americans to war in Afghanistan with no reasonable expectation of achieving a different outcome.” Although nearly all U.S. troops are set to depart Afghanistan by August, a substantial number—roughly 650—will remain in the country to provide security for the U.S. embassy and Kabul’s international airport.

Drone attacks by Iraqi militias reflect Iran’s waning hold (AP) Iran’s expeditionary Quds Force commander brought one main directive for Iraqi militia faction leaders long beholden to Tehran, when he gathered with them in Baghdad last month: Maintain calm, until after nuclear talks between Iran and the United States. But he was met with defiance. One of the six faction leaders spoke up in their meeting: They could not stay quiet while the death of his predecessor Qassim Soleimani and senior Iraqi militia commander Abu Mahdi al-Muhandis in a U.S. drone strike went unavenged. Militia attacks have only been increasing against the U.S. in military bases in both Iraq and Syria. Three missile attacks in the last week alone resulted in minor injuries, stoking fears of escalation. There have been at least eight drone attacks targeting the U.S. presence since Biden took office in January, as well as 17 rocket attacks, according to coalition officials. The attacks are blamed on the Iranian-backed militias that make up the bulk of Iraq’s state-supported Popular Mobilization Forces. The Biden administration has responded by twice targeting Iraqi militia groups operating inside Syria, including close to the Iraqi border.

Israel levels family home of alleged Palestinian attacker (AP) Israel on Thursday demolished the family home of a Palestinian-American man accused of carrying out a deadly attack on Israelis in the occupied West Bank, rejecting pleas from his estranged wife that he rarely lived in the house, which she shared with their three children. The demolition drew a rebuke from the United States, which is opposed to punitive home demolitions and has taken a more critical line toward Israel’s policies in the occupied West Bank since President Joe Biden took office this year. “The home of an entire family should not be demolished for the actions of one individual,” said U.S. State Department spokesman Ned Price. “There is a critical need to lower the temperature in the West Bank. Punitive demolitions exacerbate tensions at a time when everyone should be focused on principally ensuring calm.”

Religion (Public Religion Research Institute) A new survey of 50,334 Americans over the course of 2020 tracked how religion in the United States has continued to change over recent years. According to the survey, 36 percent of those 18 to 29 years old considered themselves unaffiliated with a religion, substantially higher than the 23 percent of 18 to 29-year-olds who considered themselves as much in 2006, and the 10 percent who were unaffiliated in 1986. That’s also double the rate of religiously unaffiliated compared to those aged 50 to 64. Still, a majority—54 percent—of those 18 to 29 are Christians, though that’s down from the 70 percent of all Americans.

Laughter can make you more productive at work (CNBC) Being inundated with bad news and working from home, for some alone, during the coronavirus pandemic has made it harder than ever for workers to find the time for laughter, but experts argue that it can really make a difference when it comes to productivity. Daniel Sgroi, an economics professor at the U.K.’s University of Warwick, told CNBC via telephone that laughter can trigger the activation of neurotransmitters such as dopamine and serotonin, both of which are considered mood-boosting hormones. Sgroi explained that laughter “fast tracks networks in the brain to help you concentrate and focus,” working as the equivalent of a productivity boost. Research that Sgroi co-authored, published in 2015, found evidence of a link between happiness and productivity. One of the techniques used in his study was to use comedy to make participants laugh and be happier, which he said boosted productivity by up to 12%. “So it’s almost like being happy generates more time,” he said, explaining that someone who is happy might be able to do in one hour what it takes someone who is less happy to do in an hour and 20 minutes.

[wadhwanifoundation]

8 Secrets for Entrepreneurial Millennials

As left-brain skills are getting automated, right-brained, creative, free-spirited millennials are rising beyond the suffocated security of 9-5 jobs.

By Avelo Roy

The digital economy is truly democratising fame, wealth and education, which was majorly available to the privileged class in the past.

Today age, birth, caste does not determine who you become. The digital world is for the consistent hard worker who can smartly predict the waves of opportunities presented by data-hungry apps that allow you to build, create, express without discrimination (as long as it is legal and ethical).

Being born poor is not your fault, but if you die poor, then you have no one to blame. Many millennials are taking charge of their lives plucking opportunities out of thin air and moving out of the comfort zone fuelled by the hunger for wealth, recognition and the need to do something meaningful in life. Nothing wrong with that! It is far better than living at your parent’s expense and wasting time watching TV and complaining about government policies. Yes, that is another side of millennials.

I urge the ambitious, crazy, hungry, skilled millennials to take action NOW!

1) Be a Creator: Whether it is videos, blogs, recipes, products or services. The 1% who shape our world are not those who just consume but are those who create.

2) Learn to Communicate Better: Learn to write & speak better. If you can’t communicate, you will always struggle to get what you deserve, run the risk of paying too much, earning too little, and always feeling like others are bypassing you.

3) Be Ethical: In a world full of fake news and filtered insta-life portrayals, be a fresh breath of genuine, honest self. Question the status quo, stand up for your beliefs and opinions. Be bold, and it’s ok if people are polarised ‘for’ you and ‘against’ you. Better to be surrounded by those that accept your honest self than those who don’t.

4) Be Human: We are used to swiping and clicking for our needs. In the age of AI & automation, stand out of the crowd by being personal, kind, compassionate. Smile, offer sweet words of appreciation, hold the door open for the person after you. Learn to be human again if you want to be relevant in 2030, 2040 & beyond.

5) Be Rooted: Embrace your history, tradition and culture while respecting that of others. Be proud to practice your Indian inheritance of Yoga, meditation, Mahabharata, Gita, Ayurveda & Vedic Mathematics. Let that be your competitive advantage in this westernised world.

6) Be Flexible: It is the easiest thing to see your own point of view as the right one. But learn to respect the ‘other’ point of view even if you disagree. The ability to hold your view and an opposing view simultaneously, appreciating the pros and cons of both, allows you to decide, negotiate and create win-win situations.

7) Go Fast, Be Patient: Speed up your daily progress and goals. Push hard for the quarterly milestones, but be patient for the tangible outcomes to fructify, mature and ripen over time. That’s how the compounding effect works.

8) Good to Great: It’s the last mile that differentiates the good from the great. It is easy to start, hard accept the challenges and complete what you started. 98% will quit. 2% will succeed. Survival of the fittest. That’s how it works.

I have summarised my learnings in these 8 secrets that I have learned from my billionaire mentors, which helped me go from zero to a million by age 22, and which has also worked for 1800+ mentees of mine in India, US, Canada & UK.

About Wadhwani Foundation: Wadhwani Foundation was founded in 2000 by Dr. Romesh Wadhwani, with the primary mission of accelerating #job creation in India and other emerging economies through large-scale initiatives in entrepreneurship, small business growth, #innovation, and #skilling. The Wadhwani Foundation operates in 20 countries, including India, South East Asia (Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines), East Africa (Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda), Southern Africa (South Africa, Botswana, Namibia), West Africa (Nigeria, Ghana), Egypt, and Latin America (Mexico, Brazil, Peru, Chile). The Wadhwani Foundation works in partnership with governments, foundations, corporations, and educational institutes.

To know more about Wadhwani Foundation and its Initiatives: https://www.wfglobal.org Click here to subscribe WF YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC8J1yxr4VDX5KbkACBhMMQA

Connect with us: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wadhwanifoundation Twitter: https://twitter.com/WadhwaniF LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/company/wadhwanifoundationInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/wadhwanifoundation

[nebris]

The Book No One Read

Why Stanislaw Lem’s futurism deserves attention.

I remember well the first time my certainty of a bright future evaporated, when my confidence in the panacea of technological progress was shaken. It was in 2007, on a warm September evening in San Francisco, where I was relaxing in a cheap motel room after two days covering The Singularity Summit, an annual gathering of scientists, technologists, and entrepreneurs discussing the future obsolescence of human beings.            

                   In math, a “singularity” is a function that takes on an infinite value, usually to the detriment of an equation’s sense and sensibility. In physics, the term usually refers to a region of infinite density and infinitely curved space, something thought to exist inside black holes and at the very beginning of the Big Bang. In the rather different parlance of Silicon Valley, “The Singularity” is an inexorably-approaching event in which humans ride an accelerating wave of technological progress to somehow create superior artificial intellects—intellects which with predictable unpredictability then explosively make further disruptive innovations so powerful and profound that our civilization, our species, and perhaps even our entire planet are rapidly transformed into some scarcely imaginable state. Not long after The Singularity’s arrival, argue its proponents, humanity’s dominion over the Earth will come to an end.            

                   I had encountered a wide spectrum of thought in and around the conference. Some attendees overflowed with exuberance, awaiting the arrival of machines of loving grace to watch over them in a paradisiacal post-scarcity utopia, while others, more mindful of history, dreaded the possible demons new technologies could unleash. Even the self-professed skeptics in attendance sensed the world was poised on the cusp of some massive technology-driven transition. A typical conversation at the conference would refer at least once to some exotic concept like whole-brain emulation, cognitive enhancement, artificial life, virtual reality, or molecular nanotechnology, and many carried a cynical sheen of eschatological hucksterism: Climb aboard, don’t delay, invest right now, and you, too, may be among the chosen who rise to power from the ashes of the former world!            

                   Over vegetarian hors d’oeuvres and red wine at a Bay Area villa, I had chatted with the billionaire venture capitalist Peter Thiel, who planned to adopt an “aggressive” strategy for investing in a “positive” Singularity, which would be “the biggest boom ever,” if it doesn’t first “blow up the whole world.” I had talked with the autodidactic artificial-intelligence researcher Eliezer Yudkowsky about his fears that artificial minds might, once created, rapidly destroy the planet. At one point, the inventor-turned-proselytizer
 Ray Kurzweil teleconferenced in to discuss,
among other things, his plans for becoming transhuman, transcending his own biology to 
achieve some sort of
 eternal life. Kurzweil
 believes this is possible, 
even probable, provided he can just live to see
 The Singularity’s dawn, 
which he has pegged at 
sometime in the middle of the 21st century. To this end, he reportedly consumes some 150 vitamin supplements a day.                           

                   Returning to my motel room exhausted each night, I unwound by reading excerpts from an old book, Summa Technologiae. The late Polish author Stanislaw Lem had written it in the early 1960s, setting himself the lofty goal of forging a secular counterpart to the 13th-century Summa Theologica, Thomas Aquinas’s landmark compendium exploring the foundations and limits of Christian theology. Where Aquinas argued for the certainty of a Creator, an immortal soul, and eternal salvation as based on scripture, Lem concerned himself with the uncertain future of intelligence and technology throughout the universe, guided by the tenets of modern science.            

                   To paraphrase Lem himself, the book was an investigation of the thorns of technological roses that had yet to bloom. And yet, despite Lem’s later observation that “nothing ages as fast as the future,” to my surprise most of the book’s nearly half-century-old prognostications concerned the very same topics I had encountered during my days at the conference, and felt just as fresh. Most surprising of all, in subsequent conversations I confirmed my suspicions that among the masters of our technological universe gathered there in San Francisco to forge a transhuman future, very few were familiar with the book or, for that matter, with Lem. I felt like a passenger in a car who discovers a blindspot in the central focus of the driver’s view.            

                   Such blindness was, perhaps, understandable. In 2007, only fragments of Summa Technologiae had appeared in English, via partial translations undertaken independently by the literary scholar Peter Swirski and a German software developer named Frank Prengel. These fragments were what I read in the motel. The first complete English translation, by the media researcher Joanna Zylinska, only appeared in 2013. By Lem’s own admission, from the start the book was a commercial and a critical failure that “sank without a trace” upon its first appearance in print. Lem’s terminology and dense, baroque style is partially to blame—many of his finest points were made in digressive parables, allegories, and footnotes, and he coined his own neologisms for what were, at the time, distinctly over-the-horizon fields. In Lem’s lexicon, virtual reality was “phantomatics,” molecular nanotechnology was “molectronics,” cognitive enhancement was “cerebromatics,” and biomimicry and the creation of artificial life was “imitology.” He had even coined a term for search-engine optimization, a la Google: “ariadnology.” The path to advanced artificial intelligence he called the “technoevolution” of “intellectronics.”            

                   Even now, if Lem is known at all to the vast majority of the English-speaking world, it is chiefly for his authorship of Solaris, a popular 1961 science-fiction novel that spawned two critically acclaimed film adaptations, one by Andrei Tarkovsky and another by Steven Soderbergh. Yet to say the prolific author only wrote science fiction would be foolishly dismissive. That so much of his output can be classified as such is because so many of his intellectual wanderings took him to the outer frontiers of knowledge.            

                   Lem was a polymath, a voracious reader who devoured not only the classic literary canon, but also a plethora of research journals, scientific periodicals, and popular books by leading researchers. His genius was in standing on the shoulders of scientific giants to distill the essence of their work, flavored with bittersweet insights and thought experiments that linked their mathematical abstractions to deep existential mysteries and the nature of the human condition. For this reason alone, reading Lem is an education, wherein one may learn the deep ramifications of breakthroughs such as Claude Shannon’s development of information theory, Alan Turing’s work on computation, and John von Neumann’s exploration of game theory. Much of his best work entailed constructing analyses based on logic with which anyone would agree, then showing how these eminently reasonable premises lead to astonishing conclusions. And the fundamental urtext for all of it, the wellspring from which the remainder of his output flowed, is Summa Technologiae.            

                   The core of the book is a heady mix of evolutionary biology, thermodynamics—the study of energy flowing through a system—and cybernetics, a diffuse field pioneered in the 1940s by Norbert Wiener studying how feedback loops can automatically regulate the behavior of machines and organisms. Considering a planetary civilization this way, Lem posits a set of feedbacks between the stability of a society and its degree of technological development. In its early stages, Lem writes, the development of technology is a self-reinforcing process that promotes homeostasis, the ability to maintain stability in the face of continual change and increasing disorder. That is, incremental advances in technology tend to progressively increase a society’s resilience against disruptive environmental forces such as pandemics, famines, earthquakes, and asteroid strikes. More advances lead to more protection, which promotes more advances still.                           

                   And yet, Lem argues, that same technology-driven positive feedback loop is also an Achilles heel for planetary civilizations, at least for ours here on Earth. As advances in science and technology accrue and the pace of discovery continues its acceleration, our society will approach an “information barrier” beyond which our brains—organs blindly, stochastically shaped by evolution for vastly different purposes—can no longer efficiently interpret and act on the deluge of information.            

                   Past this point, our civilization should reach the end of what has been a period of exponential growth in science and technology. Homeostasis will break down, and without some major intervention, we will collapse into a “developmental crisis” from which we may never fully recover. Attempts to simply muddle through, Lem writes, would only lead to a vicious circle of boom-and-bust economic bubbles as society meanders blindly down a random, path-dependent route of scientific discovery and technological development. “Victories, that is, suddenly appearing domains of some new wonderful activity,” he writes, “will engulf us in their sheer size, thus preventing us from noticing some other opportunities—which may turn out to be even more valuable in the long run.”            

                   Lem thus concludes that if our technological civilization is to avoid falling into decay, human obsolescence in one form or another is unavoidable. The sole remaining option for continued progress would then be the “automatization of cognitive processes” through development of algorithmic “information farms” and superhuman artificial intelligences. This would occur via a sophisticated plagiarism, the virtual simulation of the mindless, brute-force natural selection we see acting in biological evolution, which, Lem dryly notes, is the only technique known in the universe to construct philosophers, rather than mere philosophies.            

The result is a disconcerting paradox, which Lem expresses early in the book: To maintain control of our own fate, we must yield our
agency to minds exponentially more powerful than our own, created through processes we cannot entirely understand, and hence potentially unknowable to us. This is the basis for Lem’s explorations of The Singularity, and in describing its consequences he reaches many conclusions that most of its present-day acolytes would share. But there is a difference between the typical modern approach and Lem’s, not in degree, but in kind.

                   Unlike the commodified futurism now so common in the bubble-worlds of Silicon Valley billionaires, Lem’s forecasts weren’t really about seeking personal enrichment from market fluctuations, shiny new gadgets, or simplistic ideologies of “disruptive innovation.” In Summa Technologiae and much of his subsequent work, Lem instead sought to map out the plausible answers to questions that today are too often passed over in silence, perhaps because they fail to neatly fit into any TED Talk or startup business plan: Does technology control humanity, or does humanity control technology? Where are the absolute limits for our knowledge and our achievement, and will these boundaries be formed by the fundamental laws of nature or by the inherent limitations of our psyche? If given the ability to satisfy nearly any material desire, what is it that we actually would want?            

                   Lem’s explorations of these questions are dominated by his obsession with chance, the probabilistic tension between chaos and order as an arbiter of human destiny. He had a deep appreciation for entropy, the capacity for disorder to naturally, spontaneously arise and spread, cursing some while sparing others. It was an appreciation born from his experience as a young man in Poland before, during, and after World War II, where he saw chance’s role in the destruction of countless dreams, and where, perhaps by pure chance alone, his Jewish heritage did not result in his death. “We were like ants bustling in an anthill over which the heel of a boot is raised,” he wrote in Highcastle, an autobiographical memoir. “Some saw its shadow, or thought they did, but everyone, the uneasy included, ran about their usual business until the very last minute, ran with enthusiasm, devotion—to secure, to appease, to tame the future.” From the accumulated weight of those experiences, Lem wrote in the New Yorker in 1986, he had “come to understand the fragility that all systems have in common,” and “how human beings behave under extreme conditions—how their behavior when they are under enormous pressure is almost impossible to predict.”            

                   To Lem (and, to their credit, a sizeable number of modern thinkers), the Singularity is less an opportunity than a question mark, a multidimensional crucible in which humanity’s future will be forged.            

                   I couldn’t help thinking of Lem’s question mark that summer in 2007. Within and around the gardens surrounding the neoclassical Palace of Fine Arts Theater where the Singularity Summit was taking place, dark and disruptive shadows seemed to loom over the plans and aspirations of the gathered well-to-do. But they had precious little to do with malevolent superintelligences or runaway nanotechnology. Between my motel and the venue, panhandlers rested along the sidewalk, or stood with empty cups at busy intersections, almost invisible to everyone. Walking outside during one break between sessions, I stumbled across a homeless man defecating between two well-manicured bushes. Even within the context of the conference, hints of desperation sometimes tinged the not-infrequent conversations about raising capital; the subprime mortgage crisis was already unfolding that would, a year later, spark the near-collapse of the world’s financial system. While our society’s titans of technology were angling for advantages to create what they hoped would be the best of all possible futures, the world outside reminded those who would listen that we are barely in control even today.                         

                   I attended two more Singularity Summits, in 2008 and 2009, and during that three-year period, all the much-vaunted performance gains in various technologies seemed paltry against a more obvious yet less-discussed pattern of accelerating change: the rapid, incessant growth in global ecological degradation, economic inequality, and societal instability. Here, forecasts tend to be far less rosy than those for our future capabilities in information technology. They suggest, with some confidence, that when and if we ever breathe souls into our machines, most of humanity will not be dreaming of transcending their biology, but of fresh water, a full belly, and a warm, safe bed. How useful would a superintelligent computer be if it was submerged by storm surges from rising seas or dis- connected from a steady supply of electricity? Would biotech-boosted personal longevity be worthwhile in a world ravaged by armed, angry mobs of starving, displaced people? More than once I have wondered why so many high technologists are more concerned by as- yet-nonexistent threats than the much more mundane and all-too-real ones literally right before their eyes.            

                   Lem was able to speak to my experience of the world outside the windows of the Singularity conference. A thread of humanistic humility runs through his work, a hard-gained certainty that technological development too often takes place only in service of our most primal urges, rewarding individual greed over the common good. He saw our world as exceedingly fragile, contingent upon a truly astronomical number of coincidences, where the vagaries of the human spirit had become the most volatile variables of all.            

                   It is here that we find Lem’s key strength as a futurist. He refused to discount human nature’s influence on transhuman possibilities, and believed that the still-incomplete task of understanding our strengths and weaknesses as human beings was a crucial prerequisite for all speculative pathways to any post-Singularity future. Yet this strength also leads to what may be Lem’s great weakness, one which he shares with today’s hopeful transhumanists: an all-too-human optimism that shines through an otherwise-dispassionate darkness, a fervent faith that, when faced with the challenge of a transhuman future, we will heroically plunge headlong into its depths. In Lem’s view, humans, as imperfect as we are, shall always strive to progress and improve, seeking out all that is beautiful and possible rather than what may be merely convenient and profitable, and through this we may find salvation. That we might instead succumb to complacency, stagnation, regression, and extinction is something he acknowledges but can scarcely countenance. In the end, Lem, too, was seduced—though not by quasi-religious notions of personal immortality, endless growth, or cosmic teleology, but instead by the notion of an indomitable human spirit.            

                   Like many other ideas from Summa Technologiae, this one finds its best expression in one of Lem’s works of fiction, his 1981 novella Golem XIV, in which a self-programming military supercomputer that has bootstrapped itself into sentience delivers a series of lectures critiquing evolution and humanity. Some would say it is foolish to seek truth in fiction, or to draw equivalence between an imaginary character’s thoughts and an author’s genuine beliefs, but for me the conclusion is inescapable. When the novella’s artificial philosopher makes its pronouncements through a connected vocoder, it is the human voice of Lem that emerges, uttering a prophecy of transcendence that is at once his most hopeful—and perhaps, in light of trends today, his most erroneous:            

                   “I feel that you are entering an age of metamorphosis; that you will decide to cast aside your entire history, your entire heritage and all that remains of natural humanity—whose image, magnified into beautiful tragedy, is the focus of the mirrors of your beliefs; that you will advance (for there is no other way), and in this, which for you is now only a leap into the abyss, you will find a challenge, if not a beauty; and that you will proceed in your own way after all, since in casting off man, man will save himself.”            

Freelance writer Lee Billings is the author of Five Billion Years of Solitude: The Search for Life Among the Stars.  

 https://getpocket.com/explore/item/the-book-no-one-read       

Summa Technologiae  https://publicityreform.github.io/findbyimage/readings/lem.pdf

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: x

because no episode today and I obviously have many feelings. I am sorry that the quotes above the readmore still look messed up, because tumblr is a stupid website with stupid problems. it should be fine once you click through to the blog, or on mobile, or as a reblog. or just read it on AO3. idek.

part ix/AO3.

In any other circumstances, the fact that Garcia Flynn is presently crushed in the backseat of a vehicle that can only generously be described as “economy size” would be the worst thing about this situation. His knees are practically rammed through his chin, he may develop a permanent crick in his back from hunching, and he suspects, from catching her smirks at him in the rearview mirror, that Emma goddamn Whitmore is thoroughly enjoying watching him suffer. Except, of course, that this isn’t the worst thing about the situation. Emma is in the driver’s seat, left hand on the wheel and right hand cuffed to Lucy’s – she doesn’t have the box cutter blade at her wrist any more, but Flynn can’t try to dive forward and grab the wheel (assuming he could even get up enough leverage to move) without hitting Lucy, and then obviously endangering her in any resulting crash. If it was just him, he might take his chances, but her –

He blinks hard until the memory that has just flashed through his brain goes away, and tries to focus on the task at hand. He doesn’t know where Emma is taking them, or who they might be meeting. He’s still trying to figure out how this just went so terribly, horribly, no-good-very-badly wrong. Should have guessed that Wyatt Logan sending them a too-good-to-be-true willing Rittenhouse defector was some kind of trick – and frankly, Flynn wondered, but ignored it. Getting the files was more important. And now the files turned out to be a fat lot of nothing, and he has no idea what the situation is, much less how to get them out of it. All his training is screaming at him that this is what you avoid, you have no control, and you especially don’t want to get mixed up in it with a non-combatant. Wonderful.

Lucy sits stiffly in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, as Emma pulls out. They seem to be heading for the interstate – 95, if Flynn had to guess. They drive in silence for several minutes. Too much to ask that she at least put the fucking radio on. Then Lucy says, with admirable composure considering that this is the second time in less than six weeks that she’s been snatched by Rittenhouse, “So where are we going?”

“Just to sort some things out.” Emma accelerates up the merge ramp – yes, 95 northbound, they’re headed somewhere in New England. Flynn’s mind reels feverishly through potential Rittenhouse possibilities or important sites in the area. He isn’t entirely sure that Emma is working for them, as her statement in the library left just enough ambiguity that she could be in this for herself, or Mason Industries, or even as a double or triple agent, but it has to be deemed the most likely. “You’re in no danger, princess, as long as you cooperate.”

“Stop calling me that,” Lucy says through her teeth. Flynn could have warned her that this was a mistake; never show your enemy that they’re getting to you. “And yeah, the threatening me with a box cutter part made me feel really safe.”

“That was just to get his attention.” Emma throws an amused look over her shoulder at the fuming Flynn. “He doesn’t really do subtle. I had to prevent him from doing something stupid. Stupider, that is. It was the most direct.”

“So what was that beforehand?” Flynn barks, not that he has any expectation of a proper answer. “Show up playing the wounded fawn, run away from your evil overlords, want to go to London – that was all a lie?”

“Oh no. I want to go to London. It’s important to get our overseas operation established, just like I said. That was entirely true.”

“Overseas operation meaning Mason Industries or Rittenhouse?”

Emma gives him a demure, nasty little smirk, enjoying even more the fact that she isn’t going to tell him. Flynn curses viciously under his breath. He’s gotten himself into a lot of dicey situations, admittedly, but this ranks up there. He makes a mental note to throttle Wyatt when he sees him again – it won’t fix anything, but it will make him feel better. Assuming he does see him again. It has not escaped Flynn’s attention that Emma has promised Lucy’s safety in exchange for her cooperation, but said nothing about him. Well, he’s been a major pain in Rittenhouse’s ass for several months now, and if he had gotten a proper chance, would in fact have rushed back to the Bay Area with the intention of destroying this purported time machine, no matter what. Great way to make friends with a multi-billionaire tech mogul and all his likewise important buddies, but Flynn has never cared about making friends.

There is silence for another few minutes as they drive. Emma cuts someone off, they honk, and she raises her middle finger without looking back, in a gesture of such utterly unconcerned fuck-you that Flynn almost (almost) can’t help but admire it, considering that is how he operates most of the time. Then Lucy says, “So the turning up and promising to help us research Rittenhouse – that was strategic, wasn’t it? Get a few boxes of unimportant papers, make it look like you were really helping, find out how much we knew, and not actually give anything away. But why bring in the Nicholas Keynes stuff?”

“You might have really learned something, if you looked at those,” Emma remarks lightly. “They were mostly for your benefit, Lucy. But your boyfriend blew it.”

“He’s – not my boyfriend.”

“Oh? So when I walked in and you were about to run into each other with your faces, you just tripped and ended up that way, did you?”

Flynn can make out the flush in Lucy’s cheeks, even without her turning around. He looks down, just because whatever is on his own face, he thinks it’s better if neither of them see it. He clenches his fists, trying to forget the sensation of touching her, after diligently avoiding it for several days, since – well. And then since all his self-control went out the damn window when he did, perhaps it’s for the best, in a sick way, that Emma interrupted them. Definitely not the opportune moment, but when it comes to this, when could it possibly be?

Some interminable time passes in silence. There is obviously not a lot to gab about on a road trip with your mortal enemy, after all. They seem to be heading for New York – there have to be half a dozen Rittenhouse installations there, don’t tell Flynn that Donald Trump isn’t up to his ears in it – but Emma bypasses the city, continuing up 287. Apparently they are headed upstate, though how far isn’t clear. They can’t really do anything (or rather, Flynn can’t do anything) until they arrive, though he refuses to give Emma the satisfaction of asking if they are there yet. (It might annoy her, at least, but still.) Finally they take the freeway exit for West Point, and Flynn’s hackles go up. Are they visiting the academy? What the hell is going on there – target practice, using him? Emma’s got his damn gun. Shit.

Flynn is almost inclined to be relieved when they do not drive through the gates of a heavily secured military facility, but rather down a bumpy dirt road to a stately old house at the end. It looks like a colonial museum, handsomely restored, but the two black cars parked out front makes it clear that they’re not expecting hordes of Nikon-wearing tourists and their sticky-fingered offspring to descend. This is… not necessarily an improvement. If they disappear out here, nobody is likely to be any the wiser.

Emma parks the car and opens the driver door, swinging out. Since her right wrist is still cuffed to Lucy’s left, Lucy obviously cannot get out the passenger door, but is dragged awkwardly after her, banging her shoulder into the gearshift and getting her shoulder wrenched over her head in a way that looks painful. Flynn reminds himself that he needs to be careful, but his blood is boiling and he is sick of being careful. He’s already broken the cardinal rule, has let his enemy transport them from the scene of the crime – even basic police advice tells you that if your assailant takes you somewhere else after they nab you, they’re planning to rape and/or kill you. This is deep on their ground, and Emma has his gun. He is going to have to get that back posthaste.

Flynn yanks the door open and bursts out of the car, wrathful as only a six-foot-four man who has been packed in an orange crate to be kidnapped possibly can be. Emma jerks Lucy pointedly in front of her. “Watch it with the sudden moves.”

The whites of Lucy’s eyes are showing, but she’s calm. Coldly she says, “What was that about how I was in no danger as long as I cooperated?”

“Are you cooperating?” Emma asks – fairly enough, Flynn supposes, but he still hates this woman with every inch of him. “I’m not sure.”

“Yes, well, you people don’t really make it easy to like you, do you?” Lucy explodes. “At least Cahill tried the sweet-talking approach, get me a dream job, see the world, all the stuff that an ordinary human might like! This, now – ” she rattles the handcuff – “just went straight for the ropes and chains, didn’t you?”

“Look.” Emma seems impatient. “Just tell him not to make any trouble, and this can be a lot easier for everyone. Like I said, it’s really him we want. You just happened to get in the way. I can’t release you just yet, because you would run off and call someone and make it messy, but stop fighting me. You might not believe it, but this is the gloves on. I have orders to treat you gently. But out here – ” she waves at the house – “who knows if I do?”

A chill goes down Flynn’s spine. He’s met a lot of people in a lot of wars, some of whom like killing and some who do it because it’s their job, and he is belatedly realizing that yes, that wounded-fawn act, even if it didn’t entirely take him in, has blinded him to Emma Whitmore’s full danger. Not because she’s a woman; it has nothing to do with that. Just that she straight-up wants power (he thinks that’s Rittenhouse’s lure on her, at any rate), wants control, wants pain, and she has been given plenty of enjoyable opportunities to explore her talents. He doesn’t know what she has in there. He has to get Lucy out of this.

“Fine,” Flynn says in a growl. “I’ll play nice, for the time being.” The tone of his voice leaves it clear that if Emma takes her eyes off him for an instant, she’s dead, but she probably expected that. “Now let’s get this over with, huh?”

Emma smirks primly, then turns and starts toward the door, Lucy perforce accompanying her. She enters a code in a secret keypad, too many digits for Flynn to follow, and the door swings open, leading them into a dim, dusty front hall. An elegant chandelier tumbles crystal droplets from the ceiling, a grand staircase leads off into the gloom, and by the reverent look on Emma’s face, they might be walking into some old cathedral, some hallowed hall of power. Flynn doesn’t know what this is, but when Emma opens a glassed French door and they step into a study crammed to the brim with clocks, his stomach begins to turn. Clocks of every description, large and small, ancient mahogany grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks, handsome brass navigation instruments, ornate gilded ones that look as if they’ve been ripped from a fin-de-siècle train station, fancy golden pocket watches in various stages of assembly and repair… a mad clockmaker’s lair. And the thing David Rittenhouse was known for, aside from astronomy, was –

“Yes.” Emma seems to have been following the process of realization on his face. “This is Rittenhouse’s house. You don’t realize how lucky you are, you both are, getting to see a special place like this. Ah, Millerson, Vincent. About time, boys.”

Flynn glances up to see two men, clearly the owners of the cars outside, entering the study from the other side. They both are wearing suits and have sidearms strapped to their torsos, as well as any other possible number of hidden weaponry, and they are not here to appreciate the historical value of the place. (Well, maybe, but still.) These are clearly Emma’s Rittenhouse cohorts, the muscle of the goon squad, and they come to a halt, looking at her for orders. It’s clear that she isn’t just some random piece in the system, but one of its essential and high-ranking cogs. Of course, they’d want their agent in Mason Industries, right next to the time machine, to be one of their best and brightest. Flynn feels sick.

“Got him,” Emma says briefly, jerking her head at Flynn. “It wasn’t even that hard. Like I said, don’t send a man to do a woman’s job. Boys, you take him upstairs to debrief him. We need a full and complete account of everything he knows, everyone he might have passed intel to, all his sources of information, how long he’s been on the case – everywhere. We need to make sure we have it airtight, any more leaks cut off. I know about Logan, we’ll be dealing with him, but anything else – remember you need him to talk.”

“Good luck with that,” Flynn snarls. “I’m not going to.”

Emma eyes him again, then rattles her handcuffed wrist, making Lucy’s arm shake. “Are you?”

That takes him like a punch in the gut. They can beat up on him all they want, but if they go after Lucy – and these people are exactly the kind who would do that – he doesn’t know if Emma is bluffing, if Lucy’s pureblood status (and where has he heard that before?) is enough to protect her. Lucy has rejected Rittenhouse, after all, and made things plenty difficult on her own. But if – but if –

For the moment while Flynn’s defenses are down, Millerson and Vincent swoop in on either side, grabbing hold of his arms and twisting them behind his back. They march him away – they’re good-sized gents, but it’s still taking considerable effort from them both – and up toward the stairs. He doesn’t know whether to fight. He thinks he hears Lucy yell, but then the door slams behind him, and he is in darkness.

Once the women are alone in the creepy clockmaker parlor from nightmare land, Emma undoes the cuff from her own wrist, fastens it to the old sofa instead, and obliges Lucy to sit down with a short push. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Be real,” Lucy snaps. “Like I’m drinking anything you’d give me.”

“What, princess? Think I’d give you a poisoned apple?”

“I don’t know, wicked stepsister. You might.”

“Wicked stepsister?” Emma laughs. “That’s the best you can come up with? It’s almost kind of adorable. As I said, you’re still safe, for now. But it might be a long wait.”

Lucy doesn’t answer, because she is straining with every inch of her to hear any sound from beyond the door, or from upstairs. Flynn was shot barely a month ago, she saw the wounds herself, they’re not totally healed. If they start hitting him in his bad shoulder, or pulling out the waterboard or the pliers or whatever other terrible idea they have – Rittenhouse’s idea of debriefing him is clearly not going to be a pleasant and gentle experience. This must be a major Rittenhouse black site. If she ever did get back to a godforsaken normal life, could she call someone and tell them to check David Rittenhouse’s mansion in West Point – Lucy never knew he lived in New York, what was he doing here? Or would they get here and find nothing but a handsome old historical house, all illicit tracks expertly covered, or a Rittenhouse agent waiting to shoot them and hide the corpse in the root cellar? It might be a regular Cask of Amontillado situation down there. Her heart is hammering in her ears. Oh God, oh God, this is bad. She has not the first idea of how to fight her way out of this.

“So,” Emma says at last. “You and Flynn, huh? Garcia Flynn. I suppose he’s cute in a tall-dark-and-psycho Eastern European way, but really, what else does he have going for him?”

Lucy cannot believe that Emma really thinks they will sit here and girlfriend-gossip about boys (she probably doesn’t, she’s just trying to get under Lucy’s skin) and thus maintains a dignified silence. It’s broken by a distinct thump from overhead, and Emma’s eyes swing up toward the ceiling. In that, despite the fact that she very much is still handcuffed to an antique piece of furniture, has only that Krav Maga class going for her, and is terrified out of her wits, Lucy Preston lurches (it is not nearly anything as graceful as leaps) into action.

She jumps up, wrenching her wrist in the cuff, but manages to headbutt Emma solidly under the chin, hard enough to make her teeth click. Lucy shoves a hand into Emma’s jacket and her groping fingers find the butt of Flynn’s gun, which she hauls out, trying to find the safety and switch it off. She somehow manages it, clicks the trigger to cock it, points it at the chain, and shoots.

The sound of the gunshot at close range is deafening, making her madly flash back to seeing Flynn shot in front of her in the car, and it’s like using a flamethrower to kill an ant, but it does the job. Lucy pulls her freed wrist out of the blown-apart couch, feathers floating everywhere, just in time to hear another heavy clunk, and freeze. Emma has recovered herself enough to grab a spare gun from a nearby drawer, which she is pointing dead at Lucy’s head with hands far steadier and more accurate than Lucy’s own. “I wouldn’t do that. Princess.”

The tension crackles almost unbearably as they stare at each other, as Lucy struggles with the idea of pointing it at Emma, at some vital part of her, and actually doing it. Not that there is any guarantee she’d make it, since it would be the grand total of a second time she has fired a gun and beginner’s luck is nothing to count on in this situation, but still. She feels nauseous even trying to train it on Emma’s arm or shoulder, much less her head or heart. She is not Annie Oakley, cannot shoot the gun deftly out of Emma’s grip without hurting her. And frankly – Emma has hurt them, has her thugs upstairs probably beating holy hell out of Flynn, works for an incredibly evil organization and enjoys it remorselessly – does she deserve to be treated nicely? Does she deserve to die?

Lucy can’t breathe, can’t focus, feels like she’s having a panic attack, which is obviously not conducive to firing a gun in any circumstance, much less this one. Her hands rattle hard enough to make the muzzle wobble crazily in all directions. Emma clearly doesn’t think she can or will do it, but she’s not an amateur; she’s not going to laugh off someone with motive to want her dead pointing a heavy Glock at her. Her eyes don’t leave Lucy, waiting to see what she’s going to do, what she’ll possibly –

And just then, there’s a sound at the door, it opens. One of the goons has clearly heard the gunshot and rushed down here. “Emma?” It’s Millerson. “Emma, are you – ”

“Ryan, you idiot, don’t – ”

Lucy swings around, brings the gun up, and fires in the direction of the door. There is a yell and a heavy stumbling sound, and she ducks low and sprints across the parlor. There’s another door on the far side, she doesn’t know if it leads upstairs as well – Emma is shouting, swearing – Lucy hit Millerson somewhere, he doesn’t sound like he’s dead, but she shot him, put the gun against his head pulled the trigger now he’s – no, she didn’t, he’s not, not Bohemian Rhapsody, not now, this is stupid, this is demented, this is –

There’s a staircase on the far side, which Lucy hurtles up, not sure what she’s going to find at the top and not sure she wants to, but driven on with blind panic. Halfway up, she runs very hard into someone coming down, screams (or tries – it gets choked in her throat as a gurgling squeal) and raises the gun again, just as they grab it. “Lucy! Jesus!”

She almost faints again, for a different reason. It’s Flynn, blood running down his face and shirt torn, as he wrenches what is, after all, his own gun out of her hand. This is probably a wise idea, as he can be much more effective with it, and by the looks of things, he caught Vincent in a moment of distraction after Millerson had hurried downstairs to check the gunshot. Vincent is probably soundly unconscious on the floor, if Flynn didn’t have time to do anything else, Lucy hopes he’s dead, with a savage, burning need that scares her. She hopes he's fucking dead.

There is a lot of banging and crashing behind them, and Flynn grabs Lucy’s hand, half-throws her over his shoulder (they seem to spend a lot of time escaping from Rittenhouse-owned properties in this fashion) and runs down the back corridor. They reach a door, which he wrenches open, and they spill out abruptly into the muggy spring afternoon beyond, into the thick tangles of untrimmed greenery that abut the back of the house. They bash and barge through it, branches lashing at Lucy’s face as Flynn does his best to break a path, feet slipping out from beneath them in six inches of mud. Nonetheless, they keep running, sliding down gravel and splashing through a murky green rivulet, through more trees on the far side, and finally out into an abandoned play park, which is exactly as creepy as it sounds, but looks like a warm and sunny daycare after the Rittenhouse of Rittenhorrors. Graffiti defaces the slide, the swings hang off their chains, and by the looks of things, local teenagers or junkies come here at night to get high. Lucy sways, grips hold of the monkey bar post, and goes to her knees, hoping not to stab herself on a stray heroin needle. Then she is very sick.

Flynn is likewise breathing as if they have been chased by a train, but he crouches next to her, almost but not quite putting a hand on her back, as if she is still a piece of dangerous ordnance that will explode if approached unwisely. “Lucy,” he says hoarsely. “Lucy?”

Lucy can’t answer, because she’s still throwing up, but finally spits and shudders, remaining on her knees, hair hanging loose in her face. She can feel herself shaking, a fine and constant tremor, and doesn’t know how to make herself stop. Her wrist is still in the cuff, the broken chain dangling. She feels half as if she is watching this remotely from above. Shock, she thinks. This is called shock. It’s entirely understandable, but you should have a blanket and somewhere to put your feet up. Probably also liquids and deep breathing.

All of those things seem as far away as Mars at the moment, and she retches once more, but doesn’t bring up anything except a dribble of sour bile. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Her voice is hoarse and deep when she speaks. “What’re… we going to do?”

“We need to get out of here.” Flynn glances edgily back in search of pursuit. If Vincent is unconscious or dead, and Millerson is shot, hopefully Emma has been delayed, but they would clearly be foolish to think it was forever, and they’re still far too close. “Can you walk?”

Lucy obediently tries to struggle to her feet, but her knees immediately give out, and Flynn catches her, swinging her across his chest as he did on their escape from the first Rittenhouse shindig back in Marin County. (That one looks much more civilized and preferable, really – maybe Cahill is not so bad after all.) She can feel him shaking too, ever so slightly, as she tucks her head under his chin and buries her face in his shoulder. There is a wet spot of fresh blood on his shirt where the thugs must have broken his scab, and she shifts restlessly, pressing her hand to it. “Garcia, you’re…”

“Shh.” Flynn doesn’t break stride. “It’s fine, it’s nothing.”

“What did they – did they – ?” To judge from that and the blood on his head, he must have taken at least a few good licks, but thank God they didn’t get enough time to really dig in and go to town. “Are they – did you – ”

“I didn’t tell them.” Flynn hesitates. “Much.”

In that, Lucy can sense that whatever he did tell them, however deliberately misleading and unhelpful, was to make it sound as if he was cooperating, so they would not have any occasion to try to hurt her. Her abused heart clenches almost unbearably. They have crossed some kind of Rubicon here, some point of no return. Rittenhouse is not going to stop. They are going to keep looking for Flynn – and for Lucy, and probably for Wyatt, by the sounds of things. They’re not going to stop. They’re not going to stop.

Lucy falls into a fevered half-doze despite herself, worn out with exhaustion and terror, as Flynn keeps going. Finally, she stirs as he is stepping into the parking lot of some backwoods motel, two-story whitewashed cinderblock with garish pink doors. Flynn goes in and tells the receptionist there’s been a hiking accident, his wife is hurt, they really could use a room, at least for a few hours. He will take care of phoning the emergency services, and he has a little money, but still – if she could find it in her heart –

The receptionist, clearly alarmed by their appearance and hoping this is not the start of a TV horror series, quickly agrees. Five minutes later, Flynn is awkwardly unlocking the door of the end second-story room, carrying Lucy through, and setting her down on the bed with its polyester floral bedspread. The portable air conditioner wheezes in the grey, stuffy air. He shuts the door and swears, for which Lucy can’t really blame him in the least.

“Is this going to be our life now?” she asks weakly, eyes closed. “Hiding out in shitty hotel rooms from Rittenhouse? Running from one to the next? Having to hope we don’t get caught and do it all over again?”

Flynn doesn’t answer. It’s plain that he can’t, that he has no idea, that he has not had anything to recommend him at keeping her safe – that every time he reappears in her life, trouble and danger inevitably follows. Lucy cracks an eye to see him still standing there, staring down at her. Then he sits down on the bed and carefully picks the handcuff off her wrist, smoothing his callused fingers lightly along the abrasion. “Did Emma hurt you?”

“No, she…” Lucy feels her stomach revolting again, even though there’s nothing left to bring up, and pushes herself clumsily upright. Flynn is looking down at her hand, very small between both of his, still not quite meeting her eyes. “She just. . . she said I was safe for the time being, and gloated. I… startled her, I stole your gun and got the chain off, and…” Her words stutter to a stop. “I shot Millerson.”

At that, Flynn does lift his gaze, startled and pained. He looks at her for a very long moment, the way she can’t stop her lip from trembling, the way her eyes are wet, how she feels as fragile as porcelain. It’s clear he can’t quite decide how he wants to respond to that. He lifts one of his hands as if to tuck her hair behind her ear, still not entirely touching her. At last he says, “Did you kill him?”

“I don’t think so.” Lucy’s stomach turns over once more – and then, weirdly, it stops. She should be feeling worse about this. She, like any godless liberal academic, has plenty of opinions about American gun culture, about gun control (or lack thereof), about all the ways it’s ridiculously easy to kill someone in this country even if you aren’t part of an evil secret society. And while she does feel bad, obviously, it’s a worryingly less degree than she should. She might be able to do it again. She might be able to shoot somewhere less easily mended. This is not, is not, how Lucy wants to feel about it. And yet.

Flynn glances at her under his eyelashes again, her hand still in his, which Lucy feels as if she shouldn’t remind him of in case he pulls back. Finally he says, gruff and awkward, “Well. Good – good job. Getting away from them. Someone should teach you how to properly shoot, though. In case it happens again.”

Lucy does not want to know how to properly shoot. She wants to go home to her books and her papers and the safe, ordered, settled nature of her old life, which might have had its problems but at least was not an active turd volcano. She doesn’t know why Flynn still won’t entirely touch her or why she even wants him to, doesn’t know, doesn’t know. She is the one to pull her hand loose this time, and stands up. Has an overwhelming urge to wash until her skin comes off. “I think  I’m going to take a shower.”

Flynn glances at her with a pained and haunted expression. All he can fucking bring himself to say, however, until she almost wants to slap him, is, “Should I go look for some food?”

“If you want. I’m not really hungry.” Lucy sits up, and her head reels. He automatically reaches out to steady her, and their fingers lock. His tension is clearly evident, and after a dumbstruck instant – as if they haven’t been holding hands this entire time, because he has to make everything as difficult as possible, always – he tries to pull back.

Lucy, just then, has had enough. He clearly cares about her, gave up his gun when Emma had a box cutter at her throat, and even before that, in the reading room, he wasn’t exactly cringing in horror from her ugliness. But with this and everything, she isn’t in the mood to just patiently and graciously overlook his inexplicable, yo-yoing behavior one more time. This is not really a smart or healthy thing to do, but neither has been the rest of it. Lucy leans forward, catches his chin clumsily in her hand, and kisses him.

After all this time, and their multiple near misses, it’s – well, it’s as exactly as awkward as kissing someone you can’t decide if you love or hate for the first time, angry and messed up and just off a near-death experience, can possibly be. Lucy almost misses his mouth, and their teeth scrape, their noses knock, his head is not at quite the right angle and he momentarily seems to have had a heart attack anyway. His hand floats up, ghosting over her hair. The angle gets adjusted, and she cups her free hand at the back of his neck. His lips open. It turns into a proper kiss for five or ten glorious seconds, Lucy sliding forward on her knees and leaning down into him, eyes half-closed. It feels so much better than shouting at him. Then, since he must have gone too long without making a clanking emotional gaffe, he pulls back, turning his head just enough to separate their mouths. “Lucy. . .”

“Can’t we just. . .” Lucy slides up on him again, knees on either side of his hips. She has solid evidence, if you will, that he does not mind this at all. “For once, can’t we just. . .”

Flynn glances up at her with that same expression from earlier, that almost-anguished, disbelieving, tender, adoring look, that contains all the emotion he is such utter crap at articulating aloud. “You’re not in the right – ” he starts, then stops. “You’re angry, and you’re feeling like you want to lash out, and – you need a shower, Lucy. A shower, and maybe some food, and to sleep. You do.”

This may be, and indeed probably is, entirely true. Lucy, however, is aggravated beyond belief that the one time he’s able to come up with a mature, rational emotional response is the one time she doesn’t want him to. She also can’t tell if this is the “this isn’t the right moment, but we’ll get to it later” kind of gentle shutdown, or the “you’ve definitely read it wrong and I’m trying to let you down nicely” kind. You wouldn’t think so, given everything else, but she has given up on his guessing games. Fine. This has already been the worst day of her life, what else can really go wrong at this point?

Face burning, Lucy collects herself, slides off him, and retreats to the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror until her eyes cross and the image blurs. Then she undresses and turns on the tap, trying to get it past a tepid trickle. The ancient boiler seems incapable of running properly hot, and the water pressure isn’t great either. It feels like standing under a dribble of warm spit, which is far from the soothing deluge that Lucy envisioned, and isn’t helping her tension or her frustration. She runs her hands over her face, through her wet hair, still possessed of the phantom urge to scrub. There’s a hard bar of blue soap that feels like gravel when she scrapes it over her skin. She sits down and watches the water circle the drain. She would like to think she’s handling this relatively well, but she has no idea.

Lucy remains where she is until the water has run completely cold, then gets out of the shower and dries herself with another sandpapery towel. She looks at her clothes and can’t really stomach the idea of putting them back on, doesn’t feel released or relaxed. Finally, she just struggles them back on, fingers fumbling. She doesn’t look at herself in the mirror this time. She’d rather not see.

Flynn is gone when she emerges back into the room, and she goes tense, staring out the window at the mostly-empty motel parking lot. There aren’t either of the black cars that must have belonged to Millerson and Vincent, but that doesn’t mean anything. They could have stolen the decrepit seventies RV parked at the end and turned it into a mobile surveillance unit. Did Flynn leave his gun here? No, that would be stupid. After what just happened, he will probably only be parted from it on pain of literal death. The world is turning out from under her, it feels like the walls are closing in. This isn’t nearly a small enough room to trigger her claustrophobia in the ordinary course of things, but –

Breathe, Lucy instructs herself firmly, locking her knees. You’re fine. You’re fine.

And in fact, since she is, in some terrible way, fine, things level out the next moment. There’s a rattling at the door, and Flynn enters with a brown grocery bag, probably from the general store down the road – this seems like the kind of place that has a general store down the road. He sets it down, regarding her cautiously. “Dinner.”

“I’m – not very hungry.” Lucy turns away, crossing her arms over herself. “If you were thinking of a shower, it’s terrible.”

Flynn raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t immediately respond. The tension in the room is thick as maple syrup, but much less enjoyably so. They have reached the limit of their polarities, cannot continue to be forced apart without some sort of major explosion, but it’s less certain if it would not then be a bigger one if they came closer. The way Flynn is standing just inside the door, watching her warily, is proof of that. They don’t know if they are arguing or on the verge of making out or slapping each other or sobbing (or perhaps that’s only Lucy). She feels like a rack of dishes tilted over and slammed on the floor. Whatever is in the bag smells good, but she can’t get herself worked up to actually eating.

At last, after another painfully awkward silence, Flynn penguin-shuffles closer, digs the food out – looks like a deli chicken special, some rolls, a couple prepackaged Caesar salads and two bottles of fruit juice – and sets it on the table. “Hey,” he says, in that gruff but gentle voice. “Come here, Lucy.”

She pauses, then walks closer, feeling rather light on her feet and glad to sit down. Flynn opens the chicken box and pulls out a leg, then hands it to her. Despite herself, Lucy almost laughs, as he reminds her of a concerned mother bird anxiously testing out the juiciest worm for an ailing nestling and trying to force it down her beak. She nibbles a little, just to placate him, as he stubbornly keeps up the process with torn bits of the bread roll and salad, handing her the juice every so often as if to get her sugars up. As food tends to do, it helps. Lucy’s head settles a little, she feels less fragile and off the handle, able to breathe more deeply and clear out the knot in her chest. “Thanks,” she manages at last. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head, watching her carefully. “Better?”

“Yes.” Lucy lets out a long sigh, then nods timidly at his cooling portion; he’s barely paid any attention to it, too involved with feeding her. “You should eat yours too.”

Flynn shrugs, then economically dispatches it, clearly as an afterthought. The silence has tipped toward the easier, and there is less chance of a stray spark blowing the whole room sky-high, but the conversation is still not bountiful. At last he says, “I still think this is too close, but without a car, we can’t move anywhere tonight. That piece of shit is not worth it.” He aims a disparaging look at the RV. “Tomorrow, when there’s daylight, I’ll find something else.”

By the sound of things, Lucy thinks, Flynn is going to steal a car. This is possibly something she should talk him out of, but she can’t be arsed. She eats a final bite of salad and then pushes it away. “So. . . I’m guessing interviewing at Kenyon would be out?”

“I think you should.” Flynn swigs the last of his juice and tosses it across the room into the garbage, with a casual skill that Lucy can’t help but admire. “Get out of California. Away from all this. It might be safer.”

“And you?” Lucy tries to speak as offhandedly as she can, but her voice trembles. “What are you going to do?”

Flynn’s eyes are shadows beneath his drawn brows. “I’m going to fight them.”

Lucy was afraid of that. She doesn’t know that she expected anything different, or that Flynn would be content to go back to whatever life he used to have before this, but it still turns something over cold in her stomach to hear it confirmed. “Garcia. . . this thing with the time machine, whatever’s going on at Mason Industries, I don’t pretend to understand it, but if that’s the scale of what you’re up against, how can you. . .” How can you do it alone?

Flynn looks back at her steadily, gently, very sadly. “Do I have a choice?”

Lucy doesn’t know. She doesn’t know, doesn’t know if they are both fooling themselves with the comfortable, comforting delusion that she can take the job at Kenyon and recuse herself from all of this. As if moving to Ohio would be any kind of deterrent to Rittenhouse, if they were determined to catch up to her. She could change her name (ha, like that’s a foolproof method). She could move to Australia. She could run. It’s all possible.

And yet. Lucy has tried to run away from Flynn enough times by now, for whatever reasons, that she’s not altogether sure there’s going to be any different result this time. And she doesn’t want to, she still doesn’t want. Yet going with him down this path is unimaginably dark and dangerous, so far out of her comfort zone that it can’t even be spotted with the Hubble Telescope. She doesn’t owe this to him. She doesn’t have to risk it.

And yet.

Lucy leans forward slowly and takes Flynn’s hand where it lies on the table, clenched and tense. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, doesn’t know what the answer is, other than that she wants their stars to align for a little while. She doesn’t want to try another move on him and get shut down again, doesn’t know what his problem (rather, problems) are. Just links their fingers and lets them rest together on the table. It is getting dark in the room. Headlights waver past on the country highway outside, a brief flash of illumination, and fade.

At last, Flynn stirs from his reverie, gently lets go of Lucy’s hand, and stands up. He strips off his shoes and belt, then shucks his shirt, revealing his undershirt beneath. There is more bruising around his wounded shoulder, deep in the muscle and continuing down the arm where Millerson and Vincent must have hit him, and Lucy sucks in a breath. It’s not like there’s much she can actually do for it, but she makes half a move to get up. “Garcia. . .?”

“It’s all right, Lucy.” He prods at it, and grimaces. “You should get some sleep.”

As there is again only one bed in the room, Lucy does not feel up to facing another bizarre repeat of the Sheraton incident, where he insisted on sleeping on the floor and then wouldn’t look at her. Her pulse is fluttering in her throat as she pulls off her own shoes and socks. Taking off her own shirt would leave her in just her bra, and that definitely seems a little too forward. Is he going to flip out again? He’s managing to act remotely normal right now, but who knows. It’s as if he can be a disaster all he pleases, but the instant she’s in worse distress, he somehow acquires the magical ability to pull himself together and try to support her. It’s almost cute, in a tragic way.

Tentative and careful, they get into bed, still in their clothes. Flynn is not insisting on the floor, so there is that, at least. The sheets smell slightly musty, and the pillows are not the most robust item of bedding ever produced. They lie there side by side, staring up at the ceiling, neither of them clearly getting much sleep given the way they jump at small noises. Then very slowly, Lucy lifts her head and moves it to his good shoulder, settling into the broadness of his chest. It’s more comfortable than the scanty pillow, and it makes her feel safer to be close to him (his gun has been left in easy reach on the bedside table). She listens to the beat of his heart, deep and strong and slow, and rests her hand lightly on his arm.

Slowly, tentatively, Flynn wraps his own arm around her, gathering her closer. Lucy edges close against him, curled into his side, still afraid of him going haywire again and doing something else regrettable. But for now, the fragile, unspoken truce is holding, and she could swear he presses the ghost of a kiss to her hair. If she’s not dreaming already. It’s the same way they spent last night (God, was it just last night?) in the same hotel bed, and yet something, yet again, has changed. Later. She’ll work it out later.

Lucy closes her eyes, and although she hears screaming in her head, she sleeps.

[bbcbreakingnews]

Did billionaire tobacco heiress get away with murder?

A billionaire tobacco heiress who was America’s richest woman may have murdered a man she said died in an accident, it has been claimed.

Doris Duke, who died in 1993 aged 80, had been a source of fascination in the United States throughout her remarkable life.

The daughter of James Buchanan Duke, who pioneered modern cigarette making, Duke’s fortune was estimated at her death to be $1.3 billion.

On October 6, 1966, Eduardo Tirella, Duke’s confidant and interior stylist, died in a car crash at Duke’s seafront estate, Rough Point, in Newport, Rhode Island.

Duke insisted it was an accident.

Doris Duke, who died in 1993 aged 80, insisted that Eduardo Tirella’s death was an accident

Yet on Thursday Vanity Fair published an in-depth report suggesting that Tirella, 42, had in fact been murdered by Duke, in retaliation for Tirella no longer wanting to work for her.

‘She hated the idea of him leaving her,’ said Pola Zanay, 86, an artist and longtime friend of Tirella’s.

Tirella had designed all four of Duke’s homes – in New Jersey, Bel Air, Honolulu, and Newport.

But he had just finished advising on a new Tony Curtis film, Don’t Make Waves, and his Hollywood career was on the rise. 

Encouraged by his boyfriend Edmund Kara, a prominent sculptor, Tirella wanted to move to the West Coast full time, severing his links with Duke, and spending more time with the designers, musicians, and actors he counted as friends – among them Richard Burton, David Niven, James Coburn, and Sharon Tate. 

Duke and her attorney Aram Arabian, pictured leaving court in 1971 following a negligence suit

Johnny Nutt, Duke’s former gardener, told the magazine there had been a serious row at the house after Tirella arrived. 

‘Miss Duke and Mr Tirella had a big argument that night as they left the house,’ said Nutt. 

Duke was worth $1.3 billion when she died

‘He wanted to go back to Hollywood to resume his career.’ 

The pair got into Duke’s two-ton station wagon and drove off, reportedly heading to an antique shop in town where Duke wanted Tirella’s opinion.

As they got to the wrought iron front gates, Tirella, who was driving, got out to open them. 

Duke slipped across into the driver’s seat, as she said was her custom, to drive the car through the open gates.

But, according to her statements to police, she accidentally stepped on the accelerator, speeding toward Tirella, bursting through the gates, smashing a fence across the street, and crashing into a tree. 

Tirella was crushed beneath the car, dying at the scene almost instantly from massive injuries to his lungs, spinal cord, and brain.

Duke was taken to hospital with cuts, to be treated for shock.

But, 96 hours later, Newport police chief Joseph A. Radice declared the death accidental and the case was closed.

A tow truck pictured removing the station wagon which crushed Tirella to death in 1966

Peter Lance, who begun his career as a reporter in Newport, spent over a year investigating Tirella’s death for Vanity Fair.

Duke was known for being tempestuous and fiery, and had slashed one ex-husband with a butcher’s knife. 

He unearthed a series of troubling facts.

In the hospital after the accident, Duke contracted the state medical examiner, Dr. Philip C. McAllister, to be her personal doctor.

‘He promptly placed her in a secure, private room, which made it impossible for state investigators to question her,’ Lance writes. 

‘In effect, the man legally charged with determining the official cause of death had gone on Doris Duke’s payroll.’

McAllister told a reporter for the New York Daily News he ‘doubted Miss Duke knew what had happened,’ calling it a ‘freak accident.’ 

Asked why no one had been able to question her, he said: ‘It would have been inhumane to make her recall the tragedy so soon.’ 

The reporter then asked if it could have been anything but an accident. 

‘Unthinkable,’ McAllister replied. ‘I think they were devoted.’

Duke’s mansion, Rough Point, has now been turned into a museum open to the public

Duke’s bedroom at Rough Point in Newport, Rhode Island – an estate where she summered

View of the Atlantic from the solarium, one of Duke’s favorite rooms in her summer home

The police chief, Radice, was criticized by the state attorney general for closing the case so quickly.

Seven months later, after 42 years with the force, he announced his retirement on a salary of $7,000 a year and moved to Florida where be bought two new condos in an apartment building.

Rumors persisted that Radice, who died in 1997, had been bought off by Duke. 

Radice’s granddaughter Elayne Paranzino said she even asked him.

‘I confronted my grandfather one day,’ she contends. ‘I said, ‘Don’t you lie to me.’ 

‘He said ‘Elayne, none of these rumors are true. I didn’t get any money from her.’ 

‘Then, when I pressed him, he chuckled. ‘You think I was paid off? You can have it if we can find it.’ ‘  

Lewis Perrotti, a state official, said that when he arrived to investigate he felt ‘the fix was already in’ and the local police were orchestrating a cover-up.

Perrotti, an investigator for the Rhode Island Registry of Motor Vehicles, now aged 86, told the magazine: ‘My partner Al Masserone and I tried to question Doris Duke when she got back from the hospital, but a battery of lawyers had arrived, and they wouldn’t let us see her.’

By law, the registry’s investigators were supposed to question all drivers in vehicular homicides. 

‘They put us off all day and then the police said we could be present when they interviewed her on Sunday.

‘So, we rushed up to the estate. When we got there, they were just about finished. She was in bed with lawyers around her and two big dogs on either side.

‘We were allowed to observe, but we didn’t get to ask her any questions. It was almost like the fix was already in.’

Duke attends Steve Rubell’s 1978 birthday party, hosted by designer Halston in New York City

Lance took his evidence to Harm Jansen, a senior staff engineer with Collision and Injury Dynamics, one of the nation’s top forensic consulting firms.  

He said it certainly appeared like Duke had deliberately run him over. 

‘Based on my analysis, … it’s clear that Doris Duke was on the accelerator for at least three seconds before the vehicle went through the gates,’ he said. 

‘There is no evidence that Mr Tirella was pinned against them. It’s clear that he went up on the hood, fell off, and got run over, mid-street. 

‘This was a multi-sequence event in which the driver made a number of affirmative decisions in the course of the incident.’ 

Tirella’s family sought legal redress, but were constantly thwarted by Duke’s attorney Aram Arabian.

They agreed to accept $200,000 – at a time when she was making $1 million a week in interest – but she would not settle.

She was later forced to pay $75,000 in civil damages. 

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